June 5, 2009
There’ll be no casual “Hey, Dear Readers” this week.
I must begin this rant with a very sincere thank you for all your
support of my last Rant about achieving my first $1,000 day. First off, I thank all of you who do not
demand that I cease and desist from sending you this “FNR!” Rolling from there, I thank you in particular
for supporting my goal of achieving the “Thousand Dollar day,” this past
Tuesday. So I thank you “RK” for
calling me long-distance from another country to ask me “how’s it’s going?” before I’d even hit the snooze button on my
alarm for the last time! And I thank
you, “SM” for texting me later that day…Not wanting “to bother me” in the middle of it, just when it was going very bad And I thank all of you Dear Readers who gave
me me your best wishes, and for showing interest in the mechanics of my
business with your e-mails.
Before I report the $
amount that I actually earned that day, I must say that the title of my rant
tonight is inspired by another two of you Dear Readers. One of you, CA, is the
one who emailed in support… “May the spirit of Willie Loman neither haunt you nor vex
your endeavors…but hover neath the firmament of lofty goals…ever warning of the
shoals of hollow dreams.” And the other Dear Reader, LP, is the
one who consistently, and for no apparent reason, eggs my writer’s “fuel” on by
sending me website links (and even “snail-mail”) to all manner of writing sites
like the one about the “72-hour novel” contest. So the title of my rant tonight is How and why, with your
support again, I will not give up the “3rd Act,” and write a novel
over the 72 hours of this coming Labour Day weekend. (And this’ll be
the last rant about me!)
Despite all of your best wishes, I only made about two thirds of
my goal of my first $1,000…$655. I only closed 25 of the 46 sales that I needed
to accomplish that goal. In fact, if it
weren’t for the efforts of my gallant “crew,” who collectively closed another 8
sales between them, netting me that much more, I would only have reached just
over half my goal.
On any other day I‘d be pretty proud of myself to make that much
coin. But, because all you Dear Readers
were cheering for me to accomplish my financial goal, and I had failed, I just
felt a hollow sense of victory at the end of the day…sure I was happy that I’d
made as much as I did, which was more than I’d ever made before in one day on
this job, but it was a “hollow” victory because I’d only earned about two
thirds of the goal that I’d vowed to achieve to you Dear Readers. And I was reminded with shame that, one day
about this time last year, I closed 27 sales (two more than this day) in less
than half the time and effort that I’d spent working on this “$1000 day,” but
for less profit. And in fact, even
though I had a “$655 day” this week…I still made about $150 less
than I made last week!
Why is that? Because I
worked harder last week and bragged less about what I would do this week. Last
week, I consistently followed the formula. This week I nearly took Monday off
because I was having a good, inspired writing day…And it was raining…And the
next day I was going to make a $1,000 anyway!
But then I felt too guilty to live by that rationalization (since I do
have a client who supplies me with this great opportunity,
who has certain expectations of my services.)
And so I drove an hour to work at the end of the day to work for two
hours before driving home another hour at the real end of the day. My income during
those two hours only bolstered my ego, allowing me to forget that it can’t
always be this good. Yes! I thought, I
can have that $1,000 day. The day after that “Big Tuesday”…Wednesday…I was
exhausted from my failed attempt to make that $1,000 after pitching 173 people
(for a one-in-seven sales average, over the course of about 10 hours and God
knows how many miles of walking.) And
so my sales average went down to a below average 1 sale per 10 doors. Yesterday, I got up early for a great
writer’s meeting that went long overtime, and I’m glad it did. Then I drove for more than an hour to work.
Holy Frack! I just went outside for a smoke and found the dark sky
lightening to daybreak. Birds are
chirping! All while I was boring you with details about how I failed you
all. So let me wrap this rant up by
saying that I won’t fail you all anymore by chasing “the shoals of hollow
dreams.” I won’t walk two-thirds of the third act for money as I did this week.
I won’t walk two-thirds of the way to Ottawa in order to gain the self-respect
of knowing that I’m strong enough to join the Canadian Infantry as I did two
years ago. But at the end of this summer season I will attempt to go all
the way to prove to myself that I can be a true and honest writer by remembering
what it is like to create a world in words under such a deadline that rapture
comes to your heart by the time you finish.
Because that is the pursuit, the craft, and the only ambition in my life
that has any true meaning. And maybe
all the failed dreams that I have pursued before will fuel the inspiration of
this one. Because I have experienced so
many wondrous and bizarre adventures in the pursuit of goals so fearfully and
wrongly motivated.
I won’t
make any promises this time, because, aside from my ego’s desire not to have to
worry about “winning the bet,” it all seems too trite to do so. All I’m saying tonight is that I’m glad to
have this medium to share and receive thoughts with you And if you have some
idea for a personal goal that might have been buried for a long time because
you know that nobody would support it…
Just
frackin’ go for it this week! And if
any of you have a story to tell as a result of your efforts, I’ll be glad to
post it here next week, instead of some rant about how tough it is to be a
Mexican these days.
Sincerely,
Ern
May 29, 2009
Hey Dear Readers, by western
astrology, we’re in Gemini. Gemini is playful, quick-witted and resourceful.
Gemini loves games, thinks hard and answers quickly to challenges faced. Gemini is a good complement to my own sign
of Libra, which also loves to think, ponder, and basically deconstruct the
events of the day. Which is why I am so disgusted with myself today. I was on my game at work. I made over $150 per hour this Friday
afternoon. But I quit early and went to the gym after working for only two
hours! All thanks to Libra’s (my) infamous
laziness. (Radio CBC today asked how
many of you confess your sins online—well here I am, doing just that.) So the title of my rant tonight is Next Tuesday, (with your
support,) will be my first Thousand dollar day, to make up for my laziness today. And, on top of that, I will write the next
chapter of my novel before next Thursday’s writer’s meeting.
Okay, I feel a bit strange,
making the theme of my Friday night all about money, particularly about me
being at the center of it. I had
planned to write about our Governor General eating a seal heart, or about Clinton
and Bush meeting in my city of Toronto.
Or maybe I’d write about General Motors declaring bankruptcy, or about
North Korea’s nuclear weapons posturing.
There’s so much more important stuff that we need to deconstruct than my
own personal goal. But I’m thinking that
it could all be related. I think its
safe to say that a Friday Night Rant can all be “deconstructed” to a personal
experience which shares a commonality with all of humanity.
So, just to deconstruct
again, it’s all about the ambition of the pure soul. So…In that context, I say, good on our Governor General for showing the world that our representative to
the Queen of England can really earn her pay by eating the heart of an animal
that was hunted down by the Canadian citizens who would respectfully make the
most of their prey by using all of its parts, just as any hunter would. Good for the new CEO of
GM to take on the job of saving one of the world’s mightiest companies at it’s
darkest hour. And good on former U.S.
Presidents Bush and Clinton meeting together in my hometown to have a rational
discussion about the fate of our world, no matter how much money they made by
doing so because I bet they both earned their pay. And good (in a twisted way)
on North Korea’s insane leader for subtlety forcing the rest of humanity to
face the fact that one insane human being is forcing the rest of us to face our
immortality in a way that no pathetic dictator like Saddam Hussein, or Taliban
fanatic like Osama Bin Laden never could. After all, Saddam was so arrogant as
to think that he could invade his neighboring country without retaliation from
the rest of the world. Doh! And Osama probably thought that knocking down an
American skyscraper in New York would destroy Christianity, once and for all. Doh! Now we have a truly challenging global
predicament. Saddam is dead. Osama
might as well be. Neither of them ever
had any potential to be truly detrimental in any “Hitlerian” way.* And the former war-hawk president who waged
war against them is now put out to pasture.
Now we have a left-wing American President, with a provocative name like
Baraq Hussein, who has, as a goal, (and good for him!) to re-establish America’s standing in this world of
nations, as a peaceful, rational nation through dialogue and diplomacy, who is
suddenly having to challenge an actual, real and true enemy like Kim Jung Il
who is just begging for another war-hawk Bush to put him in his place. What an irony!
So how does this all relate
to my personal goal of earning a thousand dollars next Tuesday? Well…I make good money by doing a job which
bores me to tears. Frankly, on the face of it, I hate it. I hate it just as much as I would hate
eating a raw seal seal heart for the sake of diplomacy. Or as much as I would loath being appointed
the CEO of General Motors just on the verge of that great company’s declaration
of bankruptcy. Or as much as I would hate being Bill Clinton having to share a
stage with George Bush. (Or vice-versa.) Or as much as I’d hate to have to be
the American president who now has to solve the issue of facing down a nuclear
armed fanatic like the Korean President, which offers no easy diplomatic or
“peaceful” solution.
And why do I hate my job
this much? Because, like all the
aforementioned examples, it has nothing to do with what I enjoy, which is
creating stories which will hopefully entertain all those who may read
them. My job is all about reciting a 50
word script, to 80 strangers whose doors I knock on, 80 times a day, five days
a week. Put in that context, it sounds
horrific.
On the other hand, I’ve also
noticed that when I do a job well, no matter what that job is, the personal
satisfaction that I am rewarded goes a long way toward attaining the knowledge
that “if I can achieve success by doing that, then just imagine what I might
achieve by doing what I love to do!” I
have a feeling that the CEO of GM would love to create the next great Chevy if
he could just overcome that whole “bankruptcy” issue. Governor General Michel Jean probably imagines the peace she could
bring to the world if she could just get past this irritating “seal hunt”
drama. Etc. So, in that context, let me describe to you Dear Readers the
details of my job, and how I plan to earn my first one thousand dollar day…
It began with finding a
client, like this one, a pizza franchise, and convincing them to allow me to
advertise their business for free by allowing me to offer residents in their
business area two free pizzas and $400 worth of BOGO’s (Buy-One-Get-One’s) in a
“Value Book” that I designed and had printed (at my cost of $1,100,) at my
favourite printing house, which I would then sell for $25. So now my day begins
by knocking on a door at a house (or opening the door to a business) at around
2 pm, and saying, “Hello, my name is Ernie.
I’m promoting _______Pizza, in support of ________(the local charity
which receives $3 from every sale.)” I then look them in the eye, point to my
open “value book” and tell the person exactly how he/she can save $400 over the
next year by giving me $25 now.
Technically, this business
defines me as a “salesman.” But I think
of myself more as a “statistics expert” who uses his knowledge for financial
gain. A mentor taught me this formula
over twenty years ago. (And this will be the only time I impart this money-making
stategy for free, in writing, ever! So, Dear Readers, either cherish it, or
destroy it now.) Step #1: Find an existing service-industry business that 1 in
10 people use on a monthly basis such as restaurants, golf clubs, hair salons,
spas, auto repair, etc. Or collect an
almagation of ten or more of these businesses who are willing to share one
overall package. (Do not approach retail stores that buy product at wholesale
and sell at retail for a small percentage of profit.) 2: Illustrate to that business
owner that you will speak, mouth-to-mouth, face-to-face, with ten-thousand
people in his business area, letting all those people know exactly where he is,
and that he is ready and willing to get their business by offering upwards of
$200 worth of discounts, and that you will do all of this ABSOLUTELY FREE OF
CHARGE. 3: Get your client to agree to
the printing of a piece of cardstock (again, at no charge to the client,) that
offers at least 1 product or service for free, for which he/she would normally
charge $10 to $20. (like a
Pizza/Restauant meal/Oil/filter/change, Haircut, Spa service etc.,) and then
ten or twenty more “coupons” endorsed by that business that are “two-for-one”
or half price, etc. The total value of savings must be at least ten times the
selling price of the “Value Book,” (based on regular price.) E.g. A book offers $200 in savings, sells
for $20. The book must be valid for a minimum of ten months, and no single
coupon in this book should be anything less than a “BOGO,” since all kinds of
lesser deals (which clients must pay $100’s or $1,000’s for in advance, with no
guarantee of success) can be found for free in junkmail and newspapers. For example, my current “value book” offers
two free pizzas, twenty BOGO pizzas, 5 BOGO breadsticks, and 5 Free Chicken
Wing orders with a Large Pizza purchased at the regular menu price, a total
value of over $400, all for only $24.99 with a few bucks of that going to a
local charity. So, like my novel-in-progress, (which you can read here at my
website!) its all about numbers. Specifically, 1-in-10: Approach 1 to 10 business owners who’s
service is used by 1 to 10 people and you will get at least one of them (smart
ones) to agree to a coupon book that offers 10-times your selling price of $20 (minimum.)
Number 4 deserves its own
paragraph. Because this is where the
work comes in, where the “men are separated from the boys.” Step #4 means that you have achieved
number’s 1 through 3 and you are now at the point where you are now at the
point of holding your product in hand, knocking at door of a complete stranger
door and saying “Hello Sir (If a man answers) or just “Hello” (if a woman
answers—as you can never know with a woman if she is a Misses, a Miss. Or a
Ms…) “My Name is_________. I’m promoting
_______(business name,) in support of ________(local charity,**) then looking
them in the eye and explaining how you can save them $hundreds with this “value
book” (or whatever you choose to call it,) all for only $19.99
($24.99—whatever.) If you can knock on,
(or ring the bell of private homes, or just open the doors of businesses open
to the public) and say that 100 times per day, 1 in 10 people will hand you a
$20 bill. Talk to 15 people per hour for 6 hours and you will collect 10 $20’s
per day. It is all just that simple. It’s not about salesmanship. It is simply a mathematic formula. That’s
it.
On my current campaign,
about 1 in 5 people hand me $25. ($3 of
which goes to a local charity.) I won’t bore you all with the details about why
this is double what the “mathematic formula” stipulates, except to say that it
has much less to do with “salesmanship” than it has to with my faith in math x
experience. (And the fact that I have suffered many 1-in-15 days over the past
months.) Point of all this is this…To
bring myself closer to the financial freedom that will allow me to devote more
of my time to writing, on Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009, I will speak to
at least two hundred people, and work for at least ten hours, in order to sell 46
booklets. $46 x $25 = $1150. (- 46 x $3=$138 to charity.) Ergo, Tuesday, will be my first $1,000 day.
I’m publishing this solely to prevent myself from quitting early, as I did on
Friday, because if I do, I won’t just have myself to rationalize to. I will have to confess my sins again—online,
to you Dear Readers. I’ll describe my day to you all next week.
May you all dream a lofty,
but attainable goal this week, and share it, no matter the outcome.
Ern
*Be warned, Dear Reader’s, that
I’m prepared to reply to all of your arguments against these last two
sentences, with a shitload of evidence to support them.
**Having a charity
organization on board can be good or bad.
It’s good because people will be more willing to listen to you, out of
guilt, or bad in that they can slam the door in your face after explaining that
they already contribute to charity, or do the same because you are not giving
“enough” of the proceeds to said charity. Personal expeience tells me that,
although charity organizations are happy and thankful for my contributions,
which net them $thousands, most people on mainstreet Canada either could care
less about that part, or use that part as an excuse to say “I already give” or
complain, when they ask how much, that not enough is going to the charity. On the other hand, naming a charity, like I
said, often gives you a chance to explain your offer, before the door slams, (not that “slamming” happens
very often. 9-in-10 people are as
polite to you as you are to them.) And it gives you a good feeling of community
when you know that your personal profit is also supporting someone in need of
help. So, because its six of one-half and half a dozen of the other, I leave
that part up to you.
March 20, 2009
Hey! Dear Readers…Happy
Equinox! It’s springtime! New
life. Or, to put it more for artists
sake, (a.k.a., “rant writers”)…new inspiration! And it’s the only day of the year when our
day is the same length as our night.* To celebrate the Spring Equinox, Ern’s Friday Night “First Spring” Rant is now available for the cash price of $0.** Yep!
You read that right! Zero dollars! Or…you can finance your purchase at 0% …forever!*** So, Dear Readers, check out the brand new 2009 ERN.s FNR!
Canadian designed and manufactured since 2005, This ALL NEW FNR’s carbon “footprint” is as tiny as most of our
plebeian’s understanding of that phrase, and please note, Dear Readers, that
the “ERN.s FNR” comes with a 12 month/unlimited reading train-of-thought limited warranty. ****
Also, the Ern FNR is entirely Green-Eco-Friendly, organic, and “GBF.”
(Government Bailout Free.)
*These last few sentences
were manipulatively written in order to allow the author to suck all you Dear
Readers in to his segue into the fact that he heard something this morning that
book ended with something that he read tonight that allowed the inspiration for
his rant for this current weekend of 20/03/09. **So long as this author’s words
mean nothing to any publisher that might pay him any money. Otherwise, this author might demand
something back from whoever downloads this “Ern Friday Night Rant,” if these
thoughts ever earn any cash money from any said publisher *** 0 per cent
interest to all readers who may incur expenses as a result of downloading the
above brilliant words of this arrogant author if these words of his ever earn
any money as per stated above. **** Manufacturer of the ERN.s FNR guarantees the Dear Reader for full compensation against any defect in
the Reader’s sense of common sense. For
example, if the “Reader” disagrees with the manufacturer’s model“FNR” due to
his/hers obvious inability to understand logic and/or reason, he/she (the
“Reader”) will be sincerely rewarded with the manufacturer’s complete sympathy.
For more details, please do not try to find them at the manufacturer’s website
at https://www.angelfire.com/psy/ernie-k/
Before I go on, I should let
you Dear Readers know that I am pasting this entire rant in the body of this
e-mail, rather
than re-directing you to
find it at my website (It’s been so
long that I wrote a Fiday Night Rant that I can’t remember how to post it. And
the last time I tried, it didn’t work.)
So…If you have no desire to read my thoughts tonight, just stop reading
and delete this message here and now, with my apologies for sending it to you
uninvited. Otherwise, read on…(And please feel free to comment on my ramblings,
or to submit your own rant for next Friday, as I have invited you all to do so
in the past.)
This first sunny morning of
spring (where we enjoyed a balmy single degree below the freezing point here in
Toronto Canada,) I listened to the writer of a book entitled something like
“The Life You Can Save” being interviewed on our Liberal-Left Wing CBC radio as
I drove to work. And tonight I received an inspiring chain mail from one of you
Dear Readers which extolled the virtues of the selfless acts of a soldier. These two items might sound like polar
opposites in terms of the subject matter—the first being about the idea of
citizens donating to charity, and the other reminding us of how soldiers risk
their lives to kill bad guys in order to protect us.
But in fact, both stories
revealed a common thread—“selflessness.”
And the point that both stories made was that when we put aside our
selfish needs, (and I don’t mean the word “selfish” in any negative way,
anymore than our lungs “selfishly” demand air,) just because we are too busy to
remember them, our own lives become more satisfying. For examples…(and I’ll get
to my own last.)
May 22, 2009
…I never finished that
rant. Sorry, Dear Readers, for sending
you an unfinished work, (as though any of them ever are.) I remember that my inspiration that day was
hard…But short-lived. But I am sharing
(shoving?) that unfinished burst of inspiration with (on?) you all to remind
myself to find thoughts again that I wish to share with you all during the rest
of this year and for many years to come. ‘Cause I miss all those old arguments
we used to have with each other when you, Dear Readers, so sincere and true,
replied with your heart-felt thoughts when you agreed with my “correct”
opinions, and your most passionate responses when you mistakenly disagreed with
them.
So this flaky rant writer is
officially renouncing his aforementioned retirement from spewing his thoughts
out to the world again. But I won’t
subject you all to another half-finished rant posted in the body of this
e-mail. From now on, it will be just
like in the old days…A Friday Night Rant reminder, with a sentence or two to
tease you into the link to my website. And, as before, if you ask to be removed
from my mailing list, you won’t hear from me again. Likewise, if you wish to
post your own rant, you’ll be welcome to post it here, raw and unedited,
without any editorial comments added by myself…
…Even if your opinion is
“incorrect.” (Well…That is, providing
it isn’t SO incorrect that I could have the Internet Cops knocking at my door
the day after I post it!)
Sincerely,
Ernie Kosanyi
March 14, 2009
Hey, Dear Readers, The title
of my rant tonight is, Guys are morons…but my doctor isn’t.
Three different subjects
tonight inspire my title. 1) I got very
sick this past week. 2) I received a very emotionally charged “Friday Night
Rant” from one of you Dear Readers last week. And three,) I have the privilege
of receiving the care of this planet’s very best doctor, who desperately needs
recognition, if only for the reason of universal justice.
Starting from number 1...I got very sick this past
week. I took a day off
work on Wednesday, because I had a fever the night before. For me to take a
“sick day” is a very big deal, as I am my own boss. I don’t get paid by any company-sponsored or government
compensation if I don’t work. So I bite not only a day’s wages, but also the
potential loss of a client’s entire contract that is worth $10k if I don’t
produce. So, today, Saturday, March 14,
I crawled out of bed to get to my doctor before he closed at 2pm, in order to
get some anti-biotics, in order to be healthy enough to go to work on
Monday. Even still, I had to work
today, sick as a dog, to make up for taking Wednesday off.
Qualification: Nobody on
earth “had to work today.” Because, as somebody once said, all anyone has to do
is to “die, and pay taxes.” I only
worked today because I don’t have the courage to play. But that is a subject for a whole other
rant.
So I got to my doctor’s
office at about 1:30pm. I had this idea
in my mind that the “Walk-in Medical Center” was open until 2pm on Saturday. However,
when I showed up, a big “closed” sign was at his door. Out of silly
desperation, I yanked on the locked door. And then I walked away, cursing
myself for not crawling out of bed in time to see my doctor. As I’m walking away, I hear the door unlock…My
doctor calls out, “Ernie?”
He tells me that he closes
at 1pm on Saturday. But he took me in,
after closing hours, examined my asthmatic chest cavity and then gave me 40
bucks worth of free anti-biotics, as well as another script for inhalers for my
asthma.
He had NOTHING to gain by
opening his door to me, except for the fact that I edited his secretary’s
notation for why his office would be closed on Monday.
I was tempted to just take
his anti-biotic and go home today to recuperate. No, I was more then “tempted.”
That was my plan in the first place. Go to Doc, then go home and be
sick. But, because Doc opened his door to me, after closing, I felt the need to
go to work myself, thanks to the generosity of another worker. So I went t work today. and on my first
“pitch” I made a sale. (I make me living by offering $300 worth of savings on
pizza for $25 up-front, (with part of that going to a local hockey team.) Now, I could have turned around right there
and went home, since my first sale more than paid for my gas and time today.
December 7, 2008
Hey, Dear Readers, it’s been
so long I don’t know if I remember how to do this. But please indulge my desire to write another Friday Night Rant,
(Althought its really Saturday and almost Sunday,) entitled 2008, the year in review,
from a personal perspective.
I notice that my last rant
came back in September, and, like an old rock and roller, I keep on threatening
to “retire” from writing rants, only to come back for one last “tour.” And so here I am, back once again, to spew
my thoughts.
Let me start by explaining
my lack of appearances of late. It’s
been a very interesting year, one of reconciliation, I believe both for myself
and for humanity in general. For
myself, I’ve been forced…no…that’s too harsh a word…Let’s say ‘encouraged’ to
clean up my act…A process that is ongoing at this time.
For me, writing my rants has
always been a time of wild abandon…crack open the bottle and spew my thoughts
to the world as they happen, raw, unfiltered, and posted online before I had a
chance to review my drunken mess the next morning. Its been a lot of fun.
And I’ve had a great time receiving and hearing your responses to my
ramblings. And I will stand by most if not all of what I have written this past
year. (Apparently I said some nasty
things about Sarah Palin—which I don’t remember, but were quite inflammatory.)
But the thing is, is that writing a rant is much easier than writing a novel,
or a poem or a short story. Because
when I write my rant, I don’t care. I just play.
I don’t care about my bad
grammar or my leaps of logic when I write a rant. It’s just for fun! It’s a stress reliever. But you can get to a point where “having
fun” can hinder the hard work of really exploring this life that we have been
blessed with. And I think that that is what ’08 has been all about. I think this year has been put on the
calendar to reel in our excesses, put them in a net and show them to our faces
so that we can say…Ok…I guess its time to chill out and really take a good hard
look at ourselves.
That is what this year has
given me, and why my rants have been so infrequent. My year has been about…(I
just cut a few lines here to replace them with a perfect army grunt phrase…)
“Hitting the dirt.”
For example, with the help
of one of you Dear Readers, I’ve reduced my drinking to once or twice a month,
which has meant not writing my rants whenever Friday night rolls around,
because I only write them when I drink, which I haven’t been doing. So, most of
the time I am jusk working, dieting, going to the gym, not reading enough,
exploring enough, and keeping my opinions to myself. Now I’m filtering those opinions into the novel that I started
writing two years ago. And I am not running to Ottawa for a “bailout” for my
own failings. I am slowly but surely
adapting to this economic crisis. But
it’s been tough and pretty dull.
On a completely unrelated
but hopefully related note…
You’ve all heard about the
poor Walmart employee who was trampled to death when the doors opened. CNN had legal experts blaiming Walmart for
their lack of forethought, the police for not controlling the scene, etc. Nobody (in the major news media that I
witnessed) thought to question the mob of citizens about their own responsibility
for this tragedy. Nobody thought to ask any of those Walmart customers, “And
just why was your desire to get a deal on an X-Box worth running over a
person?”
Mob Mentality…Such an easy
excuse. “Yea..Ahh…’Cause like, they all
did it first, and nobody stopped ‘em,…So…Like, I guess I can do it to.
Point is…Personal greed
caused that person’s death. Just as my
own greed for easy ways out has caused my own problems, personal greed caused
the huge housing crisis. The whole
“Sub-Prime” fiasco. Greed from above (People in government) created an
artificial “good time” for those beneath (in the private sector) to make a
killing for themselves by offering the same good times to those who should have
known that they couldn’t afford to buy a house on minimium wage. And those at the bottom of the economic food
chain mostly turned a blind eye in order to allow their fantasies to come
alive. And why not? If a guy in a suit with a diploma tells you that he can get
this great loan for you to buy a house, well…is this the time to get cynical?
And that American housing loan crisis is just one easy example for me to use to
paint this year in the human experience. In my humble, yet correct opinion,
this year has turned everything upside down, all around for this human race of
beings that we collectively are…(Kind of like a Friday Night Rant?!J
And if anything good can
come from it…I believe the great climax of 2008 will be like a scene from a
Steven Spielberg movie from way back in the last century, when all the people looked
skyward, united in a gaze of utter bewilderment…
Because when something comes
along to show us that we all have something new to learn despite all of our
family soup recipes handed down from so many generations…well
…Someone above myself could
finish that thought, if my words were worthy of reaching that high.
This year, I’d like to
believe, has been put to us to answer questions that we’ve been avoiding; to
recognize the loans that we have borrowed against the truth, and to pay off our
debts to our conscience. If we can do that, then maybe ’09 will bring a morning
when we can wake up and face the morning without caffeine, sugar, or alcohol
and shower in the polluted waters of our past without fear of making the same
mistakes again by answering to our true desires, instead of
the easy
ones.
I hope that you all have
escaped the ills that I have ranted about here tonight, this past year, and…
Have a Merry Christmas and a
Happy New Year, Dear Readers.
Sincerely,
Ern
September 13, 2008
Hey Dear Readers, I keep on
intending to swear off writing my “FNR’s” because they make me drink too much.
But then Friday night rolls around and I say “Frack it! I need to get this off
my chest!” And after all, isn’t that
what life is about? Risk? “Pushing the
envelope?” So the title of my rant tonight is…Sarah Palin,
Charlize Theron, Sex, (And why Charlize should be THE running-mate) and
American Politics.
(I just re-read this and it’s kinda’ weird.
But aren’t they all? So I’m
gonna’ post it anyway.)
The presidential race is
captivating even for us non-Americans this year. Because, with all this “war-on-terror” and hard economic times,
we have so many colourful characters promising so much from so many different
points of view, promising to solve so many problems. We have a wise old Vietnam-War hero on the right, desperately
trying to distance himself from his own boss, while still trying to remain
loyal to the principals of his boss’s viewpoint. After all, it was his own “Commander-In-Chief” who caused him to
get shot down in the first place by putting him in a position “in harm’s way”
that caused him to become a “war-hero” so many years ago when he proved his
courage by living through years of hell as a POW because of his own political
party’s decision to put him in a (debatably) unjust war.
And then we have a black man
trying to become the first black president in the history of this same nation
that once “owned” his race like cattle.
And yet this same man snubbed a very strong woman who fought against him
(and against her own “gender-bias” racism) to be the first woman “Prez” in
exchange for a “safe bet” by choosing a wrinkled old “White” guy in order to
win over the “sort-of-undecided” Bible belt voters. Hell, he’s so boring that I
can’t even remember his name as I write this, and I’m too bored with him to
even research the web…’Cause I know you all know who I’m talking about anyway!
(Oh yeah…Now I remember. Joe…Ah…Bidden?)
And then the Republican war
hero, whose memoirs I’ve read and “awed” over, for his bravery and his cunning,
chooses this hot little “Sarah” to be his running-mate. Yeah, she sure has “energized” the
Republican campaign. But with what?
Empty, but carefully coached chatter.
Like, “What is the difference between a Soccer-Mom and a Pit-bull? Lipstick!” Welllll…Mam…You’re talking to a billion or
more people on this small planet who don’t know the difference between
“lipstick” and a “Pit bull.” They
didn’t grow up in Alaska. Many of them
eat dogs without any thought and have never seen or heard of “lipstick.” And if
your boss kicks the bucket two years from now, what are you gonna’ do? Are you gonna’ go back to that cute suburban
line when your cities are dying of poverty and your intelligence networks are
begging for you to listen to them about the next 9/11?
This is where Charlize
Theron comes into my rant. I just saw
her tonight in the second hottest sex scene that a Hollywood movie has ever
produced. (The first hottest sex scene
was with her as well but it doesn’t relate to this rant…Sorry guys, but you’ll
just have to research it yourself!)
It was shot in the film
called “The Astronaut’s Wife.” In this
movie, she plays the role of…well…the role of the wife of an astronaut…who
vanishes for a few minutes while he is on a space walk. Her husband comes back home to earth just
fine. (Or so we are supposed to think!) But her best friend’s older, wiser,
husband (who suffered from the same “vanishing”) is all fracked up, and he
eventually dies of a stroke in the middle of a “welcome home” party. And then her friend kills herself by dunking
herself in a bathtub with the electric current from the radio that the “Alien
Talliban” forced her older, wiser, husband to listen to. In other words, two patriotic Americans died
because they tried to resist the enemy whom they recognized with their wisdom,
but who were not clever enough to destroy because of their faith in the old
ways.
But the strongest American
survived, because, unlike today’s American presidential candidates, and the
running mates that they have chosen, she (the character played by Charlize
Theron) was intelligent enough to know when she was being cheated out of the
life and liberty that her own country’s charter of rights promised her. Why?
Because in the movie, her older, wiser, (and now dead,) American friend
asks…”Why don’t our husband’s ever talk about what happened?”
When her friend dies,
(Charlize) remembers her best friend’s question…”Why?”
“Why?”
Charlize Theron, (Playing the
role of the wife of her American astronaut husband) demands an answer from her
loving husband (played by Johnny Depp.)
She demands the truth (through the character she plays in her role as
the wife of an astronaut) by using all of her life experience as the artistic
soul that made her become an actor…(Please don’t lose your patience and skip
through the definition of her life as defined below.)
(From Wickipedia)… Theron was born in Benoni,
South
Africa, the daughter and only
child of Charles and Gerda Theron, who is of German and French
descent and took over her husband's business after his death. Theron's first
language is Afrikaans. She is also fluent in English
and speaks some Xhosa. "Theron" is an Occitan
surname (originally spelled Théron) pronounced in Afrikaans as
"Tronn", although she has said that she prefers the pronunciation
"Thrown".[1] The pronunciation commonly used in the United States
involves two syllables, with stress on the first. Theron grew up on her
parents' farm near Johannesburg (Benoni). She attended Putfontein Primary
School (Laerskool Putfontein). At the age of 13, Theron was sent to boarding
school and began her studies at the National School Of The Arts in
Johannesburg. At 15, Theron witnessed the death of her father, an abusive
alcoholic;
Gerda shot him in self-defense
when he attacked her. The police pressed no charges
against her.
My point is this…Only a person
who has lived through this kind of hardship, and experienced so much of so many
cultures and ideas in this world could be so brave enough to pull off the
hottest sex scene in Hollywood history…Which was when she (the actress) acted
as if she was being fooled by the alien presence that had inhabited her
husband’s body as he “answered” her question by fracking her into orgasm
against a wall in a very public place, just to distract her from the logic of
her human mind.
The artist (actress) allows
her character to get raped, on-screen, by an intellectual power smart enough to
trick her for a few moments…just before her character’s wisdom kicks in…
…In order to crush the alien
enemy of her human soul.
And that is how American
politics can save America (and this entire race of humans who live all around
it.) Vote for the white war hero or the
intellectual black guy. Doesn’t matter
either way. Forget about their shallow choices of “running-mates.” Forget about CNN digging into the “scandals”
of their families or their religions or their backgrounds.
My neighbour Americans, think not about what your
country can do for you.
Think about voting for the guy who is wise enough to choose a truly beautiful,
smart, worldly-wise woman like Charlize Theron as his running mate in order to
inspire you to think about what you can do for your country!
Hint…-gotta’ step out for a
minute-
Okay. Now I’m back and I return with this
thought….Charlize? If ever we meet,
please let all my Dear Readers know that all my “humble yet correct opinions”
could be deemed as just an “my own lowlyly opinion” by the god who created
you. So I won’t tell my readers who
they should vote for, either into the American office or our Canadian one, this
fall. And so, Dear Readers, despite my sarcasm, I don’t mean to sound flippant
with this rant because I want us all to be the way we were before we grew up
and forgot to be like Charlize. So
let’s all do our best to be pure and hot and smart by using the horrors of our
history to teach us the best way to our future ascension.
Sincerely,
Ern
August 10, 2008
The title of my rant
tonight, (and hopefully of a “real” piece of writing—of which this will be the
first draft) is A Good Friend, a Porsche Boxster
, and how I learned to love “Stop” signs.
One of my best friends
invited me to “help” him drive a Porsche Boxster that he rented for his
birthday present to himself.
This next paragraph was
going to be a detailed description of all of the faults that I found in the
$60k sports car that my best friend allowed me to “help” him drive. Like,
“Okay...So it’s fast.” But both us us
groaned with sounds like “Aauurrghhh” as our aching leg muscles tried to find a
way to climb in or out of the beast. (Anybody remember the famous scene from
the Big Chill? When Mr. tv star is
challenged to “jump” into his 911 just to bribe a cop into dropping the
“drug-charge” against the driver if he can actually jump into a Porsche like
they do in the movies?)
It was one of the rainiest
days of the summer when we drove our “convertible” Porsche Boxster. So, for the
most part, we drove with the top up.
That led to another complaint from my shallow brain. Looking back
through the tiny plastic window that is surrounded by acres of black fabric
soft-top, backing up was a battle between God on my left shoulder, reminding me
of the words of the rental agent saying… “And there is a five-thousand dollar
deductible,” and the Porsche Devil on my right saying, “Frack him! So you can’t
see anything behind me that might cost you five K if you back into a ditch!!!
Just wait for how its gonna’ feel when you thrust into my “g-spot!” (I’m sorry, was that out loud?) I meant to say… “into my gas pedal.”
And then I found myself
complaining that the stereo is no better than the one in my humble little
Suzuki. For $60k you don’t get even a six-disc cd-changer or a GPS. And what do
those mysterious buttons on the centre stack do that don’t seem to do anything
when you push them?
At one point in our drive
through the scenic Caledon hills we found ourselves stuck behind a Mustang GT
where we couldn’t pass, due to hills. I cautioned my adventurous friend/driver
not to get too cocky about challenging that lowly Ford GT as it could give us a
“run-for-the money.” I based that
statement on my knowledge of automotive statistics which clearly state that
these days, anything from a tricked-out $50k‘Stang” up to a $2 million Bugatti
Veyron with 1000 horsepower can run within a couple of seconds of each other up
to 100 kph.
But that Mustang had no
chance against us even if its driver had tried his best to beat us.
I realized that fact later
when I wrapped my hands around the wheel of the Boxster and learned to stop
bitching about life. I learned in my
time in the driver’s seat why it didn’t matter that this $63,840.02 car was
equipped with a crappy single-disc cd stereo and with no more electronic toys
than my own humble Suzuki. Not to mention buttons that made no sense and less
rearward vision with its top up than I have without my bifocals. Because, when
I got behind the wheel and hit gas pedal, I forgot about all that I thought I
knew about “sports cars.”
I began my sports car lesson
by pretending to think that I was as much of a jockey as the steed that I rode
by gleefully playing with the philly’s “Tiptronic” five-speed tranny. “Tiptronic” is a kind of “automatic-manual”
transmission. No need to find the clutch-pedal with your right foot, the
shifter with your right hand, or to try to coordinate the two as fast as a race
car driver. With tiptronic, you can
become a racer just by tapping the shifter to the left; into “M,” which, I
assume, means “Manual.”(Although I can’t be too sure as a switch on the stereo
reads, literally, “Menue” which is a word
that doesn’t exist in any English dictionary that I know of.) Then you just tap the steering wheel-mounted
“up” and “down” gear buttons. It’s a wonderful thing to hit the gas and let the
245hp flat-six engine roar, only to press your
thumb down on a rocker switch when you feel that its high time to shift
up. A little tap of the thumb on the
spot that it’s resting upon and…
Blam-oh! You
rocket away from this earthly existence…If you have the talent and the balls to
do it just right.
Thing is, I shift up in a Porsche just as I do as a timid commuter
driver, shifting gears when the monster Porsche engine is only at a measly 4000
rpm. As much fun as it is, I found that
when I left the transmission in “full-automatic” and just hit the gas, the
Porsche auto-tranny had more guts than I, screaming up to its 7000 rpm redline
in every gear without even blinking at the mortal driver who it trusted to hold
its wheel steady as it toyed with the limits of human courage.
As my friend said at the
beginning of the day… “It wants to go fast.”
And that is why I’m
confident that we could have toasted that Mustang GT. Left to its own passion, A Porsche will smoke a lesser driver
sitting behind the wheel of a faster car.
Because if that “lesser” Mustang driver had tried to chase us around a
corner? Fahgedaboutit!!! Haul the wheel around that switchback curve like the
race-car driver that this rocket wants you to be and you’ll never notice how
fast you’re going until the dust settles enough to allow you to look back and
see that Mustang flailing around in a sea of twitching torque steer.
But that’s all just a male
ego-driven fantasy. The truth of the matter is that I don’t know what ever
happened to that humble pony-car. All I
can truthfully say is that every RED stop sign that came before me was a GREEN
light for fun in my friend’s Porsche Boxster.
Because, long after the Mustang was gone, my singular delight in life
was to be forced to stop at that infamous red octagon, just so that I could
“hit the pedal-to-the-metal.”
So If you ever have the
chance to draw back its blinding and deafening ragtop, even for a few minutes
on a rainy day in the country, and you and hear nothing but the roar of its
six-chambered heart, with no main of tiger-cloth to hinder your blue-sky vision
of the winding country roads before you, and you cut a Porsche loose…
Then may you live the rest
of your life so well. And while you are
living so passionately, don’t forget to notice the world that Ferdinand Porsche
let you enjoy…The small towns that you’ve never driven through before because they
had no reason for you to find them except for the winding roads that only he
would inspire you to explore. There you
will find “Badlands” in the middle of a forest. You’ll sweep your Porsche around a street corner where you could
just as well be in the south of France (if only for a split second.) You might even stop at a gas station in our
own backyard where you could swear you were in the deep south (of the USA) as
you haul your groaning ass out of this exotic sports car and find yourself face
to face with a vending machine that serves up fishing bait instead of a
Coke! No kidding. Toss your loonie in for a bunch of worms.
And all the time out there, you’re only 50 kms, (20 “Porsche” minutes) from
your home in downtown Toronto!
So what did I learn from
Ferdinand Porsche last Saturday? May we
all go fast enough, passionately enough, to stop and smell the roses…
Just before we blow their
petals off!
Ern.
August 4, 2008
There is a documentary
series on CBC called the “Passionate Eye.”
I don’t see it too often because it is usually quite boring to viewers
like myself who usually turn on the “boob tube” to watch some escapist
drama/comedy or just to catch up on the exciting headlines that the daily news
exhibits just to get us to watch them so that they can say things like “The
most Trusted News in…” Tonight the CBC tricked this slobbish viewer into
watching it by calling its two-hour documentary “One-day in September.”
They tricked me into
thinking it would be about “9/11.” Instead it was about the attack by
Palestinion terrorists on the Isreali Olympic team in the midst of the 1972
Olympic games in Munich, Germany. (It
figures of course, with the Olympics coming up this week in the most
controversial site—Beijing, China, since the games were reborn from Roman
times.)
The documentary walked us
through a detailed account of the tragedy, in which a dozen Israeli athletes
were killed, due to the mistakes of German police, politicians, and the
interference of the East German media, which allowed the terrorists to see the
“West” German police crawling up to their windows during live television
coverage. Luckily, the “West” German
police discovered this coverage and called off the attack just before all their
officers would have been killed by the Palestinions who saw them approaching
their site on the tv sets in the Isreali dorm rooms.
But the most disturbing part
of the documentary was when live footage of that initial day of terror showed
Olympic athletes from around the world lounging by the pool at the foot of the
building where their fellow comrades had machine guns pointed at their
heads. They all knew that the entire
Isreali Olympic team was being held hostage, just hundreds of feet away…And yet
the news footage from that day clearly shows all these athletes sipping
marguritas in the September sunlight.
Which inspires the title of
my rant tonight…How to deal with terrorists. (The Spider rant!)
I believe, in my humble, yet
correct opinion, that both the German police force and the world at large, (as
represented by the “lounging Olympic athletes”) learned a valuable lesson that,
if it had not been forgotten, might have prevented the far more horrific one on
that other “One-day in September” in 2001.
First of all, lets all relate to each other on a human instinct level of communication.
For example, we can say, in the western world, that we have tv shows, movies
and “gansta rap,” (which is some kind of expression that is still called
“music,” even though its vocalist “singers” never “sing” and its “instrumenalists”
don’t “play” any instruments, and its songwriters never write any lyrics to a
“song” that they weren’t hired to write—I’m sorry, that is getting into an entirely different rant,) that allow
us to imagine what we could get away with if we didn’t have to fear the wrath
of “our” god. When we admit that, then
we can ask them if they are any better by subjugating their natural passionate
and sexual desires by subjugating their weaker sex and relying on “their” god
to repay them by being able to frack 47 virgin “Pamela Andersons” after a
lifetime of refraining from their potential sins.
When most of us real
human beings admit that all we want to do is frack as much as we
can, ‘cause it feels so good, then we will all be able to identify the real terrorists. They are not Muslim, Christian, or any other
belief in any other god. They are not
religious, as much as they will always claim to be. They are not because any god that created this universe must be
far too busy to worry about a couple of opposing ant-hills on one of his/her
little planets to lend sympathy to one little swarm of his creation.
I know this because, Dear
Readers, I have been a God of my own, while believing in the god that created
me. Many times a god-created mosquito
has landed on my skin. I have never
thought to ask that insect if it believed in me before I smacked it’s guts
out. I have never asked a mosquito if
it was a Christian, a Muslim, a Hindu or an Atheist. It bothered me by pricking
my skin. So I killed it. That is what we do as animals. We kill what we eat (at our best) and we
kill what we fear for it’s ability to sting us with pain.
As humans, the only species of life on earth that god
has gifted with sentience--the ability of self-awareness, the knowledge of our
birth and of our impending death, the desire to be a part of something in our
limited time on God’s rock, we need to find reasons for our being here.
Before I get too
passionately abstract, let me try to wrap this up with “How to deal with
terrorists.” 1: Never underestimate your enemy by
labelling them as “terrorists.” This implies that they are necessarily wrong
simply because they are not powerful enough to defeat the “righteous.” The past century of wars has proven this
point. Two international wars were won, but several regional ones were lost
when the “bad guys” learned from history how to fight from the hidden corners
of the (literal and metaphorical, corners of the building.)
2: Never underestimate your
enemy by assuming that your god is better than theirs. To the people who created this convenient
excuse to kill devil-worshippers, God is God. (Of course, who am I to say
that? ‘Cause I worship the God that “I”
believe in? Just for example:…My God
pities the human religions that created him with human-created names like Allah
and God and Buddha and Jesus. My God
created this entire universe for fun.
He/she gave all of his creatures his joy of throwing a Frisbee across a
beach.)
And 3: Never hesitate to
kill your foe when you can plainly see that you are all that is standing between your spouse, your children, and their
killer. Because all conflict that
happens on this rock happens when two people don’t communicate with the brains
that god gave us. When that fails, all
we can do is kill the person who we can’t or don’t wish to bother knowing, who
might also have a spouse and their own children.
When it comes to words like
“War,” and “Evil” and “Terrorism,” and other rhetoric like that, I suggest that
we respect the master of our universe by not disrespecting God by assuming that
Our Creator has anything to do with our insect-based conflicts. ‘Kay?
Let’s just do what we want to do and kill and love like we all do and
stop making excuses for our “conscience—i.e.--rational thought, that we choose
to ignore while we are killing, loving, and creating new life in the process.
In Conclusion: It comes down
to this statement to create world peace among the human race, as might be
written by the most evil of humans, as judged by humans; an attorney…
“I am a person who loves
another person. Our love together has
created another person(s). If you are
okay with this, then my family and I will share with you when you come over. If you don’t like us for reasons that we may
or may not understand, then you can stay away from us. If you wish, we will also respect your
desire for us to stay away from you and we won’t judge you or bother you in any
way. However, if you cannot agree with that idea, and you decide that you must
kill us for that reason, then please understand that we will do all in our
power to kill you first, before you kill us.”
But please, Dear Readers,
for the sake of all of our human dignity, (and maybe our very survival,) please
leave out the word “God” when we justify killing each other. Like the animals
on this rock that God made, we live and die with or without nobility, and any
words as I have written in this “rant”are no better than the preaching words of
a religious fanatic. Except for one simple fact…
No person on Earth has ever
ended a life with any blessing or justification from God.
Ern
P.S. Just as I was editing this rant a
devilish-looking spider came crawling across my keyboard. I “fear” spiders with a deep and bitter
fear. However, just to prove my point,
I didn’t kill him. I chased him all
around my room and begged him not to make me kill him in order to justify my
rant, even though I knew he couldn’t understand the English language. I let him walk right up to my finger with
his devilish eight legs of terror. I told him that I’d have to kill him if he
threatened me. He walked back up the
wall. He’s still
alive…somewhere…Terrorizing me with the thought that he might crawl over my
face in the night. On the other hand, I
know that he can’t kill me. More
importantly, I know that, clever as he is, he really is more afraid of touching
me than I am afraid of touching him, since he turned me down on that challenge
tonight when I put my naked skin in his path and “dared him.”
And you’re welcome, Dear
Readers…’Cause I guess this means that none of you will get rained on today!
July 11, 2008
Tonight I wish to impart a
message to you Dear Readers about personal communication in our “I-Phone” wired
world…About how bizarrely ineffective it can be compared to old-fashioned
ways. So the title of my rant tonight
is… “How
we can say so much, so quickly, and impart nothing.” My
Friday Night Rant is inspired by two very opposite stories of personal
communication that occurred in my life this week.
The first example is one of primitive
but exceptional communication and the second shows a comical lack of
communication in our modern communication age.
The first example is so primitive that it is literally sub-human…
Monday afternoon my business
client and I were feeding her “pet” seagull in the lot behind her
business. This little bird didn’t have
a cell-phone, not to mention any organized set of linguistics. There was not another gull anywhere in the
visible sky when it began pecking at the crumbs we tossed. But within minutes, about a dozen other
seagulls had gotten the message that this bird had found a source of food. Of course, that baby “pet” was none too
happy when it found that the whole flock had received his unintentional message
about food. But his message was clearer
than a “text” or an “email” or even a…What do they call those again?…Oh yeah…a
“phone call.” And just as impressive as
the speed of that message is it’s clarity!
In the simplest phrase I can think of in English it would read… “I found food. Stay the frack away so I can have it all to myself.”
Compare that to the story of
my lack of communication with one of you Dear Readers that I only cleared up
last night. She’d e-mailed me a couple
of weeks ago about a terrible accident that she’d had. I e-mailed back last week to offer my
sympathy and to ask for details. I received a reply over the weekend, but
didn’t get around to answering it until Monday morning, (likewise with several
other messages.) Over the past few days
I received no return message and I began to get concerned. Finally she emailed me, expressing her own
concern over the fact that she hadn’t heard from me…Had I had a terrible accident as well? (She missed my Monday-morning email.)
To make a long story short,
we finally had a “verbal conversation” over a “phone” last night, during which
she told me about how she wondered why I didn’t show up at her place last
Saturday when I called her from my cell as I was coming back from London. She told me of why she was concerned about
me being in an accident when I didn’t show up after I told her that I was on my
way…
After a few seconds of
stunned silence from my end of the line, she asked, “Are you there?”
After a couple of more
seconds of silence I asked her what she was talking about. She reminded me of how I called her on my
way back from London (Ontario, Canada.)
I had to tell her that I was nowhere near London last Saturday and that I didn’t call her
that day. So the long and short of it
is is that this Dear Reader was called on a cell phone by some person who she
assumed was me (and who apparently sounded like me.) These two people, my
friend and who knows who, had a conversation about getting together that
evening because they both assumed that they were talking to a friend, when in actual
fact, they were talking to…well…who knows!?
This mysterious conversation
led my friend to wondering why I didn’t show up last Saturday (after “I” apparently told her that I would be
there.) And it probably led that
stranger’s friend to wonder why he didn’t arrive
because what he assumed were her instructions to her
place were actually my Dear Reader’s
instructions to my Dear Reader’s place.
And she (the unknown person of the unknown caller who
called my Dear Reader) could be in the same boat as me by saying to him… “What
the frack are you talking about? You
never called me from London, or anywhere else on Saturday!” …Even though he
must have insisted that he’d called her and talked to her about how to get there…
etc!
(What if those two strangers
are a new couple? Imagine the
ramifications…Just over a wrong number!!!
Scene:
Deleted…my imaginary dialogue between these two
strangers would have gone on all night.)
Anyway, my question is; how
did the history of communication between “the birds” and “the peoples” evolve
in such opposites, with the birds’ primitive communication so completely
embarrassing our human communication skills, despite the intelligence of our
human minds that has led to organized language and so many ways to communicate
it to each other across the vast expanse of our planet?
Forgive me for skipping past
our evolution from caveman paintings on cave walls and the introduction of
written alphabets that we use to form words.
That is for anthropologists and many other special… “ists” to teach us
about. Let me just take it from my
personal, anecdotal, experience…
A generation ago, we had
something called a “telephone.” We used this device when we couldn’t
communicate with our loved ones in person… Face-to-face…Mouth to ear. But we
understood that this modern device was only intended to convey important
messages like… “Please pick up a quart of milk on your way home.” Or it could have a more important purpose
for teenage hormones. Like… “Ah…I was just like…kinda’ wondering if…ah…you’d like
to ah…go to the dance with me Friday night?”
When a person used this
“telephone” back then, he/she knew that everything had been done to communicate
with the person who they couldn’t otherwise contact in person. That was that. When the other person’s phone rang in response to your call, you
knew that if they didn’t answer, it was simply because they either weren’t in
the room when the phone rang, or they were just too occupied with other
(possibly exciting) personal things to get to the handset before you gave up
listening to the ring tone.
June 27, 2008
Hey, Dear Readers. I
apologize to many of you Dear Friends who I haven’t contacted lately. I’m so sorry and I hope to contact you all,
personally, over this weekend. In the meantime, I need to write a rant
entitled, Sex,
passion, politics, religion and art.
It was a toss-up of which
two words to begin my title—“Sex” or “Passion.” I chose “sex” on impulse, because this is the act that begins
the life that inspires the mind that creates the last category of my title. But
an impulsive thought in the human mind is what creates “passion.” (I was thinking of giving a crude example
here, but I decided that it would cheapen my point by taking you out of the
story by exhibiting any one of your fantasies that…well…would turn this into a
porn site. You know what I mean?) Point
is, our passion creates the sex that creates life. So which came first? The
“chicken or the egg?” It is that debate in our minds that creates the idea of
“Politics.”
Because we “think,” this “chicken versus the egg?” question
inspires us humans to create an “us eggs versus those chickens” mentality. Out of the arrogance that our egos get from
being “thoughtful” we create the “politics” of “us eggs versus those
chickens.” One of us must be correct,
right? Sadly for us, the “chicken
versus the egg” theory is so far beyond either of our political minds to solve,
we find ourselves killing each other just to defend the egos that our minds
create in order to defend ourselves.
But when our egos must defer
to the humanity that god gave us, and we realize that we are killing each other
over a simple question, then we must create “religion” in order to defend our
practice of killing each other over the “political” question of the “chicken versus
the egg.” We need to create a higher
power than us to explain our passionately thoughtful need to kill each other.
We need to create a God, like I did at the beginning of this paragraph, to
justify our sex, our passion, and finally, the politics that we needed to
create to justify killing those who came up with a different set of “politics.”
And then comes along
something that we have decided to call “art.”
I hope that our dear
departed artist, George Carlin, would understand this last sentence, “God
willing.” But if he doesn’t, who can blame him? After all, he’s probably got a
thousand and one better things to do than read this rant at the moment. Point
is…Be an artist this week, Dear Readers, and have a laugh at the fictitious
“devil,” that artists like Sir George allowed us to laugh at.
Sincerely,
Ern
P.S. Okay…Some of you historians might argue that
religion came before politics. But
think of a “Carlin” joke—“If we evolved from Apes and Monkeys...Then why do
Apes and Monkeys still exist?”
June 22, 2008
So one of you Dear Readers
actually checked out one of the writing links on my website (at www.kosanyi.com) last week. (Playday--A work
in progress.) And you actually read some of my “real” writing!
I’m flattered. And you told me in no uncertain terms, that
I am… “not allowed to do
any rants until you finish this story do you hear me young man!!!!!!” I was planning to honour
that request until several bizarre events and conversations (with my
cousin) took place in my life this past week. So the title of my rant
tonight comes from a phrase that my Dad used to say all the time…Stops my brain!
A teenage girl,
born and raised in Canada, successfully sued her faher this week. He disciplined her by telling her that she
couldn’t attend a school-sponsored trip because she denied his ultimatum to
stop her habit of posting pictures of herself on a chat-line website. The judge
“over-ruled” the father’s disciplinary action and decided that the girl would
be allowed to attend her school’s field trip.
So a father who’s only wish is to protect his child from sexual
predators has been denied his right to protect his daughter with a reasonable
act of discipline by a “judge” who has heard a case brought to the court by a
lawyer that his teenage daughter has hired with God knows who’s money!!!
All I have to say
about this is, “Look out Mom and Dad, the floodgates are open now. You might want to call your lawyers because
I’m gonna’ sue the pants off you for…well I don’t know yet…but I’ll find
something! And my lawyer will be smart enough to allow my complaint to be
retro-active to thirty-years ago.”
So go to sleep
tonight thinking of how I am recalling that horrible moment when I was ten
years old….
And the other story
was just as bizarre. The mother of an
autistic child has her daughter in a public school. And our system is so
compassionate that we provide this daughter with a “teacheing aide,” to help
her along. Suddenly the mother of this
child is paid a visit by the Children’s Aid Society of Canada to investigate
allegations of sexual abuse. Why? Because the teaching aid who helped her
daughter visited a psychic one evening. And that psychic told the teaching aid
that his/her student was being sexually abused. The aid went to the school
principal with this info, and the principal immediately sicked the CAS on the
mother. Finally sanity prevailed when the CAS agent decided that the whole
affair was ludicruss and apologized to the mother for the stupidity of it all.
All I have to say
about this is…well…actually….I’m getting a bad vibe about tomorrow. Dear Readers, don’t get out of bed in the
morning. In fact, as they said forty
years ago…”Duck and Cover!” ‘Cause…Somebody with the first letter of…Ah…”B” is
gonna’ get it up the butt!
Another matter that
my cousin inspired was about this whole gas price issue, Dear Readers. Stop whining and SUCK IT UP! (I’m not saying that to you Dear Readers in
particular, but to the general western populace.) Back in the ‘70’s
when we had the last “oil crisis” the country of Brazil decided to tackle the
problem by becoming fuel-indepent from the rest of the world. They grew oil for gasoline for their cars
from sugar cane. And now their cars are
fuelled/propelled from their own sugar cane crops.
WE CAN DO THAT
TOO!!!
No more wars we
need to be wage in the Middle East. We
walk away, cleanly and with a clear conscience, by saying “We did what we
could. But you don’t want us here
anymore, and we don’t need you anyway.
So we’re outta’ here! From now
on, instead of sacrificing our lives over here, and spending billions of
dollars to wage a war that many your own citizens (not to mention many of our
own and most of those of the rest of the world) don’t want us to fight, we’re
going home now and we won’t be giving you our business anymore either. So By-by.”
“Oh yeah?” They
might say. “Then we’ll just sell our
oil to the booming Chinese economy.”
To which we can
say…
“And so will we, for half the price
per barrel that you are asking, because we have all of our own
oil fields in Texas and Alberta, etc.
And we don’t need 90% of the oil that we’re producing because all of our
own fuel is produced by wind, sun, sugar, or hydrogen right here in our countries. We can do that because all of the millions
of dollars that we used spend to supply our forces over in your country is now
being spent on discovering ways to be as independent for fuel as Brazil did
three decades ago. So be prepared to for a new sales tag on your oil barrel…’Going
out of business Sale. $100 OFF per Barrel. BONUS!!
$1 billion dollar reward for anyone who brings in Osama Bin Laden so
that America will buy our oil again so that we don’t die of starvation.’”
Oh yeah…and about
guns. The same Dear Reader that
inspired me to write the above paragraph also inspired me to revisit the whole
gun issue. He was bitching about the Canadian government’s “gun-registry”
policy that has caused so much controversy and way more than expected tax
dollars. The idea was pretty
simple. If you own a gun, you must
report it to the government. That way,
if your gun is used in a homicide, the police have a jumping off point to begin
investigating the murder.
If the Canadian
government didn’t make it so complicated, and the fanatics didn’t get so upset,
it could have been as easy and simple and logical as it is in Switzerland,
which is the country that my cousin inspired me to write about. He was ranting about all of these government
inspired ideas like “carbon taxes” and the “gun-registry” and then he
challenged me to answer the question “where in the world is the most guns, with
the lowest murder rate.?”
I thought about it
for a moment and remembered that the Swiss Army has a mandatory draft for all
citizens, and that every soldier is required by law to bring his/her weapon
home after duty. So I
answered…”Ah…Switzerland?” My answer
was correct (according to you Dear Reader,) because every able-bodied Swiss
citizen has a gun at home.
The country has no
strict gun laws because they don’t need any, because Switzerland has a very low
murder rate by guns.
Why? Because, as I stated in a rant I wrote a
long time ago, if we want to stop people from killing each other, we must
eradicate guns. Switserland proves it! Only soldiers in uniform can carry a gun in
that country. Only a soldier (or
police officer) has the mental, emotional and physical discipline to earn the
right to possess such a weapon. As for
the rest of us? Whether we be a
middle-class home owner with a wife and two kids or a crack-cocaine dealer with
a couple of girls that he’s pimping on the side, or a Friday night ranter like
myself, none of us should be so arrogant as to say that we have a god-given
right to own a weapon that we can use to, (as a psychotic caller on my radio station
said this week,) “blow his head right off!”
Simple fact is, if we all want the privilege of owning a gun, we better
be trained how to use it by the military that we created, by joining it, or
otherwise trust the military to protect us from the thugs that won’t exist in
our society because of their disciplined force.
Please, Dear
Readers, forgive the nasty tone of my last few paragraphs. Let’s all put aside fear and discrimination
this week and just celebrate our own independence day, whether it be on the 1st
or the 4th (or on some other day away over there), and celebrate our
separation from fear. Let’s celebrate
our trust in ourselves, and even in the people who we vote into our government.
‘Cause, at the end of the day, its all good, if we honestly know that it is.
Sincerely
Ern
June 6, 2008
Its the anniversary of
“D-Day,” the day, (64 years ago,) when Canada, England and America landed
thousands of troops onto the German-occupied French beaches of Normandy to
finally nail the coffin on the Second World War. It was a tough five years of fighting (three for the Yanks, who
started late) before that day that allowed our allied nations to reach that
historic moment that allows me to write this rant as a result of my forbearers
courage and persistence. Ergo…the title
of my rant tonight--Courage and Persistence. (Romance and American Politics—Part Two.)
A few weeks ago, I came home
to find a birdnest seated in the base of the wreath that my landlady had
recently placed on our front door. She introduced me to the nest by saying “we
have a new tenant.” When I asked what
she meant, she pointed to the door and waited for me to notice. It took a moment for me, because, like your
average person, I look for what I am used to observing. I noticed the
door. Then I noticed the “spring-motif”
wreath. I’d noticed it before but,
because I’m a guy, I never noticed it like the gay guys on those
interior-decorating T.V. shows would notice—with the appreciation for detail. You know what I mean? So it took me a moment to realize that there
was a birdnest built into the base of the wreath. But I was amazed at the
architecture when I finally appreciated what gay interior decorators can
appreciate immediately!
You see, Dear Readers, the
bird built this nest in the time between when we left for work in the morning,
and when we returned from work in the late (afternoon for my landlady,)
evening, for me. And it took me a
moment to notice it because this bird integrated the house so artistically with
the wreath that I actually had to look for it.
The wreath is a perfect circle of wood and straw, with a “wash” of straw
hanging down from the bottom centre of the circle. The nest sat at the very bottom centre of the wreath. It is perfectly round, made of mud and twigs
that closely match the colour and material of the wreath. And get this—the bird that built the nest
took the time to drape loose bits of foliage down from the nest to blend into
the loose straw that hangs from the bottom of the wreath.
I couldn’t believe the
symmetry of this bird-brained architect. (Not only was it perfectly integraged
with the wreath, it was even “cemented” to the door window with caked mud and
“clipped” to the wreath with a plastic clip stolen from our eave’s trough!)
But the nest, with its
perfectly round bed of hay, was empty. I cynically told my
landlady that it would remain that way, now that the architect had realized
that we had looked at it, and opened and closed that door several times that
evening. The bird would be to affraid to
lay an egg in it, after we had disturbed it so.
How I was proven wrong! The next day, there was a single blue
Robin’s egg. The next day, there were
three more. And now, the Robin that built it doesn’t even fly away in fear if
we gently open the door at night. We
respect its home and its young, and the bird has come to understand this.
How does this story relate
to the title, and of the introduction to my rant? Well…because…let me think
about that for a moment…
Oh yeah! This bird had the tenacity to gather up
material and invade our front door with it.
And then it found the courage to stay there, even after we surprised it
with our overwhelming strength, just as our forefathers invaded the
Nazi-occupied Europe, and stayed there, fighting against overwhelming Nazi
counter-attacks, until peace was secured between us all. Once we found the courage and the tenacity
to fight for the freedom of life, we stuck around for the duration until we all
could come to an understanding. And it took until just just 18 years ago, (long
after the end of WW II) when the Berlin Wall came down. Eventually we all came
to the agreement that between the democratic west, and the communist east, at
the end of the day, all we really want to do is to build a house and raise our
young. And no political or religious ideology can conquer that basic
instinct. So we humans, like animals,
all have the same desire.
We mate, we build, and we
raise our young. And that’s that.
Christian, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, Atheists, Communists, Conservatives,
Republicans. You name it! Birds! Humans!
We are all here for one purpose, to raise life on this planet. And, in my humble yet correct opinion, the
only difference between us and the birds is that because we are aware of
ourselves, we can hope that our offspring are better than us, and bring us one
step closer to Godliness. But we can only be better by realizing that we all
have the same desires…Kiss our mate with freshly brushed teeth in the
morning. Bring food home in the
evening. Make love at night to bring new life in the morning.
How does this relate to
American politics? Well, an underdog has won the Democratic candicacy this
week. He is a coloured man who could be
the next president of America, in a country that once owned men of his race as
a slave. Talk about progress! On top of this, factor in the fact that the
world of humanity has never followed American politics so closely, or so
overwhelmingly endorsed and wished for one single person to be the next ruler
of this planet. Sure, in his home country, he’s about “fifty-fifty.” But if it were up to Canada or Iraq, or
Germany or Japan or most of the 150 odd divided ideologies and countries of
this humanity-stained rock, we’d all want him to build the next nest. Since we’re all in agreement, why not give
him a chance?
Sincerely
Ern
May 2, 2008
Hey, Dear Readers, please
disregard the first sentence of my last rant, from last year. As “The Birds” sang, back when I was busy
getting born, “Oh…I was so much older then…I’m
younger than that now.”
So…the title of tonight’s
rant…”Romance
and American Politics.” This title was inspired by three events in my
life this past week. 1st was seeing Barack Obama on CNN passionately
rejecting the pastor who had been his friend, mentor, and spiritual guide for
so many years. The second was when my
co-worker accused me of being “too ro-maaaaaan-tic.”
And the third is a toss-up
between two things. 1st was a joke I heard—
“Question: Why can’t a woman find a great-looking man
who is compassionate and sensitive to her needs? Answer: Because he
already has a boyfriend.”
2nd was a moment I witnessed in a documentary on
PBS called “Carrier.” Briefly, it is
about life aboard the aircraft carrier, USS Nimitz, one of the most powerfully
armed, and most inhabited, (with 5000 people aboard) weapon systems on
earth. While the ship and its aircraft
are featured in glorious colour and rock music, the theme of the film is its
crew and the tone is accordingly set to subdued grunge rock-folk. The 10 hour feature captures the most
intimate moments of real people who get paid to “serve” their country. One such moment in this masterpiece goes
like this…After we spend many moments with a particular sailor, (over several
episodes) where we learn about his childhood, his “abandonment” issues (because
he was abandoned at a circus—no kidding!) we learn about his youth as an orphan
on the hard streets. We see his bulldog-like physique as he discusses his life
with an always unseen, unheard, interviewer.
And then we witness him reunited with his wife after a six-month
deployment on the high seas (where nothing happens on the languid Gulf in this
“war-against-terrorism.)
We see them dancing a
tango. Not in a romantic, smoky
nightclub, but in a brightly lit studio.
Turns out that his hobby is Tango-dancing. He does the tango on the hangar deck of the Nimitz, with a female
sailor, when he’s not busy slinging bombs and missiles up to the hardpoints
under the wings of jet fighter aircraft.
Suddenly, as if in their
bedroom, I witness two lovers re-uniting for the first time in six months. They are dancing a passionate tango, but it
is completely “UN”-romantic. It’s as if they are Olympic athletes—two strangers
merely practising a routine that will fool the audience into making us believe
in their passion—Meanwhile, he scolds her for making all the wrong moves. She is defensive and “bitchy,” for all kinds
of reasons, until the truth comes out.
And when it does, boy, it blows “Casablanca,” out of the water. In this film, you watch a human man and a
human woman fall in love. Right in
front of a camera. Right before your
eyes. I have no idea how they did
it. But it’s breathtaking.
That must be the longest
ever explanation for the title of all of the past three years of my Friday
Night Rants. So…ah…I guess I should actually get to the story behind the
title…
When I saw Barack defending
himself, I saw a man passionately fighting to explain why he had to cut his
ties with a another man that he once worshipped in order to defend his reasons
to the people of this earth for why he shoud be the next King of the
world. And that’s what we’re taking
about. Because let’s face it, the President of the United States of America,
really is the king of all of humanity.
In front of the world’s judgemental eyes, he had to reject his best
friend. He did that with anger and
emotional pain. He did that unscripted,
almost with tears in his eyes. Hillary
did the same a while back, when she was accused of something that I forget
now.
That is the “romance” of
American politics. The three candidates
eligible to become the next President of the Human Race, (above the English
Royalty, the Dalai Lama or the Pope…or any other leader) must necessarily show
their humanity. Because humanity isn’t
just a “business” that needs to simply be run with “efficiency” any more than
two sexual partners can raise an emotionally healthy child that they procreated
together without something more than a business contract with each other. The next ruler of this planet will only
succeed if he (or she) reaches out to our strongest desires--to be wanted,
desired--valued as part of the whole grand scheme of life. Otherwise, some of us will go on strike,
just like the “U” or “C” “AW,” when contract negotiations go wrong.
And that is the
awe-inspiring thing about this presidential race. In my humble, yet correct, opinion, I believe that all three
candidates are fully aware of the business side of being human. Republican, John McCain has had it easy,
after soundly defeating his rivals. But
that is as it should be, since his strength of character got him through years
of hardship in a prisoner-of-war camp in Vietnam that easily compares to his
own country’s “Guantanamo.” So if he
becomes the next president, I’m sure he’d be just as capable as any other to
manage all the issues of running the world while answering to all the anti-war
activists who try to be the anti-biotics of our ailments. To all those who would protest against the
“illegal detention” of the “enemy combants,” he would have the life-experience
to say something like…Yes my fellow Americans, you’re right. It’s inhumane, what we’re doing. I know, because I’ve been there, on the
other side…And I’ve done that. My
captors put me through hell. I was a captive for years in a foreign country,
with a foreign language. There was no
“Geneva Convention,” or “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ without a lawyer” like you see
on TV and it really sucked. And when I
can find a way to make sure that that never happens to any citizen on earth,
ever again, I’ll raise everybody’s taxes to implement that policy if I have
to. And if I have to, it will only be
because I have convinced all you people of the earth, regardless of your
beliefs, that inhumanity is the costliest expense to humanity.
Hillary and Barack don’t
have it so easy, in that sense. Neither
of them have served in combat. And that
may be a drawback, in this time of war, in the eyes of their voters. However, I presume, in my humble, yet
correct opinion, that this may be the whole purpose of the battle between the
two democrats. Rich,
white-bred-but-female, Hillary is going up against the idealistic, charismatic
Martin Luther King ‘wannabe.’ They are
being forced into a war against each other that must, by its very competive
nature, bring out their own survival instincts. One is practical, realistic and
tough enough to say I can stand by my man even when his intern comes home with
his cum-stains on her blouse—for all the world to see. I have the experience to see that as shitty
as life can be, I’ve been there, done, that, and I will guide you through it!
And then you have Barack.
Black. Last name--Obama. Rhymes with
the first name of America’s worst enemy!
I gave him no chance at all in the beginning, based on his skin colour,
his name, and the same fickle populous that could make an “issue” out of his
pastor’s stupidity. And that is saying
a lot, considering how I predicted so accurately that the first Gulf war (under
George “H’ W,) would be over in no time, compared to the shivers that ran down
my spine when the second one was announced by his son. (Imagine if you were
running for president, and your best idiot-friend from the third grade was found
out by a major news organization?)
All three of them are right
on. Thanks to democracy, all of them
must listen to “polls” and media “experts” that tell them what they must do to
win. And thanks again to the media, they will also have to show us that they
don’t care about impressing us through “polls.” Thanks to this wired, global village, half of the population of
this planet will see and hear the most passionate thoughts of the Chief. And,
thanks to the media telling us so, the next ruler of the planet will have to be
strong, bold, passionate, regretful and either non-white, non-male, or, at the
very least, non-young-enough to be a cliché.
So, no matter what our belief’s, we will have to adapt to a more romantic
way of thinking under our next world ruler.
I’m not really finished but
I’m too tired to go on. So I’ll end it
here.
Sincerely,
Ern
December 23, 2007
This may be my last “Friday
Night Rant,” Dear Readers, as I realize now that I must return to a more
healthy way of living, one that is spirited by true spirituality, rather than
by alcoholic “spirits.”
On this eve of Christmas
Eve, I wish you all the best, a happy new year, and my request that you read my
last rant entitled…My Christmas rant is inspired by a beautiful film---“The Thin Red Line.”
Yes, it’s a “war
movie.” It’s bloody and brutal and it
wouldn’t be a likely choice for a movie to be aired on TV, the night before
Christmas Eve. However, it was on TV, and, having
seen it tonight for the fourth time, I finally got it. I finally understood why I enjoyed it so
much the first three times.
It is all about
having faith in God. Isn’t that a great message at Christmas
time? It’s not easy to see that message
in this movie, but when and if you do, it can be so inspiring. So let me give you all a basic rundown of
this story. It’s pretty simple…The
Second World War. American marines
invade the Japanese occupied island of Guadalcanal in the south Pacific. It’s a viciously hot, malaria-infested
island and a bunch of soldiers have to live in inhumane discomfort while, at
the same time, they have to charge head on into withering machine-gun fire.
And, as they witness so many of their friends dying, they each must find ways
to justify why they do this. Why they
exist in this hell.
This is where the movie
shines. It allows us to view the
intimate thoughts of many different people, all of who are basically the
same. They all have the same job as
soldiers. They’re all American, all born and raised as decent human beings in
the tradition of our western sensibilities.
However, as their job forces them into the depths of hell on this earth,
where they must kill in order to live, or risk being killed in order to save a
cherished friend, or help a friend die without pain because no god will allow
that person to go home to his family, then faith in a higher power becomes the
focus of the story.
It all centres around one
man who never explains his faith and who dies in the end. But that man rises to
heaven, gladly with joy in his heart, while others die in this world, or
continue to live on it. Whether they live or die is not the point. The message
is that the saddest souls are those who exist without any sense of wonder for
the world that God made. They are those
who put their faith in nothing, or into romantic love, or into religious
scriptures written by other men, or in pride, or in ambition…or in anything
that doesn’t come from the pure heart that they were given by God.
The hero of the story is in
the heart of a man who sacrifices himself to save another, only to rise to a
higher level of life because he can see that in God’s eye, “all things shine.”
All things shine.
Dear Readers, I thank you
for being here to listen to my thoughts for all these past few years and I hope
you check in with me now and again.
However, from now on, I wish to get back to writing fiction—short
stories, novels, screenplays—the stuff that inspired me years ago.
I will post my writing on
this site as often as I can in the coming year, and I will send you Dear
Readers my “reminders” every once in a while, to invite (beg?) you to read my
work. In the meantime, please know that your thoughts are always welcome. So, if you wish to post your own rant, my
“Friday Night Rant” site will remain open for you to publish your thoughts and
ideas to the great world-wide-web.
Finally, this night I need
to say how much I owe to so many of you, for all the support and inspiration
you have given me, that has allowed me to sit here every week or so, for the
past two years, to spout my “humble, yet correct opinions.”
Sincerely,
Ernie Kosanyi
November 02, 2007
The title of my rant
tonight is…The Robert Bateman exhibit. Or, how I learned to stop worrying and appreciate a
true artist. (Inspired by the
third best movie of all time—“Dr. Strangelove, or how I stopped worrying and learned to love the
bomb.”)
In the world of the animals,
God made everything so simple.
Carnivores must learn to hunt herbivores by toning their muscles for the
chase, while training their minds to learn to use a stealthy approach to gain a
launching point from which to spring upon their prey. Herbivores must learn to find pastures upon which to graze,
organizational skills to keep the herd together for mutual protection, and a
sense of “clear and present danger” so that any one of them can make a clear
command to “Run for your fracking lives” when one of them sees a blade of tall
grass rustling when it shouldn’t be.
And, in them meantime, they both need to sleep, piss, shit, and
frack. Just like us human beings. It’s
all so simple for them.
But when it comes to us
human beings, God made it all so much more complicated. Because the fracking Asshole gave us a
“mind.” It’s this irritating thing that
makes us self-aware enough to wonder why we feel pain or love or angst, or fear
or awe or…well it goes on and on. And, along with that mind, God implanted a
stupid question in us all. It’s the
same question that we all start out asking our parents when we are a few years
old—“But why?”
We “People” do everything
that those animals do. But at the end
of the day, we ask “why?” Why do we do it? Some of us build cars, buses or
planes because we need to travel to the hunt.
Some of us become dentists to fix our teeth so that we can chew what we
eat. Some become farmers to harvest
what we chew on, and replace our need to become hunters so that some of us can
become bankers, or financial consultants in order that we can pay the farmers
for replacing our need to become hunters while so many more tradespeople support
our need to…to create more jobs like bus drivers or plumbers or carpenters or
spiritual leaders who all support all of our needs to get through a working day
so that we can all come home to our families in order that we can all eat,
frack, and then go to sleep with that burning question… “Why?”
And then Robert Bateman
comes along. He paints pictures of
diving falcons, preying vultures, cliff-chasing mountain goats, stalking lions,
snow-swept wolves, and, as a human being who must ask “why,” he teaches us that
there is a beauty and grace in nature’s black-and-white- world that only us
human’s can appreciate.
He shows this to us with a
skill and craftsmanship that only a good, trained, seasoned craftsman,
implanted with that god-forsaken question, can do. His job is to ask us all to answer the question…Why?
That is the job of an
artist. Artists give us the reasons for
why we why don’t jump off bridges (that wouldn’t exist without
artists.---No-no-no, Dear Readers, it’s not just engineering and clever mathematics
that makes a bridge. Try gazing at one
for a long time. You’ll see the
artistry sooner or later.) At the end of the day, when everything we worked for
was accomplished, it would all become meaningless in our mind if some artist
didn’t give us a reason to look forward to something that only humans need to
live for.
It was an artist that gave
meaning to your life today. (Maybe
through this rant?) No matter how
“blue-collar” you think your life is, it was an artist that created the t.v show
or the movie that you are watching, or the music that you are listening to if
you aren’t reading this rant that an artist wrote. An artist created the paintings or photographs that you need to
see on your walls that were covered in paint that an artist created. It was an artist that imagined the graceful
lines on the side panels of the car that you chose to purchase. An artist designed the cool look of the
cellphone that you bought, the building that you live or work in. Artists created the world in which you have
chosen to live by asking you to answer your deepest question…Why?
Artists created the spouse
you chose to be yours, by creating a person inspired by artists. Because artists made your lover the person
who they are by inspiring he/she to ask the same “why” questions that you
choose to ask, based on artistic questions that have inspired both of you
throughout your life. They may have
been very similar, or very different questions. But artists brought you together nonetheless. (I realize that reasoning might seem
luxurious to people in the outer reaches of the third world where “Picasso,”
“The Artist Formerly known as Prince,” and “Nike” may be as alien to them as
electricity, but I’m sure that artistry exists in their human spirit in ways
that I can’t know or appreciate.)
The problem for artists is
that the very same reasons that art is so imperceptible in our daily lives,
because it is so intangible, is that the rewards for being an artist are
equally as intangible. Artists live by
inspiration, which is a purely “mind” thing.
And the reward for being an artist is simply a gratification of the
soul. Which is also a “mind
thing.” Artists feel rewarded if they
know that what they have created has brought that question, “why” into the
heart of another human.
This reward is so gratifying
to the artist, to see that he/she has inspired another soul to say something
like “Wow,” or to see a grin or a frown or a tear, or any emotion whatsoever
from a fellow human being, that artists can become confused and disoriented if
they don’t achieve the accepted reward of cold hard cash for their efforts even
as all of the other successful craftsmen in this human race have come to
recognize this cash as a reward for their efforts.
Artists live in a human
world that has necessarily evolved, to this point, into a society that is built
around a universally accepted commodity.
Money. Tangible cash has been
created by our race to be used as a tangible form of trade for goods rendered
because most of us create hard, tangible goods or services, (like car-building
or teeth-cleaning.) I would guess that
90 percent of people believe that 90 per cent of the things that we need in
this world are things that we must touch, taste or see in order to prevent our
certain deaths.
Nothing that an artist
creates is tangible in any way that animals can understand. Sure, you can
“touch” a novel’s page. You can “look”
at a painting. You can “watch” a TV show, just as you can watch a sunset. But no dog or cat would pay money for any of
that. And us human animals, observed from the point of view of a six billion
strong human“bio-mass” are not all that different.
Would humanity die off if we
used up all the earth’s oil tomorrow, just as the animal kingdom would die off?
Hmmm…we probably would. But would we
become extinct if no artist ever painted the Mona Lisa? If no Sculptor ever created “David?” No
writer ever wrote “War and Peace,” or even “Romeo and Juliet?” If no director made “Citizen Kane?” If no great actor starred in “Out of Africa?”
Frack! What if no automotive designer ever lived to create the shape of the
Chevy Corvette? (Not to mention the Lamborghini Diablo. Or any number of Ferraris?!)
In my humble, yet correct
opinion, I think we would die off. If
humanity could have lived for all these thousands of years without art, there
would be no such thing as a zoo today.
Because all of us two-legged’s would be sharing all the wide-open spaces
with all of our four-legged ancestors.
And the only difference between us and the apes would be us asking
ourselves, “How come those fracking monkeys don’t want to find a bridge to jump
off of because nothing means anything?”
So…getting back to the point
of why it is so different and confusing to be an artist. Well, let me put it this way…Artists are the
people who write those cheesey movie lines, like when a macho cop says “This
ain’t what I do…Its what I am..” (And
it’s the artistic actor who makes you believe the line.) Cops can say that
because taxpayers will let them.
Taxpayers will pay for their schooling.
Taxpayers will wish them all their best (for good reason) to become the
cops that they “are.”
But artists write those
lines that the cool cop actors get to say because artists create those words
from their heart, because artists really, honestly, do what they do because
that really “is what they are.” By
their very nature, they can’t care if they are cool. Just as what they create has no tangible value, the reasons for
which they create their product have no tangible justification. Very few taxpayers are willing to pay for
“art” even though they’d die a slow, lingering death without it.
For example, I once
advertised myself as an autobiograher in a local newspaper. I got one irate call from an old geezer who
told me that he called some union writer who quoted him $20,000 to write his
autobiography. Oh was he flabbergasted! Twenty grand to immortalize his life
from childhood to old age. Although I would have done the job for far less, the
price seemed perfectly reasonable to me. After all, the writer (artist) would
have had to sacrifice a year of his life to immortalize this person’s soul in
no less than a 100,000 words. It would be a history of this man’s soul, this
man’s artistry, that could be passed down for generations of descendants. But all this man could see in his mind was
probably a small, square paperback thing of paper. Hell, for that price, he could buy something tangible! Like a Honda Civic. Loaded!
You can touch that. You can use
that to get somewhere. But your boring
life immortalized in words forever?…Well…what the hell is that worth?
And yet the true artist is
consumed by the need to create a product that most human beings will never ask
to purchase. So, Dear Readers, take a
fresh look at something that has made you feel good to be alive for reasons
other than what the five animal senses can process. If that something was
created by a human, appreciate the fact that that artist lived his/her life to
touch you in that way. It was his sole
reason for living. And if he earned money by creating the thing that you are
freshly looking at, then know that he earned his pay just as any brain surgeon
or chartered accountant did.
The only difference is, the
artist could not have earned that monetary reward, if that was his desire. Because, as lucrative as art can be in terms
of this moneyed society, the most money can only be made by artists who only
have the desire and ability to create the question, “why?” And they’re too busy
thinking about the question to care about such silly things as boats and cars
and mansions and…money.
Of course, I’d be thrilled
if this rant made me some money…Now that I’ve finished creating art and can
just look back on it all and…you know…imagine being on Oprah?
Guess I’m not an artist…Yet.
Take care Dear Readers. Please watch something and look in the
background for things that you might never think to notice. For that matter, I invite you to check out
the rest of my website!
Sincerely,
Ernie Kosanyi
October 12, 2007
Hey Dear Readers, tonight I want to speak of the virtues of open
immigration, high taxes and stricter gun laws.
No! Just
kidding! I just want to get your blood
pumping the way I seemed to with my last rant.
Boy, did that one stir up a kettle of fish! I had replies from some of you going out to all the rest of you,
mostly telling me how wrong I was, with a few of you supporting my views. I
received verbal replies and at least one of you Dear Readers replied to other
Readers replies! Got pretty hairy there.
I enjoyed all your
responses, Dear Readers and hope that I receive as many from my rant tonight,
which will simply be titled…Hmmm…How about, Questions that I would like answered?
I’ll start simply, with a
question that one of you posed to me years ago. Why do we drive on a “parkway” and park in a “driveway?” From here I will drive
gradually into deeper, darker thoughts.
For example, speaking of driving, why do drivers wave a “thank you” to
me when they force me to waste my brake pads when they cut into my lane without
warning? Know what I mean? I mean, if somebody to my left signals their
intention to merge into my lane ahead of me and I slow down a little to let
them in, then I can understand why they wave a thank you. But why do they wave a “thank you” when they
didn’t signal and gave me no choice but to slam on my brakes? I mean, I didn’t
do anything but waste my brake-pads to avoid slamming into the back of that
driver’s car due to his/her lack of consideration for time and space and
planning ahead. So what the frack are
they thanking me for?
Of course, it’s not like I’m
the perfect, considerate driver. There
have been times that I’ve thought, “shit, I have to get off the highway at the
next exit!” And therefore I’ve jumped in front of other drivers without
offering them an ample warning. And if
there could be such a thing as an “apology” wave, I’d have waved it. But, since there isn’t any such thing, I
just make sure to be quick enough that I won’t get slammed in the ass and go on
my way like the asshole that I am.
Continuing with the
automotive theme…my car has power windows.
This switch is ergonomically logical.
You push it down to make the window go down. You pull it up to make the window go up. My passengers automatically push the button
down to make the window go down. But
then they push it down again to make the
window go up.
Why? Why do they push something
down to make something go up? And why does it perplex them so when the window
doesn’t go up even though it was their illogical thinking that caused the
predicament? Why don’t people who ride
in my car think as logically as the people who designed it by naturally pulling
the switch up, to make something go up?…
(Yeah…That’s what she said.)
Now some of you smart
Readers might ask me what I did the first time I tried to raise my window. Did I push the button down to make the
window go up? Luckily, like a good
politician, I can honestly say that, “I don’t recall that moment.”
Why does a car worth $20K in
Canada cost $16K in the United States when the Canadian “Colour Back” is now
worth two cents more than the U.S “Greenback?”
Why does the US of A allow
Japan to import their cars to us when they won’t allow our cars to be exported
over there? (Is it just because
Japanese cars have logical window buttons?…No.
It can’t be that simple.) I can
just picture some clairvoyant Yankee soldier stationed in Japan back in late
1945, after the Japanese lost the war, talking to some distraught Japanese
business person…Might go something like this…
”Hey buddy, don’t cry. Don’t be afraid. The war’s done now. We’re not gonna’ rape and pillage your
country even though you killed so many of us over the past four years. No sir.
We believe in free enterprise.
Now that we whipped your ass, we’re gonna set you free to rebuild your
country. And you know what, you
slanty-eyed freak, fifty years from now, my liberal frackin’ descendants are
gonna’ be driving cars that you assholes designed right here in your country
after we conquered you at the cost of tens of thousands of my best buddies that
you killed.
“Oh sure, we’re gonna hang a
few hundred of your top military brass to punish you for your evil treatment of
our POW’s, but after that we’re all gonna go home and leave you alone to
rebuild your country after we bombed and nuked the shit out of it to teach you
a lesson…’Never,
EVER, attack our country.”
“But then, over the next
half century, we’re gonna’ get kinda cocky, just like you ‘Gooks’ did back on
December 7, 1941. We’re gonna’ start a
few scraps of our own back here in your territory, in countries around here
that we isolationist Yanks will come to learn as “Korea” and “Vietnam.” And you guys are gonna whip our asses! What
difference will it make?”
“And you know, buddy, once
you and I have humbled each other by kicking each others asses, your
grandchildren in Tokyo will get rich building the cars that my grandchildren
will be driving in Detroit. And fifty
years from now, we’ll all be equal businessmen, wondering how this all came to
be when you and I swore to kill each other a few days ago!”
How the Frack can two
different civilizations that nearly annihilated each other for four years,
sixty years ago become business-partners decades later when other opposing
civilizations can hold grudges for THOUSANDS of years?
How can so many loving gods
be so fearful of each other as to ask their mortal children to eliminate the
competition? How can a God that is so
powerful to create the universe have any need or desire to ask his children to
worship him, let alone destroy the other children of his who don’t believe in
him?
I tell you Dear Readers, any
“God” that is such a wimp that he needs a child like me to stand up for him
against any “non-believer”is, as Shania Twain sings, “No (God) of mine.”
So why do so many people
kill in the name of God, when God can so easily take care of himself? If Allah is all-powerful, it should be so
very simple. There will be no Christians
tomorrow. Right? If Jesus is the Son of God, and he died for
our sins, then everything is taken care of.
Right? So why are we all so arrogant to think that the greate creator,
who constructed the entire universe, needs Us to fight his battles?
Stops my brain! Us little beings here on this little planet
that he created need to to fight each other in His name? This reminds me of my
childhood, when I acted as God many times as I looked down on an ant colony
engaging in city-building…or warring against each other. That was years ago, when I was a massive
child-god. When I got bored of being a
god looking down at my thousands of subjects I…well…I crushed their planet
under my shoe.
So…Why can’t we all, around
the world, as human adult beings who all want to reach out and be reached out
to, come to an agreement that there is an existence beyond our understanding
that put us all here to feel the joy of this creationist that we can all agree
to call “God?” (Or Allah or Buddha… Or, for Atheists…”Nobody.”) Maybe, if God is about to become bored of
our usual patterns of building and conquering our puny empires in his name,
he/she won’t get bored enough by our pathetic existence to crush us under his
shoe while we fight blindly over our egocentric ideas of ourselves.
Why can’t we just jump into
the joy of an existence that is, by its very unexplainability, completely
magical and unexplainable, and let that simple fact give us inspiration to be
as magical as that Great Being who created us?
Can any of you Dear Readers
explain to me why this simple (in my humble, yet correct opinion) hasn’t been
accepted by all of us?
Why is Autumn so gorgeous
when it is the season of the harbinger of death? Why are the leaves so
colourful as they die when they are so blandly uniform green during their
life? Why is the crisp, smoky nightime air
so intoxicating when the season means the end of life for this past year?
Why do I sit here asking
these questions on a Friday night? What do I hope to accomplish or to achieve
with this “Friday Night Rant?” Is there any connection between this column and
my desire to have my novel, “Visions of Icarus” published, for which I began
this website in the first place?
Or is my connection with You
Dear Readers the end result of my writing the novel that caused me to create
this website that created this connection between us that has created so much
fun for me over these past years? Could it be that my two years of toil to
write a story that may never be read except by a few of you Dear Readers was
all for the purpose of creating this forum where this same author could just
shoot the shit with all of you?
If that is the case, then I
will allow that possibility, since it has given me so much in return. In the meantime, I will continue to send my
novel out to publishers while I run the business that makes my dollars until I
rise above this trap, and I will continue to ask you Dear Readers for your
wisdom. Does that make sense? Is it a
smart idea to make money by doing something that you can’t give a shit about
while you force yourself to do what…
You know, Dear Readers, the
music I’m listening to right now, by the Almond Brothers, says it all…
”And if I had those
golden dreams…of my yesterdaysssS…I would wrap you… in the heavens….”
Sincerely,
Ern
August 24, 2007
Hey Dear Readers, my blood’s boiling tonight! I’m pissed off
about two completely different issues. One is a local animal/human rights
issue, and the other is about the King’s speech this week to his warriors. My goal is to make it all related. So, to follow my last historically romantic
title of a “Mid Summer Night’s Rant,” I think I’ll follow that up with the
title tonight of…Tearing a Strip off a Hot August Night’s Madness.
So let me start with the
first issue. The animal-versus-human
rights issue. It’s all about a story
that happened this month in my ex-hometown of Toronto, Ontario, Canada. An officer of the Humane Society came across
an unfortunate dog that was boiling to death in its owner’s vehicle.
FYI, for you non-Canucks,
the Humane Society is Canada’s official protection agency for animals. They’re the people that take stray pets to
the “pound” and who prosecute people who are guilty of cruelty to animals. Which is all fine and good, of course. As a
former pet-owner, I’m glad to live in a country where respect for all life is
important enough to create a government agency for the protection of non-human
life.
Aaaaaanyway…This officer, so
the story goes, found the negligent pet owner, as well as the dying pet. The poor dog was apparently on the verge of
death, having been locked in this car for far too long on a hot summer
day. So the Toronto Humane Society
officer decided to take the poor dog away from the scene and get it to medical
attention as fast as possible. Good for
him, right? However, he didn’t want the
pet owner to escape prosecution for the horrible act that the pet-owner had
done to his pet. So, before the officer
rushed the pet to safety, he handcuffed the pet owner to his vehicle so that
the asshole couldn’t run away before other officers came to arrest him while
said officer, (named “Tre”) went off to save the animal.
So “Tre” handcuffs a person
and then abandons this man, leaving this person in a public place, in plain
view of any and all passersby. So, of
course, the “bad pet owner” got the shit kicked out of him soon after “Tre”
left him alone, chained-up, in a public place, by a lynch mob of other humans
who were pissed off at this negligent pet owner.
So what happens next? Well, the Toronto Humane Society takes “Tre”
off the street and “handcuffs” him to a desk-job
pending a review of the incident.
Good for them.
Then what happens? A bunch of animal-rights activists stage a
public protest in front of the T.H.S. office to protest the fact that their
“hero” has been suspended by the T.H.S. for having saved the life of a dog.
I found all this rather
funny (since there are far more serious issues that require our attention)
until I saw this “Tre” on a local TV news station the other day. He was proudly talking about his
responsibility to save animals in need.
I waited for him to speak of being caught between a rock and a hard
place—between saving the animal while showing concern for a fellow human being,
you know? Like, maybe he’d say
something like…”You know, Ann…(Ann Rohmer, the “cougar” news anchor who was so
obviously enamoured by the young “Tre’s” good looks.)
“You know, Ann, I was really torn. I
needed to save that poor dog, but I couldn’t allow that asshole get away with
it. So I made an impulsive decision to
handcuff him to his car so that he couldn’t get away. Now that I look back on it, I wish that I had just taken his
licence plate number, let him go, and then tracked him down later. But I didn’t think of that at the time. I was too impulsive. I made a mistake that caused this asshole (in
my humble, yet correct opinion) to be assaulted by an angry mob.”
But that didn’t happen. In fact, just the opposite happened. “Tre” was quite proud of his actions. And he was obviously happy to brag about his
love for animals and the support that he had gained from people “around the
world.” And the local media was only too happy to make him a local hero by
inviting him to be a guest on their show!
He had no remorse for his
actions during that incident. He didn’t
care that the person in his custody had suffered pain. That person whom he had handcuffed wasn’t
even an issue to be discussed! Not even on a public television NEWS program.
Oooooohhhhh.
That’s when I got really
pissed off…When this officer of a Canadian law enforcement agency, who is paid
by our taxes, was branded a “hero” not only by the stupid people in our
society, but by the media as well, for exacting vigilante justice against
another Canadian citizen.
And that’s exactly what it
is, vigilante justice. And our media
allowed…no…Encouraged…him to be proud of himself!
Dear Readers…(Let me take a
deep breath before I go on.) We Canadians are supposed live in a society of
“law and order,” where suspects are “innocent until proven guilty.” You know?
Even murder suspects are only “apprehended,” by law enforcement officers
unless those suspects threaten the officers with deadly force. They are taken
into custody and kept safe from harm until a jury of their peers find them
guilty. Only then, when the suspect is
found to be guilty, do we punish them for their crime. And even then, we try to
“rehabilitate” them. We incarcerate
them and help try to help them see the error of their ways.
We don’t hang them out in
public to be lynched by an angry mob as this “Humane Society” officer named “Tre”
did.
And yet we chastise our
soldiers, and protest against them for going “over there” to protect those
against the “Tre’s” in foreign countries who proudly kill people in those
far-off streets without the due process of law and order that we are supposed
to be so proud of in our own country.
Indeed, I ask you, Dear
Readers, what do you think would happen if a Canadian soldier handcuffed a
“Sunni” Afghani citizen to a post in a predominantly “Shiite”city street
because that soldier knew that that person had planted an “I.E.D,” (Improvised
Explosive Device,) and then that soldier (a Canadian “Tre”) abandoned that
person that he had “unilaterally” incarcerated, to go and find a bomb-defusing
expert in order save people from being blown to bits?
And when I say “people,” I
don’t mean only people who hold a similar belief-system as that soldier. That
soldier might be trying to save the life of a young child who might be taught
by his/her parents, someday in the future, to blow himself up to kill that very
same Canadian soldier who is now trying to save that child’s life. And that soldier might be completely aware
of the fact that he is trying to save the life of a child who might want to
kill him in some future scenario.
But that is the job of a soldier…to
save lives, regardless of beliefs, politics, or other rhetoric. A soldier is
paid to protect the people who pay him/her.
And if the people in a democratic country like Canada, who pay that
soldier with their tax dollars, say, “we need you to to this for the people of
your country” then that soldier obeys that order, just as you do when your boss
tells you to do that for your company.
However, I bet that the “Ann
Rohmers” of our country, who jump at the chance to make a hero out of a man
who’d gladly let another man die in order to save another man’s dog, would jump
all over the “unprofessional conduct” of that soldier.
And that is a sad and ironic
pity, since Ann’s father is one of Canada’s most decorated and heroic Generals.
Dear Readers, I got so
caught up in being “right-wing” tonight, I don’t have any energy left to go to
the “left.” And that is also a sad and
ironic pity, as I really wanted to because I was so equally bemused and
disgusted by the American president’s “historical” speech this week to the
American Veterans. When he got to the
Vietnam comparison, I just thought, “you Frackin’ hypocrite!
I was just as pissed off by
his hypocritical bullshit as I was by the above-mentioned “Tre” story. Indeed, I really wanted to write a new speech, as if I was
suddenly elected to George W. Bush’s office, in order to save humanity from his
innocent, naïve, stupidity. But I don’t have paid speech-writers to whom I can
say…”Hey guys, write this drunken rant in my head so that it sounds intelligent
for my press conference at nine a.m.”
However, since I don’t have “speech-writers,” I’ll have to
leave that one for next week. In the
meantime, I hope that all you Dear Readers get pissed off about something. And I hope that you speak about it, rather
than hurt somebody because of it.
Because that is why we are human beings, as opposed to animals that need
to be protected from harm.
Sincerely,
Ern
August 3, 2007
Hey Dear Readers, right off the top, I’m going to
title this one…A Mid-Summer Night’s Rant. The
Shakespearean reference is intended for a want of poetry in my life. Now of course the Bard was a playright and
not a “poet.” But the point is, is that he wrote about great passions that
emanate from a true heart. And that’s
all that I want to express tonight.
So…without “further ado…”
let me spout, for no good reason, everything that I may feel embarrassed about
tomorrow.
I feel good when children
want to play with me. I savour the light in their eyes. I am a pebble in God’s universe, put here for
them to toss about. Unlike a common stone, however, I am granted a soul with
which to acknowledge the joy that I create, as they toss me around.
And I feel free when I stand
by a mid-summer night’s fire and know that I am in the company of friends. It’s
just that plain and simply that simple. I can be in the middle of my life,
standing in a sandbox with a friend, and feel no more angst than when I was
twelve years old. Indeed, I feel even
less pressure due to the saving grace of adulthood.
I feel bad when I confront
my demons. When a mid-summer day blinds
me with sun and pain and alcohol, only to throw me into the darkness of a hot
summer night of confusion and passion, I find a strange comfort in asking
simple questions…
Why is this the way it
is? Why have I done the wrongs that
I’ve done? Or do I focus on those failings because it is easier to do that than
to dream upon the midnight stars in the northern sky the way I used to do…When
I had no idea how many problems I that I believe that I have today? Should I
punish myself? Should I release myself?
How many apologies do I owe to the people I love? How many do they owe me? Should I even ask such questions?
This is what I love about
this summer in my life…The passion of the wonder of the desire of the need to
just…
To just ask a question that
I don’t know how to answer.
I always like to end my rant
with a request of you Dear Readers. Something profound that might give us all
hope. I’m not going to do that tonight.
I’ll just leave that up to you.
Sincerely,
Ern
July 7, 2007
Hey Dear Readers, last week
we celebrated our nation’s birthday.
This week we mourn the loss of six of our servicemen in Afghanistan, as
well as an Afghani interpreter who died with them in the same horrific explosion.
Last week I wrote a flippant little rant about Pamela and how time flies. This week, I don’t even know if I’ll finish
this one, thanks to the darkness. So,
in case I don’t get around to it, let me try to sum it all up in the title of
my rant tonight…Why do we use people; their lives, their deaths, their families’ pain,
for our personal agendas?
Okay, so, let me organize my
thoughts for a minute so that I can let you Dear Readers understand why I am so
pissed off about the public reaction to these tragic deaths…
Okay. I think I’ve got it. Let me explain from my personal experience.
I’ll go back to when I was eight or nine years old. I was at the beach one day.
I really wanted to be there and was thankful that I was. I paddled my raft out onto the water, baked
in the sun, and then jumped in the lake in order feel the great rush of
adrenaline that I knew I would feel when I hit the glistening ripples of cold
water. And, Dear Readers, it was as wonderful as I am trying to make it sound
with simple words. Except, when I came up out of my dive and rose up out of the
cold expanse to take my first breath, my toes couldn’t reach the sand.
And I didn’t know how to
swim.
My first breath wasn’t one
of joy and happiness, it was one of desperation, gained only by the fact that,
when I sank beneath the water, I had enough strength to leap above the surface
for just long enough to drink in a breath.
And then I repeated the process.
Sink...nearly drown…hop…gasp for breath…sink…nearly drown…hop above the
surface…over and over again. Eventually
my dad ran out to save me from drowning.
The point is, I nearly died
that day because I did something that I wanted to do.
July 1, 2007
Hey Dear Readers, we
celebrate a couple of important birthdays today. First of all, our great nation, Canada, is only 140 years young
today. Think of that. An entire country—the second largest sovereign nation on the planet that we call Earth, full of
heritage and history—is only 18 years older than the Guiness Record longest
living human being. But here comes an
even more staggering fact that should make us ALL stop and think…to ponder how
our days are passing us by…Pamela Anderson, who was born on this same day, in
this same country that we call Canada…
Is the same age as our
country, minus a hundred years.
Think about that for a
minute. (Unless you are a Dear Female Reader…In which case my point will
probably be lost on you. And I know
that that is truly MY loss.)
Pamela Anderson…In case you
didn’t hear me the first time. PAMELA
ANDERSON….
Is 40…Forty years old…Today!
Ten minutes have passed
while I tried to think of some way to impress that fact upon your intelligent
minds. Like how the world’s most universally acknowledged “sexiest woman” is
Canadian….And how, today, we must accept the fact that she is FORTY YEARS OLD!”
Good for you Pam! You’re the Marylin Monroe of our modern
world. No Paris or Lindsay, Britney or
Ashley, will ever compare to you. But just think of the facts…You…the hottest
cover-girl on the planet..the “Baywatch Babe,” is FORTY.
Ahhh. I think that I will be twenty today. Since Pamela, and all of the beautiful
ladies that I know, and all of the youthful dreams that I have, are all as sexy
as the youth in my heart.
Happy Birthday Canada!
Today, let’s all celebrate
our 20th birthday!
June 9, 2007
Hey dear Readers. I saw a show on TV today that taught me that
the furthest distance that a Grizzly Bear can stand from a road in “the Lower
48” (States) is twenty miles. This fact
reminds me of a day when I was stopped on an “Interstate” highway in Colorado
when I, along with many other travellers, was compelled to come to a dead stop
in the middle of a four-lane, 60 mph road because a family of Dear waited on
the right shoulder of the road, while a young one mustered up the courage to
cross the deadly path from the left shoulder.
This frightened creature looked across the road to its parents for
encouragement, then looked to us humans for reassurance that we would continue
to halt our mad dash to our destination in order to assure its safe passage
across the 20 metres of Interstate pavement, in order to rejoin its family.
He crossed the road,
scared…but reunited.
So the title of my rant
tonight is, why
we all let the young Dear cross the 20 metres.
Could that be a metaphor for
all our lives? I know some of you Dear
Readers like to believe that the “environmentalists” are totally fracked with
their tree-hugging ways. You claim that
their claims are fracked because they all thought the world would be uninhabitable
by now. After all, the whales still
swim the oceans. Okay, so maybe the Blue Whale is extinct. But most of the other ones are still around,
right?
We’re not walking around in
gas masks, as the radicals predicted. (On this continent, at least—but who
cares about the other ones anyway?)
Those old sci-fi movies never came true. DDT, “Agent Orange” and Thalidomide were all abandoned before all
those chemicals destroyed the planet. (And most of our babies.) So why should we
worry about “the environment?”
The fact, in my humble, yet
correct, opinion, is that we shouldn’t worry about the environment at all. Because we can’t kill it. We just don’t have
the power, with our limited numbers, versus its size and adaptability over time
periods in the thousands of years that we humans just can’t understand. I realized this twenty years ago when I sat
on a train for twenty hours and saw nothing outside my window but trees. We
just can’t “clear-cut” the entire planet in the amount of time that our Earth
will allow us to exterminate ourselves while we blindly see our fortunes come
true at its expense.
Hell, I can just relate my
own experience in my own lifetime to back this up. I can still travel across Lake Huron in my gas-powered boat, to
get to the same beautiful beach that I went to twenty years ago. All the crayfish that I collected way back
then are gone. I, and one of you Dear
Readers, scooped them all up into a plastic bucket. All the Perch and all the Bass fish that my Dad caught by the
dozens back then are gone as well. But
I don’t care, because the fouled water that supports my little boat is still
there. And the sand on the beach is
still there. And the oil in the ground that powers my little boat is still
there. And the gas that comes from that oil costs me less dollars than it did
twenty years ago (after adjusting for inflation and
cost-of-
living and other economist-invented factors.)
So I still live in the same
world that I lived in twenty years ago, even though the truth of my life is
only twenty miles away, at its furthest point.
The point is is that we don’t build the road that the natural
environment must try to cross. It builds that boundary for us.
So why did we all screech
our brakes to allow that young Dear to cross the road? Because we all realized, by the look in his
eyes, that we all live within a day’s travel of our most noble crossing.
And I’m not talking about
the environment.
Sincerely,
Ern
May 25, 2007
Hey Dear Readers, this time last year I was thrilled to be swept
away by a major life transformation. Or
maybe I was experiencing the infamous “mid-life crisis.” Whatever it was, it was exhilarating. Every week I found inspiration for a rant. But, without any further
ado, the title of my rant tonight is…”Let’s keep dancing.”
That phrase is from an old
Peggy Lee song. She sang of how all the
childish dreams of her youth fell apart.
In her song, she tells us of how, when she was a little girl, she saw
her house burn down. At first, the
sight of the fire excited her. But in the
morning all there was was the smouldering remains of her home. She asked, is that all there is? Is that all there is to a fire? As she grew
older, many wonderful things happened in her life. And they all collapsed.
Until she thought she would die. And then comes the best line of her
song…
“But I didn’t.”
And at the end of every
disaster in her life she sings…”If that’s all there is my friends…then let’s
keep daaaaaancing. Let’s bring out the wine…and have a ball.”
That’s where I find myself today,
Dear Readers. I began my “Friday Night
Rants” back when I found the desire to have goals and ambitions in the middle
of my life. Over the course of all this
time, all the dreams that inspired me to write these rants have imploded in one
way or another.
And yet, in these past few
weeks, I’ve found myself “dancing” again.
I don’t know why. But my life
has rebuilt itself for no particular reason that I can think of. Not completely. Because it could all collapse again
tomorrow. The only difference between today and yesterday is that no matter
what happens, I know that tomorrow I’ll still be dancing to the beat of this
life’s mystery.
The only problem here is
that I now have to face the fact that all my “humble, yet correct” opinions may
be incorrect. Maybe we really should
all carry a concealed handgun. Maybe
(contrary to my last full rant dated “April 13, 2007”) the Earth is actually a
globe, instead of a flat plate. And
maybe God did create it in six days, six thousand years ago. Maybe the “Creationists”
are right. Maybe Darwin was a fool,
along with all those silly scientists who came up with that stupid “carbon
dating” technology. Maybe George W. Bush is the most intelligent President
America has ever known. Maybe the history books will teach children of the
future to compare him to Winston Churchill.
All I know today is that I
just want to keep dancing. And if I
have a whim as I spin across the floor that I wish to share with you Dear
Readers, I’ll write it next week. And
if I don’t have a thought worth sharing, I won’t share it.
Here’s one thought that I’d
like to share with you tonight. I met
an interesting person recently who asked me tonight, “not to tell anyone about
me.”
I’m conflicted here,
because, in my humble yet correct opinion, everyone should want to know this
person.
Maybe this is a good point
to end this rant. Let it all end with
the fact that we all want to be hunted down, yet never captured.
April 27, 2007
On April Fool’s Day I
promised God, and you Dear Readers, that I would write a “rant” every week. So what did
I do two weeks later? I broke my
promise and went to a beach for the weekend to bake in the spring sun. People
have asked me where I went on vacation to get my tan! That is the beauty of
Stokes Bay, Dear Readers. Two days there can rejuvenate your soul, not to
mention changing your skin colour.
It can also inspire a rant.
For example…in my last rant,
I taught you Dear Readers that the Earth is flat. Judging by your lack of responses (to prove me wrong,) I feel
that it is safe to teach you the lessons I learned last weekend (and many
previous weekends)…the title of my rant tonight… in Stokes Bay.
In my last rant, I preached
about the fact that the earth is flat.
Last week I learned that cloudy skies are caused by the “smoke” from jet
airliners. So let me explain to you as
it was explained to me by a long time resident who will remain anonymous…You
know when you glance up at the sky just as an airliner streaks across the blue,
trailing its white streamer of “smoke?” Anyone of us who is a student of
aviation has been taught that that white trail is a “contrail.” Not “smoke.” We assume that it is simply water vapour formed by some scientific
conspiracy that trains us to think that high-speed, high-altititude, metal wings
can cause an atmospheric disturbance that can cause water vapour to form in the
wake of an airliner’s disturbance of the air, much like a high-speed boat
causes a “wake” in a lake.
But my Dear (anonymous
Reader) who has all the time in the world to look at the sky and absorb the
magic of Stokes Bay, has discovered a different reality. He has taught me that the “smoke” from those
airliners has a detrimental effect on the environment. Because whenever those
“smoke trails” cris-cross the Stokes Bay sky, clouds are sure to follow.
That is a fact, Dear
Readers. And here comes an even more
shocking fact from what I have learned in Stokes Bay…The British Royal
Family…Queen, Prince Harry, and all before them…are reptiles. I don’t mean that metaphorically. I mean that they really are reptilian. They hide this fact because they are also
“shape-shifters.” They appear as
“human” when they appear in public, to keep us all fooled. But behind closed doors…watch out! Indeed, it was one of you Dear Readers who
taught me that fact.
I’m not kidding. And I can’t discount either of these “facts”
for two reasons. First of all, I love
to imagine. After all, it`s these kinds of ideas that great sci-fi scripts come
from. And second, I have enough of my own magical experiences from Stokes Bay
to believe that anything is possible.
(unfinished)
April 13, 2007
Hey, Dear Readers,
I was pleasantly surprised
by the number of comments I received from last week’s rant about “The
Secret.” All of your “Dear comments”
were entertaining and very well thought out.
Even the comments that didn’t agree with my humble, yet correct
opinions, were a joy to read. One of
the most interesting comments from you Dear Readers was the suggestion that I
use the phrase, “Dear Readers,” too often.
You, Dear Reader, even suggested that my use of referring to you Dear
Readers in this way might be a deliberate act of manipulation on my part. As if my flattery of you, Oh-So-Dear
Readers, might make it difficult for your wonderful selves to disagree with my
rants because you might feel a pang of guilt for telling me that I’m wrong when
you are so “Dear” to me.
Well rest assured, Dear
Reader, because if I am being manipulative…(“If I Did It”)…many of your fellow
“Dear Readers,” haven’t fallen for this dastardly deed. Indeed, many of your fellow Dear Readers
haven’t hesitated to call me a “fracking idiot” (just an example to summarize
the creative words that have been used to describe this rant writer) when my correct
opinions conflicted with their incorrect ones.
And that’s okay by me. Because
any time I receive a reply from any of you dear, sweet, wonderful, jewels of
Readership, no matter what you say, I’m flattered beyond belief simply because
of the fact that my thoughts inspired a reply from you.
However, Dear Readers, from
now on I will try to take the advice of this particular Dear Reader, and not
refer to you Dear Readers so often in my writing, by using this aforementioned
phrase. Because the last thing that I
want to do is manipulate any of you…Ah…people.
No sir. Not me.
However, if, by chance, any
of you…people…cherished the idea that you were “Dear” to somebody out there,
and you don’t feel that way anymore because you will never see yourself
referred to as a “Dear Reader,” and I was the only person in your life who made
you feel special…and cherished…and “Dear.”… In this world…
Please don’t jump off a
bridge.
You will still be my “Dear
Reader,” even if I can’t remind you of that fact whenever I want to, just
because of the concerns of another of you…Ah…Well…you know who you are and what
you mean to me.
Because I would never consciously attempt to manipulate any of you
Dear Readers…No. Not me.
Aaaaanyway…This week’s rant
of mine might seem hypocritical after my last one, since this one has to do
with faith in a philosophy that appears to stretch the boundaries of scientific
logic. But the Title of my rant tonight
is “The
Don-Ho Flat Earth Society Museum.” It’s inspired by another museum that I discovered on
CNN last week. The morning after I posted last week’s rant, I awoke to a “CNN
Special” entitlted, “What is a Christian?”
One of the first items in
this “documentary” was a report on the “Creationist Museum.”
www.answersingenesis.org/museum/
I supplied you Dear…Oops,
with the website in order that you may judge for yourself, as I had to. I had to make sure that this was not some
“left wing” propaganda that some “right wing” news media was poking fun at. But no.
It turns out that the “Creationist Museum” really does exist. It is about to open to the public, this
June. In America. In the most progressive and powerful nation in the world, a
museum as powerful and as influential as the New York Museum of Modern Art, the
French “Louvre,” is about to open this June.
This is the “Creationist
Museum.”
Before I go on, I do not
wish to dispute anyone’s faith in God.
Whether one worships the Bible, or the Koran, or whatever…One’s belief
in a benevolence beyond ego—beyond the self, is always a belief in God, in my
humble…well…you know.
This “Creationist Museum”
blew my mind. This is a real complex of
concrete and “zoning by-laws,” located in the heart of the world’s most
powerful place, in a territory that places freedom of thought and speech behond
all else. This museum, as rich and well-planned as any amusement park in
America, exists solely to teach people the “Laws of God” just as convincingly
as students in school are taught the laws of physics…or mathematics. For example, when I was a child, I was
schooled to believe that two apples, added to two more would add up to four
apples. This museum will exist to teach us that the Earth was created, quite literally, six thousand years ago, in six days.
By a Christian God.
This museum will display
huge dioramas of an “ancient world” populated by children who wear clothing to
cover their “private parts,” fearlessly carousing next to ferocious dinosaurs
beside a lush, tropical pond. This is how the world was before Eve ate the
forbidden apple. School-kids who will someday run this planet will be treeted
to lecturers who will teach them that all of the scientists all over this
planet, who exist beyond politics or ideology, are WRONG. “Carbon dating,”
“Neandertal’s,” “Fossils…” All of it is bullshit. And now there is a “museum” created just to teach us that.
It must be a great
humiliation to all those people, past and present, who have devoted their lives
to find out the “truth” as they so narrowly understood the concept. It must be
as devastating to learn the error of their ways just as it would be to the
mathematician who discovers that for all of the thousands of years that
humanity has spent trying to understand that 2+2=4, he/she realizes today that
it doesn’t equal anything but what somebody else says it does.
But that is the way truth
comes to light, Dear Readers.
And that got me to thinking
about a high school club that I (and a couple of you Dear Readers) used to
belong to—The Don Ho Flat Earth Society.
I won’t get into details except to say that our “God” was the great
Hawaiian singer, and our position was that the Earth is flat. (And our rituals included wearing lays (Sp?)
and blowing soap bubbles.) It was all
pretty tongue-in-cheek, back then. But
now I believe its time to let you readers in on the truth of this universe,
just as the “Creationists” have done with their “museum.”
So here’s the “secret.”
The Earth REALLY is flat.
Before you laugh, let me
make my case. Lets go back to 1492 when
that idiot Chris Columbus first tried to prove that the earth was round by
sailing all the way “around” it to come back to his home. Well…if this silly
continent of ours (North America,) didn’t get in his way, what would have
happened? Obviously, he and his ships
would have fallen of the Great Cliff at the edge of the Earth!
So you might ask, “Okay,
Ernie, then where exactly is this ‘Great Cliff?’” Well…Before I answer that, let me continue on with some more
proof of this vast flatness. Now of course, there is no documented proof of the
Cliff. But there are many other
cliffs on this planet that act as beacons of the truth. The cliffs that line the Grand Canyon, and
those that mark the heights of the Bruce Penninsula are just two examples. And then there are the great Waterfalls. Niagara, for example. Many vessels have fallen over the edge of
this great metaphor for the edge of the earth. You see folks, God teaches us
like we teach our children. He shows us
the danger of these smaller cliffs so that we will never fall off the “Great
One,” just as we teach our children not to play with fire by allowing us to
burn our fingers on a relatively harmless match.
Our world is a metaphor of
proofs of the flat earth. I mean, c’mon! Everything important in our daily
lives is flat! Our counters, our
tables, our chairs, the bottoms of our containers, the surfaces of the very
keys that I type this rant on are…FLAT!
Why? Because the thoughts that
create these inventions are tuned to reflect the shape of our planet. Flatness.
And while there are many “circular objects” in our lives, all the
important ones are, like the earth, circular but flat! Plates, for example: Round and flat. Wheels: Round and flat.
Most of the world’s hard currency? Round and flat.
And here’s a great metaphor
for the rejection of the spherical earth theory. The Ball. Whether it be a
baseball, a soccerball, or a basketball, think about the ball. What do we do with a ball? We throw it away. Just as we should throw away the silly idea that the earth is a
sphere!
Well now you may ask about
space exploration and the apparent proof that it provides us of the spherical
nature of all heavenly bodies.
Well…first of all, lets
remember that NASA, and all other space exploration agencies, are run by
scientists. These scientists were
taught by all of their ancestors over the past six hundred years that the earth
was a sphere. And they, in turn, have
taught all us laypersons, the same idea.
The world literally “revolves” around the silly theory that these
scientists have put forth over the past six centuries--That the world is a
globe. How could they now tell us that they were wrong? Imagine if a top NASA scientist had a
meeting with George W. Bush to say, “Uh…Mr. President…Ah…We’ve just discovered
that the world is flat.”
Actually, I’m sure that the
first scientist to make this discovery would have had to consider walking up to
the Soviet Premier, back in 1957 when they launched the “Sputnick” the first
artificial satellite of this planet, into what they called an “orbital” flight
around the Earth. To make a long story short, scientists have had to engage in
a massive conspiracy over the past half century to cover up the fact that they
have been wrong for the past half of the millennium. So all those satellites up
there today? They zip back and forth from one edge of the earth to the other,
every few minutes. And every few
minutes, some ground controller has to check the flightpath of any given
satellite to prevent it from actually taking a picture of the Great Cliff at
the edge of this flat earth.
So if you really want to
know where the edge of the earth is, convince a NASA employee to tell you. Just
understand that if that employee actually reveals that information, he/she will
be forced to kill you in the interests of national security.
Indeed, this conspiracy is
so vast that scientists have had to fabricate an entirely false physical law of
the universe to explain away the obvious fact that, if indeed the world is a
ball, we should all be rolling down hill right now. They call it…”Gravity.”
Ooooo…Fancy stuff. Not only do they write textbooks about this alleged
gravity, scientists go so far as to call Hollywood effects teams and hire them
to hang astronauts from invisible wires, give them bad hairdos, and completely
insult their dignity by asking them to smile for the cameras as they carry out
their mission. All this to convince us
that there IS gravity, by trying to show us what would happen if there WASN’T
gravity.
People, all I ask is that
you use a little common sense. Ask yourself why you aren’t rolling downhill and
falling into space. Don’t just come back with the “gravity” answer. ‘Cause I
don’t buy it. You can’t hand me a pile
of gravity now, can you? What colour is
gravity? How much does it weigh? What does “gravity” look like? You can’t answer any of these
questions. You know why? Because there’s no such thing as “gravity!”
Why do things fall to the flat earth if there is no gravity? The answer is so
staggeringly simple that you might be embarrassed for not ever having figured
it out…Things fall to earth because nothing is holding them up.
Doh!
Now that you Dear Readers
have learned that the Earth is flat, we need to band together and build a
museum. A “Flat Earth Museum.” Lets build it right across the street from
the “Creationist Museum.”
Lets fill this museum with
flatness in order that future generations will finally know the truth!
So spread the word this
week, Dear Readers. And don’t let
anyone convince you that you’ve gone insane.
They’re just jealous.
Sincerely,
Ern
April 6, 2007
Hey, Dear Readers, the title
of my rant tonight is…”This big ‘SECRET.’”
One of you Dear Readers
introduced me to “The Secret” last summer, just after my world came apart. And now,
tonight, I’d like to “spread the gospel,” so to speak. “The Secret,” is a look
at life, from an atomic
point of view, a perspective that could also be called “The Inter-Connectedness
Of All Things.” As this is a theory that I have always innately believed in,
“The Secret” only served to put scientific analysis to something that was
always, in my heart, a mysterious yet innate truth—that what we believe to be
the truth of our life becomes just that.
If you believe, deep in your
soul, that you are burdened by debt, then you are. If you think that you need
to defend yourself against a threat, then you are right. If you believe that
that threat will destroy you, it will.
If you know that you are rich, in wealth, in spiritual love, in the love
of life, then, guess what?
You are.
Now before I go on, I don’t
consider myself to be a “new-age” kind of flake. I don’t jump on ideas like
“Channelling,” or “Past-Life-Regresssion” or “Scientology” or whatever belief
system comes my way. My one weakness in this regard is Astrology. Because, like “The Secret,” Astrology is
based on a scientific principle—gravity. Gravity, like “The Butterfly Effect,”
is based on the idea of the interconnectedness of all things. The idea that a heavenly body millions or
trillions of miles away has a gravitational effect on your life when you are
born is a bizarre theory on the face of it.
And yet, when I observe those of you in my life, and relate my
observations to your astrological sign, I can’t help but notice the truth of
this wacky concept!
For example, while all of us
humans have our idiosyncratic traits that make us individuals, all of you
Virgos have a tendency to be strait-shooting, hard-working, sure-of-themselves,
no-nonsnse, kind of people. You Geminis
are always exploring your thoughts and coming up with a way to prove the
argument that you know you can win. You
Capricorns can always be counted on for a deep thought because you will never
be distracted from your own personal knowledge of right and wrong. All of you Pisces have an irritating way of
making the rest of us explore our emotions by asking us with a penetrating
look, “how do you feel?” I won’t get into us Libras. Since I, as a Libra, would
rather talk about all of you and impress you with my knowledge of you, rather
than discover myself.
That is a typical statement
of somebody who hasn’t learned the truth of “The Secret.” I caught myself doing it just now, in this
rant. With the statement I just made…”rather than discover myself,” I have set
myself up to be lost. That’s because I
am forgetting the fact, as “The Secret” teaches, that our thoughts are our
world.
So…let’s get into the
science of all this flakiness about Astrology, gravity, and, most of all “The
Secret.” What is it all based on? “Quantum Mechanics.”
The definition of quantum
mechanics below is sourced from the following website address, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantum_Mechanics
“Quantum
mechanics is a
fundamental branch of theoretical physics with wide applications in experimental physics that replaces classical mechanics and classical electromagnetism at the atomic and subatomic levels. Quantum mechanics is a more
fundamental theory than Newtonian mechanics and classical electromagnetism,
in the sense that it provides accurate and precise descriptions for many phenomena that these "classical"
theories simply cannot explain on the atomic and subatomic level. Along with general relativity, quantum mechanics (actually relativistic
quantum mechanics, called quantum electrodynamics) is one of the
pillars of modern physics.”
In
other words, it’s all about the “fundamental” aspect of…EVERYTHING.
The
“atom.” The atom is the smallest “Lego”
block that builds up the entire universe.
And all atoms are the same. As you might remember from your high-school
lessons, an atom is a bundle of energy created by a “proton,” a few “electrons”
and some space that keeps them apart, yet unified by attraction through their
need to try to connect. All of these atoms
gravitate toward each other to create this universe and this star that we call
“the Sun” that burns bright enough to light our sky, hot enough to keep us
alive. These very same atoms build the
clouds that cause the creation of the rain that nourishes the atoms that create
this planet and everything that inhabits it.
This is the power of the atom.
And because every atom is just like every other, every atom is just as
powerful as the atoms that my above examples illustrate. There is no racism among atoms because they
are all the same. Atoms that comprise a
rock are the same atoms that swirl in fire, boil in water above the fire, and
inhabit and therefore connect the rock to the fire to the pot to the water to
the steam to the sky to the rain to the earth to the animals to us to our skin,
to our bones to our organs to our thoughts…
The
same atoms that create the power of the sun also create the pumping action of
the atoms that get the atoms that create the atoms of our blood coursing
through the veins that are created by those same atoms. These same atoms also create the electricity
in our brains that allow us to experience the atoms that make up our mental
awareness. These same atoms are our thoughts.
In
other words, atoms create the power of the sun, just as they create our
thoughts. Ergo, our thoughts, by definition of the atom, are just as powerful
and influential as the rays of the sun.
Our
thoughts, our desires, our passions and our fears, are no less physical, or
substantial, or weaker in influence than the rays of the sun, the current in
the river, or the chair that your atoms are sitting on. Our beliefs are as true and real as the
physical world that we believe to live in. The atoms that create the sun
provide us with our lives. The atoms
that create our belief in God give us the God that created these atoms. Or our
belief in the devil gives us the devil that will destroy the life that we have
chosen to believe will be destroyed. Or our belief in believing in nothing will
cause nothing to happen.
As you
read this, Dear Readers, you will decide whether or not I am full of shit. Yes, or no?
Either way, you are right. Just as I, in my humble, yet correct opinion,
can know that my words are as true as I decide that they are, as they are
created from the same stuff as that which makes the world go round.
So,
Dear Readers, you will have a great week, this week. I’ve decided that for you. I hope that you
decide to believe me, and enjoy it. I say “I hope” because the only thing that
“The Secret” can’t rectify is the fact that “your” thoughts are just as
physically powerful as mine. So if you
choose to have a bad week, even though I’ve decided that you will have a good
one…well then, my water will meet your oil. And never the twain will mix…
Unless we
decide that they will, since oil and water, (in “quantum” terms,) are one and
the same.
Sincerely,
Ern
April 1, 2007
So I got out of bed this
morning only to find myself standing in three inches of water. I live in a basement apartment and was subjected
to a flood because of some broken water pipe or something like that. Luckily, my pc is loacated a few inches
above that, or I’d really be fracked!
So I slush around in the
water for a few minutes and think to myself, “I need coffee.” I pour water into the coffee pot, spoon some
coffee into the coffee-maker and hit the “ON” button. Well…I’m instantly electrocuted.
So the title of my rant tonight is…Wait a minute.
I haven’t thought about it yet.
Suddenly my world is white
brilliance. Just like the stories we’ve all heard about “near-death
experiences,” I found myself walking down a tunnel toward this brilliant light.
As I walked, I heard God’s voice. She asked questions of me in a sexy, but
monotone voice…”Why haven’t you born a child?...Why did you only send “The
Mirage Effect” (one of my screenplays) or “Visions of Icarus” (my only complete
novel,) to only a handful of agents and publishers?…Why have you held back your
heart from so many who wanted to love you?”
Why haven’t you exploited the talent that I gave you? I didn’t know how to answer any of these
questions, except to say, “I don’t know, God, but if you give me another
chance, I will try to answer these questions.
And then she said, “Well
that’s what you know I want to hear you say. But if I grant you another chance to live, you must continue with
your Friday Night Rants, every Friday night, so that the world will know of the
spiritual journey that I have allowed you to continue living.”
Toward the brightest point of
this white brilliant light I replied, “Yes God, I will continue to answer your
questions, and I will report them through this earthly website, every week, so
that you will know that I am working to answer the questions that you require
your earthly subjects, like me, to answer to.”
With that vow, I found
myself walking backwards, over snow-capped mountains, through forests of green,
until I saw my chest being pounded on by a beautiful woman. And when I awoke, it was from her lips,
pressed against mine as this lovely nurse performed C.P.R on me in a hospital
room after she heard a “Code Blue” in the middle of the night.
I woke up this following
morning to the moist touch of her lips and her long dark hair brushing my
cheeks.
I was in heaven on Earth
when she asked me if there was anything that she could get for me.
I asked her for a coffee.
A few minutes later she
showed up with all her curves preesing out against her tight-fitting nurse’s
uniform…and a “Tim Horton’s” coffee in her hand. Now, here in Canada, “Tim
Horton’s” is the coffee god. And every spring they have what they call a
“Roll-Up-The-Rim” contest in which you roll up the rim of the coffee cup to win
anything from a free coffee to a million dollars…
Well…Just as I promised God
to fulfill her wishes I rolled up a “$million-dollar” cup!
So I looked at this
beautiful woman and said, “I’ll give you half of this if you share your heart
with mine.”
She bent down over me and
whispered in my ear…”I will give myself to you if you title this rant…”
“Happy April Fool’s
Day, Dear Readers.”
Sincerely pulling your leg,
Ern
March 10, 2007
Why? That’s my title tonight, Dear Readers.
“Why?”
Why do we argue about guns? About
abortion? Or about Politics? Why is it
that we need to ask why? Why do we
claim to trust in a “higher power,” or an “inner strength” or a “soul mate,”
only to question our faith in God, or throw out our Tony Robbins “motivational”
videos, and stab our “soul mates” to death when we have a shitty day?
Why must we always cling to
the idea of there being an “enemy” to ourselves?
Why do we need to ask why
when our lives should be so easy to see so clearly with our human brains? I
mean, we all need to breathe the same air, eat food from the same earth, and
then put it all back where it came from, just like all life forms. And then we must make more of ourselves by
producing children to love and nurture.
Please, Dear Readers, feel
free to let me know if I “got out of the boat” with my thinking, here. But I’m struck with the wonder of the idea
that if all of us cried out with the hunger of a wolf, “I want…”
March 03, 2007
I got to sleep in this
morning, due to the great lion of winter invading the month of March. I eventually awoke to a phone call from the
calm and casual voice of a police detective who wanted to speak to me regarding
a murder that occurred in my town. He
asked me some banal questions over the phone—My date of birth, address, next of
kin, etc… He and I arranged for me to come down to the station for an
interview. I put on a pot of coffee,
splashed my face and planned my day.
Just like any other day. So…I guess the title of my
rant tonight is…What happens when your day’s events include work, eat, sleep, and a
murder interrogation? (Sorry. Replace
“interrogation” with “interview.”)
Before I go on…No, Dear
Readers, I didn’t kill anybody. I just
want to get that out of the way so that you can read the rest of my rant
without the distraction of speculation while you fondly remember the “Rock-Star”
lyrics that you will find below…
I guess what I really want
to explore tonight is the danger of letting the banal surface of our existence
take over our spiritual lives. I mean,
I think its safe to say that we all have a desire to live our lives like a
Hollywood movie, or a great novel. We
wish to feel as though the life that we live today, no matter how mundane and
boring it might be, is all for the greater good of the breathtaking morning to
come.
However, as John Lennon
sang, “life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans.”
This is how I’ve found
myself looking back on this Friday, March 2nd.
You’d think that the
experience of being put in an “interview room” to be asked questions about a
homicide would be a challenging, perhaps life-altering experience. On TV it is always that way for mere mortals
like us. It’s only the hardened
criminals that fluff such experiences off.
On “Law & Order,” they sit back in their chairs and act all tough,
like it’s nothing. But the regular folk
who never had a criminal bone in their being, like us, always face the
mortality of their souls under the brow-beating of good cop-bad cop
tactics. They get nervous and always
get caught in some lie that might make us wonder if “they did it” just because
some incisively brilliant cop plumbed the darkest secrets of their heart, and
made them so nervous by doing so that they had to admit some deep dark secret
that could destroy their lives because it meant clearing them of the murder.
(“Alright! So we were having an
affair! But I didn’t kill
anybody!”---For example.)
And yet, my experience today
was neither dramatic, nor (on the banal surface) was it a life-altering
episode. Maybe because I already knew
that “they” knew that I was innocent, and that the person that they would question
me about was also innocent of the crime, my first concern of the day was
finding a place to park where I wouldn’t get a ticket. I worried about getting a “soaker” from all
the puddles and slush on the street.
Then, when I made it into the station house, the person at the desk
didn’t seem to know the name of the detective that I was scheduled to see. Was I at the wrong station? I thought about
the hassle of getting this over with in time to get a workout at the gym before
going to work tonight. Not about the
importance of this event. Not about the
fact that something about this day might have some bearing on justice being
brought to the killer of a good and worthy person.
When it was all sorted out,
the detective rushed out from somewhere in the back as if he’d just come out of
the bathroom when he’d heard his name being paged for a “clean-up in aisle
three.” Unlike all the TV shows cops,
he was no more charismatic than your dentist, no more attractive than your
accountant. He was, just like the police
station itself, about as dramatic and fascinating as your average doctor’s
office. And, as for the police station,
there was none of the dramatic lighting that seduces us into the wonderment of
humanity’s darkest depths. No closed
doors behind which some captain is having a heart-to-heart with some
overzealous beat-cop on a mission. No
“bad-boys” in handcuffs being brought in in full view of stunned
civilians. There was just a long
L-shaped counter under sterile fluorescent light, behind which a few officers
sat around like bank tellers on a coffee break.
The detective asked me to
“meet him around the side over there.”
I entered through a plain door marked “interview room,” into a bland
white space with a table, two chairs, and a plain old window. (Not one of those one-way mirrored glass
panes where the suspect knows that people are standing in privacy on the other
side, watching for his slip-up and debating whether or not to “book’im.”) In the TV shows, the detective always looks
perceptive. He cocks his head to the
right (which shows a genuine interest in you—as opposed to the left, which is a
display of boredom, [Body Language 101]) and disarms his subject with a
gracious “Thanks for coming down. I’d
just like to ask you a few questions…”
But not in my case. My detective fumbled with a little gadget as
he informed me that he was recording this interview by sound and video, via the
little recorder that he was holding. He pressed what I assume to be a “rewind,”
button, stopped the rewind at some point and began to play a portion of some
previous recording. I heard a
passionate female voice wailing and screaming for a few seconds before he
fast-forwarded to a blank space to begin recording our session. Then he fumbled through his notes. He didn’t fumble like “Columbo” always did,
as if to make you think that he was a bumbling idiot that you could easily get
the better of. No, he really did
fumble. And as he began his recording
by stating the time and date of the interview with “Ernest Kosanyi,” I had to
correct him on the date, to which he replied, “I stand corrected…March 2nd, 2007.”
(Of course, who am I to
say? Maybe he really is a modern day
Columbo! More likely though, he’s just,
as Joe Walsh once sang, “An ordinary, average guy,” who just happens to do an
extra-ordinary job.)
At this point I have to say,
Dear Readers, that I can’t get into details, lest I interfere with the
investigation. All I can say is that I was
asked a number of pointed, well thought-out questions by this detective over
the next half hour. However, for the
purpose of this essay I will admit to two of the queries. 1st, “what is your relationship
with (so-and-so.)” To this I had to come up with a dull, banal statement that
encapsulated a very intense year and a half of my life, because his focused
words forced me to reply with blunt, sad facts that made me see my life in
clear, antiseptic terms.
And 2nd, “Is
there anything else you can think of?” (Pertaining to any question that he
didn’t think of to obtain some fact that I might know of that he could use to
close the case.) Suddenly I found
myself really nervous as I wracked my brain to think of any little factual
tidbit to ensure that my detective had every bit of information to clear my
Dear Friend of any suspicion. That’s
when his brilliance shined through the sterile, antiseptic, totally
un-ambienced setting of that slushy March day.
He saw through my false reply…“Ah…No…Not that I can think of…Ah…aside
from the fact that I never imagined myself being interviewed about a
murder.” He witnessed my gruelling
self-examination and coaxed me by asking me, “Well…What about this?…”
Somehow this detective knew
how to coax me along just gently enough to make me think of something else to
say.
And then he shook my hand
and I left the station, went to the gym and completed the second third of my
day. Then I went to work to finish my
day. Just like it was any other day…you
know what I mean, Dear Readers? You
line up the events of your day and organize them in your mind…”Wake up, put
some coffee on. Catch the news. Shower and dress. Brush your teeth. Go to
17 Division to be interviewed about a murder and display your life to a total
stranger. Go to the gym. Go to
work. Come home. Have a drink. Post a rant. Go to
sleep.”
Even your most bizarre,
dramatic day can appear to be routine if you look at it as though you are “busy
making other plans.” So, Dear Readers,
I guess what I’m suggesting here, tonight, is that maybe we should look back on
this day that we just lived and ask ourselves how much of it we missed because
its sterile, bland façade, caused us to dismiss its intense meaning while we
dreamt of tomorrow.
So here’s to hoping that we
appreciate the importance and the potential of this day in our lives, Dear
Readers.
As Neil Young once
sang…”Toooo-night’s the night…Da-da-Da-da-Da…”
Sincerely,
Ern
February 24, 2007
It is winter in the
city. Life is all slushy, messy, wet,
and bitterly cold. Aside from the week-or-two tease of summer that some of you
lucky Dear Readers may get when you jet off to some tropical resort (where you
will still worry about your tax return or some other hindrance of your life
back home until you’ve downed your 4th umbrella-topped drink,) many
of us will be afflicted with SAD...
Seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, also known as winter
depression is an affective, or mood, disorder.
Most SAD sufferers experience normal mental health throughout most of the year,
but experience depressive symptoms in the winter or summer. SAD is
rare, if existent at all, in the tropics, but is measurably present at latitudes north
of 30°N, or south of 30°S.
(Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seasonal_affective_disorder
)
February 17, 2007
Hey, Dear Readers, tonight I
present a guest rant for you, written by one of you, for all of us. It refers to this site as the “FNR.” So now my site has an “acronym.” And I like it! My Friday Night Rant is now
the “FNR.” That reminds me of how that
hip TV-show, Saturday
Night Live has become
universally known as “SNL.”
I’m getting delusions of
grandeur over this, fantasizing about how my lowly “blog” could one day be as
famous as that TV show. I picture
conversations around the office water-coolers around the world…”Hey Bob, did
you catch Ern’s FNR last night?” Hell,
maybe my site will even become referred to as “Ern’s F-Ner!”
Kinda’ sounds like “Hugh
Heffner.” Y’know what I mean?
Anyway…Without further ado,
here it is…Tonight’s Guest “FNR…”
“Having
missed Ern’s FNR for the last three episodes, I will now comment on all three
subjects rolled into one.
An abiding
principle behind the Nuremberg trials was the concept of unprovoked aggression.
International law states that common rules of self-defense apply to nations
just as clearly as to individuals. Countries that attack without being
themselves directly under attack are branded illegal aggressors.
Statesmen
have been executed based on this law. I’m sure Slobodan
Milosevic, had he been found guilty and lived long enough, would be a
case in point.
After
we were done hanging the “culprits” of WWII and formulating the international
law body, The United Nations, the world settled into another kind of war.
Cold
war was, for the most part, a war of words and saber rattling. The sabers had
gotten too big to do anything grander than rattle without killing everyone.
This
didn’t stop unprovoked attacks. Through Korea, Suez, Viet Nam and other acts of
barefaced aggression, it seemed we had learned nothing and could always find an
excuse.
In
1967 Israel attacked six Arab nations without any formal declaration, just as
Japan had attacked the United States decades earlier. Of course world opinion
has a lot to do with her decision to become an aggressor. If a nation is
generally perceived to be an underdog it helps to mitigate the crime. Egypt did
the same thing to Israel in 1973, but because Egypt lost again it was generally
regarded as tit-for-tat.
On
and on it went. Nicaragua, Falklands, Granada, More African killings than could
be counted.
The
upholders of international law are, on paper at least, the General Assembly of
the United Nations. The enforcers behind the United Nations are the prevailing
superpowers. Currently we only have one, so it falls to the United States to
meter out the bulk of justice on behalf of mankind.
All
the above has one thing in common: politics. Politicians are only at risk if
they lose an aggressive act and incur the wrath of the United States. The rest
of us are at risk all the time. So, assuming this to be true, the only
statesmen not at death risk are the superpower leaders and their staunchest
allies. No one censures the enforcers.
In
the 1980s Saddam Hussein was a good guy—at least in the eyes of Western
superpowers. The US Congress perceived the conflict between Iraq and Iran as a
positive action and, despite Iran-Contra, secretly backed both sides through
the CIA in an effort to keep the Mid East destabilization process humming
along.
When
Saddam became too big for his boots and attacked Kuwait, something needed to be
done. Operation Desert Storm was the result. Kuwait represented a consummate
act of unprovoked aggression by Saddam and punishable under international law.
Instead
of dragging Saddam into court, it was deemed that destroying his military
machine and a bunch of ignorant troops, with new hi-tech weaponry that needed
testing anyway, punishment enough—leaving him free to turn his lethal attention
to the Kurds inside his own country.
September
11th 2001 changed everything. A corrupt, ailing US administration was
given the kiss of life. Now the enforcers had been attacked it seemed anything
was possible. The big excuse could be used anywhere in the world and Saddam was
squarely in the US gunsight.
The
new action against Iraq proved one thing: international laws are open to
interpretation only by those with enough clout. Attacking any sovereign nation
under the sanction of the United Nations seems to be okay, even if that nation
has not directly attacked you. So much for the laws of self-defense as applied
to nations.
It
all translates into basics. Power is the only rule of law when it comes to
humans. As a species we have displayed this from the earliest beginnings of
so-called civilization. Winning is everything and justice is merely a point of
view. When Saddam took his last fall was he thinking: if only those WMD had
been real?
I
will now attempt to dovetail all of this into the concept of love.
We
have to turn our attention to religion, national pride and patriotism; for this
is where we find love on a grander scale. Duty is a concept born out of
love—love of country and the defense of hearth and home. When we are unjustly
attacked this kind of love swells into national pride and a willingness to die
for our neighbors.
The
key word here is “unjustly”. On 9-11 virtually all Americans felt this way.
Secret intelligence and world history might have persuaded them otherwise, but
on the surface it was pretty cut and dried. Nasty foreigners had attacked and
now Americans needed to bond as a nation. Patriotism swelled. Leaders were
loved once more as they made rousing speeches and condemned the enemy.
Love
is one more tool in the arsenal of politics. Used skillfully it can be the most
powerful tool. Where would organized religion have been without the excuse of
love, as it rooted out and castigated idolatry in the name of God? Politics
paid attention and soon took up the cause. Straightforward brutal behavior
became unfashionable. It now had to be packaged and sold as love.
The
average primate having sex is, for the most part, a sweaty, grungy, fairly ugly
business. Don’t be confused—this is not love. Going to war under the banner of
truth, justice and the (insert nation of choice) way, is. Glory in victory.
Praise the Lord.
Humans are the only primates that kill for reasons other
than defense and sustenance. We are complicated creatures, so the word love is
also complicated. At times it seems to mean the opposite of what we
intended—cruel to be kind and so on. A love triangle can result in murder. A
one night stand, a baby.
Love
as a pure emotion is tied directly to other feelings. Self image, insecurity,
pride, lust, envy, persecution, delirium, despair. Love and protection of our
offspring is programmed into our DNA. It is seldom contentment, even though
this is its main billing.
For
the most part politicians want you to love them. It’s a one-sided arrangement
at best. It has nothing to do with the physical attraction between strangers of
opposite or same gender when they engage at close quarters. Political love is
an arms-length deal where big arms enfold an entire nation. Loving on a grand
scale. Hippies in the sixties tried making it a lifestyle, but found themselves
fiscally disadvantaged to those with an education and sold out to the lure of
corporate success or lapsed into obscurity. Burning draft cards became
politically incorrect in the post 9-11 era.
Love
often has a hidden agenda, so when you find it in its purest form know it is
rare. Like Coke, the real thing tastes great, but too much of it can kill you.
My
favorite line from Apocalypse Now: “Accusing
someone of murder out here is like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy
500.”
Have
a “GFW” (Great Fracking Week,) Dear Readers, (DR’s,) and remember that any and all
of you are more than welcome to submit your own “G-FNeR” (Guest-Friday Night
Rant.) Just so long as your words don’t promote hatred toward any particular
Race, Creed, Religion, or Sexual preference. (“R-CASS.”)
I
will post it, unedited, and Without Personal Critique (WPC) on this site, ASAP.
Sincerely,
February 10, 2007
It’s Valentine’s Day this coming Wednesday. So
the title of my rant tonight is…Hmmm…Why I, as a single, divorced, “forty-ish” guy, still
appreciate this day. even though I will give no flowers this year.
Adult Human Love is
as romantic as a bowel movement. It happens because it has to happen, in order to procreate the human
race, just as a shit has to happen to relieve the body of waste. (Hmm…How would that go over on a Valentine’s
card?)
But the shit that a man must
relieve in order to procreate is very complicated. Unlike an animal that has an actual “bone” in his penis that
allows him to get a “boner,” a human male must rely only on “blood flow” in
order to achieve an erection. And that
pumping blood can only be inspired by thought.
So, a human male must be “mentally inspired” by a human female in order
to be able to “rise” to the occasion that allows the creation of another human
being.
Now, being a human male, I
know that I can be “inspired” to rise to the occasion based on animal
instinct. A simple mathematical
equation of female curvature, designed by God to be mathematically enticing to
the eyes of the strong but ugly male, can make my head turn in mid-sentence,
mid-thought, mid-breath, and make me think, “I’d do that!”
However, I am influenced by
thought, even at the most primal level, when it comes to sex. No matter how “mathematically perfect” a
female may be, in terms of her physical body, I must always entertain some kind
of fantasy scenario to really get the blood flowing. For example, the other day
I gazed at a “sunshine girl.”
Pound-for-pound, inch-by-inch, she may have been far less appealing to
me than the girl from the day before if it wasn’t for the clothing, the pose,
the dispassionate look in her bespectacled librarian eyes—the fantasy that her
picture made me imagine--when the photographer snapped the shot.
But that’s the difference
between “sex” and “love.” In the animal
world, all that is required is lust. In the “Human” world, that same instinct
will create another human being. But
the human baby that is created only by that “instinct” will always struggle
through life to be “human” because, as a human, he/she needs to think. However, since that human wasn’t created
from the beauty of thought, he/she will always be encumbered by the struggle of
fighting to be more than an animal.
And that’s the beauty of
Valentine’s Day. Animals don’t have
it. They don’t need it. Animals just
need to frack, to create more animals to frack. But people need to create thinkers, in order to perpetuate
wonder, curiosity, ambition, spirituality.
When a man embraces and
celebrates this day by giving in to all the corporate cheesiness to make his
woman happy, he is saying “I celebrate this day because something about you
makes me want to create a person who makes me feel as human, as passionate, as
driven to explore life, as you do. I
know by the understanding between us that, while I walk through a dark forest
of mystery, I can have faith in the fact that a woman beyond my dreams truly
wants to hold on to me, share my dreams and yours, trusting that you will
always hold my hand, because you know that I will never let go of yours.”
So have an honest, romantic
week, Dear Readers.
With all my love,
Ern
January 27, 2007
The title of my rant tonight
is “Why my rants are shorter and more infrequent.”
A great writer once wrote a
story called “The Heart of
Darkness.” A great film director turned
that story into a great movie entitled “Apocalypse Now.”
Sincerely,
Ern
January 13, 2007!
Happy New Year, Dear Readers. I know it’s a little stale already, but I’ve been trying to
figure out how to write a new year’s rant for so long now. Until finally I decided tonight to just
ramble on after the title…Rambling and Ranting Over ’06.
Lets start with…Oh…Iraq. What did O6 accomplish for the war in Iraq?
Hmmm. Well first of all, it continued to
be a war, long after it wasn’t supposed to be one. In fact it became more of a
war last year than it was before G. Dubbya’ proudly stood on the deck of that
aircraft carrier under the slogan…what was it again? “Mission Accomplished,” or something like that? What else?
Oh yeah. Saddam Hussein was
finally laid to rest. But even that has
strangely become an odd little footnote in this savage war that was supposed to
be all about him in the first place.
Take out Saddam and you take out the threat of “WMD.” (Remember how that
was such a “buzzword” when the war began?
Funny how that household military term was replaced with “IED” over the
years.) Take him out and you take out the safe haven for the Al Qaeda that he was supposed be allied with. Take him out and you end the ruthless
slaughter of so many innocent civilians.
In the end, the controversy inspired by the illegal phone camera
recordings over the actual execution, with the suggestion that Shi’ites were openly
taking revenge on the Sunnis, (Spelling?) only served to paint a picture of the
mess that Iraq has become since he was taken down. I don’t profess to be an expert on this subject, but I think it’s
safe to say that as many or more people are dieing violent deaths in Iraq today
than when this pathetic dictator ruled the country.
“WMD” and the idea that Saddam was a threat to
the world had turned out to be a fallacy before ’06. Links to Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaeda also fell away before last
year. But ’06 brought the tally of American lives lost in that conflict to
about 3,000. The same number of those
lost on 9/11. Not to mention all the additional lives lost by member nations of
the “coalition of the willing.” My point is, is that George W. Bush spent as
many of his citizen’s lives up to last year, fighting the wrong enemy, as those
who died in the original attack against his country on 9/11. And the last bastion to fortify his defence
for waging this war—the fact that Saddam was a murderous dictator, who
slaughtered his citizens and ruled them with an iron fist of oppression, has
also fallen away. Because slaughters
happen all the time today in that country, even with Saddam dead and
buried. And the iron fist of oppression
has been replaced by chaos and outright civil war. Woo-hoo! What a trade-off!
At least good Ole ’06, can be credited for one
thing. It will open our eyes to a new
way of thinking for ’07. For example, I
am open to the idea of Bush’s “new” plan of pouring a shit-load of new troops
into Iraq.
Me…agreeing with George W. Bush. You see?
Now that’s a totally new concept for this New Year! (Hell, I might just go and join the NRA!)
Seriously, though, If I were the Prez,
I might just say to the world,
“I fracked up when I engaged in this war. I know that as your Commander-In-Chief, I’m
never supposed to show weakness by admitting to my mistakes, for that only
serves to lower the morale of those under my command. However, since most of the world’s population is not under my
command, my troops will have to answer to a higher power to boost their morale
while I fix this problem. Those brave
men and women of our armed forces will need to find a way to understand that
every individual action that they have taken was noble and honourable, as that
is the heritage of our people. Every
soldier should understand that he/she is helping to bring the world together by
wielding force against those who attack the defenceless.
“However, the problem is that we don’t have
enough force on the ground in Iraq today to fix the big fracking frack-up that
I created. So the only thing I can do
now is to pour so much firepower into that nation that I “liberated” so that
nobody can initiate a violent act against anybody else lest they find the
muzzle of a gun against their head because they twitched. In the meantime, I will create new laws
insuring all humanitarian aid organizations free and safe passage throughout
this country. And any recognized
aid-agency individual who is injured or killed in Iraq has a life-insurance
policy, paid for by the U.S. Government,
(The citizens who elected me.)
“And
it will stay that way until somebody wiser than myself can help all of us get
out of this mess that I created, because I made a mistake in judgement.”
Of course that’s not the answer either. Because how can I expect those citizens who
have lost their loved ones, and those warriors who lost their friends, to find
any peace when the guy-in-charge who put those courageous souls in harm’s way,
who caused their deaths, can do nothing more than say…”Well they died because I
made a mistake?”
So all I can go on is history. Vietnam was lost because America never
committed enough forces to win it, probably because too many Americans
correctly thought that it shouldn’t have been fought for in the first place. Ergo,
maybe America should forget about whether it was a good idea to
“liberate/invade” Iraq, and just get on with the business of winning the
war. And to those who say that sending
in more troops is the equivalent of using soldiers as “cannon fodder” for
terrorists to shoot at? Well…at least
soldiers with guns have a chance to defend themselves, unlike people riding to
work on a bus in Chicago who have no idea that a suicide bomber is about to
push the button. Maybe that soldier
wouldn’t be on that bus if he was too busy sniping at American soldiers “over
there.” So if one soldier dies because
another soldier shot him, instead of flying to America to in order to get on a
bus kill scores of civilians? Well,
then the first soldier won the battle, even though he/she gave “the ultimate
sacrifice.”
Maybe the eyes of the world community will
someday be able to see the eyes of a soldier who can see the eyes of a mother
or a child when he declares an oath to them, “I am here to protect you.” And no
political agenda will ever force that warrior to renege on his/her word.
However, in my humble, yet correct opinion,
what the frack do I know? If I review
my own life over this past year, I can honestly say that I can’t recognize the
man who began this space over a year ago.
I could look at the “glass half empty” and face the fact that I failed
at all the resolutions I proudly posted last year, with the possible exception
of one, which is still in question. I
could tell you Dear Readers that that is the reason that I haven’t posted (or
even made) resolutions this year.
Or I can look at the “glass half full” and
remember what a roller coaster of experiences 2006 brought my way because of
the resolutions I attempted to achieve.
In ‘05, my soul was dead. ’06 Gave me dreams
and goals to live and fight for. And those goals caused me to experience joys
that I never could have imagined and agonies that I never thought I could
survive. Now I sit here writing this,
and I realize that my soul is still here, even stronger and more confident than
it was this time last year, even though nothing that I so desperately wanted in
‘06 came true. I guess this opened my eyes to the old cliché that “it’s the
journey, not the destination.”
So I guess I will make one resolution this year…Bring
it on, baby! “’Cause,” as God sings, “Honey, I’m tougher than the rest.”
Take care, Dear Readers. May this year bring
you inspiration to make a dream come true again.
Sincerely,
Ern
December 23, 2006
The road. It’s
a beautiful thing, especially at night.
It supports our journey with a clearly defined pathway through the
darkness with an assurance that our ancestors could only dream of. Where once a traveller had only a compass
and faith to guide him through the forest, we now need neither. The pathway is
there already, our direction chosen for us.
Hell, we can even glance behind at the past that we are leaving
behind. Our journey is that
comfortable.
And the automobile, wonder of wonders, may be
the greatest of all things, next to the airplane, in terms of transport. Whether it is a twenty grand Ford or a two
hundred large Ferrari, they all give so much to us simple creatures. Indeed, they are much like us. Feed it some fuel, and its heart will rev
without a thought or a thank you, up to seven thousand revolutions per minute
or more. Such an achievement by a
machine may seem archaic compared to the complexity of the device that I am
using to write this. But then, how
often to we think about such things as simple as the automobile and the path on
which we steer it?
A needle on our instrument panel points up to
“6” as we shift gears. We glance at the
moonlight brushing an ivory wave across a cornfield. And, though we might let a sliver of God’s art touch our souls
for a second between thoughts of “when will I get there?” or “Is there a hole
in my sock? Will my tow be sticking out
when I take my shoes off?” We never
think about this simple chariot that whisks us through the night. Oh sure, we do when we purchase it. Or when we pimp it. Or when we proudly parade it (or slink it
away with shame) under the watchful gaze of a sex machine.
Most of the time, we just hold the wheel with
one hand, press a pedal with one foot, (and not even that if we are using our
“cruise,”) and drive. We don’t think about facts like how hot or cold it is
outside even if we have a vehicle equipped with an outside temperature
gauge. Or that our ass is as
comfortable as it is in our living room chair as it moves at seventy miles an
hour. Think about that. While we sit in
a chair, we traverse seventy mileS across this rock that we call “earth” in one
hour. Do we ever think about how long our ancestors would have taken to WALK
that distance? I do. Because I did it last fall. With a good road to walk along, without
obstructions, it takes THREE DAYS. Without a road? If our feet sink four inches into snow or mud while our hands
push tree branches aside while our eyes look up to the sky for direction and
our souls look to God for the faith to continue the laborious journey…that
seventy miles could take MONTHS!
But we do it every day, while sitting in the
lap of luxury. We travel to work or to
wherever, without feeling the sun beating down or the icy wind whipping at
us. We listen to people on the radio
complaining about taxes or other idiots like us who don’t behave properly as we
embark on this daily journey. And we
complain about this daily odyssey when it takes three hours to move seventy
miles, or two hours to move fifty. Not
because we are going to freeze to death, or die of starvation if we don’t get
there by then. But because we have to
pee. Our coffee is getting cold. Our boss is going to be pissed. Most often though, we complain because our
minds are just too lazy to allow us to love our lives while we sit by ourselves
in these wondrous automobiles with nothing to do but hold the wheel and sit
there.
That’s what I was doing this yesterday morning
at five-thirty a.m.
Oh yeah, before I forget…the title of my rant
tonight is, “Why
we need to appreciate the mechanics of our life.”
Anyway, like I said, that’s what I was doing
almost twenty-four hours ago. Driving
along highway #89. I was warm and cozy, listening to music. All of the luxury in my life allowed me the
time to worry about things. Personal
issues. Meanwhile, in the heart of my
car, metal pistons were leisurely rising up and down in their cylinders two
thousand times a minute. Think about
that for a minute. TWO THOUSAND TIMES
PER MINUTE. Try counting to two
thousand in one minute. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.
It probably took me more than a minute to write that sequence of
numbers. Now in an automobile engine, a
spark fires a small explosion in a metal cylinder, blasting a piston down,
while another piston is blasted up in another cylinder and so on down a bank of
four, six, or eight, or even up to twelve cylinders. This is all down in perfectly timed, split-second unison, all in
order to spin a crankshaft, at least two thousand times in less than the time it took you to read this
sentence. All that, just to roll you
down the road so that you can complain to yourself about how you’re not getting
where you need to go, fast enough.
Would I get to my dear old Dad’s before the
sun rose? What should I listen to
next? How could I have forgotten to
take the price tag off that gift? These
are just a few of the thoughts that rolled around in my perfectly comfortable
mind as I drove up north in the wee hours of the night yesterday. Until the great machinery that I have taken
for granted for almost two hundred thousand kilometres all of a sudden
transformed from a purring, benign lamb of comfort, into a screeching monster.
In the middle of a country nowhere, hundreds
of kilometres from home, swathed in the human arrogance that is afforded by
mechanical comfort…of a car…lulled like a baby
suckling…BLAM!…SCREECH…KLUNKBERPLIOIN ILHGHUILN..AHHHH.SCRRREEEEEEKKKKK! Horrible noises come from the front right
side. And with them, vibrations hit me
through the foot that rests on the pedal that connects me to my stricken
beast. The wheel in my hands quivers in
pain. My own engine pounds in and out,
probably 120 times a minute, pumping that much more blood to my brain just in
order to snap me into the realization that I have to deal with this situation.
But my engine is still humming. My car is
still moving along at one hundred kph. (62 mph for you Dear “Yankee” or
“English” Readers.) So what do I do? I slow down to the speed limit of 80 kph,
as if doing that will make the problem go away. Of course, just then, from out of nowhere, another speedy
traveller comes up riding my ass. Because the Dear Road’s centre-line is a
solid yellow, this driver won’t pass me. All he/she can do is express his/her
frustration by tailing a few feet behind me with alL his/her lights in my
mirrors, blinding me, while my car
screams…AHHHHHH.SREEECHJ…GFFHJO….FJIOASGRIOJ…GJJ…
Finally I pull over to the shoulder of the
road, catch my breath and wonder, “what do I do now.?” After a moment I begin to recall the warning
signs that I should have taken seriously days ago…A strange bulge in my front
right tire sidewall. Maybe the steel
belts in my tire were shifting like tectonic plates before an earthquake! Maybe my tire was about to explode! As dramatic as that scenario might be, the
solution could be very simple and inexpensive.
So I drove a few more miles until I found a flat parking lot at a
convenience store in some hamlet.
There I changed my tire, took off my stock wheel and replaced it with my
spare “donut,” all the while remembering how Bill Cosby’s son was murdered on
the side of the road while performing the same action. (I kept on looking over
my shoulder while I spun the lug-nuts at five-thirty in the morning in the
middle of nowhere.)
Get back on the road, drive a mile or so,
congratulating myself for fixing the problem, thanking my lucky stars that all
I need to do is to spend 80 bucks or so for a new tire, keep my speed down
while I ride on my “donut” and then BLAMMMMM!!!...B!!!XDASSHJGFUIO…SCREEEEEECH…BLUEYYYYYYY
HHSDFH…
Again I pull over to the side of the road and
wonder what to do. Obviously the
problem wasn’t my tire. This led me to wonder if something was wrong with my
transmission...Gears grinding away into slivers of tortured steel! What do I do? I’m over a hundred miles from home but nearly the same distance
away from my Dad’s hometown where I might be stranded for weeks while parts get
shipped from Japan. Will I even make
another ten miles before my car explodes?
Finally I decide to turn around and try to make it back home. I call Dad
with my cell phone to let him know that I won’t be making it up there for
Christmas and limp back home at or under the speed limit, remembering how my
brake light has been going on and off for the past few weeks. And I think to myself…Maybe that’s the
problem. Maybe my front right brake is seizing up to the point where metal is
grinding metal, forcing the wheel to turn under this pressure, which has in
turn caused the metal fatigue in the steel belts in the tire to cause the
bulge.
I made it home, slowly, with my hazard lights
on and other travellers honking their horns to express their frustration at
having their journey blocked for a few milliseconds as they passed me. After
more than 5 hours of driving, starting at 3 am, I wound up back where I
started, in my garage, at 8:30 yesterday morning.
From all this, I realize that I am my Father’s
son. He drove a pick-up for five years
and 220,000 km without ever doing anything for his vehicle but oil
changes. No brake jobs, no “tune-ups”
or radiator flushes or anything in the way of “scheduled maintenance.” When he
finally took it to a shop to check it out before selling it, his mechanic took
one look at the original, burned-up spark plugs and asked, “how is this thing
still running?!”
I’m not quite that bad. I did change my spark plugs once, (myself,
since, as each of the four plugs cost $25, I wasn’t going to pay labour on top
of that $100!) And I did have the front brake pads replaced once, 100,000 km
ago. Replaced the air filter a few times. And that’s about it. After 200k.
But maybe I should appreciate “regular
maintenance” as I sit here, alone, this Christmas, waiting to find out exactly
why my car is going kijlkjklhjkghyu…screeeeeeechh… Maybe I should appreciate the fantastic job that my heart has
done, beating consistently, without ever taking even a two second vacation, for
over forty-two years. Maybe we should
all do an overdo scheduled check-up on the organs that feed the fuel to our
souls over the next few days, so that our gears are well-oiled.
So that we may appreciate everything that is
healthy in our lives in order that we can clearly see what needs to be fixed.
And have a very Merry Christmas, Dear
Readers. I thank you for reading all
this crap over all this time. In fact, I’m almost happy that my car broke down
so that I could come back to write this!
Ern
December 16, 2006
Hey Dear Readers. My recent theme of “religion,” along with last week’s “Guest
rant,” has inspired some of you to reply with such gusto that I have asked
permission from two of you to use your replies as “Guest rants” this week.
Mind you, not all of you agree with me. And of course you are perfectly entitled to
your wrong opinions. Indeed, I welcome
your comments as much as I love to hear from those of you who are correct. In fact, sometimes your incorrect opinions
are more interesting to read because they force me to realize that I actually
enjoy working that brain muscle. You
guys make me question myself…Make me wonder…Force me to analyze why I am right and you are wrong. I could go further with this, but then we’d
be getting into the territory of ego. And, like most of us who proclaim to know
the absolute truth, (And so many more
of us who pretend that we don’t, even though we secretly know that we know the
truth,) I’m
not prepared to go there.
(That last group of bolded words might be the
most humble phrase that I will ever write in this space.)
I mention all of this only because the two
rants below reflect what I perceive as “correct opinions.” But that is not why I asked those authors if
I might post them here. You find them
here because both are more than “replies” to my rant. (And/or my
“Guest’s.”) They are both
“self-contained” rants. (Aside from the
opening greeting in the 1st one.)
Both could be considered inflammatory, yet
neither violates any Canadian law pertaining to “hate literature.” (I don’t want to be dragged away in
handcuffs because I posted a guest rant that contained words like “Those
fracking insert ethnicity, race, or individual here, should be fracking shot!”)
I will, however, post any of your Dear Readers’ rants just as long as
they meet the above-mentioned criteria…Even if your opinion is incorrect. I have done so in the past, and will do so
again. Assuming that this site remains
undiscovered (and therefore easy to maintain,) I will post your rants,
unedited, warts and all, (just like my own,) within three weeks of your email
submission.
Now.
Without further ado…The title of my rant tonight is…Below, please find TWO Guest
Rants, in order of when I received them…First Guest…
“Hi Ernie
I'm finally getting round to commenting
on your rant and I believe two words sum up your point: Holy War. Anyone
who fails to see the irony in those two conflicting words just doesn't get
it. Furthermore, is in serious need of help, preferably from above.
I had an interesting argument with
someone just last week, a member of the Salvation Army, an organization I have
known and respected all my life as a wonderful charitable organization, but,
the more I learn about the church end of things, the more I am convinced that
they should not dabble in religion. This person told me that the bible
declares homosexuality to be an abomination. When I pointed out that it
is not a choice, and in fact many gays struggle with their feelings until they
can no longer deny them, she didn't want to hear it. When I also pointed
out that too many people who label themselves as Christians take it upon
themselves to put words into God's/Jesus' mouth. she didn't have an
answer. I argued that Jesus turned a blind eye to no one, nor a
helping hand. No human being was ever labelled an abomination by him and
I left this person wondering what she would do if one of her children or one of
her young charges in the church turned out to be gay. Would she be right
and the person she professes to be her saviour be wrong?
I have trouble with all the fanatics
within organized religions - the bible, koran, talmud thumpers who take the
book literally, or worse yet, put their own particular spin on the words and
spew them out like bullets. I don't believe in blind faith; for the
biblical version of events to have any credibility, it must coincide with
historical truth. Although I was raised a protestant, I like the Jesuit
creed of spirital awareness - examining every aspect, of your faith - and then
"seeing the light" at the end of your personal tunnel.”
Next Guest…
“My Very Own Rant.
Religion is a topic very
close to me. I spent the first seventeen years of my life indoctrinated into a
religion that for all intense purposes, removes ones identity and creates
childhood physiological trauma by having you "separate" yourself from
your peers. Public school is the most important social interaction
learning curve their is. All your basic fundamental skills you need to exist in
society are groomed there. Forcing a child to "stand out" creates
many difficulties in social adjustment later in life. After several years
away from this cult, I started searching all religions. Surely one has to
be right. What I discovered is that all religions were started by man. It
is man who has traditionally formed all associations aimed at controlling the
masses, and suppressing the rights of anyone who disagrees. Religion was formed
by men who wish to use it as a power base, who disagreed with their current
leader, or who simply wanted to marry someone that the current group of old men
said he could not. (Henry VIII) Along with that power base comes control.
Control can be exercised by excommunication of dissenters, or if the dissenters
are a large enough group, murder. No one religion is exempt. We have contempt
in the western world for what the Muslim extremists are doing in the middle
east, that is nothing compared to what the Catholic Church has done. Entire
civilizations have been wiped out in the name of god. The Crusades are a prime
example. The Inca's, the Aztecs, all in the name of the Spanish arm of the Catholic
Church. (OK it was really about the gold, but read about the conquest of South
America, and the Spanish claimed they were doing it in the name of the church)
Tolerance is preached in every religion. But tolerance allows dissension,
and that defies control. What has always seemed odd to me is that all Christian
based religions, who claim cleansing is on behalf of god, do so with the bible
in their hand. Read the bible (and the Koran for that matter) nowhere, and I
repeat NOWHERE, does it say rise and form a religion to me and go out and kill
those who disagree. In fact Jesus, nor any of his followers belonged to any
religion. Sure, Jesus was Jewish, but that was an ethnicity not his religion.
After all these years away from organized religion, I believe in the simple
truths of both prophets, Jesus and Mohammed, who both preached a similar
message. Love one another as you would love oneself.
And if you don't believe this I will have to kill you,...”
Have a great week, Dear Readers. Let something overwhelm you with the need to
say something to somebody. Something
that is so important that it makes you wonder who you are, even when you are
positive that you already know.
Sincerely,
Ern
December 8, 2006
Hey Dear Readers, I have to go up north and
see my Dad this weekend as he just turned three quarters of a century
young. So I won’t be able to provide
much of a rant tonight. Below, however,
please find a “Guest Rant” written by one of you. And please remember that any of you Dear Readers are always
welcome to do the same. Send me your rant, and I will post it here.
Before I get to that, however, I’d like to
expand on my rant about religion and “killing,” from last week. In fact, Dear Readers, I wish to make an
important counterpoint tonight. First
of all, last week I spoke of the circumstances that might make me kill in order
to defend. I just wish to make it clear
that I have no desire to actually kill anybody for any reason and I pray that I
am never put in a position where I have to make a life or death decision. The deliberate act of taking a life, no
matter how necessary it may be, is always a tragedy. And it is always the worst
result of a simple failure to communicate.
Either with another, or with one’s own self.
As for religion…Last week I pointed out the
worst aspects of it. And indeed, over
this past year I have personally encountered many reasons to loath the most
fanatical aspects of organized religion.
The “personal” aspect has come from friends and some of you Dear
Readers, all of you whom I respect and love, who have gone out of your way to
teach me how Christianity is good and certain other religions are anything from
misguided to downright condemned to have their followers burn in hell. I have been preached to in so many
ways. Of course the “impersonal”
influence comes from all the media that reports on the fanatical actions of
those religious followers who are totally alien to my experience. “Suicide bombers,” “Jihadists,” “Fatwahs.”
And so on. That’s pretty scary stuff if
you don’t happen to be a close personal friend of somebody who happens to
worship the faith of Islam.
I’ve lived on both sides. I’ve known many Muslims who would who would
never dream of hurting a fly. They’ve
worshipped God, faithfully, and led good loving lives because of it. And, having been born and raised a Catholic,
I’ve known many of my own faith who have led the same kind of life. And I have attended many church services
that made me feel at peace in a house where peace and understanding led me to
shake hands with strangers. In both
cases, I felt none of the twisted rage of “fanatics” that become suicide
bombers (in the case of Islam) or the sickness of priestly “pedophiles” that are
so infamous in my own religion.
So please don’t led my last rant make you Dear
Readers believe that I believe that religion is a bad thing. For, (as a character that Jon Voight once
played in a movie whose title escapes me) once said, “I believe in love,
whether that love be romantic, paternal, maternal, carnal, or religious.”
All religions that I’m aware of worship a
benign God. And all of their
worshippers read their bibles with that in mind. But, in all our religions, some of us mere mortals give in to the
fear in our hearts and we use our religious beliefs to spread that fear and to
inspire others to wage war against other faiths. We find words from their “bible” or point to the worst of “their”
actions to justify finding an “enemy” to fight. This past year, for example, I read a part of the “Old Testament”
that made my skin crawl—tales of “five days” of torture before their deaths, for most of the population of
God’s green Earth who are “sinners.”
C’mon, people! What “God” could
be so weak as to create a wonder such as this earth and its life of wonder,
just to torture most of it to death?!
And just this week I received an e-mail from
one of you Dear Readers who always want to convince me that we are right and
they are wrong with this horrific headline…”Somalia Town Threatens to Behead People Who
Don't Pray 5 Times Daily.”
It’s fanatics like these “Somalians,” just
like our fanatic Christian leaders who “pray” for forgiveness for homosexuals
while they “frack” gay prostitutes in secret hotel rooms, who give all
religions a bad name.
My personal faith is in a God that created all
souls…Just as it created all atoms, indiscriminately, without preference. God created existence just because, without
it, there would be nothing. Its very hard for me to follow this faith. For it comes with no bible, no church, no
flock of like-minded believers. But I’m
stuck with it. For, in my unbiased, yet
correct opinion, one God loves us all equally, since this entity created us all
with equal care. And so I have to try to love all of these fracking people who
have their own incorrect…“unbiased, yet correct opinions.”
Now, without further ado, please find my Dear
Reader’s “Guest Rant,” posted below…
In life there are things that require faith
and things that do not.
Take seeing the light:
A light switch will turn on
the light. Usually faith is not required. The switch always turned on the light
before, so it will again. The act of turning on the light proves certain
physical laws whether the person doing it understands them or not. Generally we
do not pray that the light comes on.
The same person may state:
God and life after death exist. This requires faith, because, unlike the light
switch, stating something that has no proof element is an opinion. Faith, by definition,
does not require proof.
Conversely another person
may say: There is no God or life after death. Again this is simply an opinion.
Unlike the light switch, neither party can categorically prove their opposing
positions. They may agree that the light will
come on, but on little else.
Then is one faith-based
opinion more valid than another?
Taken purely at face
value—straight—the simple answer is no. But there’s a twist—the twist is life.
Life is anything but simple. We humans are influenced
by everything around us. Life shapes who we are. We can control some of it, but
most of it is beyond our control. When life hurts us, we tend to turn inwardly
to find reasons for the hurt. We want comfort and understanding, not hard
logic.
There are very few people
that will not agree—who we are at birth is one of the things we cannot control.
Our gender, race, hereditary traits, environment, health and survivability at
birth are none of our doing. Others make choices for us. We get what we get.
Unfortunately this also
extends to faith. As infants, often faith-based opinions are thrust upon us. We
get born into faith. At our most
vulnerable stage of development along comes opinion—although not presented as
such—and we are enrolled into something that has no provable value one way or
the other.
This is supposed to help us
go through life. Fitting-in is also important. There’s no comfort in being an
outcast. Who cares what is provable? You are looking for a good life.
The catch should be obvious to
anyone who has read this far. We are being indoctrinated into the opinions of
others. And like gender and race, we don’t get to choose—the choice is made for
us. Very little of what we absorb as infants will ever leave us.
On the rare occasions when
we do change, we call it “seeing the light”.
Of course light can come
from any direction. There’s a plethora of religions out there, plus atheism or
agnosticism—lots to chose from. But very few of us chose to chose.
Like baby pabulum, the
faith-based nourishment we are fed is just fine to see us through life. Spread
the word. Have kids and do the same to them. Proliferate. Perpetuate.
Mostly we get through life
by agreeing to differ, but then there’s sometimes the extremist view. If people
disagree strongly we can always kill them. It has happened many times before.
We call it conflict based on differences in ideology. Why be a wimp about
faith? Let’s get out there and kick ass! You now see one advantage of fitting
in with our birth environment—our own kind doesn’t shun or kill us—it’s safer.
Of all the animal species on
Earth, only humans have the brainpower to concoct ideology. Our imaginations
are unlimited. Clever as it is, the electric light switch is nothing compared
to notions of life, death and faith. That’s because we pass it on, not through
dry textbooks, but through indoctrination—generation to generation—up close and
personal. Don’t you find it strange how opinions with no factual value are
prized above all?
Is this what makes us human
and able to see the light?
Please, God, I hope not.”
And there you have my guest’s rant.
Have a great week, Dear Readers. Reach out to someone who you know is totally
wrong and ask yourself…Oh just ask a question that doesn’t come attached with your
own correct answer.
Ern
December 2, 2006
How do I get pissed off after a dozen straight
days of work? How do I preach when all I want to do is pray? Last week I
preached about all that was wrong with this world. And I vowed to do it again this week. Because the situation is getting out of control, as I predicted
that it would years ago. The West and
the East, Christianity and Islam, are coming head to head, because each
religion knows that they are the only one worshipped by their maker. We’ve gone back to the Middle Ages, when
nobody respected logical thought.
So why don’t we stop pussy-footing
around? We’ve got the nukes! The power!
Why don’t we simply eliminate the “gene pool” as one CBC caller once
asked days after 9/11? Every week I get assaulted by e-mails and print
editorials that try to convince me that Islam is a terrorists thought pattern.
That I should join up to defeat the enemy.
I do want to “join up” to serve my
country. But not to destroy something
that I know is as foolish as my own society’s ideology.
I live on this earth to love somebody
else. We all do. I know all the “Dr. Phil’s” in this world
preach that we must love ourselves before we can love somebody else. But they’re fracked! Because until you find yourself loving
someone else, you don’t find yourself asking why they might not love you back!
Everything I do is to further that goal.
And everything I do that doesn’t try to reach that goal is a failure on
my part.
It is a total lack of courage in my heart when
I feel possessed by the need to say, after hearing about another “suicide
bombing in the Middle East...”
“You frackers are totally frackin’ fracked’ to
want to teach your children that they will be blessed by God for killing
themselves before they have had the chance to love somebody who wants nothing
more from them but to be loved in return.”
Why? Because I have come to know people who…whoa…Let me think about that
for a minute…
The title of my rant tonight: Christianity, Islam,
Judaism, Buddhism, Atheism, Zen,..Scientology.
Whatever! God created us all.
But if you’re an atheist, then fine, don’t believe me. I don’t care.
God created us. And the people who hurt us the most, (from my experience,) are
the same people who believe in the same god that we believe in. They’re the
people who swear to love us, yet attack us when we lose our faith. Or who
assault us when we lose our faith in them. So, in my humble, yet correct
opinion, “religion” is the bearer of the devil. Religion causes division. We
use it to attack our loved ones who don’t believe in our faith, and we use it
to attack outsiders when they don’t believe us.
Like plants in a pot sitting on a global
windowsill, we all bend toward the sun. Whether we are born Christian or
Muslim. In America, or Canada, or
Russia or France or Australia.
It’s that simple. We all bend to reach love.
“Bending” is the true war. That’s when we really fight to protect the ones we
love. For example, if you are a Liberal who believes in everything that I
believe in, who believes that everything that I’ve said in this rant is true
and you’d love to have a beer and shoot the shit with me, then I’d join
you. But if you happened to be down on
your luck or bitter for whatever reason and you put a gun to the head of any
one of my Dear Readers, I would beg you to put down your weapon. If I failed to convince you, I would kill
you in order to save my Dear Reader.
Despite how much we agreed about everything.
On the other hand, If you were a devout
religious fanatic of any kind, if you thought I was totally fracked because of
my ridiculous beliefs, if you were convinced that I was going to burn in hell,
or whatever, no matter how fracked-up you might be about this whole rotten
religious fanaticism, I would kill any person who tried to harm you or your
family. Just so long as you meant no
harm to myself or any of my loved ones.
I know now, today. that I would bend over to
shield any of you who would bend toward a full life, as I know that you would
do. For that is all that any of us would be asked to do by any god.
Sincerely,
Ern
November 24, 2006
From 9/11 to the world reaction, to George W.
to Colin Powell, to Iraq. The title of
my rant tonight is… The chain of events that has become a global tragedy.
September 11, 2001. America suffers its worst act of aggression since Pearl
Harbour. And, worse than the Japanese
attack of December 7nth, 1941, America hasn’t suffered a defeat at the hands of
a huge military assault that had been planned by a brilliant and respected
Admiral with thousands of men, a fleet of ships and an armada of aircraft,
torpedoes and bombs under his command.
No. This time, the world’s most
powerful nation was brought to its knees by a fanatical religious zealot and a
handful his disciplined disciples.
David slew the Goliath.
At first, the world mourned for Goliath. The outcries against this horrific terror
method--guiding civilian vehicles, full of innocent passengers, into the paths
of buildings filled with innocents, were heard around the earth. For a time, even America’s worst enemies
sympathized with the tragedy that had befallen Goliath. And, understandably, Goliath vowed to “smoke
out” the evil man that had killed so many people.
Sadly though, that evil man could not be
found. We thought we’d find him in
Afghanistan. We probed that country
well and found many reasons there to fix things that still need to be fixed to
ensure the safety of this world. (Which
is why Canada is both a fighting sword and a helping hand in that country
today.) But that evil Osama couldn’t be brought to justice. Not in a day or a
week or a month. And all the while, the
people of this great nation of America were demanding retribution.
Collectively, they don’t have patience. After all, they are the people that could destroy
all life on this planet forever if they wanted to. Just with a few well-planned and ethically-researched
commands…and the pressing of a few buttons.
So how can they not destroy one single evil man named Osama? That paradox must be infuriating! More
important than that, the leader of that great Goliath nation is just a normal
guy who happens to be the King of the World.
So he, understandably, feels great pressure to do something to appease
the need for justice that a quarter of a billion of his subjects so desperately
desire.
So what does this man named George do? He finds somebody that he knows he has the
power to destroy. Somebody who he can
convince his subjects should be destroyed.
His name is Saddam. This name
has the same alien-sounding name as Osama.
Same culture. Same region. And this man has undoubtedly deserved to be
punished for all kinds of reasons. And
with the most skilled “spin-doctors” working for him, George can paint this
Saddam character as not only “evil,” in terms of his acts toward his own
people, but also as much of a threat toward “Goliath” (and the rest of the
world) as “Osama” proved to be.
So let’s “smoke ‘im out!”
So how do we do this? Well, first of all, we use all our
intelligence personnel to forward any incriminating evidence against this man
to the head of our Joint Chief of Staff (Colin Powell.) And we ignore any
evidence to the contrary, so that we can fool our general Powell into making a
false case to the rest of the world (represented by the United Nations) for
waging war against this evil “Saddam.”
(After learning—to late--that he has been
duped, this General Powell will graciously bow out of the scene.)
This General’s position will be eyed with
scepticism by most of the world, whose leaders will say something to the effect
of “Hey wait a minute. Sure this Saddam
character may have done many evil things, and maybe we should do something
about him, as we should do about Kim Jung Ill, as we should have done about
August Pinochet, etc…but that’s not the point here. The point is seeking justice against the man who caused
9/11. The point should be to seek
justice by hunting down the man and the organization he leads. And only them.
So most of the world community bowed out of
this misdirected need for vengeance. And for good reason. Because the vengeance that America’s King
sought toward a random bad guy would inevitably result in the deaths of tenfold
numbers of innocent victims. A Hundred
thousand of “there” civilians would die. Equally as tragic as this, is the fact
that America would be made to look as hypocritical as all its enemies
hypothesized. After all, if Saddam was guilty simply of being a murderous
tyrant, then why didn’t America fight as successfully to take out Pol Pot, or
Pinochet, or Castro, the African “warlords” in Rwanda and Somalia, or the far
more deadly and equally ruthless leaders like Kim Jung Ill or Mao Tse
Tung? Both of these latter mentioned
possess (possessed) true “W.M.D.” and massacred horrific
numbers of their own population. They make Saddam look like a bully in the
kindergarten sandbox!
So naturally, all of America’s enemies could
jump on the hypocrisy bandwagon with this deadly attack on Saddam’s Country and
say “Oh America is just looking for an excuse to invade the oilfields…to
control the Middle East…to exploit foreign cultures by getting rich from
erecting a MacDonald’s and a Coke machine in the dessert…and blah blah blah.
The ultimate hypocrisy of George W.’s, in
terms of taking out Saddam, as opposed to all the other bad guys mentioned
above, however, goes back to WWII…Back then, an American President named
Roosevelt was in power. That man had
the wisdom to see what needed to be done to preserve America. When his country suffered a horrific attack
from Japan, he focussed his nation’s war effort against Germany! (Sure, he fought back against Japan as
well…but he knew long before his country gave it’s blessing to fight the war he
knew had to be fought, that Germany was the main threat against America.) And, to ensure that America would prevail
against Germany, Roosevelt made an ally with the most ruthless, most
tyrannical, most ideologically opposite leader of the Twentieth Century…Joseph
Stalin. Stalin. The communist dictator
who would have eaten Saddam for breakfast.
Stalin. The man who made
countless thousands of Russians disappear just because they didn’t agree with
him. The man who despised the concept
of “individuality” and “free enterprise.”
And, in the end, Stalin’s U.S.S.R.’s strength in
courageous sacrifice, combined with Roosevelt’s U.S.’ industrial might naiveté,
and idealistic resolve, and with Churchill’s patient, understated strength as
their mediator, they won the war together.
Together, they “liberated” France, China, the world.
My point?
A true President is wise enough to focus on the true enemy of his
country. That truth saves not only his
nation, but also his nation’s integrity.
Roosevelt was that, and made his small nation
great. (So was J.F.K.—But that’s another rant).
George W. Bush is none of that, and is
contributing to the fall of a great nation. I pray that the next
administration, whether it be Republican or Democrat, can save the land that
can save humanity.
Have a great week, Dear Readers. May we all think, wonder, and ponder, with
great egos, as though we are all Kings and Queens; free to spew our humble yet
correct opinions at anybody who dares get in the way of our thoughts!
Sincerely,
Ern
November 18, 2006
“At the end of every hard earned day, people
find some reason to believe.” Bruce Springsteen wrote that, and that is the
title of my rant tonight. When
everything goes wrong, when all your hopes and dreams explode before your eyes,
what happens?
A much older song than God’s (“God” being
Bruce…for you unenlightened) sang, “Don’t let the sun catch you crying.” That’s a nice sentiment; appropriate for the
shallow dreams of youth. But how do you
not cry the morning after your life has been
destroyed? How do you wake from a dream
to realize that your real life has become a nightmare and then go and “smile”
at the morning sun?
You don’t.
Not the first morning, after your house has floated away in a flood, or
your wife or husband was murdered. Or
your child was abducted. Or the life of
your dreams has proven itself to be an utter charade in one blindingly clear
moment.
However, if you survive all that, you are born
again one morning to see things that you’ve never seen before…or that you
should have seen a long time ago. And
you see your life for the first time, again. And you realize that nothing in
your past will ever allow you to doubt the endless possibilities of today.
Sincerely,
Ern
November 11, 2006
….Thank you.
Sincerely,
Ernie Kosanyi
November 4, 2006
In the bible, aren’t we all sinners? The title
of my rant tonight, Are we all just sluts in heat?
Isn’t it a thin line between love and
hate? Don’t we all just want to be
understood as a person who hungers to be wanted by another? I mean really? If you discovered that you were the Son of God tonight, and that
you could save the world, unite all of the world’s peoples/belief’s and
religions within this human tempest, can you honestly say that you wouldn’t
desire some kind of recognition, by some other desirable presence, for saving
the human race?
Maybe that is what makes us slutty. We will prostitute our beliefs by slamming
airplanes into buildings, by dropping bombs from our airplanes into other
buildings, by fighting in the name of whatever God we believe in, wage war for
whatever reason, all for the hope of finding somebody, some god, some lover,
who will walk hand-in-hand with our righteousness.
Could it be that in the core of our ego, we
decide that we may be willing to kill other people just to make a stand that
will attract somebody else with a similar belief to sire/bear our similar
“belief-system” child? Or, should we
die for the cause, to be rewarded by a God that will reward us with eternal
bliss?
Hmmm…
What I wonder tonight is, when and how do we
get beyond our hunger? As Human hearts
with consciousness, how do we reach that point where we can love something that
we cannot understand, and which may be unattainable? To love something that will never love us back. Should we want too? Or should everything
that we love be required to requite, or at least understand our love, lest we
threaten it with death and damnation? And, if that is the case, do we really
love what we love? Or are we just
waiting for some kind of pay-back for our devotion to that mysterious country
that we are too busy to explore (whether it be a human or a culture or a
religion?) Do we kill a hundred people, or break a single heart, to prove our
worth to ourselves or to our belief in our God? Or to whatever faith we have?
And, if that is the case, are we any more
evolved than animals that piss on their territory in order to be the “King”of
the herd? (Or, for you female
readers—the honour of being the bearer of that herd.) Or do we just piss our pissy thoughts, rationalizing them by some
noble cause, while we deny ourselves the truth of the matter…
That we desire the same result as that of the
animal kingdom? If that is the case, is
that a bad thing? Or are we carving through all the bullshit to surrender to
the truth that we can understand today, so that we can evolve beyond it
tomorrow?
I hope, with all my heart and soul, that these
words mean something, if only to myself.
Ern.
October 28, 2006
Hey Dear Readers, the title of my rant tonight
is Stop.
Stop.
Before we think another thought, feel another emotion, make another
accusation, or try to right another wrong, try to prove our point to justify
our action, or tell someone that they are wrong because we know how right we
are…I ask that we all pause for a moment.
A long moment.
Now…I want to suggest something without
resorting to a cliché. The problem is,
is that clichés are cliché because they have been used so often that we don’t
take them seriously anymore. Isn’t that
the irony? We don’t listen to them
because, since they are so true, they have been repeated so often as to become
clichés. They’re words we look for on
Birthday/Christmas/Wedding/Anniversary cards to convey what we think we should
express, as worthy human beings who are, worthy as we want to be, too lazy to
come up with our own ways of expressing what the truest hearts said a long time
ago.
So I’m not going to suggest that we stop and
get down to “the heart of the matter.”
Or that we try to “reach out and touch someone.” I’m not even going to ask you Dear readers
to stop and “be true to your heart.”
My goal tonight, for myself, and which I’d
like to share with you Dear Readers, is to simply stop and “smell the
roses.” Really...Put down your fork,
spoon, hammer, blackberry, palm-pilot, hatred, frustration, angst, complacency,
acceptance, newspaper, argument, political viewpoints, and whatever else that
matters in your life as you read this.
Just STOP and think…what am I sending out
there…
To the world.
To God. To the life he gave you?
I hope you all have a deep, introspective
moment this week, Dear Readers. And, no
matter what you think of my rant, I thank you for being there to read it.
Ern
October 18, 2006
Wow, nearly a month since my last rant. That’s terrible! Sorry Dear Readers.
A new movie is coming out this week, “The
Flags of our Fathers.” Based on an
excellent book by the same title, that I highly recommend. In that vein, the title of tonight’s rant is
“My Father’s Deep Insight into the Irony of Our Respective
Walking Journeys.” (Lousy title, I
know.)
Over half a century ago, in 1950, my father
embarked on a journey through the northern section of what was then
Yugoslavia. Like me, he went on
foot. And, like me, his odyssey was
inspired by his nation’s military.
Also, like his son’s journey, he walked for days, experienced hardship
and adventure, all because of the army.
As Alannis sings, “isn’t it ironic?”
Although my Father’s walk covered far less
distance than mine, (about 1/6th the km’s) his journey was far more
adventurous than mine. His adventure
began as a train ride across the northern expanse of his country, from the
eastern city of Subotica, where he was training as an apprentice, to the
western town of Maribor. Like myself,
he was on a mission inspired by a military calling. But the similarities end there.
For example, when I began my journey, my boss happened to drive by me
when I was walking out into the country.
He honked his horn as if to say, “Hey Ern,! How’s it going?” My Father, on the other hand, discovered
that his boss, purely out of coincidence, was on the
same train as him, in the very next section.
If his boss had discovered him, it would have been game over in so many ways. So My Dad had to spend many hours and hundreds of kilometres
hiding his face, until he reached the western town of Maribor. Back in August, 1950.
When he got off the train, he began a
thirty-kilometre hike to the Austrian border.
Unlike me, he had no roads to walk along. He had to hike through the wilderness. He didn’t have friendly drivers stopping to offer him rides or
the provincial police coming to his rescue and patting him on the back for his
passionate cause. All he had was a
“fish preserve,” short pants, and leaves to cover him from the cold night. And, unlike me, my Dad would have been shot
dead on sight if he had been discovered.
So, like me, his journey, though far less in distance than mine, took
nearly as long—three days and nights—for many reasons. He walked through the forest. I walked by the side of a marked road. He had to sit stock still for most of a day
for fear of a farmer discovering him behind a bush. Or for fear of a couple of border guards turning around and discovering
him when they were chatting and having a smoke while he was stuck lying in the
grass a few feet away.
My Dad’s journey was fraught with the threat
of death, every step of the way. Mine
was a cake-walk compared to his, even though I wondered, several times, if I
would survive the day. And yet both of us decided to get up one day and embark on
a perilous walk across our respective countries of Yugoslavia and Canada,
during a late summer, fifty-six years apart, for the same, but completely
opposite reasons!
The army.
And here’s where the irony comes in. My Dad walked for days to escape his tour of duty in his
nation’s army. More than half a century
later, I walked for days to prove that I could, would, and was able, to join my nation’s army.
My Dad decided to escape from his communist
country because he was about to be called up for service. That would mean, in his case, that he would
be called to officer’s training. This
would mean that he would have to declare his allegiance to the communist party
that held power over his country at that time.
However, since the Soviet communist takeover of his country resulted in
the murder of his father, and the
destruction of his family’s life and livelihood, not to mention that of his
entire country’s well-being, my father swore to himself that, no matter what,
he would never live in a country that forced him to swear allegiance to an army
that followed an ideology that was so wrong as to have killed his father,
simply for the crime of not being a communist.
I, on the other hand, willingly enrolled to
become an officer in the Canadian Armed Forces. I spent eight months of my life trying to prove myself
worthy. I passed three of the four
tests. And then, when I failed the last
one, I took matters into my own hands and embarked on a cross-country trek to
try to convince my nation’s army to accept my offer of service. (If you haven’t been following my story,
please read my last rant.) I wanted to
be an officer of the 48th Highlanders. And I still want to. Because such a position would force me to be
the best citizen that I could become, in one of the most well-trained,
under-manned, under-gunned, and possibly one of the least appreciated armies in
this world.
Canada has never fought an unjust war. And when we have been forced to defend
ourselves, and been left to take charge under our own command structure, we
have never lost a battle. We forced the Americans back home in the war of 1812.
We took Vimy Ridge in the 1st World War, when everyone else failed.
We drove further into Normandy on the first day of “D-Day” in the Second World
War than either the British or the Americans. Likewise, we took the Italian
mountain ranges by scaling cliffs that weren’t supposed to be scalable. We
liberated Holland almost by ourselves.
We get the job done, as we are doing in Afghanistan, today. We do it because we have no other choice.
So I can’t blame my nation’s military for
rejecting my offer of service because I must rely on a device to control my
asthma, although my offer still stands.
Because in our military, every individual must be in perfect condition,
in every way, in order to carry on our tradition of excellence.
But isn’t it ironic? My Dad succeeded in escaping from an unjust force in Europe, by
going on a long perilous walk, when his own son, fifty-six years later, failed
to convince a righteous force in Canada, that he could be a worthy part of an
honourable military by doing the same thing?
Irony is just another road to freedom. So I hope all you Dear Readers will latch on
to whatever dream comes your way this week.
Have a great adventure. And
don’t worry about the end result. From
my experience, we don’t find that out until years down the road. But in the end, it always makes sense.
Ern
September 24, 2006
Well, well ,well, Boy oh Boy. What a week it’s been! Just like Forrest Gump, I put on a new pair
of runners and left my home last Monday morning, bound for a DND (Department of
National Defence) office in Ottawa where I hoped to meet a military officer who
had decided that I was medically unfit to serve this nation’s army. Unlike
Forrest, though, I didn’t run. I
walked. With a back-pack. Contents: Several more changes of socks and
underwear then I used, four shirts and one pair of jeans (aside from the pair
that I left wearing,) a “family pack” of cereal bars, two bottles of water,
digital camera, groundsheet, compact sleeping bag, my (theoretically) last two
cigarettes, flashlight, rain-jacket, chewing gum, sunglasses, “Team Canada”
baseball cap, “Mapquest” maps, $60 cash, Bible, toiletries, keys, cell phone,
Visa, bank card, license, OHIP, plastic bags and lunch baggies to protect paper
maps, bible, etc. from the expected rain that was forecast for much of my trip.
And, on my back-pack I carried a laminated sheet that read, “Walking to serve
the Highlanders…kosanyi.com”
Also, because of you Dear’ Reader’s
protestations of my stupidity, I brought my Symbicort asthma inhaler, though I
vowed not to use it. Originally, I was
not going to bring this device, in order to prove to the Canadian Army that I
didn’t need it, as this was the whole point of my trip; to prove that I could
survive “in the field” without the aid of any prescription medication. Thanks to several of you Dear Readers, I
packed my “meds,” allowing myself to realize that if I didn’t need it, then I
would make my point. And if I did need
it, then I could save my life and move ahead to a new goal.
So, with all that on my back, the title of my rant tonight
is: MY JOURNEY TO “KHANDAHAR.”
For those of you Dear Readers who may not have
followed my story thus far, it goes like this: Last December, when I was
looking for a new path for my life, when I was open to a new way of living, it
was brought to my attention that, with my educational background, I was
eligible to become an officer in the Canadian military. I wouldn’t have to take out a loan for more
education. In fact I would be paid to
learn my trade. And, if I “passed
mustard,” I would be eligible for a life-long pension after just three years of
service. A career in the military would also force me to test my character in
ways that I had so far managed to avoid: discipline, courage, leadership,
etc. And such a career would fuel my
true passion as a writer, which is, and always will be, my truest goal.
The reservist that told me of this possibility
that I was eligible to enlist as an officer was a member of the esteemed 48th
Highlanders Infantry Battalion, a unit whose history dates back to Vimy Ridge,
the 1st World War battle in which Canada proved to the world how courageous
and victorious our nation can be in the face of overwhelming opposition. (This
reservist may now be, according to what he told me, serving in Afghanistan.)
I peppered him with questions, not believing
what I was hearing. In the end, I
called the 48th and discovered, to my amazement, that I, a pudgy,
middle-aged asthmatic, was eligible. I
particularly asked about my asthma. To
this query I received only vague answers.
Nothing was cut and dry.
Basically it was, “Well…if you can pass the physical, that’s what
matters.” Or “Wellll…the less you say
the better.” So, based on all the info
I was given, I went down to the 48th this past January and filled
out the paperwork to embark on a series of four tests that were expected to
take about three months to complete, at the end of which I would be rejected,
or accepted into “Basic training.”
Well…Those three months dragged out into eight, during which I passed
the 1st three tests—the physical, the aptitude, and the
psychological. Finally, the medical
came in June. The approval of this test
had to come from Ottawa and was expected to take a month to a month and a
half. I received my rejection in the
form of a letter dated August 15th.
I was devastated. I don’t want to repeat
myself here, so please see my rant of August 27th, for details. And, for why I embarked on this journey, see
my last rant of September 15th.
So…This past Sunday evening I sent a letter to
the DND in Ottawa, to say that I was planning to walk from my home in Oshawa,
to their office in Ottawa in the hopes of getting them to change their mind, as
I was certain that the only remains of my asthma was caused by smoking, and,
that without that vice, I would not be a danger to myself or my comrades in
arms.
Monday morning I hauled my backpack over my
shoulders and headed out the door at nine-O-one am., excited, nervous, not
knowing if I’d make it ten miles before staggering back with my pride tucked
between my legs, wondering if I’d lost my mind, and thrilled to get away from
my routine existence. My expensive and
extremely comfortable back-pack came equipped with its own rain-jacket which I
used to cover my “walking to serve” sign as I didn’t want to draw attention to
myself before I knew whether or not I was going to go through with my stunt.
It was a perfect day for a long walk: Balmy temperature; not too hot nor too cold,
a little hazy so the sun wasn’t burning my eyes, yet not cloudy enough to
threaten rain. My first hour was rather boring since I hadn’t walked away from anything
I hadn’t seen before. After that, I was out in the country, feeling good, no
longer wondering if I was crazy. I felt healthy, invigorated. Silent cornfields and farms accompanied my
sojourn with peaceful assurance. The only thing that bothered me was how many
dead or dying butterflies I came across on the side of the road. Until this past Monday, I never thought of
butterflies as anything but “fluttering” inspiring creatures. Now I saw them as tragically beautiful
“roadkill.”
By late morning I was getting a little
tired. Just then a big white Dodge
Pick-up honked at me as it drove by.
Based on my location, I realized that this big Dodge was my boss,’ and
he was honking to say hello. That
picked up my spirits.
By 3pm I had completed the first leg of my
journey and was about to leave my country road for a necessary leg along the
shoulder of the 4-lane highway #115. I was starving by this time and, luckily I
came across the “Dutch Oven” restaurant.
I had a good meal. But then,
having smoked my last ‘reserve’ cigarette a few hours before, I suddenly had an
overwhelming urge for an “after eating” smoke. To my astonishment, I found
myself purchasing a twenty-pack, just to get my fix. Even with my brilliant power of rationalization, I couldn’t come up
with a way to convince myself that this action wouldn’t defeat my entire
mission.
But I did it anyway.
At the same time, despite my stupidity, I
found the confidence to reveal my sign before I headed out onto the loud,
smog-filled shoulder of the 115. Then
the going got tough. By four pm my legs were tired and sore. I felt blisters growing on my feet, inside
the excellent new shoes that I knew I should have worn-in before wearing them
for the first time on this trek. The peaceful silence of the countryside was
gone, replaced by the dusty wind and noise of big rigs racing by me at 100kph.
Then a car pulled over. The young male driver
saw my sign and, though his speed and the small size of my lettering didn’t
allow him to read it, he pulled over anyway because he was curious and he just
assumed that I was looking for a ride.
I thanked him for stopping to offer his help, quickly explained my
mission, and sent him on his way. And
for the second time that day, I realized how just a little encouragement from a
fellow person could reinvigorate my tired muscles. Over the next couple of
hours two more cars pulled over to offer me a ride. Both were the same as the
first; single thirty-something males who saw my sign and wondered what I was up
to. By Friday I found myself kicking
myself for turning down their generosity. (Read on.) By the time the last guy pulled over, I had walked past a
Petro-Can and a Coffee-Time on the other side of the eight-lane divided highway
and was getting really pissed off at the fact that no such convenience was in
sight on MY side of the road. So when
the last driver pulled over I accepted a donation of water from the thermos he
was taking to work. And when I asked him if there was anything in the way of
restaurants up the road he said “No.
There’s nothing between here and Peterborough.”
That meant that there was no food, water,
chairs, or bathrooms on my way for the next eight hours of walking (based on my
guessed-at speed of 4 kph.) And I had already been walking for about seven
hours. Now it started to get real. As in, hard. There was no comfy place
waiting at the end of the predictable rush hour ride home. And while I always knew that,
intellectually, as I planned my trip, it was another thing to suddenly realize,
on a gut level, that I had jumped into the unknown, and that no comfort lay
assured at the end of my day.
Around dinner-time I passed under a bridge and
walked up into the grass on the far side of the embankment, out of the view of
traffic, lay down with my back-pack as a pillow, and surprised myself at how
comfortable I could be. I mean, here I
was lying on an incline of lumpy weeds beside a highway where thunderous
decibels from trucks and SUV’s were assaulting my ears, and I was as
comfortable as I would be in my recliner watching TV at home. I actually fell asleep for a few minutes.
That’s how exhausted I was.
But then I woke up and realized that it was
both too early to sleep, and that I hadn’t set up to sleep through a cold late
summer night. And also, sooner or later
somebody would have spotted what they thought was either a dead body or an easy
mugging. I didn’t want to face either scenario. So I got up and headed on down
the road. A couple of hours later I was
exhausted again. The sun was almost
down and I decided that I’d better find a place to sleep while it was still
light enough to set up camp without relying on holding a flashlight in one hand
while setting up with the other. I was
too tired to do both at once. So I
found a clearing on the side of the road that led down to a soft area of forest
beside a fence that denied me any deeper passage into the woods. A slight depression in the forest floor
looked like a comfortable place to bed down.
For a second I thought, “of course, if it rains really hard tonight,
this little valley will fill with water.”
But then I thought, “Yeah well, it’s been threatening rain all day and
all that’s happened is a few drops. Frack it! This is my home for the night.” So I laid my ground-sheet, set up my
back-pack as a pillow, laid out my sleeping bag, crawled in, pulled the other
half of my ground sheet over myself as a rain-jacket, laid my glasses beside
me, pulled my hat up over my head to stop any raindrops from hitting my face,
looked up at the foliage that blocked the dark grey evening sky and felt
wonderfully comfortable and at peace with the world.
And, just as I was falling asleep, one of you
Dear Readers, and a friend of mine (who will never read this because she
doesn’t have a computer,) called to see how I was doing. Again I felt the special warmth of having
support from caring people in my life. I found that it means so much more when
someone asks “How are you?” when you have dove into the abyss, and they know
that, and they REALLY mean it. Fortunately, I was so inspired by this simple
message that I found it hard to fall asleep again, because, if I had fallen
into the deep sleep that I was drifting off to before they called, I might have
drowned.
As it was, I just started to drift off again
when I heard the first drops start to fall around the great coniferous tree
that I was sheltered under. At first I
thought nothing of it, since no water was landing on me. Then, awhile later, I felt the first drops
landing on my protective groundsheet.
No big deal. It was water-proof plastic, after all. So I drifted off
again. Then, a while later, I awoke to
the feeling of water draping my body…cold, intrusive wetness. I rolled over, ignored it, and dreamt of
better things. Then, an hour later, I woke to the realization that a river was
running down my cheek, on under my back, and that everything in my world was
drenched. The sleeping bag that I
cocooned myself in was a wet mop, soaking through my clothes. And if I continued to ignore my predicament,
I’d either drown to death or die of hypothermia.
I soon realized that my only chance of
surviving this night was to get up, pack up all my shit in the middle of this
pitch-black downpour and continue walking towards Peterborough to find
shelter. So I struggled out of my
sopping wet bed, searched around to find my flashlight, my glasses etc. and
started packing up. As I did this, I
got another call. It was a very
enticing call, from a very desirable person not of my gender, who asked me to
come home. I don’t want to get into too
many details here, as all the world can read this. So let me just say…what she offered, compared to what I was
experiencing at that moment…well…hmmm….Oh I think you can figure it out without
me explaining further.
Needless to say, I had to say to her that at
that moment I couldn’t explain why I was doing what I was doing, considering
the comfort that she was offering. But
I also had to say that I had to hang up.
I couldn’t spend any more time on the dream she offered when I had to
figure out how to pack up my shit and survive that dark, rainy night.
So I was alone again, shivering and drenched
to the bone, searching with my light in one hand to find and roll up all my kit
in the other as vehicles whizzed by a few feet away, all driven by people like
you and I, who are comfortably nestled in warmth and motion, freed by
technology enough to allow all the little things in life to worry them. I
packed up everything but my $37 sleeping bag that I had used for a little more
than two hours. I gazed its sopping
mess. I picked it up and realized that
it weighed about ten pounds soaking wet. Then, with a laugh that I know two of
you Dear Readers will appreciate, I decided to leave it behind. (That’s an inside
joke to Rick and Dan—My apologies to the rest of you.) It was useless to me at that point and it
might have put my life at risk if I continued on with its extra pounds weighing
me down. Because I really had no idea
how many steps I had left before I simply fell down and died.
I struggled back up to the shoulder of the
highway and moved on, shimmying back and forth in my soaking wet clothes, on
the shoulder of the road, correcting my path by the lights of passing vehicles
that showed me the way whenever darkness confused me. All the while the rain poured down. Ten hours before, my idea seamed blessed with sunshine and
cornfields. Now I felt like an idiot,
walking toward a hellish fate of my own making.
Half past midnight a car pulled over. I thanked my lucky stars without even
wondering if a serial killer was the car’s driver. I didn’t give a frack about the fact that I’d be “cheating” in my
mission by not “walking” the whole way to Ottawa by accepting the ride that my
killer might be about to offer. I was
just an animal. I only thought… “Sit on
dry chair.” “Warmth inside there.” “Get to go to warm bed somewhere.” So when this man in a VW Jetta pulled over
in the middle of a rainy night to rescue a complete stranger whom he saw
walking in the rain, I jumped in without a thought about what I was doing. Turns out he was a commuter who lives in
Peterborough, but works for Air Canada at the Pearson International Airport in
Mississauga. That’s a 100km drive each
way (at least.) And usually he drives home earlier (or later—I can’t remember
which--from work. So on a normal night,
he wouldn’t have come across my sorry ass.)
He found it strange to see somebody walking alongside the 115 in the
middle of the night. And, although he
didn’t say it this way, I know he just had to risk his life to come to the aid
of a stranger who wasn’t even asking for help.
I wish I could remember his name in order to
celebrate his humanity in this rant. For whatever character faults this man may
possess, as we all do, I could never see him as anything less than a saviour, a
hero of all that is good in this world.
And I don’t even know his name.
He wouldn’t let me buy him a coffee at the shop that he dropped me off
at in downtown Peterborough. I just
hope that he gets to reach and read my message of gratitude for his help.
So anyway…now I’m at the Coffee-Time in
downtown Peterborough, because, given the choice of being dropped off at “food”
or “shelter” my body cried out “food!” I limp into this 24-hour donut shop,
soaked to the bone, shivering to death, expecting sympathy from a young woman
who hates her life, and the fact that some damned customer is walking in at 2
am. I order a coffee and a toasted bagel at the same time that a cocky teenager
is going through the “drive-thru.” So I find myself struggling through my
shivers to communicate with somebody who is already busy, who is scowling at me
for wrecking her life, while somebody else is trying to wreck her life at the
same time by shouting through her drive-thru mic about what he wants from her. I have this urge to grab this woman by the
neck and shout… “Forget about this cocky teenager in the car that his parent’s
bought him! I’m dying here!”
In the end, I hold my peace, and she figures
it out for herself. Not that she takes
pity on me, or anything like that. She
just does her job and serves her first hated customer first, which happens to
be me.
So I sit and shiver as I eat my bagel and
drink my coffee, thankful to be sitting and eating and drinking as I shiver to
death. Finally I stagger out to the sidewalk,
shiver some more as I have another smoke, and watch three taxis drive by in the
direction of the motel that my Jetta-driving saviour pointed out was “just over
the next hill.” For a moment I consider
going back inside to ask Ms. Coffee-Time to call me a cab. But then I think, “No, she’ll just give me
this…OH LIKE---WHATEVER!” look that’ll make me want to strangle her again. So I haul my back-pack on again over my
soaking bones and head on down the road thinking, “well…you’ve walked about 70
odd km today, what’s one more?”
Finally I hobble into the nice warm lobby of
the Downtown Peterborough Comfort Inn. A pretty, friendly face greets me and I
just say that I need a room. It’s all
so simple. I’ve fought the good fight,
reached the comfort of a “Comfort Inn.”
This is where the movie is supposed to end. Except that the pretty
girl’s smile turns to a frown as she says, “I’m sorry but we have no vacancies.
Everyplace in town is full.” (Or something like that, as I’m paraphrasing from
my twisted memory.) I reply something to the effect, “You gotta’ be kidding!
It’s a Monday night in Peterborough in the middle of September. How can every place be full?”
“Oh well…the Plough Meet is on this week.”
“The ‘Plough Meet?’”
I’ve been rendered speechless since I keep
recalling that moment of terror. Sorry,
Dear Readers!
So I guess I got here this week, soaked to the
bone and at the edge of what I was sure at the moment was “Death’s Door,” just
to arrive at the same time that all you Dear Readers were racing out of the GTA
to get to the world famous Plough Match!
Anyway, the pretty girl, named Tara, makes me
a coffee and allows me to flop on the couch in the lobby. Finally she calls anther motel where a
single room is available. A taxi ride later and I finally get a room. The nice lady there says I “broke her heart
that I want to serve my country so badly.” when I explained why I was drenched
to the bone and what I was doing.
By 3:00 am I was dry and asleep. What a frackin’ day it was!
This rant is getting pretty long, eh? If I described every one of my five days on
the road in such detail I’d probably write a book. And I could, because everyday was pretty interesting. However, let me skip to Wednesday night.
Sometime around 10 pm, after I had walked for
about ten hours and was now hobbling with a limp, an OPP cruiser pulled over,
turned around and came back to check me out.
I thanked my lucky stars because, by my calculations, the next town (where
I had hoped to find a motel) was at least two more hours of walking, based on
the last sign I saw that indicated a Tim Horton’s “just” 10 minutes down the road. I
had figured out by then that every 5 minutes driving time means about an hour’s
walk. So I had a good chuckle when
people would say things like “Oh yeah there’s a place just about 15 minutes
down the road.” (Even though they know I’m on foot, they can’t help but think
in terms of “automotive time.”)
“Riiiiiight…Oh so you mean, just three hours
of hobbling in excruciating pain, down the road?”
Anyway, these two officers question me, do a
computer check, and, finding that I’m not wanted for anything, and trusting my
word that I am not hiding any weapons in my kit, they kindly take me to a motel
in Madoc. No vacancies. They take me to another motel, apologizing
that they have to take me backwards almost to where they picked me up. (By now I had explained my mission to walk
to Ottawa and they felt bad for not getting me further along on my journey!) Anyway, I was just grateful even to get a
few kilometres ahead, comfortably riding in the back of their cruiser. Plus, I got to check out all the cool
buttons for their various lighting and siren arrangements. For instance there’s a button labelled
“WAIL,” another called “YELP.” “TAKEDOWN, (!)”
“LEFT ALLEY” etc. They even
demonstrated some of the lights for me!
I was like a little kid playing cop. It was all I could do to resist
asking them if they’d ever had to fire their guns in the line of duty. So they
finally found me a room. They wished me all the best and good luck with my
journey and the guy even patted me on the back. Nicest cops I ever met. Unfortunately, I was in such pain that I
still don’t feel that I thanked them enough.
About 11:30 am, Thursday morning I left what
would be my last motel room—a place just west of the town of Madoc, on #7. By now my legs were extremely sore. So sore that I no longer noticed the
blisters on my little toes. My left leg
in particular was killing me. An hour
later I made it to a Tim Horton’s for my breakfast of a sandwich, donut, coffee
and O.J. Little did I know then that
that would be the last time I would be inside a building for the next
twenty-five hours. I walked throughout
the day, discovering that my bum leg hurt less when I swung it outward for
every step forward. Also, if I
travelled on the left side of the road, toward oncoming traffic, that it hurt
less because my left foot fell lower on the shoulder than my right. By evening though, I was desperate enough to
start trying to hitch-hike, which meant getting back on the right side of the
road. Again, I learned to adapt,
discovering that by walking backwards, my pain was alleviated a little.
However, unlike my first day travelling down the 115, when no less than four
drivers pulled over just out of curiosity, now I couldn’t get any attention
even by sticking my thumb out!
Finally, around 7:00 pm, I reached the cut-off
to Tweed where a sign promised a restaurant a couple of clicks down the road
and a motel a few clicks beyond that.
Since no building of any kind appeared within visual range down highway
#7, I reluctantly turned off my route and stuck my thumb out again as I began
my turn. Lo and behold, a green
intrepid pulled over. A big friendly
driver offered me a ride, saying he was only going to Tweed. I replied that I didn’t care. I didn’t even want to go to Tweed and the
only reason I got off #7 was because I needed to get to the nearest restaurant. So he promptly pulled a U-turn and told me
he’d take me to the best place around, “Nonny & Poppy’s.” He said that if they were closed, he’d run
me down to the next town—Kaladar. Then
he told me about how last year, he picked up a couple of cute girls and took
them all the way to Perth (about 90 clicks east—toward Ottawa—which was still
about 190 clicks east of my present location)) just because his wife and kids
were away and he had nothing better to do.
Then he apologized that he wasn’t about to do the same for me, and I
replied that I didn’t blame him, as I probably wouldn’t give me a ride to Perth
either!
Anyway…A couple of minutes later he dropped me
off at “Nonny & Poppy’s,” just a click or two east of Tweed. To my horror, the establishment was only a
colourfully decorated trailer on the side of the road with only picnic benches
to sit on. Of course I couldn’t tell my
generous chauffeur that I desperately wanted a comfortable table in a warm
building, with a clean bathroom to freshen up in. So I thanked him for the ride, ordered my banquet burger and
fries, bummed a smoke off “Nonny, ” and tried to ignore my sore back and the
chill in the evening air. I ate my
food, chatted with “Poppy,” and a female customer who asked me who the
“Highlanders” were (after she read the sign on my kit,) then I wished them all
a farewell, hauled my back-pack on and continued hobbling down the road.
About an hour later the sun was beginning to
set. “Poppy” had told me that “Kaladar”
was “’bout ten mile” down the road and there wasn’t much there anyway. When I asked him if there was a motel, he
couldn’t remember. So, as I hobbled
along, wondering what to do, I started thinking of this town, Kaladar. Even when I had looked at the name on the
map days before I couldn’t help but think of it as “Kandahar” as in the city in
Afghanistan where our troops are fighting and dying.
I knew there was no way that I had another ten
miles (16 clicks) in me. I thought of
continuing to limp into the dark night, hoping that the OPP would come to my
rescue once again. But I knew I
couldn’t count on that scenario two nights in a row. And I didn’t want to get caught having to bed down in the pitch
black night. So, as the sun dropped
away I found a nice flat spot of earth down an embankment off the side of #7
that looked out onto a pond (or river) surrounded by bulrushes. Tuesday afternoon, as I walked from one end
of Peterborough to the other, I stopped at a “Canadian Tire” where I blew a
C-note on a self-inflating ground-pad, a second ground-sheet (which I figured I
would use above me to “sandwich” myself between two plastic, waterproof
coverings,) and a “thermal” blanket.
All this to replace the sleeping bag that I sacrificed to the forest
beside the #115 on my first night.
Until that moment I had planned to keep all
that extra weight in the original “Crappy Tire” bag and get my money back,
since I had been sleeping in motels anyway.
But now I realized that there would be no motel tonight. So I ripped open all the plastic, laid down
my original groundsheet, opened the valves on my self-inflating pad, laid my
thermal blanket over that, then spiked my new ground-sheet over the whole
thing, prided myself in my ingenuity, then realized that, by spiking everything
into the ground, dumbass that I am, I had spiked myself out of my bed. So I pulled the left spikes out, crawled
“into bed,” spiked my groundsheet over me, and then wondered why my pad hadn’t
inflated, leaving the lumpy ground to push up into my sore back. Doh! I forgot to close the valves on my pad. So, by laying down on it, I had forced all
the comforting air out of my $50 sleeping pad.
I closed the valves but by then it was too late. Oh well…
I stared up at the evening clouds, tired and
sore, waiting for the torrential downfall that wrecked my first night. But then a star appeared! And then another. Soon the clear night was resplendent with all the stars in the
world, along with that grey band of the Milky Way of our galaxy, where the
depths of all the light from all of the stars in our galaxy sweep across the
night sky. It was so frackin’ gorgeous
that I forgot my aching muscles and the chill of the night. For a while.
An hour later I started to get cold. I pulled
my top groundsheet over my head, using the brim of my “Team Canada” baseball
cap to keep it above my face, allowing me to breath. Later on I discovered that dew was building up on every surface
that touched me. Even though it wasn’t
raining, the wetness of dew was everywhere; on the underside of my groundsheet,
inside my blanket. Everywhere I touched
was wet and cold. I started to
shiver. Then I fell asleep. Then I woke up shivering. Whenever I shifted position, my left leg
seared with pain as I shivered. Finally
I learned to shiver into such exhausting convulsions that I could literally
shiver myself to sleep for a while, resting my head on my backpack that became
my pillow. This cycle went on
throughout the night. Sleep, shiver
with cold, sleep.
Probably around 6 am, I gave up trying to
sleep anymore. I rose to the most
beautiful sunrise, shining a golden blanket through the trees and the mist
rising off the water. I’m kicking
myself for not getting a picture of it just because I was freezing to death and
I couldn’t feel my fingers! However, as cold as I was, I realized that my
“thermal” blanket actually did some “thermalizing” since the part of my
back-pack that was exposed to the night air was covered in white frost. Cold as I was, I wasn’t coated in ice, as I
might have been. So I packed things up,
one by one, blowing feeling into my fingers between each task. The hardest part of my morning was reaching
down to tie my shoelaces…Oh….sends shivers down my spine just thinking about
the agony!
Finally I had a breakfast consisting of my
last sip of water and two squashed cereal bars, and then I climbed back up to
the highway.
I started limping eastward, Friday morning,
without my much-needed morning coffee and hardly any food in my belly. I knew that, at my guessed at speed of 1 to
1.5 kph of limping speed, that I was at least eight hours from “Kandahar.” I was in the middle of the Canadian shield,
where no gas stations or restaurants lined the road as they do in
civilization. I had no water left. I limped along, trying to thumb a ride
whenever I could manage to limp along the eastbound side of the highway. But, unlike my first day, when people pulled
over just out of curiosity, nobody
pulled over that day. Half the time I
couldn’t blame those drivers because the soft shoulder was only a few feet of
downward sloping gravel and/or the motorist was being chased down by a huge
transport truck that would have plowed through him/her if he/she even tried to
pull over on a whim.
But not even cops would pull over. I’d stick my thumb out to an OPP cruiser
only to see the officer raise his hand as if to say “What the Frack! Don’t you
know its illegal to hitch-hike?”
Meanwhile, I started to get delirious.
Whenever I tried to focus on the ground it would start to move even if I
was standing still. Around noon, when I
had given up on thumbing a ride and had moved to the left side of the road to
ease the pain in my leg, facing oncoming traffic, a bus passed me with a sign
that said “Ottawa.” That freaked me out.
In all my crossing back and forth along the highway, had I become so
exhausted that I had turned around without knowing it, and was actually walking
west, back the way I came? I started
looking for signs of things I had passed.
Was that the same crushed turtle that I walked by an hour ago? It didn’t look the same. But how many crushed turtles can be lying
beside the road? Earlier in the day I could rely on the sun to guide me, as it
was on the right side of the road when I woke up and headed east. But as the day became cloudy and the sun
rose to ward its zenith at noon, I couldn’t go by that guide anymore. I began
to hope that I’d simply pass out to escape the pain, and so that somebody would
stop because they saw a body lying on the side of the road.
Finally, around noon, I came across a sign
that read something like “Kaladar Shell Station—gas—convenience—restaurant,
4km.”
“Woo-hoo!” I thought. I hadn’t turned around.
There was civilization ahead. Only 4km. But then I realized, at the pace I was
going, that meant another four hours of limping without food or water. I started counting my steps. Every second step I’d count off one
meter. By the time I got to about 130
metres, and realized I still had 3,870 metres to go, I lost all my hope. I
didn’t care about getting to Ottawa anymore, or getting into the army. I just wanted the shooting pain in my left
leg, the parched dryness in my throat, and the all-encompassing pain,
starvation and thirst in my body to end.
Somehow. Anyway whatsoever.
Because the clock on my cell phone died in the
rain days earlier, I couldn’t know how much time had passed since I began my
journey that morning. I could only guess by how high the sun was in the cloudy
sky that it must have been around noon when one of you Dear Readers (my cousin
George) called to ask how I was doing.
From him I learned it was 1:15 in the afternoon. I lamented that I
didn’t know how I was going to survive the day, let alone ever make it to
Ottawa. He asked me if he should call
for help and I explained that there was no help to call as two OPP’s, one cruiser
and one motorcycle, had passed by my thumb and my wave (respectively) without
stopping. I was on my own. Or so I thought.
Five minutes after I got off the phone,
another OPP cruiser headed toward me.
This time I didn’t offer a wimpy wave, or stick my thumb out. This time I flailed my arms about like an
idiot. He pulled over. My life was saved once again. As I explained my story, he whisked me down
the last 3.5 or so km to Kaladar, which I jokingly referred to as
“Kandahar.” He replied that he and his
cop buddies also called the town “Kandahar,” based on all the shit that
apparently goes down there! I asked him
if there was a motel in town and he replied that there was but he was pretty
sure it was closed down. In fact, he
didn’t know of any motel this side of Perth, which was still almost a hundred
kilometres away.
Once again an Ontario Provincial Police
officer saved my life. And, like the
first two officers, he wished me all the best and good luck when he dropped me
off at the “Kaladar Shell Station,” where curious restaurant patrons gazed out
the window to see this dishevelled back-packer struggling out of the back of an
OPP cruiser.
An hour later I was watered, coffeed, fed
bacon and eggs, and, wonder of all wonders, I got to sit by the side of the
road and have a cigarette from the second 20 pack that I had purchased on my
five day journey. I was THRILLED to be alive!
So I sat by the side of the road in “Kandahar”
and explored my options as I examined my past journey and all its
failings. I vowed in a letter to Ottawa
that I would make this journey by my own feet, without ever sleeping under a
solid roof, and without ever taking a puff of asthma medication. I had also vowed to myself that, to
accomplish this goal, I would quit smoking once and for all.
Well…although I had gone from a pack a day to
3 to 6 a day, I fracked up on that last goal.
Also, I slept under “a solid roof” for the first three nights of my
journey. So I fracked that promise as
well. I had also accepted rides for a
total of about 60 forward km
on my 417 kilometre journey, thereby fracking my promise to the army that I
would make the whole journey by foot.
The only promise to the army, and to myself, that I had kept so far, was
the vow to not take a puff from my inhaler.
I was tempted to, especially Wednesday night when I was wheezing and had
no inspiration left to continue with this crazy stunt. But I didn’t take that puff. Because I know
that asthma, like most ailments, is a disease created by a mind that is looking
for an escape from something.
I sat on the median of the highway, knowing
that one of you Dear Readers had written a “press release” about my journey and
that, somewhere in cyberspace, as well as with a number of you Dear Readers,
real people in my life, as well as total strangers, were encouraging me to go
and complete my journey. But still I
had to face the fact that two of my bosses were counting on my return this
Monday morning. And I needed their
pay-checks as much for my survival as they needed my productivity. As well I
knew that no warm bed existed between my present location and Perth. And I couldn’t count on another citizen or
another OPP officer to get me through that next 80 clicks with my bum leg, sore
back and feet.
“What do I do?” I wondered as I sat by a telephone
pole in the little town of Kaladar, on the side of #7. Spend a few more C-notes
to get to my nation’s capital where an officer may or may not change his
mind? Miss more work next week for
nothing? Maybe die on the road
somewhere due to freezing, or exhaustion or both? Or disappoint my friends and followers by catching a bus back
home tonight?
As I pondered all this, my cell phone
rang. It was the officer in Ottawa that
I sent my letter to. After a 15 minute talk, I concluded that I could end my
trek across this province, go see a “respirologist,” and get a second chance at
joining my country’s military. He was
“rattled” by my letter, and “impressed” by my self-imposed mission to reach
him. I couldn’t prove my medical fitness to him even if I completed my
journey. But he was so flabbergasted by
my mission to walk to see him that he would definitely be willing to review my
file if a “respirologist” could declare me free (or even almost free) of asthma.
I got a bus in “Kandahar” five minutes later
and limped down to my own bed by 10 pm that Friday night.
I have spent the weekend writing this rant and
apologize for the delay. I wish all of
you the best this week, and hope that all of you are already mature enough to
follow the path of your life without having to go through the drama that I
endured last week.
Take care.
Have fun.
Sincerely,
Ern
September 15, 2006
Well, well,well. Boy Oh Boy. What a summer it’s been! I apologize for my disappearance this past
month but I’ve had the crap kicked out of me in just about every way that I
could imagine. I won’t get into details
here, since the whole world can read this.
So let me just say that all my hopes and dreams came crashing down since
my last real rant of August 5th.
Directly below you will find my rant of the 27th of last
month wherein I disclosed that my career goal of joining the 48th
Highlanders as an officer was crushed. Since that day (when all the rest of my
existence was blindsided as well) I’ve been living in a daze of anguish and turmoil.
But now its time to get over it and get on
with my life. So the title of my rant
tonight is, “Why I am walking to Ottawa.”
I remember how at the beginning of the year I
ranted about my “resolutions.” One of
those resolves was to do something every day that scares me. I failed to do that. I failed to overcome fear too many times
this year by cleverly rationalizing away all the times that I should have
thrown caution to the wind to stride boldly into a new life. Because of my failure to observe that
resolution I have wound up spinning my wheels to get nowhere.
And yet, in the midst of all this angst, I
came up with a crazy idea. When I was
rejected from the Canadian Armed Forces for a medical condition. (See my
previous rant for details.) I was devastated. I had this impulse to walk from
my home in Oshawa to the office in Ottawa, where my fate had been sealed in a
letter to me dated August 15th. (See the rant below for details.) I
thought…Ern,
if you could do that, walk 261 miles by the muscles in your own feet, without
any medication of any kind, without relying on any outside help …Well, no
matter what happened, wouldn’t it be a cool thing?
Then I started rationalizing again. I reminded myself that my true calling is to
be a writer. A story-teller. I thought to myself, well this whole military
career…it was all a crazy dream. Maybe
a mid-life crisis. I imagined all of the worst-case scenarios
of a military life, and remembered all of the best moments of my creative
life. I decided to take a vacation this
coming week to recover from all this drama.
With this week of upcoming freedom I am thinking to myself (and sharing
these thoughts with you dear Readers,)
“Sure, it would have been cool to have a noble, challenging, inspiring
career to live on while I wrote my tales.
It might have inspired my writing.
And it would have given me a pension to live on. It would have
encouraged me to test my character. I might have seen the world, faced moral
and ethical dilemmas in exotic locales that most of us will never experience.
On the other hand, maybe I was just looking for a way to distract myself from
pursuing the most challenging goal that I was meant to pursue, twenty-four
seven. Maybe the most exhilarating,
character-challenging, scary experience that I could accomplish in this
upcoming week would be to stay locked in my familiar world and write my face
off, send my one good novel off to a thousand publishers, work out at the gym
like crazy and not worry about impressing the world with some crazy stunt like
walking across the province to make a stand for what I believed was the right
thing for me to pursue at the right time in my life. Maybe if I worked hard at my craft as a writer, and respected
myself for it, just as a welder or a doctor or a politician does for himself,
maybe nothing else would matter.”
In the end, I have to go with my gut. I need to honour my promise of doing
something everyday that scares me, to remind my soul that I am alive and
kicking on this earth. The military
scares me. The thought of earning the
respect of courageous people who might be obliged to obey my orders scares
me. Knowing that I could fail the test
of being a courageous person in the face of mortal danger to myself and to
others under my command scares me. But
most of all, wondering if my own sense of self could all be a rationalization
terrifies me.
So, for that reason alone, I am going to take
this coming week off to leave all that I am comfortable with. My life.
My bed. My warm home. My computer and the accompanying chair that
I sit on as I write this. My friends
and co-workers. My warm basement. All of my life as I know it today.
This coming Sunday (or Monday morning) I will
strap a well equipped kit on my back and walk 261 miles to the office of the
officer in my nation’s capital to appeal my case, hopefully, to the officer who
ruled against me. I will make this
journey without any of the medication that inspired his decision to disqualify
me as a “medical limitation on duties” to try to convince my nation’s military
that I am the “officer material” that they already deemed me to be, and that I
need not be disqualified for any particular medical condition.
I will be walking from Oshawa to highway #115 to to highway #7, and taking that
pretty much all the way to Ottawa. I will be wearing a placard that reads
“walking to serve the Highlanders—Kosanyi.com.
So hopefully I might gain some new readers!
I know.
I’m fracking crazy.
Anyway Dear Readers, have a great couple of
weeks. Please keep me in your thoughts as I trek across the Canadian Shield.
I’ll need all your best wishes. And I
wish all the best to you.
Sincerely,
Ern
August 27th, 2006
Well Dear Readers, I was disqualified from
serving with the esteemed 48th Highlanders by failing the “Medical.” The last of the four tests. I passed or bypassed the 1st
three. But now, because I use an
inhaler, its all over. So I guess
that’s it. Eight months of working toward a career has been snuffed out. Or is
it? I have no angry words tonight. Nothing profound to think of. I have only stillness. Which doesn’t make
for a good rant.
So have a great week Dear Readers. And if any of you face any major endings in
your life, please share your thoughts. I’ve endured three in the past year and
a half.
August 11, 2006
Tonight I have a guest Rant
for you. I hope you enjoy it and have a
great week…
Sincerely,
Ern
My Guest Writer writes…
War—let’s
get it right!
In
olden times leaders were expected to
lead their soldiers into battle. After all they were leaders. So they did.
On
a white charger, resolute that God, justice and divine righteousness were on
their side, Kings would lead the first charge. The killing was up-front and
personal—and why not? If you are going to send subjects into battle, it only seems
reasonable that the leaders making these decisions are part of the action.
Kings
enjoyed war on a personal footing. They didn’t like getting hurt, of course,
but with God on one’s side how could you lose?
As
time went on Kings did get hurt, and
even killed. Not good! Was God paying attention?
Warlords
needed a different plan. Consequently we don’t do war that way any more.
Instead
of Kings we now have elected leaders called politicians—older men, wise men.
With war becoming ever more devious and dangerous the style had to change.
Young men are expected to do all the fighting. After all, aren’t young men the
only ones fit enough to engage in this dangerous work? But wait, there’s more.
When a war is deemed important enough, political leaders can even
conscript—enact laws that require
young men to fight their battles. They even have a nicer name for it: patriotic duty.
Ask
yourself: when a self-important politician goes before the cameras to expound on
the glory of our troops, what is really going on inside that devious brain?
Given the scant regard he has for the rest of us I shudder to think. It didn’t
take politicians long to discover war could be profitable business when taken
at a distance.
Where
did it all go wrong? I say, bring back the old way.
Let
the old men that want war face-off with swords, spears and fresh batteries in
their pacemakers. Let them settle things in an open space—up front and
personal. Most sane folk agree: war is a sickness, not glory. If important old
men died of it first, war just might go away for good.
A
delicious fantasy, but I won’t hold my breath.
August 5, 2006
A Mid-Summer’s Holiday
Rant-Dream…
Which few of you Dear Readers will read, since
most of you will be away doing what I’m writing about.
There is, (like a “Seinfeld episode) no
inherent meaning to tonight’s rant. So
for those few of you Readers who are hoping for one, you may as well stop here
and go fire up the “Barbie.”
This is just a word picture, a collage, of how
I see the average Canadian Civic Holiday weekend…
Friday Night: The back door of the mini-van is
flung open in the driveway. Stressed-out Dad is trying to figure out how to
load everything, hoping his toddler pees before they leave for the
cottage/campground while envious neighbours who are going nowhere pray for rain
to wreck his weekend.
A kid on a bike races by, not caring about
this dad and this open-doored mini-van.
He just loves the locomotion and the speed of his life. All he knows is
that something’s gonna’ happen soon.
And that’s way too cool.
Mom packs the cooler in the kitchen. She hopes the ice won’t melt and drip
through the sandwich bags, and that her rebellious child won’t wreck the moment
that she has planned with her husband…the moment where he’ll let go of the
“office” and remember how she inspired him so long ago when all that mattered
was finding a moment alone together.
Two teenagers in love are stuck on the
shoulder of the #400, or the #69 or #115.
They kiss in the smoggy ravine and nothing of the rest of the weekend
matters.
“Hezbollah.” “Taliban.”
“Iraq.” “Middle-East.”
Most of us hear these words on the car radio
while we curse the madness of our stuckedness in traffic.
Meanwhile, although it is already Saturday
“over there,” three Canadian citizens whose lives are so dearly connected with
those above-mentioned words are travelling through a land that they once
dreamed would be exotic, adventurous and meaningful. Now they only wish that they could be going up to the cottage,
the way they used to. Then again, just
before their lives are extinguished by an “I.E.D.,” they know in their hearts
how much more human they have become since those carefree days. They’ve felt more joy, or more love, or more
pain, or more of any combination of those emotions, then they ever knew existed
when they were looking up at the cottage stars, hoping for romance to shine
down on them. Perhaps their last thoughts were of how wished they could let
their loved ones know just how much life means. That its not a poster.
Not a billboard.
A writer is writing into the dawn, wondering
if he is revealing to the world that he is certifiable, when deep down he knows
that he is writing only to himself, and it is only ego that leads him to
believe that his words will change anything for the better.
Saturday Morning: A new teenage mom who knows too much about the law, having looked
forward to this moment all week, has finally got her sore ass out of her
rust-bucket car seat. She savours the two-AM breeze on her cheek, the silence
of her baby, and the memory of how her life came to be this way. She is hit with the revelation that she is
not a loser, but just somebody whose weaknesses caused her to realize that with
this over-caffinated glory…she can begin to be strong, if only for the love of
the life that she created out of fear.
Another much older mother’s sweet dream is
turning into a waking nightmare. She’s alive with the romance of church
bells…chirping birds…innocent summer days.
Her first conscious thought is of her hand holding a soft pillow.
…Not the strong hard torso of the young lover
who conceived her son.
Then her heart explodes with the pain of
knowing that it is only her doorbell ringing at five in the morning. And it can only be, at that time of day, a
uniform coming to tell her that the last person on earth who breathes life into
her heart has been killed half a world away from her love. And still, even in
her waking nightmare, birds chirp merrily away, just as they did in her dreams.
The sound of the burning “sizzle” rewards the
Canuck at the end of the journey…Relaxes the beast into that five minutes of
bliss wherein she/he succumbs to the erotic awareness that in just a few
moments, succulent barbecued animal fat will grace the soul like no labelled,
measured, drive-thru-because-I-need-to-before-I-die meal can ever hope to
achieve.
For some of us, the moon holds new wonder. For
us late-comers, it is the dawn.
A police officer, weeks away from his wedding
to the girl of his dreams is called to a single-vehicle accident scene where he
finds the strewn body parts of two young people who drove into the oblivion of
lust and drugs. He thinks of how, just an hour ago, he was screaming at the
woman he loves because she wanted to exclude his drunken cousin from the guest
list. Now that carnage could so easily
be he and her, as he knows from the memories of their reckless love. It could
so easily be her severed hand looking like a meaningless bit of garbage on the
side of the road.
“I don’t care about anything in this life,
except to make you know how precious your love is to me.” He recites this line over and over in his
mind so that he won’t forget a word of it when he finally gets the chance to
call her after his job here is done.
A grandmother who has wondered for so many
years why God has kept her alive through all this suffering witnesses the
“blacksheep” daughter that she had disowned so many years ago give birth to a
granddaughter that she never imagined she’d have. The tiny tear of wonder on her daughter’s cheek that catches the
brilliance of dawn rays makes her feel ashamed that last night, having totally
forgotten the history of her life, she was thrilled about her plan to learn how
to use a microwave.
The call of loons breaks through the morning
mist just after a fisherman casts his line into the sunlit water of his
favourite cove. He loves to be
here. Back home, where God rewards him
with the peace of nature.
After all of the meaningless measures are
weighed, the beauty of God’s majesty rewards his love, as the silver sunlight
on the rippling water gently shows him that he has caught a life beyond his
dreams.
I’ll leave the rest of this weekend up to you,
Dear Readers. And I just hope we all
make it a good one, no matter whether or not it fits our clichés.
Sincerely,
Ern
July 14, 2006
OH boy, I am so out of writing shape. But I can’t let another week pass without
ranting about something, lest I lose my soul to a downward spiral of partying.
So what to complain about this week?
Well, one of you Dear readers taunted me with an e-mail concerning a
right wing view of “gun-laws” by saying something like, “no need to respond,
Ern, you’re hopeless on this one.”
I soooo wanted to re-visit the “gun” issue
again! Your e-mail quoted an AP news report about how gun crimes in Florida and
other states had gone down since gun laws were relaxed and it mentioned how
Florida Governor Jeb Bush said that, in part, it had to do with law-abiding
citizens being able to own guns (to defend themselves and scare bad guys enough
to not try to use their own guns—at least that was the implication.)
I soooo wanted to take the bait and reply that
anybody named “Jeb” can’t be taken seriously, any more than anybody named
“Ernie” can be. And I wanted to mention
that, as in Toronto, violent crime has dropped in Florida (and probably other
Stares as well,) for the simple reason that the population of Florida has grown
older. And old people are simply less
violent than young people. But most of
all, I sooo wanted to say that I agree.
Gun-laws, in the long term, are useless. Because, as I mentioned in a previous rant, as long as guns
exist, and Mr. or Mrs. Joe or Jane Q. Public can get a hold of them, legally or
illegally, people will get killed by people who have them. We simply must
eradicate guns from everywhere on earth aside from military armouries. (And there too, when human evolution gets to
that point.)
No guns means no need for gun laws. The simple lack of the existence of the gun
in the realm of public life equates to the only way in which to stop people
from being killed by people with guns.
So the title of my rant
tonight is “I sooooo wanted to take the bait and respond to that taunt, and
write about “guns” once again.” But I won’t write about that. Please, Dear Readers, forget everything you
just read, because I’m really sick of talking about such an over-talked about
issue.
Except for one thing…It may sound strange that
I have such an “anti-gun” attitude, considering the fact that I have spent the
last seven months attempting to become an officer in an infantry battalion of
the Canadian Army. (Definition of
“Infantry”—to seek out and kill the enemy—[generally, with guns.]) So let me just clarify this point. If I am
ever forced into a position where I must use a gun to kill somebody, I will at
least have the comfort of knowing that tens of millions of my fellow Canadian
citizens have debated, thought about, and carefully considered whether or not I
should face down this person with my gun.
The collective soul of my entire country will have weighed the ethics of
my predicament. And they will have carefully decided, via the disciplined
avenue of governmental procedure, that I have no other choice than to kill this
fellow human being who languishes in my gun-sight. He will only have my cross-hairs lined up on his life because
every other diplomatic effort to convince this precious person’s soul not to
kill people has failed. And so the only
way to preserve humanity is for me to kill him.
All of this collective concentration of
morality will be compressed into my trigger-finger--As opposed to my
individual, undisciplined thought that might briefly, passionately, explode
with a stupid anger that screams…”Oh this fracking A-hole has to go! Where the
frack is my gun?”
But anyway…I’m not going to take the bait and
talk about guns again. I’ve bored too
many of you Dear readers with my correct yet humble opinion about that. Instead, tonight I’ll talk about Global
Warming. According to an “expert” I
heard on the always supremely excellent “As it Happens,” we don’t need to worry
about it anymore. We don’t need to try
to stop it. Because it’s too late! It’s here, it’s staying, and, because we
didn’t address it years ago, there’s nothing we can do to reverse it.
Cool, eh?
We can have our cake and eat it too!
Because this geological tragedy won’t affect us. It won’t even affect our grandchildren! As for our great-grand children? Well that’s too much of an abstract concept
for most of us to get emotional about.
In the meantime, we can pollute the Earth with utter abandon, because
it’s too late to do anything about it anyway!
Which leads me to what I really want to rant
about. Which is the fact that since the
average human lives for a millisecond in the great scale of time, we can’t
grasp great concepts without scientific education. We think of “zebra-mussels” as a passing inconvenience as opposed
to a signal of a world of hate that brews in the future of our descendants. But,
as the Canadian astronaut, Roberta Bondar just pointed out on “A.I.H.,” we
don’t simply have to reach out into space because our planet is being destroyed
by us, we have to reach out and explore the universe because our sun is
half-way through its life span. And
when it explodes into a super-nova five billion years from now, we had better
have used our knowledge to get the frack off this rock before it gets
vaporized.
Anyway…I spent so much time not telling you
all that I wasn’t going to talk about what I didn’t want to talk about that I’m
too exhausted to go further into what I did want to rant about--Our human
short-sightedness. So I hope you all
have a great week complaining about gas prices and hoping that the weekend is
sunny for the beach. And I hope that
deep deep down we all take a moment to look into the future and seriously ask
ourselves…
“Am I doing right by my fellow man, and by the
great green Earth that God gave us to live on, whereupon we might bask in so
much comfort as to allow us the luxury to ask such questions?”
Sincerely,
Ern
June 24, 2006,
Last week I promised to respond to the Andy
Rooney rant that I e-mailed to you all. This week I’ve changed my mind. I don’t
care about that rant anymore since I’ve had a big week since then. I completed
my last test,”the medical,” in my quest to become an officer in the Canadian
Army. This past week I’ve peed in a cup, given away two vials of blood, had my
chest x-rayed, touched my toes, pushed against hands, turned my head and
coughed, listened to ringing tones in my ears and, among other strange acts,
had electrodes taped on my hairy chest. But most importantly, I managed to
allow my doctor to hear a smoke-free, wheeze-free pair of lungs. It is important for the army to know that I
won’t have a debilitating asthma attack in the heat of battle, so this was a
huge obstacle for me to overcome.
All my tests are finally complete. In a month or so, I will know if I “passed”
this final one.
Aside from all that, I had a heavy workweek
and a great play-day at an “amusement” park. All in all, so much has happened
this week that I just can’t wrap my brain around any particular pattern of
logical thought.
Twenty-five hours have passed since that last
sentence. This time yesterday morning I
literally fell out of my chair because I had fallen asleep while trying to
think of something to write about. (Not because I was drunk, but because I was
working until three in the morning.) Tonight I worked ‘till four and now the
birds are chirping. And I still haven’t
thought of anything to write about.
Because the title of tonight’s (really--this morning’s) rant is, its just all too much.
First, there is the sky. I rode twenty-four stories up in the open air
on an amusement park ride to see a panorama of the earth that was as awesome as
was the thrill of dropping back down to earth in a second. That evening, the sun set in spectacular
fashion, painting a picture out of sunrays and clouds that created the illusion
of an island of trees resting on a peaceful lake. And I’m telling you, if you have ever looked out on a calm lake
at an island in the early evening, and witnessed the reverse reflection of the
trees shading the water, and the sunlight reflecting off the ripples, that is
exactly what was painted in the sky over Durham Region at around nine pm this
Thursday evening.
Second, there is all of what I mentioned at
the beginning of this entry, having my body probed and tested, bled and
interrogated.
And third, well, that’s too personal to share
with the world, Dear Readers. I hate to say that.
I feel caught between the rock and the hard place. Because to express
myself in this regard, I would invade somebody else’s privacy.
And that leads me to a whole new train of
thought. Why do I write these rants,
and then share them with you Dear Readers?
I wanted to write about something political or ideological this week. As
in responding to Andy Rooney’s rant from last week. I wanted to do that in order to entertain you. To inspire debate. To get responses. But that wasn’t in my heart.
So I guess I have to face the fact that I
write these rants simply to express whatever I want to say. Whatever I say here is raw, unedited, me.
Selfish free thought, shared with all of you. And if I start worrying about
whether or not I am writing something profound, or something that “makes you
think” or that makes me sound smart, then I am robbing all of us of the truth.
And the truth is that I come here to be myself. Because, as an old friend of
mine once said, “How can I know what I think until I’ve said it?”
So why do I share these rants with the
world? Because I’m an egomaniac? Maybe.
Or maybe I feel I’m at my best when I can communicate freely, and to
bond with someone enough to understand that my opinions and yours aren’t the
important things in life. The important
thing is that we are communicating.
So I wish you all a great first full week of
summer. I wish that we all could lie on a beach or a chez lounge, next to somebody
else, and spew out our thoughts and our “feelings.” Just because it reminds us
of who we are.
June 9, 2006
So the world’s second most infamous terrorist
is dead. Zarqawi is gone. And in other news, 17 Canadian citizens were thwarted
from beheading our Prime Minister and blowing up buildings when they were
arrested. “Canadian terrorists.” For foreign readers, or readers too young to
remember the FLQ, let that bizarre phrase wash over your psyche…”Canadian
Terrorists.”
Somewhere in here there must be a rant.
Of course, on a more mundane note, when
Toronto’s transit workers staged a one-day wildcat strike, without warning and without their union’s
consent, they were STILL PAID FOR THAT DAY!
Oh…and apparently, according to CBC’s “As it
Happens,” (and the title of my rant tonight,) dolphins talk to each other by name…
“Hey, CHIK-CHO-P-GINZZZ, is the sun out
top-side?”
“Shore is, GIK-BO-NIBB-MOFFooo! C’mon up and
show your fins. There’s some of those
hot-legged tourists up here!”
If dolphins call out to each other by name,
the way we do, then do they also love and hate each other the way we do? If
they do, how do they do it without having arms and hands to embrace each
other…or to kill each other?
Dolphins…Humans…Hmmm…Before I go on, let me
assure you Dear Readers that I am not under the influence of any hallucinogenic
drugs right now. (Just my usual ”rant rum.”)
I just feel like pushing the envelope of ”sense and sensibility” just to
see what happens.
Let’s get back to humans. I’m going to forget our home-grown Canadian
terrorists for the moment since they were obviously a bunch of amateurs, both
in skill and in ideology. Their story
only made it out of this country, all the way to the American CNN, because this
was the first indication that the peace-keeping, “little-old-never-hurt-a-flea”
Canada, could actually be hit by its own “9-11.” And this is due to the fact that we Canadians took a stand by
deciding not to send “peace-keepers” to bar the way between two warring idiots,
(the way we normally have done since the end of the easy-to-know-the-bad-guy
“World Wars.”)
This time around, our former Liberal Prime
Minister declared to an enemy force that we are sending soldiers to hunt you
down and kill you. And our current PM is upholding that declaration. So,
naturally, some of us are going to be killed in retaliation. That’s the way it
is. You kill us because you’re fracked. We kill you because you fracking guys
killed us. You kill us to even the
score and on and on it goes.
Like the USA, we Canadians have declared war
on an enemy, and we are acting accordingly. So, unlike dolphins, who only have
flippers to flap at each other, we have sent people with four fingers and an
opposing digit half way around the world to use those digits to fire deadly weapons
at other people who have the same flexible appendages.
That’s it, folks. That’s all that it comes down to. Hmmm…
If we were all paraplegics, like dolphins, how
would we fight wars? If we all were
grey, like them, how would we know friend from foe? If all our “territory” was
just a shifting mass of water, how would we create borders? Would we even
imagine such a concept as “yours and mine?”
If we intelligent humans, like those
intelligent dolphins, had only water and imagination in our universe, what
would we do with our hatred for one and other?
This is simply food for thought, floating down
into the fish tank. Thoughts from future 2nd Lieutenant Ernie
Kosanyi, Service # F76 63…(classified) who has sworn to kill whatever enemies
his government has ordered him to kill.
I hope you all have a good week ahead,
imagining the freedom of knowing how easily it could be to restrain your hatred
for your enemies because they have no more ability to hurt you than we have to
hurt them.
Sincerely,
Ern
June 3, 2006
Hey Dear Readers, I apologize again this week for having an
unexpected life last night. Just got
home now so I will quickly provide a rant based on an e-ail that I received
this week.
The title of my rant tonight, Core Values, is my response to this e-mail. Here below is the text of that e-mail,
followed by my rant about it.
Not
long ago our country, led by bad news, betrayed our soldiers. We lost political
will and we lost the war. How quickly we forget.
For the last three months, Army Maj. Gen. Eldon Bargewell has probed the
alleged killings of 24 unarmed civilians by U.S. Marines in the Iraqi town of
Haditha on Nov. 19. He has focused on three areas: 1) the actions of the
soldiers involved in the incident, 2) the accuracy of the information they
communicated to their superiors, and 3) whether senior Marine commanders were
derelict in monitoring their subordinates.
In light of the pending release of the investigation results, top military
brass is preparing the public for bad news.
The leading U.S. General in Iraq, Army Gen. George Casey, announced Thursday
morning that commanders will be required to conduct "core values
training" of all coalition soldiers, focusing on moral standards on the
battlefield.
We might think the bad news the Pentagon fears is the revelation of criminal
battle rage of a group of men in uniform. Wrong. They are preparing the public
for bad news reporting, the kind that leads public opinion to betray the
very men and women who risk their lives for ours.
Bad news reporting is telling stories out of context and proportion. It is
highlighting the exceptional, while ignoring the routine. It is
sensationalizing the solemn and serious.
Another military spokesman, Lt. Gen. Peter Chiarelli, explained the purpose of
the new "ethics program" by saying, ”As military professionals, it
is important that we take time to reflect on the values that separate us from
our enemies."
I’ve got a feeling Gen. Chiarelli knows our soldiers need no such reminder.
Every homicide bomber in an open market does the trick.
Perhaps he was speaking to the press for the sake of the press, offering them
an ethics course, of sort, while camouflaging his suggestions behind humble
admission of military fault. Here’s my translation of his politically correct
public relations discourse:
"Don’t take the bait, mass media. The deplorable actions of a few men
are not representative of our military. Our soldiers, in contrast to the enemy,
know the difference between right and wrong. In fact, it’s part of their
training.
Sometimes they mess up. That’s war. It’s never clean. It's always messy, and in
the throes of passion the best and the worst of humanity come to light. When we
make a decision to go to war, we decide something is so good and beautiful it
is worth a hell of a lot of evil, including our own imperfect humanity. When
our soldiers commit crimes on the battlefield, we punish them. Every time we
do, you should thank God we live in a system where war crimes are recognized as
reprehensible.
If you are going to drag into the public eye the irresponsible acts of a few,
mustn't you also spend a proportional amount of time praising the heroism and
self-sacrifice of the majority?"
The announcement of "ethics training" for our troops is not an
admission of widespread problems. It is eating of humble pie as part of a
strategy not to lose another war on the account of manipulated public opinion.
The press plays an important role in Iraq. We are to commend them for
uncovering criminal behavior, even when it threatens morale. But we must also
hold them to the same standard of professional ethics we require of our
soldiers. That includes the simplest of principles like, "Don’t bash the
innocent." Our good men and women in uniform will be forever grateful.
History shows we can handle a whole lot of bad news, but very little bad news
reporting.
God bless, Father Jonathan”
My response to that e-mail…Sometimes
they mess up. That’s war. It’s never clean. It's always messy, and in the
throes of passion the best and the worst of humanity come to light. When we
make a decision to go to war, we decide something is so good and beautiful it
is worth a hell of a lot of evil, including our own imperfect humanity. When
our soldiers commit crimes on the battlefield, we punish them. Every time we
do, you should thank God we live in a system where war crimes are recognized as
reprehensible."
Well, my Dear Friend...It is precisely the job of the mass media to "take the bait" when crimes like this are discovered. Because they (the investigative journalists) did their job well, while putting themselves in harm's way to show the parents of your kids ALL of what goes on in their lives, as opposed to the simple "propaganda" line. Thanks to technology, freedom, and the American way, your average parent can know in "real time" that Johnny, (or Jane,) while fighting to liberate a foreign country, got so pissed off at the fact that his/her best friend's head got blown off, that he took it upon himself to machine gun a few of their babies. And, because those journalists did their job so well, your president appeared on international "mass media" to acknowledge the fact that a few American soldiers might have committed an act of mass murder. And, that if they did, they would be punished for it.
The
"mass media," thanks to your country's desire for freedom of speech,
allows every American to decide, in his own cynical, naive, misguided or
studied opinion, to decide for him/herself, whether or not their kids or their
mothers or their fathers should fight for their country. If most of you
say "yes," then the guy who agrees with you will be elected to be
your president, thanks to the media that you free citizens decide to watch,
read and listen to.
Because what makes
America a great country is its democratic desire to allow any voice to be
heard. That is why news people can uncover and reveal a story even if it
might make America look bad, because it shows the world that it won't stoop to
the level of its enemies. America won't tolerate its soldiers
committing "...crimes on the battlefield." And every time it
happens, you should thank the mass media for discovering them and
bringing them to the attention of the world, if only to give Americans a chance
to say that "this is not America. This is not how we operate. We are
a country founded by people who had a burning desire to escape the oppression
of judgment. So those few Americans who might have acted on revenge will
be punished if we find that that is what they did, though we will not judge
them until a jury of their peers has heard all the facts."
Just as the following
statement..."we decide something is so good and beautiful it is worth
a hell of a lot of evil, including our own imperfect humanity." can
be read and judged by any free citizen of this earth. Because a free country
like yours can allow this statement to be spread around the world so that I, a
free person, born in a country with similar ideas, can say
"No! Nothing is so beautiful, or worth that much evil that I
can forgive my imperfect humanity to degrade the value of the morality for
which I fight to protect."
And, thanks to your
nation's value of the freedom of speech, I, thanks to my own nation's same
values, can answer to your author's quote... "Sometimes they
mess up. That’s war. It’s never clean. It's always messy, and in the throes of
passion the best and the worst of humanity come to light."
It is the precisely the
task of the American media to show the American public that
fact. And if the majority of Americans feel that their country
should allow some non-Americans to be murdered due to the
"uncleanliness of war," then they will have come to that conclusion
thanks to the American values of free speech that allows the newspeople to show
them those facts.
The "mass media"
has a collective American heart, (thanks to its never-ending pursuit of gaining
popularity amongst the people--and their money--who's values rule its
country, that makes America strong.) So, for every touch of hairspray
that is shot on a handsome anchor's doo, and for every dollar of advertising
that CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX, Michael Moore, and every other American
media Mole receives, a skilled journalist (or a biased and unskilled
journalist) is paid big bucks to uncover the truth (as he-she sees it)
that the majority of Americans want to know.
I'm pretty confident in my
opinion that the majority of Americans want to know that American troops take
orders from their superiors without question. They want to know that the
tax dollars that they give to their government will go to prove, among other
things, that American troops are disciplined warriors who won't let their
emotions get the better of them, and cause them to mow down innocent
civilians just because they have the strength to act on their primitive
motive of revenge.
Because the majority of
Americans will go to great, glitzy, profit-oriented lengths to prove that they
are fair, thoughtful people, who are willing to admit that some of their own
citizens can stoop to the levels of their enemy. Thanks to the left wing
CNN, the right wing FOX News, Michael Moore, Rush Limbaugh, and all
the other free capitalist voices that Americans pay money to listen to, all of
those free, biased opinions are allowed to collide. To create controversy
and debate and campfire discussions amongst friends who can feel free to
disagree without fear of one turning against the other.
This freedom allows us to
debate about a statement from this same freely distributed E-mail...
"If you are going
to drag into the public eye the irresponsible acts of a few, mustn't you also
spend a proportional amount of time praising the heroism and self-sacrifice of
the majority?" The announcement of "ethics training" for
our troops is not an admission of widespread problems. It is eating of humble
pie as part of a strategy not to lose another war on the account of manipulated
public opinion..."
Thanks to the American
philosophy of "freedom," there exists a nation that created
"mass media" that allows three-hundred and some odd million of the
most powerful people on earth to come together and say..."Although I could
blow you off the face of this planet because you are wrong, (in my humble
opinion), I won't."
"I won' t destroy
you because my descendants came here to get away from the very same
religions and politicians who had threatened to kill us for not thinking
the way that they do. And we realize that fear is what motivated them to
kill us. Not the few misguided souls in our camp that killed some of you.
Even though our descendant's enemies had power on their side, it was
only the fear that we might be wrong, that we might not know all of the
answers, that motivated you to kill us."
"Ergo, even though we
have the power now, we won't allow our fears to kill you, just in case we
might be wrong. That's what makes us proud and free. And any other
way is just downright un-American."
I hope you all have a great week ahead, and
don’t do anything that your enemies would do.
Ern
May 27, 2006
Hey Dear Readers, my rant was all messed up
last tonight because of a three hour phone-call. After the call, and after I had written a brilliant page of
brilliant thoughts, (in my humble, yet correct opinion,) I accidentally erased
tonight’s rant. So now I have to start from scratch!
I’ll get back to you before the end of the
weekend. Let me just say that my rant will be about how I passed my third test
to join the 48th Highlanders.
And if any of you want a favour, well, just call me.
Ern
Okay…May 28, 2006…”If any of you want a
favour?” What the frack was that all
about? Oh yeah…After I pass the
“Medical”—the last test—on June 15th, my new boss will be the Queen
of England. So if any of you need anything, call me. I’ll call Her Majesty.
Maybe her and I will do lunch at the old Windsor shack to discuss your
needs. Apparently she pulls a little
weight in this world.
Now, my third test was “The interview.” Before I get into it, let me title my rant
tonight, Tidbits
of Canadian Military History. Anyway, after an hour of
questioning by a Canadian Army officer, I was deemed to be “suitable officer
material.” This was the first test that
I passed with ease, though not without a few errors. And, although he did say that the paper questions that I answered
were covered by the “Privacy Act,” this officer never told me that this
interview (unlike the “Aptitude test) was classified. So I’m free to tell You Dear Readers some details. I’ll try not to bore you with all the boring
stuff. But I hope you are entertained
by two questions that I failed to answer correctly.
The first question was “What is the role of
the infantry?” I hadn’t anticipated
this question. So I answered with a
long-winded explanation based on everything I had read about, seen in movies,
and, most recently, in the news, as I recalled how the “48th” was
called upon to shovel Toronto out of a blanket of snow a few years ago. (much
to the embarrassment of our mayor and Torontonians—who were laughed at for
calling in the army to deal with a bad snowfall!)
And this officer replied with the correct
answer in a soft pleasant voice, just as your family doctor would describe how
an antibiotic works to your toddler, “The role of the infantry is simply to
attack and kill the enemy.” (I guess that means—even if the enemy is snow.)
The second question was “In order of
importance, how would these three rate? Your subordinates. (the people under my
command,) The mission. And yourself?”
Well, I knew my own personal safety rated last. But I wasn’t sure about
the other two. “The mission” of course, is our purpose for being there. On the other hand, my troops are fathers and
mothers and I’ve seen and read about (and written about) so many times in
history where generals sitting in easy-chairs have passed ridiculous orders to
officers to charge objectives that were impossible to take under the
circumstances at the time. “Gallipoli”
for example. But no. I was wrong. My subordinates are subordinate to the mission. “The mission” is more important
than the troops under my command. It is the most important of those three
aspects of a combat unit.
But of course, when you think about it, it
makes sense. Since all of us who join
up do so with the understanding that we are willing to risk our lives for the
goals of our country, it will be understandable to my troops that I should
order them to perform a task that might cause their death. I witnessed an
example of this many years ago at a local airshow. I asked a Canadian Fighter pilot, who flew an obsolete F-5, “If
you were ordered into combat against three Mig-29’s (Russia’s most modern
fighter aircraft,) what would you do?”
He replied, “I would execute my mission.” His answer was absolutely self confident,
even though he knew that such an order would almost surely result in his own
destruction and probable death.
On such a high with the inspiration of my
question, and the candour of the answer that I received, I went on to another
site, to ask an even bolder question. I
came across an American F-117 Stealth fighter sitting on the tarmac. This thing, with its radar-defying sharp
angles and matt-black radar-absorbing paint, looks like something out of a Star
Wars movie. The aircraft was
ultra-secret (back in the early nineties) and roped off like a Ferrari at an
auto show where the floor was shared with Chevies and Fords. A really mean looking U.S. soldier who was
armed with an M-16 machine gun slung around his shoulder guarded it.
I asked him, “If I were to jump this rope and
run toward that plane, would you actually shoot me dead?” He looked at me with a playful smile the way
omnipotent Americans can do and said something like, “I guess you’d have to hop
over to find out.” I chuckled with a nervous display of bravado, knowing that
he was saying, with confident, pleasant American diplomacy…”Yes I would.”
But I digress. In the end, my “interviewer” had one criticism of my hour-long
interview. I need to do more research
about what an officer candidate should know about the Canadian military. I think this was because of two
factors. First of all, I’m an “artsy”
who may have confused him by talking about “writing’ and “stage-plays” to use
as examples to demonstrate why I should be thought of as a warrior. And second,
I didn’t research for this interview because I’ve read, watched and thought so
much about military life for so much of my life that I stupidly believed that I
already knew all that I need to know.
And he was justified in his criticism, because I don’t know much about
what I will need to know about in terms of my basic training, my officer
training, or my requirements as an officer in the Canadian Army.
For example, I still haven’t memorized my
“Service number.” Except that it begins with an “F.” As in, “now you are
totally Fracked.”
I just relied on the things I know about the
Canadian Military. For example…
1: I
will start my career with the rank of Second Lieutenant. “Loo-tenant” in the
Canadian army (and all “British Commonwealth” armies) is pronounced,
“Lef-Tenant.”
2: The
Canadian forces proved their mettle, and their value at the battle of Vimy
Ridge (which the 48th Highlanders fought in,) during the First World
War. This was a huge and decisive battle for the allied forces. “Vimy” was a “Ridge” of high ground,
strategically important for its “high” observation points. Staunchly defended
by its German occupiers, this Ridge proved to be too heavily defended for a
huge British force to take. The same defeat was suffered by a similar French
army. Finally the task of taking the ridge was given to the Canadian Army. Nobody expected the much-smaller Canadian
army to succeed in taking this objective. Because her army had never been
tested in such a way before. Hell, the entire country was only fifty years old
at the time. Its military commanders were fresh out of either the bush, cutting
trees, or out of the business world.
But those Canadian officers lobbied hard for
the chance to give Vimy Ridge their best shot, until they won their case. When
they finally won it, they studied it. They looked at why previous armies failed
and, with ingenuity and careful study, planned a whole new method of attack
that reflected a new country’s approach to overcoming an obstacle. Those officers didn’t elect to “rush the
hill.” The way previous armies did. First
they studied it. Then they scared its
defenders by sending small teams of armed reconnaissance to both learn about
its defenders, and scare them into a lack of confidence by showing those
defenders how they could be killed in daring midnight forays. And with the intelligence that those “recon”
teams provided, the officers devised plans of attack that were realistic, based
on the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. And those same officers offered some
entirely new tactics to warfare probably because they were new to the game and
therefore had no idea that they were supposed to not have any idea what they
were doing.
So they came up with the idea of
“synchronizing watches,’ which has now become a cliché in war movies. They instructed the big guns of the artillery
to match the advance of the infantry that would make the attack. (The Canadian
artillery barrage of that battle was the most explosive, intense firing of
large calibre projectiles in the history of warfare at that time,). That way, the infantry would advance on the
ridge just behind the covering fire of the big artillery shells that would blow
the earth into the air just ahead of them.
And, probably unlike any other example in the
history of warfare, the commanders made their officers aware of every aspect of
the plan. They instructed those
officers to make their soldiers aware of the plan. That way everybody from Generals to grunts would have a unity of
purpose and a trust in each other. The
foot soldier knew that he was an important part of an historical event, and not
simply “cannon fodder” which fuelled his morale and gave him fighting
spirit. But more importantly, a young
private could take charge and execute the mission in the event that his
superior officer was killed. Because he
knew what the generals knew.
You know what…I’m cutting off this rant early.
I could go on for pages. But suffice to
say that the Canadian Army took Vimy, and revolutionized the techniques of
combat at the same time.
So this is it, because I really want to post
it tonight rather than risk losing you Dear Readers because of my lack of
discipline. I hope you all have a great week, working and playing hard and
furious. Accomplish a mission, and reap
its rewards.
Ern
May 19, 2006
I should probably record this date on my
calendar. And some of you right-wingers
might want to record this date as well, in case you might want to use this day
against me at some future point when I’m sounding like a “Commie-Pinko.” Because on this day (the title of my rant tonight) I find myself in agreement with George W. Bush.
That’s right folks. G.W.B. has admitted on CNN
that illegal immigration is a fact. And
that that fact is a fact that aids America.
Illegal immigrants from Mexico risk their
lives to sneak through the desert in the middle of the night in order to work
hard days for below minimum wage in order to follow their dreams of a better
life. They fight their way to get
their, just as the founders of that great nation fought to get there for the
same reasons. The basic human instinct
that drives people to get to America (or Canada, or any number of great
countries like ours) is the simple hope for a better life. In return, America’s economy benefits from
the flood of low-paid “under-the-table” labour.
My own father was an illegal immigrant.
(Actually he was an illegal “emigrant.” Then he was a legal immigrant. And then…Well, the rest of the story is
classified!) And if he didn’t risk his
life in so many ways, back before the Hungarian Revolution, in order to find a
country that rewarded ambition, I wouldn’t be here today, writing these
words. And a major world corporation
wouldn’t be as profitable today if it wasn’t for the company that he founded
along with his Canadian partner so many years ago.
So here is my spin on immigration. Immigration is “Darwinian.” Darwin’s theory that proposes that the
strongest species survive applies to nations as well as species. The inhabitants of weaker nations naturally
flock to the stronger ones. The only
fly-in-the-ointment of this perfectly natural evolution is ego. Because the collective minds of the
“stronger” nations naturally feel that they have the key to success. Therefore, immigrants from the poorer
nations must therefore be of inferior quality. So the strong “1st World”
always guards itself from allowing two much of the weaker “3rd
World” from crossing its borders.
And yet, as so many Commie-Pinko-Rock-Stars
and professors have said with their hippy, drug-induced wisdom, we are “One
world. One People.” We are a “global village” of religions,
ideologies, races, colours, sexes and sexual preferences. So sooner or later evolution will prevail,
and there will be no borders. No
political borders of any kind, in any of the categories that I just mentioned,
as well as all of those that I haven’t even thought of. Sooner or later, we humans will all live
hand-in-hand, while respecting our different individualities, or we will die
out as one single race, by failing in our attempt to reach that goal.
Either the “id” will save us, or the “ego”
will destroy us.
If we live long enough to see the day, our
descendants will read about the extinct words “immigration” and “border” in
their history lessons. And if they
don’t, they will never exist. Because
this planet will be rid of us long before they would have been born from a love
that is free of the fear and hatred that is born of ego.
Just to bookend this rant with another
American President from back in the early nineteen sixties (just before I was born)…and
I’m going from the memory of J.F.K.’s perfect German…
”Ein ich bin Berliner.”
(Students of history…or German speakers,
please feel free to correct any spelling mistakes here.)
I hope that I practice what I preach this
week. And that you all join me by
looking out at what God’s great green earth wants to give us if only we don’t
ask for what we want to get from it.
Ern
P.S. I’d like to thank “Fawzi” for inspiring
this rant tonight, for what he had to go through today, just to make an honest
dime!
P.S. Again. Speaking of Darwin, remember all
the millions of soldiers that saved this world from Nazi Dictatorship. The strongest survived. The strongest also died so that we might
live today. And so many of those strong
soldiers smoked that cigarettes were naturally included in their
“rations.” Food. Alcohol. Tobacco. These were natural commodities that were
absolute necessities to the warriors who insured our freedom. These three “food groups” were the fuel of
the strong and the brave. So any of you
out there who are letting yourselves believe that you are weak to give up the
tobacco part of the equation, please don’t be a quitter, like me. Don’t feel that you are being “weak” or
“being a pussy” by inhaling that rush of inspiration.
You are the last of the true warriors!
May 12, 2006
Top’O the mornin’ to you Dear Readers! I’m cheating a little tonight because I
actually wrote this rant days ago, in response to one of your e-mails. By the time I had finished my reply, I
realized that I had written my Friday Night Rant. Before I go on, however, let me also mention that I have another
Guest Rant. And yes it is the “Part
Two,” of last week’s Guest Rant. You
will find it directly beneath my own.
Now, I don’t want to overwhelm you Dear Readers, by making you feel
obliged to read “multiple rants,” or cause you to become all confused and
disoriented. Nor do I want to lose my
own readers by causing some of you to pick and choose which rant you’ll read,
for I must face the fact that some of you might choose “the other one,” rather
than getting bleary-eyed by reading both.
But what the hell…It’s my site and so at least
my rant will always appear first!
Ha-ha-ha!
So anyway, getting back to my rant. As I mentioned, it is a direct reply to an
e-mail that I received. It asked me to
boycott a particular Canadian “Gas Station” in order to force this oil company
to smarten up and lower it’s gas prices.
I don’t know if this happens in the USA and other countries. But I have received similar Emails over the
years. They used to ask us to boycott
by refusing to buy gas from any gas station on a
given day, based on the idea that the oil companies would, without warning,
suffer a one-day loss in the billions of dollars. And I went along with it one or twice, only to get pissed off
every time I passed a gas station on that day to find it full of “gas shoppers”
who refused to join the protest!
And now this new idea comes along. Simply boycott one particular company for as
long as it takes. With all due respect
to the Dear Reader who sent me the missile that inspired my ramblings, the
title of my rant tonight is…JUST BUY LESS FRACKING APPLES!
So here is my reply to the Email that begged
me not to buy gas from this particular company…
“…Unfortunately, I must say
that this can't work. If we all choose to buy our gas from other
companies, we will simply make those companies richer, and the other companies
poorer. The best we could accomplish is to start a price war that might
last for a few days until all the companies realize that we are all still
buying the same amount of gas. As long as we drive our cars, and live our
lives the way we do, the average price of a litre of gas, worldwide, is going
to hover around a buck and a quarter a litre for now. As we drive more,
we will pay more. The oil execs know this. And I'm sure that
they laugh at these e-mail protests. Imagine if (name of company deleted) suddenly panicked, and lowered their
prices to sixty cent's a litre? While (name of other company
deleted…based on my imaginary lawyer’s advice…although it
rhymes…coincidentally, with “Hell”) stayed at a dollar? The price of a
barrel of oil wouldn't change. Because those who know how the world works
would know that people will still drive to work everyday. And those people will
have other people deliver their mail and their courier packages and their
pizzas. So (the company whose name rhymes with “retro”) would learn
within a matter of days that while line-ups at their gas stations went out onto
the road with people buying their "below-cost" gas, all the workers
at (that other company) could shut down their operations, reduce their energy
consumption (and other costs) to zero, and go play golf for as long as it took
for their competitor to either see the light or go bankrupt.
They know that this rock has
a finite amount of non-renewable energy, and that the more of it that we use
up, and the closer we come to finishing it off, the higher they will be able to
charge us for giving us the last of it.
Let me
make an analogy. Let's say that oil is...oh...say…apples. And that
(“Retro”) is the "apple farmer." But let us understand that
oil, unlike apples, can't be "re-grown" every year. So this
"apple farmer" understands that he, and all of the other apple
farmers, have so many apples on the farm. And when they are gone, they
are gone forever.
Now, this apple farmer has
two very simple choices.
1: He can charge a
"fair-market value," for his apples. In other words, he can take
his cost of growing his oil-apples, measure that against what he believes that
people will pay for those apples today, based on customer demand, and then make
a profit based on the difference. Or...
2: He can look to the
future. By that I mean this. He knows that there are are one hundred
billion, three-hundred and twenty seven million, five-hundred and sixty-seven
thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight apples remaining in his crop. And
once they are gone, they are gone forever. And all his competitors also have a
finite number of apples. Whether they have more or less than him makes
little difference, considering that one day, in the foreseeable future of his
grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, that no apples will be left anywhere in
the world.
Now, today, he knows that so
many millions of consumers need to buy his apples to "keep
the dentist away." However, he also knows that we will not be
willing to give up any less apples tomorrow than we will eat today. And
tomorrow, there will be that many more consumers, needing that many fewer
apples left in his crop. And the price for his apples will rise
accordingly.
So why shouldn't that farmer
get rich now? If he knows that we consumers will eventually be willing to
pay the price for those last few apples, why wait for his descendants to get
rich? As long as we don't change our minds about what we need, those who
provide it will know what we will pay to get it. Why not makes us pay for
it now? Because we'll have to pay that price sooner or later, right?
How much will the world's
last apple be worth? When will that last apple be picked? When it
comes to oil, we all know that that last drop will someday drip. And how
much will that last drop be worth to somebody who needs it to fill up to get to
work? If you owned that last drop, and you knew it, what would stop you
from charging that price right now?
It certainly isn't all the
other guys that own those last drops, because they all know what you
know.
The only thing that prevents
all the oil tycoons from charging the true value of the last drop of future oil
in today's world is the fear of us consumers not realizing how
much that that drop is really worth, based on how much we are consuming, versus
just how much this rock that we call Earth, has left to give.
So all we need to do to
reduce the price of a tank of gas is to decide that we don't need
that tank of gas. Buy less gas! Not from anybody in particular, or on any
given day. Simply use less gas. . Its economics one-o-one! The less
of it that we use up, the less it will cost!
How much will those apples
be worth if they're rotting away because nobody's buying them?
Now the last thing I want to do is to inspire debates about "SUV's" versus "compact" cars. Or taxes on gas, or tariffs on "softwood" lumber, for that matter. Because all those issues are short-sighted arguments that side-step the simple fact that this planet only has so much to give. And, along that same vein, I realize that oil prices fluctuate based on the world’s political stability. But even if the “Middle East” became “Paradise” and the oil fields of Russia and South America became just as stable, the inevitable fact would only be postponed. (God I wish I could go for a smoke right now…Oops! Was that out loud?)
That fact is that sooner or later there just won’t be any more oil. And the faster we use it up, like any commodity, the more we will have to pay to buy it. And the more of it that we buy today, the more we will pay for it tomorrow, and the more our children will pay for it in the future.
Moving currents of air and
water, rays of sunlight, (and some vegetable crops that also provide mechanical
energy,) are the only sources of renewable energy that we humans have to rely on
with any permanence to fuel our society, just as we rely on crops and
domesticated animals to fuel our bodies. So the sooner we learn to
shift our ways of thinking about how we can work with these energy sources, the
sooner we will learn to stop whining about energy prices. (And I’ll just add
that if we conserve long enough, maybe the human race will survive long enough
to gain the intelligence required to discover the secret of “perpetual
energy!”)
It's just that simple…”
I hope that I and all of you
Dear Readers conserve your energy this week.
Purchase what you need. Live the
way you need to. Smoke less. Drink less.
Eat less. Want less. Experience more health, physical spiritual
and mental.
But still…if I don’t talk to
you before then…Have a great, safe, fun, “May Two-Four!” And remember that old saying, “everything in
moderation…including moderation!”
Ern
And now, my Guest’s
Rant…Apologies to my Guest for any formatting errors, as this author uses a
different system than mine…One which happens to rhyme with
“tac.” Because, as I stated
in a previous rant about my “rules” for a guest rant, your rants are posted
here completely “unedited.” Oh…But
speaking of rules…One thing that has come to my attention is that you Dear Readers
should know that I forward your comments about my “Guest Rant” to the “Guest
Author,” unedited, just as if you are replying to my own rant. The only difference is that I will not
forward a reply that resorts to “name calling.” I will also not forward “replies” if the “guest author”
specifically asks me not to. (So far,
this has not occurred. But if it does,
I will let you Dear Readers know that your replies have not been forwarded for
that reason.) Also, both guest rants and guest replies will always be posted/forwarded
anonymously.
I don’t want to get
“political” here, except to say that I won’t make judgments on whether or not a
guest rant should be posted based on my own beliefs, nor will I refuse to
forward a reply to that rant for the same reason. In either case, anything goes aside from outright hateful
comments toward any person, race, religion etc. Because despite all my rules,
as I say on my homepage, all that I really want is for all of you to feel free
to “consider
this site as your home to say whatever, whenever, and however.”
So here it is…My guest rant…
“TRUTH‹Like Dogma, Always a
Purebred
(Mantra for
those contemplating Holy War)
Can there be more than one truth or is truth an absolute? Don¹t ask a lawyer.
It would be nice if all things were simple, but they are often not so
accommodating. Truth is a good example. In a court of law does truth reign
supreme? Is justice a right of law or simply another commodity you buy by the
pound?
The world of religion is the same thing. Shopping for truth starts here. Truth
actually has a catalogue. You can choose your truth from many varieties of
dogma each just as ardent as the other. The first things we notice are the
differences. God says this over here. God says that over there. Do this, but
not that‹do that, but not this. And on and on it goes. Sound confusing? Well it
would be, if it weren¹t for that miracle ingredient‹indoctrination.
Without added indoctrination religion would be a poor product indeed. The only
way to recognize absolute truth is to be born into it.
If you¹ve been paying attention so far, you should notice an obvious catch. No
one has any control over where they are born . . . although royalty always pat
themselves on the back for getting that one right. But if you¹re not royalty,
this kinda makes truth something of a crapshoot. Well not to worry,
indoctrination takes care of it.
The great thing about indoctrinated truth is that it is always the right
truth‹pure and unsullied by doubt. Asking the occasional question is only okay
if you ask the right person. Your religious leader is the best person to ask,
because he has the right answers. (Notice I said Œhe¹ and not Œshe¹.)
Always beware of parents. They often don¹t have the necessary knowledge to answer
questions properly. Many a young person has Œlost their way¹ through inadequate
explanations by parents who don¹t fully understand real truth, despite being
born into it themselves. If you want to know why this TV is better than all the
other TVs, do you ask your parents or the man who sells the TV?
Actually, it¹s probably best not to think about truth at all. The
godless are everywhere and sometimes masquerade as purveyors of truth. You can
always talk directly to God, of course, but this tends to be a one-way line.
People who say they get a direct reply are generally regarded with suspicion.
There¹s no doubt about it‹being a keeper of real truth is an awesome and
daunting responsibility.
Ever seen a military boot camp? Indoctrinated truth is like basic training for
the soul. Infidels are all those poor misguided fools who were born into the wrong
truth‹the enemy.
So what about all those infidels? Do you have a responsibility here too? Do you
try to convert them to the real truth, or just say ³To hell with them² and kill
them all? Religion has never been a popularity contest. It is not incumbent
upon you to be nice to all those wrong-thinking fools. You might give
them a chance out of charity, but if they doggedly persist in their misconceptions,
let them suffer the consequences. When the time is right, you¹ll know what to
do. Holy war is not a new concept. After all, they are going to hell anyway.
In the final analysis you are the lucky one. Despite the minefield of wrong
truths out there, you happened to be born into the only real truth. Amazing
odds when you think about it.
Be sure to thank God every day. There¹s nothing worse than some ungrateful
member of your religion who simply does not appreciate the fabulous gift of
real truth. Chide them. Set them back on the right path. Once they see how
right and righteous you are, they¹ll be on their knees quicker than you can say
³reaffirmation².
Oh, yes, I almost forgot . . . Tolerance. Don¹t worry about it. Only
wrong-headed infidels bother with this nonsense.
END OF PART TWO”
May 13, 2006
Why do people sleep if they don’t smoke? As
far as I can tell, based on what my body tells me, there is no need to waste a
third of our lives “rejuvenating” ourselves except to rid our lungs of smoke. Since I quit, my average sleep begins as the
sun rises. So I don’t want to waste
this sunrise on sleeping. And I promise
not to wash my car either. Because not
washing my car prevents the rain from falling.
You don’t believe me? See how hard the sky ties to rain this weekend,
here in Upper North America, where my car resides. Sure, it’ll be cloudy.
Might even spit a few tear drops when it can hide at night. But as long as I don’t wash my car, the
catastrophic rains won’t happen, as the forecasters predict they will. Just as if I don’t smoke, I know that my
soul won’t crave sleep.
So, rather than waste this full moon, I have
decided to forego sleep, and subject you Dear Readers to another rant, based on
a news item I watched this Saturday morning.
Simply titled…”Oh Yeah, and Another
thing!”
The Canadian Military has deployed thousands
of troops to fight the Taliban in Afghanistan.
As well as a few more to serve in Iraq.
Though that is not official and will be denied by our government. But the story is this. Somebody out there has decided to let some
pastor send our troops a survival guide to train them how be faithful to their
wives, girlfriends/boyfriends/husbands back home. It trains our troops how to “avert their eyes” when interacting
with attractive “opposite sex” troops or local civilians. How to reject lust
and so on and so forth. Well to that,
all I have to say is this…
If I have to rely on a spiritual “kit” to
remain faithful, just as I have to rely on my weapons kit to stay above ground,
then I have already proven to myself that I am unfaithful by the need for such
a crutch. If my love for somebody is so
weak that I need to be “trained” how to maintain it, I have already lost it,
and probably never had it in the first place.
And if the one that I love is
tempted by somebody “back home?” Well I’ll be thankful if she gives in to the
temptation of the truth, without being given the luxury of a military “kit” in
order to convince herself to be faithful to me. Because we will both be better off if we are aware of the truth
of our partnership, for better or worse, no matter how painful that truth might
be. Because the worst thing that truth can do to you, is to set you free.
May 5, 2000 and fracking 6!
Stay tuned for a guest rant tonight. In the meantime, my own rant is going to be
straight to the fracking point.
WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER BE A QUITTER! Now I know that some of you Dear Readers are
“quitters.” Some of you have
congratulated me for joining your club since last Friday. You’ve told me how great it is to be a
quitter. Well, I have yet to be
convinced. Because so far, I’ve found
that being a quitter, really fracking sucks!
People say they quit so that they’ll live
longer. Well guess what? The oldest woman to ever live, at a
documented 122 years of age, didn’t become a quitter until she was over a
hundred! (Or somewhere around there.)
And how about John Wayne. The Duke! He was never a quitter! No
way. He lived life to the fullest. The ultimate Western MAN. He didn’t just smoke a wimpy pack a
day. Not even two packs. According to “Biography,” he smoked A CARTON
A DAY. And he survived lung cancer, only
to die, years later, of stomach cancer! How’s that for irony? I bet he got this second cancer from
worrying about how he got his first cancer from smoking! I’ll bet that if he
was resurrected today, the first thing he’d say is…”Hey Pilgrim, you got a
cigarette?”
So what are the benefits of being a
quitter? Well sure, the morning hacking
cough goes away. You feel the health
returning to your body. Your sense of
smell returns. But this only allows you
to smell the sweet scent of “eau de ceegarette” on the breath or clothes of a
“non-quitter.” I was going to say that
you spend less money. But in reality,
you don’t. Because you buy more food,
or more booze, or more comfort stuff to compensate for the lack of that sweet
addiction. And smart “non-quitters”
know how to finance their addiction for a quarter of the cost that they are
supposed to pay in the 1st place!
In other words, the average smart “non-quitter” can pay as much for a
carton of cigarettes (in this country) that will last them a week and a half,
as they would if they purchased three high-cholesterol, artery-clogging meals,
at the Macdonald’s “Drive-Thru.” Meals
that they wouldn’t have purchased if they knew that they could just light up a
smoke! So they probably save money by
smoking! Oh. I just realized that this
paragraph was supposed to be about the benefits of being a quitter. All I could come up with was the health
issue. And even that got ruined.
But even if you resist the high-fat food
temptation, what is the benefit of physical health if you are an emotional
train wreck?
Oh, I could go on and on. But I think I will just leave it at
this. If you are ashamed of the fact
that you are living your life filled with smoke and inspiration, feeling guilty
because you could be so much “healthier” if you didn’t smoke…
DON’T GIVE IN! NEVER BE A QUITTER LIKE
ME! AND DON’T LET ALL THOSE OTHER
QUITTERS CONVINCE YOU THAT LIFE IS SO MUCH BETTER AS A QUITTER. BECAUSE IT ISN’T! IT SUCKS. AND I HATE IT.
I HATE IT WITH A DEEP AND BITTER HATRED. AND YOU WILL TO.
I’m a quitter. And, as so many say so often,
the world hates a quitter.
Please understand that I understand that all
of you quitters, and non-starters, who have wished me well, wished me strength
and all,,.mean well. And I appreciate
all your misguided blessings. Because some
part of me must believe that you have a good point, somewhere, otherwise, I
wouldn’t continue to be a quitter.
However…
If you never started, congratulations. That’s the best way to live your life. But if you did start…DON’T EVER STOP! I know some of you Dear Readers haven’t
fallen down the path that I have. And ”THIS NOTE’S FOR YOU!”
Now, getting back to the top of my rant…Last
week I received many inspired replies to my “finding faith in God” rant. I thank you for all of your thoughts. One of you supplied a rant of your own that
you invited me to post here. Any of you
readers who wish to comment on this rant are welcome to Email me. I will pass along your replies, un-edited,
to this author.
MY GUEST RANT…
The Physical God
(Or an explanation why God should not exist
beyond a concept)
If there is no limit to how
big something can be, then why should there be a limit to how far we can
travel?
The problem here is our
compulsion to measure and compare things . . . this is bigger than that, but
that is smaller than this . . . and so on. It’s all about comparisons.
On earth it is impossible to
achieve several things. A perfect vacuum is one example (not the thing you
clean carpets with, Hoover knows you can). Another is perpetual motion. Gravity
will cause decay and eventually arrest all motion within its influence.
Sure, we can convert matter
into energy (fuel a fire, generate electricity from water motion) but the
result is always finite. Stuff wears out.. Fuel gets used up. We get used up.
Now let us suppose we have
somehow reached the edge of the universe. We are moving away from the Big Bang
and all it contains. We are moving into a perfect vacuum, devoid of light,
energy fields, matter. Whatever velocity we have when we enter infinity should
be the same for all time—true perpetual motion—because within a perfect vacuum
there is absolute nothingness. Nothing to interfere with our progress or slow
our speed. Have we achieved immortality?
But here’s the tricky issue:
progress implies measurement. Travel is time over distance. In an absolute
vacuum, how far is it from here to there. when there is no ‘there’ to be a
distance from? Without reference it becomes immeasurable. Moving at a gazzilion
miles-per-hour or standing perfectly still, it’s all the same thing. Time also
becomes meaningless. We become immortal in infinity because to be there we
violate the very term itself. Our very presence upsets the concept of a perfect
vacuum. Could this be that place known as heaven?
If God rules the entire
universe, it is reasonable to assume God is situated somewhere were it is possible
to keep a god’s eye on the whole mess. This implies that God is out ‘there’ in
the vacuum of infinity. Oops, you see the problem. If God is in infinity then
it is no longer a perfect vacuum. God violates the concept the same as we would
if we were able to go there.
Here’s the tough part about
absolutes. Whatever fantasies our minds can conger, be they gods, spirits,
devils and the like, we cannot get our minds around the concept of infinity even
though we have been clever enough to give it a name. God is easy to invent
compared to nothingness. So most of the time we choose God instead. God brings
meaning to absolute nothingness—to so called oblivion. We choose ‘something’
over nothing, because ‘something’ always seems to make more sense.
This is because we are
finite creatures saddled with intellect. (A cabbage is not troubled by this.
They don’t kill each other over a difference of opinion). Our inevitable
mortality forces us to want immortality, however irrational that might be. As a
species, we are compelled to invent super gods who preside over a place of
immortality and perpetual motion. In other words—a perfect vacuum that we may
enter with the right credentials.
As everyone knows, nothing
can exist in a perfect vacuum. It’s a
contradiction in terms.
Attempting to relate God to
physical matter is a lost cause from the start, but insistent religions never
give up on this hypothesis. Not content to let God simply reside inside their
heads, they doggedly insist God is a real person hanging around the blackness
of infinity like the night watchman of creation. For Christians it gets even
more complicated. God is now a family affair, with Jesus at his side . . . oh,
and let’s not forget all the good people who have gained salvation. A massive
crowd of immortal souls dangling in infinity forever.
Granted, when humans
internalize God it can have a beneficial, even therapeutic result. Most of the
problems start when fiction and physics become confused. Giving God a physical
persona and insisting religion is a history lesson are bound to cause violent
conflicts. But mere conceptual gods
are often not good enough for the fanatically religious. Many religions teach
that humans are creatures moulded in God’s image. Literally taken, that means
God not only consists of living cells, but has gender, physical size, a face,
hands . . . and, as some Reformation painters like to suggest in their art,
clothing made of God knows what. Where does God shop, or did he create the
cloth himself with the magical snap of a finger?
It becomes evident that
attaching physical reality to God then equating the resulting conflict with
common sense is a non-starter—but where did it go off the rails?
Go back as far as you can
and you see the same problem recurring throughout history. Isolated tribes
invariably came up with some sort of religion, often based on tangible objects
like celestial bodies, carved idols, animals, trees, even insects. Physical
things, easily related to their surroundings. A simple idea for simple folk. No
two groups were ever the same. The invisible, omnipresent big God theory did not emerge until people lost their isolation and
began to travel and migrate. Suddenly there was a need for a better god than a
tree or a holy cow. Something that could be everywhere at once at all times.
Dogma was born. If you support a super god who’s laws apply to everything and
everyone, irrespective of boundaries, it makes you the master race—superior. Unfortunately this often meant
killing those that did not agree. Those simple, idol-loving heretics either
capitulated or died.
It became painfully evident
the only defence was a super God of one’s own. Why be God disadvantaged?
Problem: a big God requires
a big religious machine to support
it, and that means masses of devout followers. This could not happen overnight,
so the writing was squarely on the wall for small, unsophisticated religions.
It was join or die. Invariably the ‘big godders’ were in command of the day’s weapons
technology and would use it at each available opportunity. Huge, organized
religions were the result, as intimidated converts flocked on board. (Toady’s multinational corporations that
worship money are modelled on this.)
These religious power centres
craved legitimacy at all cost. To suggest that their big God machine was
nothing more than a state of mind became the ultimate heresy. God was real. The
scriptures were true accounts of actual historical events. Salvation came with
a money back guarantee.
Inevitably the fly in the
ointment was science. It relentlessly plodded onward, oblivious to the havoc it
would wreak upon established big God lore. Driven by insatiable curiosity,
scientists began to shred every page of religious fact with impunity. Science had one huge advantage—provability.
Unless a scientific fact could be repeated over and over at will, it remained a
theory, nothing more. A Paradox began to emerge. Former devotees of the
‘physical God’ camp started to interpret
religion. They wriggled and squirmed, trying in vain to make it all fit
together—a grand unified universe were science and religion could find a common
basis for existence. Inevitably it all ended up right where it began. There
simply was no fit.
The one recourse was a return
to blind faith. Big godders had tried unity with science and found their
fragile logic a house of cards. Religion now relied solely on indoctrination at
birth. At least here it still held the high ground. Brainwashing the innocent
into the ludicrous world of blind faith was still effective. Meantime real
power had passed from birthright warlords to politicians, a strange breed of creatures that seemed to believe in
nothing and everything all at the same time. Largely disenfranchised by
reality, big box religion reverted to a pure numbers game.
Where we stand now is hard
to evaluate. In the West the affluent use religion like a fashion accessory. It
needs to make no more sense than a tie so long as it matches. The fanatical are
stuck in a time warp, angry at everything and everyone, even splinter groups
within the same orthodoxy. From the disinterested to the disorganized, religion
remains in a mess. It needs to internalize. Become a private thing.
In short, Godliness should get
out of the reality business and return to a basic state of mind. Shed physical
trappings that never made a grain of sense in the first place and accept a
purely therapeutic role—a source of comfort for those that need it most.
Through political erosion, the bad old days of Western religious power and
glory are all but gone—thank God. But the insanely fanatical still remain in
enough numbers to make the world a very dangerous place.
END OF PART ONE
Well, there you have it, Dear Readers.
April 28, 2006
By the grace of …(DELETED)…
At the beginning of the year, I publicly
stated my new year’s resolutions here in this blog. (Scroll to somewhere below
if you are interested.) One of those
resolutions was to quit smoking this year.
I believe that I said that I would quit on some given day. Not on my birthday, or on any special
occasion. But sometime this year.
…(DELETED)…
So tonight, Dear Readers, I will smoke my last
cigarette. You will be my witness. I will let you know, before the end of this
entry, when it happens. In the
meantime, I have to think about something to write about, other than my own
personal drama.
Okay, (since I just smoked one of my last
cigarettes) and since I’ve spent a lot of time talking about my “promise to
God,” I think I’ll explore that.
The subject of my rant tonight is…Finding faith in God.
Last Sunday night I went to church. It was a
“non-denominational” church. And I went to it to explore the faith of a dear
friend of mine. This person had gone on a “retreat” that weekend to get in
touch with God. And it just so happens that another special person in my life
had also gone on a “retreat” recently, in order to find salvation from another
devil.
Hmmm…As much as I believe in a power that
created a universe that is beyond our understanding…I have questions.
Before I go on, however, explaining my
problems, I should say that I admire anyone, including those two special people
that I refer to, for seeking faith to overcome their problems. For it is a far
nobler thing to surrender yourself to a higher power than it is to wallow in
self-pity, and assume that you are alone in the universe. It is much harder to think that somebody
loves you no matter what, and wants the best for you, and, because of that
fact, makes you try to be your very best, than it is to think that nobody gives
a shit and so what does it matter?
However…getting back to my church
experience…Although I was impressed that the pastor of this church came up to
me and shook my hand—picking my strange face out of several hundred people just
moments before he had to go up and deliver his sermon—I found myself being
singled out by him at the end of it all.
After he urged his congregation, at the end of the sermon, to bow our
heads, close our eyes and pray, and after assuring us all that all our eyes
were closed and that no single person could be singled out by prying eyes, he
asked us “new to the church” to raise our hands if we had found Jesus. I didn’t
raise my hand. He asked again. And then
again, referring to the back row, where I was standing. I had had such an interesting hour, dancing
to music, experiencing a whole new world, and yet now, the hairs were rising on
the back of my neck. Because I wasn’t
ready, willing, or able to be “converted.”
Earlier in his sermon, this pastor said that
God never sends anyone to Hell. He
gives us a choice. We can decide to
believe in the Lord, and go to Heaven, or we can choose not to believe in the
Lord. What he left unsaid
was…Therefore, if we don’t choose to believe in the Lord, we will go to
Hell. So if we believe in Allah, or
Buddha, or nobody in particular, we will go to Hell. So one portion of the people of this world knows the path to
righteousness. And the rest of us are
bound to eternal damnation.
Well then. It just makes sense that those who
know the path should do their best to show the rest of humanity the Way. And, since those who don’t see the Way to
Heaven, are bound to go to Hell, well then why don’t we just send them there
now, if they refuse to see the way here on Earth?
Hmmm…what might the history of humanity teach
us about this kind of ideology? How many millions of human beings with dreams,
children, and mothers and fathers have been raped, tortured, killed, because
they chose the wrong way? And how many
tens of millions of their loved ones have been destroyed by their loss, Because
their “Way” was the wrong way, whether they be Christian, Jew, Buddhist,
Muslim, Catholic, Protestant, Mormon, Atheist, “Camel Jockey,” “Redneck,”
“Kyke,” “Gangsta,” “Fag,” “Dyke,” “Nazi,” “Communist,” or any number of
“others” that we so easily give a label to because they are simply wrong.
After all, if they are wrong, and refuse to
accept right, and are therefore bound to eternal damnation, why shouldn’t we
rape and kill them while they are on this earth, if only to give them a taste
of what is to come in their eternity?
Why should we cherish them if they have refused to listen to what is so
obviously right?
Why?
Because I have been touched by God a number of times in my life. And every time that he has touched me, he
has touched only ME. He has shown me
that I was on the right path for ME alone, with, and under HIS guidance. He didn’t tell me that anybody else was
wrong. He didn’t implore me to preach his word. He just said, without saying it, but with so much more profound
meaning than my words can impart, “You are alive, to be here, to love the life
that I have given you.”
For example, I was sitting with friends in a
cheap restaurant one day, just shooting the shit. And all of a sudden, all the pain in my life was gone. Badda-bing-badda-boom. Gone.
This happened twenty years ago.
But I will never forget the surface banality of that moment, as I was
liberated from all earthly concerns. I
wasn’t being preached to. I wasn’t
gazing on a sunset, or meditating, or wondering about the meaning of life. I was sitting in the middle of an everyday
moment and suddenly…I was free.
I have had several moments like this in my
life, where I allowed God to surface from where he created me. And in those moments I have known that God
is in me, because he created me. Just
as he created you. And all of us were
made by him (or her, or whatever you wish to name what is beyond our words)
from this rock that he made that we have chosen to call Earth. And, in a deeper sense, this rock and all of
us who live upon it, was created by this one desire that has created everything
in existence. One Entity bore a universe
as its child, and we are all the indestructible atoms that hold it all together. That is my humble, yet correct opinion,
based on what experience has taught me. And the good thing about my opinion, I
believe, is that it will never inspire me to bring harm to another person, just
because he/she is too stupid to understand what I understand.
All of our history of violence, and the minor
pinpricks that we cause this child to tolerate due to our conflicts, comes from
the fear that I might be wrong, and you might be right.
Okay…I just finished the second last smoke of
my life.
But my rant tonight is finished. So now what
do I do? Well…I guess that I take this
“Captain Morgan” break, play a few games, and then go and smoke this last
one. So here it goes…
Okay…I have just butted out the last cigarette
that I will ever smoke. It took me ages to write theses two sentences, due to
my drunken high at 3:26 in the morning of April 29th, 2006. Butt I
still have seven cigarettes left in my pack. I will not throw them away, nor
will I give them to someone in dire need.
As one of you dear Readers has related to me, they will remain in full
view of my eyes, to remind myself of the devil that I have conquered, from now
until the day that I die. The devil that I have left behind will always remind
me of the glorious drag of nicotine that I puffed this morning as my neighbours
across the way turned out their lights, while their other neighbour’s fountain
trickled gently in rhythm to my peaceful smoke. And I will have to admit my gratitude to the devil that gave me
this addiction for all the peaceful, though deceptive moments that he has given
me. For now, it is all over. No more
will I step outside to pollute my lungs with cancer as I contemplate the
meaning of my life. I will never again
watch smoke rise up into the peaceful Sun.
Never gain inspiration from the sweet smoke sinking down into my
body. Never escape from life by feeling
the rush of cancerous freedom.
Its all over. Nada. Kaput.
So please, I beg all of you non-smokers who
can never hope to appreciate the pot-of-gold that I have just thrown away, to
let us all mourn the great escape from reality that I have now given up in a
sweet, yet inglorious cloud of starlit-smoke. Because, as the android said in
the classic movie, Bladerunner, “The candle that burns twice as bright, burns
half as long.”
So there you have it Dear Readers. This writer
has declared the end of his life of crime against the God that created the body
that he has polluted for so long. And in so doing, he has given up the devil
that has always inspired his impatient inspiration.
April, 20, 2006
Do any of you North American viewers remember
the Eyewitness news on the Buffalo T.V. station? Remember how the anchor said, every other night, “fire erupts at
a home in Cheektowaga?” Now the anchor
on CNN says, virtually every day, “A suicide bomber claimed the lives of (so
many Afghani, Iraqi, Israeli lives.) I’m sick of It! I was sick of the fires in
“Cheektowaga.” twenty years ago. I used to wish that the powers that be would
simply say, once a month, “No fires broke out in Cheektowaga tonight.” And now
I’m just as sick of the news of suicide bombings. I’d love to have the families of all these “suicide bombers” come
over here, to America and Canada, and watch CNN everyday for a month, just so
they could see how we, in our comfortable lives, simply change the channel when
their loved ones died to change the world. I would love to see the families of
these ‘martyrs’ discover our banal, bored reaction, so they could see how much
they are giving up their lives just to bore us to death.
Just the other day I complained “I’m so bored
of these suicide bombing stories! Why don’t they just report once a month how
many suicide bombers killed so many people in the Middle East? Instead of
reporting every incident, every day.”
Think of the insanity. Children are being raised, right now, to
give up their lives to kill a handful of people. Their parents are actually encouraging them to prepare for the
moment of their death, as opposed to hoping that they will grow old and
content, and outlive them. And what will be the end result? Three hundred million people will change the
channel to watch another episode of “Survivor.”
What they should learn is this. They should learn to say to their
son/daughter…”I want you to blow your body away, and die for Allah. I don’t want to see you outlive me. I don’t want you to find love and
contentment. But you must kill only Westerners. And you better kill a lot of them at once.
Because then, they won’t change the channel. Otherwise, forget about it
and waste your life growing old, happy and content. You coward!”
I can’t believe how jaded I have become
because of the news! However, in their eyes, I’m sure that we “Infidels” are
just as insane as they are.
Short rant tonight, since I have to go up to
my family reunion this weekend. Sorry
Dear Readers. I’ll try to come up with
something more profound next week. Take
care…And love your children.
April 13, 2006
Hey everybody, this ‘fence sitter’ is writing
early this week, due to “Good Friday.” I only realized that it was “Good
Friday” in my heart and soul, as I sat in “Friday rush-hour” traffic on a
Thursday, thinking
why the frack is traffic so heavy at three-thirty on a Thursday? And then I realized that my starving artist
life doesn’t conform to the norms of society, since I’ll be delivering pizzas
tomorrow night, as usual. But the truly
rewarding thing about sitting on the highway for an hour and half to drive
twenty miles with my left foot on the clutch for most of the time while I chose
between 1st and 2nd gear, was that I had to remember to
get my Friday night “rant rum” tonight because tomorrow night the L.C.B.O. will
be closed. (I live in Canada, where you are forced to get your booze from
government stores, which are unionized and therefore closed on statutory
holidays.)
And, since I got my rant rum, I figured I
might as well put it to good use and use it to write my rant early, rather than
wasting it on a mindless lack of communication with anybody but my own
inebriated mind..
So…Since we’re in the sign of Aries, the God
of War, I think I’ll title my rant after the Kenny Roger’s song that I heard
sung at karaoke last night. “Sometimes you gotta’ fight,
to be a man.” Which I then followed
up with my own stirring rendition of Edwin Star’s “War.” Just to brag, I got a
lot of compliments from the younger crowd about how “sick” my song was. (For
you older crowd, “sick’ means “Like really, like, cool.”) Now I don’t like to
think of myself as a flake. I’m not
into Scientology or most of that other new age stuff. But astrology does have a grip on me. For instance, now that we
are in the sign
of war, have any of you
noticed how passionate, proud and/or and pissed of that we are? More than
usual?
Today my boss was pissed off about his car
wash. My cousin was pissed off about his stocks and about his dealings with a
department store. And I was pissed of at myself for personal reasons that I’m
not about to share with the World…Wide…Web.
We’re all pissed off about something or
other. But I believe that most of the
time we are pissed off at ourselves for not making our point heard and
respected by the recipient of our wrath. Now I called myself a “fence sitter”
at the beginning of this rant because of a conversation that I had with one of
you Dear Readers, about how I end up apologizing to one of you “left wingers,”
only to find myself explaining my apology to one of you “right wingers.” And I
bring this up because I’m about to sit on the fence again.
On April fools day I suggested that we should
all risk making fools of ourselves by saying…”I wish all of us the courage to say to somebody who
really means something to us, on this April Fool’s Day, “Please listen to me.
Because I need to get this off my chest.” And that was a pretty “warlike” and aggressive
suggestion. (Since we were in Aries, you know.) But what I neglected to
realize, at that time, was that to simply get things off your chest to those
who have the power to hurt you the most, although it might be nice and left
wing, doesn’t complete the story.
Because if you know that what you need to get
off your chest comes from the heart, then you must keep your personal power by
insisting that what you need to say is just and worthwhile. You need to be “right-wing” and say, this is the truth, and nothing
you do or say will change it. And, because I’m a man, I’ll fight to prove it!
This way of thinking causes wars sometimes,
which is why “left-wingers” hate that mentality. But maybe there is an
in-between. Maybe there is a
fence-sitting position that can unite us!
Maybe a white-God-fearing-Christian can say to
a turban-clad-Allah-worshipping-Muslim, (just to use a currently “hot topic”
example,) “My way is the right way, and if you try disagree with me, I’ll kill you.”
And the Muslim could reply with the same answer. And maybe, the way best friends often do, when they respect each
other for their differences, because they’ve known each other for years, they
both could say, “Brother, you’re totally fracked!” And then they could both go
and sleep it off, each confident of his righteousness. Each of them content with the knowledge that
he would have the conviction to kill the other if they had to. Each of them
knowing that they really don’t want to go to that extreme, because they’ve made
their point.
So…
I know that my instincts are right.
I know that modern society is not mature
enough to allow the existence of guns.
I know that I enjoy writing these rants.
I know that Stokes Bay is as sacred a place as
Bethlehem.
I know that no organized religion knows better
than any other.
I know that traffic is only a headache to a
mind that can’t occupy itself with more important thoughts.
I know many other things that I can’t be
bothered to think of right now.
And I know that nothing will change my mind,
particularly if it threatens to kill me. And if it does threaten to kill me, or somebody I love, I will do my best to convince
it not to, even if it only gives me a split second of diplomacy in which to
try. And if that attempt to reach out
to something that is just like me fails, and if I know that it is going to kill
me unless I change my mind …
Then I will kill it.
But really, how often does that happen? Not to
the world. To YOU? It happened to me only twice in my life. And
even then it didn’t require me to “kill.” I’d be willing to bet that its about
the same for most of you. The good
thing about modern society is the fact that if a person has the personal
strength to accomplish their goals, they needn’t actually kill, maim, or even
wound anyone to accomplish them. And we needn’t fear anything but our own
fears. We respect positive, motivated people. So most of us never have to kill
somebody. In fact most of us never even have to hurt somebody to protect
ourselves. And I’d be willing to bet
that when we do hurt somebody, that most of the time we do it
to protect ourselves from the fear of finding out that we are wrong.
So, in my humble yet correct opinion, I
suggest that we be willing to…
Go ahead and be ready, willing and itching to
kill! But know that we will probably
never have to. In the meantime, sit on
the fence, look at the grass on either side, and waste a whole lot of time
exploring the life-fulfilling adventure of wondering which side is greener. But
don’t get on the wrong side of my fence.
‘Cause I’ll fight to the death for my right to not to be forced to
believe in anything but what I believe, even if I’m not sure that I believe it!
Have a happy, peaceful, un-Aries, Easter Weekend. I look forward to hearing
from you, for whatever reason. And I hope that you check out the rest of my
website, (and/or send me your web address) just for fun, or to give us more to
talk about.
April 8, 2006
Well, just as one of you Dear Readers reminds
me to be sensitive to the “liberal” way of thinking, inspiring me include an
apology in my last week’s rant for the week before, along comes another one of
you to complain this week, about my “left wing” apology. And this same reader
has been getting a little tired of my latest rants about “feeeelings.” He wants me to get back to some good hard
political views to sink his teeth into.
So, since I’m a Libra, the sign of the scales,
tonight I’ll title my rant “Both sides of the coin of “Road Rage” followed by some weird stuff about
mountains.”
You know those nice, long off-ramps on the
highway? Once a week I get on one of those off ramps to actually use it for
what its meant for—to get off the highway. And almost every week, I find myself
held up by what I call an “off-ramp jumper.”
Those are those drivers who feel it’s perfectly within their right to
sweep into the fast moving off ramp to get around morning rush hour traffic,
only to come to a dead stop half a mile down the road so that they can merge
back into the right lane. So they hold
up all the vehicles behind them, who are using the off-ramp to “get-off” just
so they can be twenty seconds closer to their destination. And most of the time, they don’t save any
time at all because it takes them just as long to merge back into the traffic
as if they’d never left the traffic lane in the first place! Meanwhile, they endanger their lives
(which—I’m tempted to say--might not be a bad thing) but more importantly, the
lives of the decent drivers behind them who are aren’t expecting somebody ahead
of them to stop in the middle of the off-ramp.
I hope none of you Dear Readers are “O.R.J.’s”
Because if you are, you should know that I’m sticking pins in my voodoo doll to
curse you right now. Did you suddenly
feel a sharp pain in your back?
It’s come to the point where I wait for it to
happen every week. And I just hope that
it’s the car right in front of me so that I can lean on my horn and vent my
frustration as I sweep around him as close as I dare to scare the shit out of
him/her. Even if there is one car
between us I’ll honk, hoping that the driver ahead of me will understand that
my wrath was not meant for him. (Although I won’t “sweep” around an innocent
driver.) But this past week my
vengeance was so sweet! The car right in front of me was an O.R.J. We entered
the off ramp with the unison of synchronized swimmers, drove for half a mile,
and he came to a dead stop to merge to the left again. And he decided to jump back into traffic
right in front of an eighteen-wheeler.
Now any experienced driver understands the laws of physics, and that
these monsters need space in front of them to stop. So here this asshole not only gets to hear my horn screaming at
him as I sweep around within inches of his bumper, but he also gets to hear the
big honkin’ air horn of the transport that almost crashed right into the
rearview that the driver must have been looking at. Oh it was so sweet!
Vengeance was mine! With the help of an equally hate-filled trucker!
Oh if only that truck had been going faster! He would have plowed right into that
car. And maybe the car’s gas tank would
have exploded, and the driver would have died a painfully slow death in flames.
Of course, it would be so much easier if lived
in…say…Texas, rather than this wimpy Canada.
‘Cause I could just go down to the corner gun shop and pick up a Colt
.45 or a 9mm semi-auto whenever I wanted to.
And if I woke up on a bad day, where…say my doctor called me to tell me
that I was dying of cancer or I found my wife on a porn website dated from last
Friday, or whatever else might happen that gave me no reason to care about
human life, I probably wouldn’t hesitate to blow that fracking driver’s brains
all over the road. And hell, if I was
rich enough to afford a “dream team” of lawyers, I might even get away with it!
So that’s the right wing side of me taken to
the N’th degree.
On the other hand…
The liberal Ern might think…If I had a gun
right now, on the worst day of my life, I might widow a wife, and orphan ten kids
by killing a man who might me a good hard-working citizen who was in such a
rush to get to work that, for the first time in his life, he made a desperate,
thoughtless move. And paid for it with his life. “Road Rage,” they call it. Temporary insanity. It’s such a metaphor for the world that we
have created.
We hunger so much for emptiness. We think that if we can win a battle that we
have won the war, when in fact we have only extinguished somebody’s hopes and
dreams. We condition ourselves to think that if we reach the heights of success
in this society that we have created, that we will feel contentment. But when we create a paradigm for humanity
that strives to put a MacDonald’s on every street corner, and we become tempted
to kill those who stop us for ten seconds in our attempt to reach that goal, we
forget about the moments that make our lives really worth living…
What the frack are we doing to ourselves?
What does it say about me that I can spend so
much time ranting about the vengeance I feel by honking my horn at an
inconsiderate “driver?” What does it
say about me when I don’t stop to think that this “driver” is a person with all
the same failings and talents that I might have? All of us make a mistake on the road sooner or later. Right? (If you deny this fact, please stop reading
my rants, because you are delusional and not worthy of my words.) And what does
it say about this world that we have made when we can so easily forget that
every “driver,” just like me and you wakes up each day, with no other desire
than to have a good life, without causing or feeling any pain. We can rationalize all we want that we must
fight a war to prove that our god exists, or that we deserve that Porsche, or
that our mountain must be climbed at any cost.
Ironically, my Dear “right-wing” Reader, who
inspired me to write this rant, sent me an Email that displayed a message that
was conveyed from his country’s best President (in my humble yet correct
opinion.) Because that message supports my “left-wing’ half of this coin. And that message, said by John F. Kennedy,
is this…
“Let every
nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price,
bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to
assure the survival and the success of liberty.”
And that’s the thing. That’s the only thing that we should be
jumping around off-ramps to achieve…”The success of Liberty.” Because if we
were all “liberated,” we would never fear losing our jobs if we were late for
work. So none of us would become
“O.R.J.’s” And none of us would feel the need to blow their brains out. We wouldn’t feel the need to “conquer the
earth.” Because when you really feel
liberated, you have no fear of anybody else’s God, desires, or
aspirations. There are no battles to
fight. Because the only real war to win
is to acknowledge the fact that we all want to exist as peacefully as do the
majestic mountains that we feel we need to conquer.
Mountains, made of rock, never feel the need
to conquer each other. They simply exist. We are the same. We are majestic, rising above the
earth. Each of us is a sight to
behold. The only difference is that we
realize that we exist, and therefore we fear the existence of the other
mountains. For the simple reason that they may raise higher than us. Take away
that fear and what would we have?
That’s the liberal side of the coin. Taken to
the Way-the-frack-out-there extreme.
How the hell did I go from road rage to
people-as-mountains on just a mickey?
I really hope this makes some sense in the
sober light of tomorrow, for all you Dear Readers. Take care, and please give
me shit if I don’t respond to any of your thoughts in good time. Because
without you, I must wonder, if this rant fell into the World Wide Web, and nobody was there to read
it, would it really exist?
April 1, 2006
First, a note about last week’s rant. My cousin was not too impressed,
understandably, about my mentioning (i.e. “picking” on his accent.) My apologies. He does not really replace his “th’s” with “D’s.” I was exaggerating to get my point
across. And he is not “always”
opinionated. Just most of the
time. Or maybe I just feel that way
because he almost always disagrees with my own humble but correct opinions.
However, for you single ladies out there, I’m
afraid to say that as much as he is “tall dark and handsome” and his “Eastern
European accent” really is “sultry” and “deeply intense,” he is happily married
to an equally exotic woman. Sorry. So please stop inquiring about how you can
hook up with him. Okay?
And one more note. While I don’t want to make a habit of apologizing for spouting my
opinions here, I do wish to make it clear that last week’s rant was not meant
to judge, make light of, or encourage any kind of malice or flippancy toward
homeless persons, or their plight. I
know nothing about this topic, and I only wished to have fun with an idea that
sounded, on the surface, like a bizarre idea to this uninformed mind. I thank
you Dear Reader (and I know that you know who you are, if you are reading
this,) for inspiring this explanation.
Well that was the easy part. Now I have to think of something new.
I was going to create a huge story, based on
something true, and end it with “Happy April fool’s Day.” I tried real hard with all this liquid
courage to do it. But the truth is that I couldn’t get into it tonight, because
I realized that I really needed to get some honesty off my chest that I just can’t
share with you Dear Readers.
Except for this…Now that I’m suddenly
inspired…Maybe we should stop fooling ourselves.
(For those of you who truly know that you
aren’t fooling yourself in any way, and that you are absolutely honest with
yourself and with all your close companions…Please seek some very professional
therapy.)
So this will be the title of tonight’s
“Non-rant.” On
April Fools Day, maybe we should risk making fools of ourselves.
What might happen if we all stopped “playing
the game?” What might happen if we put
our souls on the line by admitting our deepest fears, hopes, desires and all
that shit? Wherever you are right now,
imagine yourself cutting through all the bullshit of your ego, and openly
admitting to the person (or spirit, or god) who could hurt you the most (by
saying “I don’t care,”) all of what you are most afraid of. Could you be living with the fear that your
portfolio might collapse, your crazy dreams might really be crazy, your love
for someone may be unrequited, or a horrible secret of yours might be revealed
that could destroy your life in the drop off a hat? Then maybe we should remember President Franklin Delano
Roosevelt’s famous phrase, “All we have to fear is fear itself.” And maybe we should remember another old phrase on
this fool’s day…The truth will set you free.
Maybe your life will be destroyed if you
receive the answer to the one question that you’ve been too afraid to ask. But maybe your life was already destroyed by the fear of asking it. Maybe we
live under a veil of success, like a Cadillac in the driveway and a kid that
has good grades and isn’t into drugs…Or we hide under a veil of failure because
we haven’t achieved what we are expected to by a measure of success that really
is meaningless. Whatever your
“definition” of winner or loser might be…maybe we use these convenient
self-images to allow us to think that we are avoiding our inner demons.
Maybe the absolute truth will allow us to live
a life worth living. No matter how much we might risk by admitting it. So on this April Fool’s day, maybe we should
play a trick on ourselves.
So I wish all of us the courage to say to
somebody who really means something to us, on this April Fool’s Day, “Please
listen to me. Because I need to get this off my chest.” And remember, when you
look for the courage to say whatever it is you need to say, that the wisest
character in all of Shakespeare’s plays was the “Fool.”
I wish you all the best, whether or not you
make a fool of yourself today, even if you decide to be “strategic” and save
your thoughts for another day.
March 26, 2006,
Finally!
Sorry for the delay, Dear Readers.
Friday I was out dancing. Slept
in my clothes as the sun rose. Saturday
I was out working. Round midnight last night
I sat down to write and thought…Ah…No…This ain’t happening tonight. Ergo, my “rant rum” was wasted on watching
T.V. (And the last ounce or so spilled
on my belly as I snored, which was really humiliating. as I always pride myself
on the fact that no matter how tired I may be, my instincts will always save me
by waking me up before I spill whatever might be in my hand!) So I had to get
more “Lamb’s White” today in order to write a proper rant tonight. This is the cost of my job, I’m afraid!
Anyway…
My always-opinionated cousin told me this week
about how somebody in our strange and wonderful land has come up with the idea
of creating a union for the homeless.
Yes. You read that right. A union for the homeless. And
he just cracked me up when he asked, “How will dey enforce deir demands?” (Da
“D’s?” I’m trying to write his sultry, deeply intense, Eastern European accent.
Because that made his question that just that much more funny to this plain old
W.A.S.C. [White, Anglo-Saxon, Catholic]…It was one of those “You had to be
there moments.”)
Now I have to admit that I haven’t done any
research on this. Maybe there is some
twisted logic behind this idea that makes sense. And I don’t want you Dear Readers to think that I have no
sympathy for those who live on the street.
Because I try never to judge another person’s life, having never been
there. And besides, hell, if I don’t stop having fun and get my fracking shit
together, I may be joining them soon!
But I just couldn’t stop laughing when he asked, “What are dey gonna’
do? Go on strike?”
Oh my god! Imagine it! The homeless on strike…
You’re walking down the street, see somebody
sprawled out in the alley, and feel bad for the poor guy/gal. You reach in your pocket to toss some change
to help the person out, even if you cynically think that he’s just going to use
your change to buy some cheap booze, and just as you’re about to offer your
help, he holds up a sign…”C.H.P.U. (Canadian Homeless People’s Union) ON
STRIKE! WE WILL NOT ACCEPT YOUR BUSINESS!”
And what about this? Will they have to pay
“Union Dues?” If so, won’t they be
using our money to pay them?
Where will they set up their “picket lines” if
they strike, considering they have no place of business to picket in front
of? (Of course this is making the
stupid assumption that none of them have jobs, which I am sure is not true—but
just to keep things simple--.) Logically thinking here, maybe they will all
hitch a ride back to their last place of residence, find a barrel, and warm
their hands over a fire in front of the driveway. Maybe it will be your driveway! Just think…You’ve worked to save money to
buy your home. You’re
mortgaged/rented/leased up the ass for maybe the next twenty-five years of your
life. But all of a sudden, you have to
choose between parking on the street, or “running the picket line,” just like a
”scab worker,” Just to get into the house/condo/apartment that you live in, simply because this “union
member” used to live there!
And, just for some more fun, let’s just
imagine that through some kind of strange logic that I can’t see because I am
too blind to appreciate various kinds of modern art, and/or because some kinds
of poetry escape me, that they win their demands. So, now that their union has won their demands in a legal
arbitration, let’s replay the scenario I mentioned above…
You’re walking down the street, see somebody
sprawled out in the alley, and feel bad for the poor guy/gal. You reach in your pocket to toss some change
to help the person out, even if you cynically think that he/she’s just going to
use it to buy some cheap booze. So you
pull the three quarters that you happen to have in your pocket. Of course, if there had happened to have
been four quarters in your pants pocket, it’s not like
you’d have put one back. You’re not a
cheapskate. You’re just trying to be as decent a human being as you can be, in
this moment, in this wild and wonderful life.
Anyway…
You toss him your seventy-five cents. To your utter amazement, he tosses it back
at you. And, as you’re standing there
thinking, “what the frack was that all about?”
This homeless person says, with a deep sadness in his voice, “I’m sorry
Sir, but my union won’t allow me to accept cash donations of anything less than
a dollar.”
“You’ve gotta’ be fracking kidding me!” you
reply as you bend over and take it up the ass to retrieve your unaccepted
help.
He responds by pulling his/her urine-soaked,
five-page, public-attorney-written, union contract out of his soiled pocket and
says, “My union contract instructs me to reply with…I’m sorry, Sir/Ms./Misses,
(whichever salutation applies to you, the ‘Applying Contributor,’) however, my
contract clearly states on page one, in paragraph five, subsection ‘C,’ that
‘monetary contributions’ must consist of no less than one Canadian
dollar—commonly referred to as a ‘Looney.’
Furthermore, and in addition to, material contributions offered to the
Union Member by the Contributing Applicant must be the equal of the equivalent
of one ounce of rum, or three, three-second ‘drags’ of a marijuana joint, or no
less of the monetary value of half of the value of a ‘Macdonald’s
“Quarter-Pounder.” For further clarification on these material goods, please
refer to page four, paragraph seven, of the Canadian Homeless People’s Union
Contract...”
AHHHH! Do we laugh, scream, or cry? How insane must we let our world become
before we pull in the reigns and say…
“Okay Friends, it’s time for us all to get a
grip. Why don’t we forget all the contracts, lawsuits and all, and just try to
walk a mile in each other’s shoes?”
Thanks for joining me tonight, Dear Readers,
considering I was two nights late. Take
care. Treat yourselves well. And please
feel free to e-mail me with your comments, and particularly to update me with
the loves, pains, and joys of your lives.
Sincerely,
Ern
March 17, 2006
Damn! How do newspaper columnists do it? They have
an opinion about something every day.
And yet, here a week has passed since my last “column” and I’ve been
playing “Free Cell” for the past hour while trying to think of something to
write about tonight. And I still
haven’t come up with anything to get my creative blood boiling!
Hmmm…I’m tempted to discuss the Canadian
military involvement in Afghanistan.
We’ve just poured two thousand troops (and a Tim Horton’s—our equivalent
of your American “Krispy Crème”) into this beleaguered country in order to help
rebuild the place (while keeping the troops supplied with Tim’s coffee—the best
in the world,) and to seek out and destroy terrorists. We’ve suffered a handful
of casualties, including a couple of fatalities, and already the public is
questioning our involvement. But
bleeding heart protesters must be expected in times of conflict. Indeed, they
should be there to make sure that we aren’t just fighting to prove our
machismo. So this doesn’t really
inspire me to rant. So what the hell am
I going to talk about tonight?
How columnists write every
night. As opposed to how I struggle
just once every week.
Yes. That’s it! Daily column writers can probably think of something to say
everyday, because the rest of their lives are probably stable and secure. They
know that they have a job, a family, and an entire life that will still be
there tomorrow to support them, assuming that a bus doesn’t hit them. That stability gives them the freedom to
think of things outside of their own lives.
I, on the other hand have none of that.
I have no idea when or if my new career will begin. I have a book that could be great, but may
never get finished because I have the same problems finding inspiration with it
as I do with my Friday Night Rant. My
interim jobs aren’t making me enough cash to keep up with the outgoing cash and
my personal life is in a constant state of flux. And I’m already exposing more about my life than I am comfortable
with telling the world about.
I have some innate sense that everything is
good, because I am struggling toward certain goals that I know to be true to my
heart. And because everything worth
having must be fought for, I find myself busy fighting for it, which makes it
difficult to put the battles aside long enough to relax and right a good rant.
Unfortunately, I should have fought these battles twenty years ago, so that all
this shit would be behind me now, so that I could concentrate on entertaining
you dear readers with a truly entertaining and insightful opinion about
something important in the world on a weekly, if not daily, basis.
Hmmm…Am I being too self-indulgent here? I mean am I assuming that my life is less
stable than yours, or than that of those columnists who can write important
things everyday? Maybe I’m just assuming that the grass is always greener on
the other side of the fence. Maybe this life is all a great adventure that some
us simply have the courage to face more than I do. And maybe I should try
harder to find that courage, so that I can always find something important to
say, no matter what.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t come up with
anything better this week, Dear Readers. And I hope you check in next week to
find a more entertaining slew of words.
And take care.
March 11, 2006
First of all, I’ve learned that my dear Dad,
who doesn’t own a computer, has been reading my rants, thanks to a friend of
his who has printed them off of her printer.
So I have to control my swearing from now on because he said that my
“stories” are really good but he doesn’t like my use of the “f” word. So…for the last time…
I guess I’ll have to try to control my fucking
swearing!
But sometimes you just have to swear up a
storm to get your point across. I mean,
imagine Tony Montana, the Cuban gangster from one of the ten best movies ever
made, “Scarface,” (Played by Al Pacino,)
Saying…
“Is diss all derr is? Eating! Fudging! Drinking!…Look at my wife! She can’t even
have a fudging baby ‘cause of all the fudging coke she snorts up her fudging nose!…So say goodnight to da bad guy!”
(If you haven’t seen “Scarface,” or at least
you have heard about this great film and yet you have had no secret desire to
see it, then you might as well stop reading now.)
So say fudging goodnight to the fudging swearing in my rants! And I
think I’ve found a solution to keep Daddy-Pa happy, while still being able to
get my f*&%^$@ point across. I’m
going to borrow the swear word from the excellent TV series Battlestar
Galactica. (The new one—not the cheesy, seventies original.) Because the humans on this series have
settled in a far away region of the galaxy.
But they are human. So they
speak English. And they swear. Just
like we do. However, just as people on
earth develop their own dialects as they move into their own spaces, so did
they develop their own version of …and just for demonstration purposes…Our
swear words, “fuck” and “fucking.” But
in their society, its “Frack” and “Fracking.”
So from now on, the “f’ word will be replaced
by the word “frack,” or “fracking” in my rants And, since my mind is often
wandering to a galaxy “far, far away,” it only seems appropriate.
Anyway…since an hour of staring at the screen
has passed, let me continue with tonight’s rant…
Entitled (after re-reading the finished
product,)
A.D.D.’ers fail at life
because we are completely focused on the end result of our efforts. So
we miss the journey of life as we long for the end result…
I was swimming at the gym the other day. And a
bunch of kids were swimming as well.
They were getting exercise, improving their physical well being, as was
I. But there was a fundamental difference
between their swimming and mine. They
were having fun. I was trying to attain
a goal. They were smiling. I don’t know what my expression was, because
I was too busy observing theirs, while wondering when, with all of the huge
expanse of pool that was available to them, they were going to swim and splash
and shout their way into my nice, peaceful little corner of water. (Because kids always fracking do that!) In
fact, just the other day, when a little rug-rat seemed bound and determined to
swim straight at me, in the midst of ten million square litres of open water, I
had to say with a sarcasm that is beyond any nine-year olds’
understanding…”Pretty small pool, eh?”
He grunted “huh?,” climbed out of the pool and
then did a cannonball two feet from my face.
He had the time of his life while I treaded water, fuming at the ignorance
of a child who couldn’t think to just walk ten feet down the edge before
jumping, so as not to disturb me.
Now I don’t want this rant to become another
one of those “stop and smell the roses” messages that we all get in those
“send-this-message-to-twenty-people-right-now-or you-will-die” chain
mails. However, when a very special
person suggested that I write about stress tonight, (I tend to
ask her every week, what to write about) her suggestion reminded me of my pool
experience, and it coincided with a discussion I had with someone else (who
will always remain beyond definition) about one of the latest invented mental
diseases--A.D.D.—Attention Deficit Disorder.
Apparently, we A.D.D.’ers fail at life because
we are completely focused on the end result of our efforts. So we miss the journey of life while we long
for the end result. We destroy what we have today, by not seeing it for what it
is. Like a “tree falling in the
forest,” we don’t hear the tree falling, because we are too busy fighting our
way to the clearing. And therefore we
deny the existence of the falling tree, by not hearing it fall. And for
everything outside of ourselves that we ignore, we ignore the part of ourselves
that is seeing it.
(In case any of you are unfamiliar with the philosophical
riddle of the tree that I mentioned above, it asks, “If a tree falls in the
forest, and nobody is there to hear it, does it make any sound?”)
So maybe we can deny our entire lives while we
strive to reach a goal that never really arrives. This is just what happened to “Tony Montana” when he struggled to
swim from Cuba, across sixty miles of ocean, to reach America, and then
struggled and fought his way with bitterness, vengeance, passion, and dreams of
glory, to reach the pinnacle of success, in order to attain power, wealth, and
the woman of his dreams…Only to end up in a posh restaurant, surrounded by
strangers who stared at him as if he were from Mars, as he gazed at the woman
whose spirit he had destroyed.
And now, with his dreams attained, to “Mr.
Montana,” it all looked like a wrapped-up, dreamy pile of fracking shit, tied
up in a pretty bow. So he drunkenly
pleaded to some gangster god, “Is dis it?
Is dis all derr is? Eating…Drinking…Fracking?”
And this profound question was all inspired
because he had destroyed his own soul to the point where he couldn’t appreciate
what he had when he finally got it, and because what he had gotten was
destroyed by his desire to get it.
Because his power made him hunted.
His money made him paranoid. His
lover felt like an object, because he made her feel objectified—A hunk of
pretty flesh to be rewarded with.
I think that what I am trying to impart to you
dear readers, is that what my life is forcing me to learn these days is that
every moment that I resent not having what I don’t have right now, I am
actually hurting that which I most desire, because I deny and therefore destroy
the very existence of beauty, if I can’t hold it in the palm of my hand.
So I destroy a piece of my heart for every
piece of somebody else’s that I wish I’d have a claim to. So maybe I should enjoy the fact that
children get in my face when they swim with me. And maybe I should enjoy the feeling of my blood pumping through
my veins as I swim, as I should appreciate the love I feel for somebody I love,
no matter what…Or for the people I write in my novel, whether or not the novel*
ever gets finished, let alone published.
Because I just might be finally beginning to
understand that if we love the life that we have today, and we love the people
who share it with us, whoever they are, and no matter whatever they think or
feel for us today, that the life we end up with might well prove to be beyond
all our hopes and dreams.
Have a good night everybody, and thank you for
reading my thoughts.
*”Play-Day” (tentative title.) This
novel-in-progress, which I will update tonight, can be found on my website.
February 24, 2006
Well I’m torn. I had two interesting experiences this week, both of which could
inspire some kind of rant. So let me
tell you about both of them before I decide which one to pick on.
The first was an incident, or should I say, an
insightful observation made by my good friend, at the Toronto International
Auto Show. If you haven’t been to one of these shows, you must have seen them
on the news. Hundreds (possibly more
than a thousand) glittering automobiles are placed under perfect lighting, a
soothing ambience, sometimes against a musical backdrop, often on slow-rotation,
lighted turntables. Pretty models pretend
to talk to you like they are buddies of yours that they haven’t seen in a while
as they tell you about their favourite car. Meanwhile, tens of thousands of us
“dreamers and schemers” (as Kim Mitchell sings) plough through the great halls
to admire and touch all this four-wheeled craftsmanship. Now an interesting trend has occurred over
the years. With every passing year, (at
least at the Toronto show) the paying customer has been offered more
opportunities to touch, and sit behind the wheel, of higher end automobiles.
Just three years ago you couldn’t get behind the wheel of a BMW 3-Series. But this year, not only were many of those
and higher priced models being constantly wiped for fingerprints, even Porsche allowed
several vehicles to be door-slammed, button-tested, and sat in, by us peasants,
most of which will never drive anything more exotic than a Cadillac (if we’re
lucky!)
Of course, there are still those automobiles
that are deemed too special, too exclusive, too revered, for the common human slug
to touch. The old classic restorations
are not only roped off from the public, but each vehicle sports a sign saying
“Please do not touch.” (Understandable, since I’m sure that individual owners,
out of the goodness of their hearts, donate all these cars.) And of course, the Ferraris, the Rolls
Royce’s, Bentleys, Aston Martins, and Maserati’s and all the other automotive
Mona Lisas are all roped off. All of those vehicles that compare to the price
range of middle to upper-middle class houses.
But then there was Lamborghini. Two of these sculpted Italian exotics rested
on a platform that rose only knee high.
I don’t want to waste time on the attributes of those two wedges of
speed, power, and artistic design.
Because what I want to point out is the power that those vehicles have
on the psyche, which was demonstrated by their presentation.
For comparison, let’s take the “Dodge
Viper.” It was roped off. These ropes are a clear message to the
public to keep away. Now, if you
compare this vehicle to any of the Lamborghini models, strictly by statistics,
they are not much different. Both
vehicles are insanely powerful, warp-speed fast, and have no logical reason for
existing other than to appeal to our emotions. And, if you are a lover of black
velvet Elvis Presley paintings, you might even convince yourself that the Viper
is more artistic in design than the Lamborghini. (And if that is the case, and you have a gun, and you want to be
put out of the misery of your bad taste…well I’d be too sensitive and hopeful
for your future to do it myself. But
I’m sure somebody would.)
But the “Lambos’?” Like I said. They sat
alone on a tiled platform. This great
plane of stone could have allowed access to hundreds of tire kickers. But
nobody lifted a foot up to step into the world of exotica. And when I dared my friend to hop up there
and pull a “Dukes of Hazzard” dive into the open half $ million convertible, he
pointed out the fact that there were no ropes. Indeed, not only were there no
obvious barricades, there were no “keep off” or “please do not touch” signs. No
human warning, of any kind, was there to keep us peasants from stepping foot
toward these Lions. Any of the hundred or so humans standing around that
platform could have simply raised one foot knee high, with every good legal
excuse, and simply walked across the field of automotive nirvana, legally
protected by the lack of signage or ropes…To touch the Mona Lisa. But nobody did.
And why is that? Why did the 200mph Viper have to be protected from the prying
public. But not the 204 mph Lamborghinis? Statistically they are very similar.
Sure, maybe the Lamborghini is a few miles per hour faster. Maybe it handles slightly better. And maybe, to even most of us peasants, it
looks a little cooler. Feels a little better, smells a little more sensual. But
why should it cost more than twice as much?
And, more importantly, why don’t we need ropes and signs to tell us to
keep away, the way the Viper does?
Maybe it’s because of clever marketing. But I don’t think so. After all, the Viper
doesn’t fool the professional car critics, who drive all of those exotics for
their living, until they get as jaded as cops working the inner city beat. I think that the same “mob mentality” that
causes riots, and that appeals to the lowest common denominator amongst us,
also works in just the opposite way.
When the highest sense of beauty sees heaven, the highest sense in all
of us rises to the occasion and recognizes that no matter what statistics
quote, no matter how much we pay, and no matter how much we might impress our
neighbours or the chicks on the street, art is art. It is passion that has been handed down from generation to
generation. It is an understanding of
pure value that has been fought for by some few individuals who are long
forgotten, who died only with the hope of passing on their passion for life,
and which, somehow, has passed from one person to another, without ever having
lost anything in translation, because of the strength of its purity. Until the product of all that heritage sits
before us. And inherently, we all know
that the Lamborghini is a work of human art.
We know that it won’t be laughed at by history. That it’s value will increase over
time. That even know, pound for pound,
moment by moment, the sensory perception our souls will regard this human
creation as an experience to be cherished.
And that the Viper, by comparison, is a piece
of shit. (I assume that nobody who
reads my rants owns a Viper. So no
apologies are necessary. On the other hand, if anybody out there who has
decided to read my rant is rich enough to own one, then I thank you for taking
the time to read this.)
This fact is so simply demonstrated by the
Auto show. We’ll not hesitate to paw and maul what we don’t respect. And so we
have to be told to keep our hands off. But we instinctively stand back in awe
of what we can’t help but to recognize as the artistry of our heritage.
(Ten minutes ago {now probably two hours ago
since my initial shock—and re-edit,}) I finally received a call from a Corporal
at Moss Park Armoury that the physical test that I MUST pass in order to be
enrolled as an officer in the CAF is scheduled for next Tuesday. So, unfortunately, this
rant, soon to be followed by the last of the rum in my cup, and the last
cigarette about to be put in my mouth…Is now over.)
Sorry folks.
I had so much more to say tonight.
But please come by next week. Because I’m sure
that no matter what I have to say then, I know it will mean more than anything
I have had to say so far (in this Friday night rant.) I apologize in advance
for any e-mail I left to any of you unanswered, beg for your forgiveness for
any detail in your life that I haven’t addressed, and humbly beg for your best
wishes in the pursuit of my new life.
May all of us face such rites of passage (even
if they are as far overdue as mine) with courage and conviction. And laugh
about them next Friday!
Seriously though, I can’t thank you all enough
for being out there during this past year of my life—whether or not you read my
words occasionally or every week—whether or not you agreed or disagreed with my
opinions—and whether or not you decided to respond to me or not.
(Oh…the other interesting experience was
rediscovering the classical music of the strings of “Adagio,” [which I am listening to right now.] ) I
watched a lovely, passionate young figure-skater be destroyed by this music at
the Olympics. But this subject will
have to wait for some other rant. Not
that I feel guilty! Since I’m sure that
this failed skating-superstar will receive more emails to her “official”
website this week than I will receive in my lifetime. But still…
She was poetry in motion.
Oh…and one last thing…speaking of courage…Lets
have a big cheer for Canada’s record 20 medals and third place finish in the Olympics this year!
(So far—as of one day from the closing
ceremony.)
Okay…I’m done now...
Ern
February 17, 2006
My landlady’s cat wants to get laid so bad
that she’s rubbing my hand as I type while she’s shoving her ass in the hutch
of my desk. And yet, when she’s not in heat, she won’t have anything to do with
me. So when I’d just like a cuddly pet to pet, she looks at me like I’m the
devil. But when she wants some hard
action, she drives me nuts. Because (aside from the fact that I’m not into
bestiality) I’m, well…not to brag or anything but, I’m hung like a horse, (at least in comparison to a cat’s need for
something about the size of a half-used crayon.)
So there is nothing I can do about it. We can never satisfy each other!
I don’t know if this is leading anywhere. And if it is, its probably already been
covered by Dr.’s Ruth and Phil a million times. And I doubt you dear readers visit my rant to catch an episode of
Oprah Winfrey.
(Speaking of which, I’d appreciate it if one
of you could remind me to rant about how that poor, brilliant writer, Something
Frey, should be laughing all the way to the bank for writing a novel that
impressed Oprah enough to get on her Book Club. Okay, so it was supposed to be
“non-fiction.” So the fuck what? He’s a former crackhead who wrote well
enough to get himself to the most coveted seat in American pulp culture. If I were him, caught in a lie, on Oprah’s
stage, I’d probably stare into the camera and say “Ah…yeah Oprah…I made that
up. It didn’t really happen. But it
might as well have because it was real in my story. I was really there in my heart. And it must have rung true to you
or I wouldn’t be here. But I just can’t
believe that I’m here! Being accused by
Oprah Winfrey! Thank you Oprah! Thank you for telling all of America to buy
my book! I guess I must be more than a
crackhead! Thank you! I love you! And
yes of course I made up some things. Yes I lied. But you loved the story I told! Right! Because it moved you,
right! So thank you Oprah!”)
(Actually, I think I just did the whole thing
right there. So never mind. I just hope you dear readers have the
patience to get back on track for what I really have to say…)
So I don’t think I’ll go there. But then,
where will I go? I mean it seams a
shame for me to ignore the lessons of my landlady’s cat, particularly since
Valentine’s Day has just passed. So I guess I’ll just ramble on, and hope for
the best, about what I will title tonight’s rant…LESSONS FROM ANIMALS, LUST,
LOVE, AND ROMANCE…IN EXACTLY THAT ORDER.
(Excuse me…that cat is literally screaming
right now)I LEARNED FROM SOME Discovery show (or at least I remember it that
way) that the human male is the only creature on earth that doesn’t actually
have a “bone” with which to give him a “boner.” (Don’t worry; the “Love and Romance” part is cumming.)
All we have are blood vessels that must fill
with blood to get things rising to the north. And, since it requires the heart
to pump this blood, and the mind to get it pumping, human mating is very
complicated.
I’m getting itchy from cat saliva! I just
tossed her down on the floor only to watch her dig her nails in the carpet,
shove her ass up in the air and start moaning.
“Abra Cadabra!” I wish, “Become Pamela
Anderson!”
No…she’s still a cat.
But what if this little cat did become Pamela Anderson, (substitute your own
“sex symbol” if this one doesn’t work for you) and then she(/he) looked up at
you, moaning, and said, through gritted, passionate teeth?…
“I really need to fart!”
Well, for some men, it wouldn’t make any
difference. For other weird fetishers,
this rant would be over right now. I, on the other hand, would be sending her
packing, while being inspired to write a whole new rant. It would all depend on
the thoughts that we thunk as we looked at this image.
To illustrate my point, a friend of mine told
me about how he used to lust after this gorgeous girl. He finally got to dance with her, let his
hand slide down to her ass, only to feel “a pad.” Suddenly, he was completely turned off. To this day (as of a
couple of years ago, when he told me about it) he regrets being turned off by
such a natural human thing.
And I’m sure his regret is inspired by the
fact that memory remembers real life, and naturally edits out anything that
doesn’t matter…like ideology.
The point is the mind. The mind creates the image of desire,
regardless of the actual person that the eyes gaze upon. In turn, the mind
sends the signals to the heart to get the blood pumping to the groin. Right?
(Doctors and Psychologists feel free to correct me if I’ve made any errors
here.)
Now how does all that tie in with
romance? Well if we were animals, we’d
simply sit in the middle of the dance floor with our “boners’ jutting out of
our pants shouting “sit on this thing before it explodes on the floor!”
Of course, we do enough of this already, but
not (normally) with an audience.
But as human males, no matter how experienced,
cynical or jaded we might be, sooner or later we find ourselves holding up the
wall of the high-school gym while we gaze longingly at the most beautiful girl
on the dance floor. And we imagine that we are the guy that’s dancing with
her. (Unless you’re the “Mr. male model”
that I spoke of last week, in which case you are the guy that’s dancing with her.) And we imagine how she could be the
one that would make us move mountains to be with her. That’s where “romance” comes in to the equation. We see her as an idol of all that is.
As Blue Rodeo sings…
“In your eyes I see that perfect world…I hope
that doesn’t sound too weird.”
This feeling that we guys have, the wash of
insane worship over somebody who we’d know must fart just like we do if we
weren’t so insane, is what turns lust into love. Because, while the mind thinks
fleetingly, the heart beats eternally.
But the heart needs help from the mind to make
romance last. Because it takes thought
to turn the Madonna into the Person who is just as desirable as the Madonna
that the heart started pumping blood for in the first place. So, as a middle aged, single guy, resting
between all that was before and all that will be, I’d say to all you friends
who are hooked up with that girl in the highschool gym…Do nothing but remember
that moment, even if she was in line at the bank, wiping snot from her nose
when that “perfect world” moment happened.
Forget about everything else that’s happened since. I know that’s a tall order to ask. Believe me, I’ve been there, and obviously
failed to do what I’ve asked of you.
But she’s still there. She is
that Madonna.
They all are.
On the other hand, if you are finding yourself
holding up that wall, gazing at that perfect, beautiful girl, don’t question
it. Don’t be cynical. Don’t remember the horrors of your
past. Just enjoy the moment to feel the
blood pumping in your veins. And
remember, when you look at this woman that you think must be too beautiful to
be true, that when you were born, the whole world was there to be discovered.
And you are still discovering it.
Because everyone comes to us as the coastline
of a distant shore that beacons rejuvenation.
And beyond that shore lays a country that could take a lifetime to be
discovered.
Okay.
I admit that this is probably my worst written entry. But it’s Valentine’s week. And so I’m writing only from the heart. I’m impassioned and insane and completely
beyond logic and reason. OKAY!?
(Of course, despite my defensiveness, your
comments are always welcome.)
February 10, 2006
Is anybody out there tonight? Or am I writing
to myself? Do I have anything worth
saying tonight? Or am I lost at sea?
Think I’ll go for a smoke and think about my next sentence, so that I
don’t have to end it with another question mark.
Did I really need that smoke? So much for that idea. Now I’m freezing, and still don’t know what
to talk about.
Maybe I’m reaching for faith.
Yeah…I think I’ll go with that title. MAYBE I’M REACHING FOR FAITH. Or, does one step up have to
mean that you’ve gone two steps back?
So today I was shaving in the change room at
the gym. And I noticed that my body didn’t look like a big jellybean
anymore. Shapes of muscles were
gradually pushing through the fat. My belly
didn’t look like it had just swallowed a bowling ball. I felt I had taken a step forward, as though
my path was sure for a moment. And then
a Mr. male model stepped up and started shaving beside me. Six-pack stomach, ripped biceps. Chiselled face under a full dark mane. The whole bit. So I turned to him and said,
“Excuse me, but I was having a moment here.
So could you go fuck off and die?”
Okay, so I didn’t actually verbalize the
words. But for a moment, I did allow myself to lose faith in myself, by
comparing myself to someone else. I allowed myself to ignore all the progress
I’d made in pursuing my goal. I forgot
about the fact that’ I’d never pop a button anymore. Ever. Forgot all the
congratulations I’d received lately, or all the encouragement I’ve received
from friends and you, dear readers. I just thought about all the moments where
I’d lost my discipline, given into a vice or an emotional weakness.
And today I had to let people down who had
given me so much generosity, by sending a painful e-mail to inform them that I
wouldn’t be able to continue with a business opportunity that was offered to
me. They’re all great people, and yet I couldn’t manage to convince myself to
share their dream. Does this make me a hypocrite? I felt like I had shown
myself to be somebody you can’t count on. I want to believe that I explored the
opportunity to fullest extent, and then realized that it was the wrong course
of action for me. But all I can be sure of was that I had to make a decision.
And I decided against it.
And in my heart I’ve taken careful steps some
days, and careless ones on other days, to reach out to an angel who resides
here on earth. One step up, two steps
back.
But I know that I am here for a reason, and
when I really try, I can see that I’m making that reason happen in my life.
So as for faith, I’ve learned that you must
choose a path, forgive yourself when you lose your way, and know that whatever
the result of your actions may be, that in the end, if you know that your path
is truly the one you have chosen for yourself, you will find freedom. And in the meantime, you might as well just
enjoy the ride.
February 3, 2006
I was out Karaokeing a couple of days ago,
partying my face off and spending my nest-egg with oblivious abandon when a
couple of girls got up on stage and sang a country tune that had nothing to do with
broken hearts or d-i-v-o-r-c-e or any of those other country music
clichés. I believe the song was called
“The World Needs a Drink.” It lamented about how this planet has been spinning
around for so long with all kinds of problems that it just needed to chill out,
have a drink and calm down. And when
the cute girls got to the line about how “The Empire State Tower hates the
Eiffel Tower” (or something like that,) I thought…Yeah…Fuckin’A right! If only
we could all chill out, all around the world, even for a day, run down to the
beach and party our faces off, maybe we could get a new perspective.
So I think I’ll title my rant tonight along
the lines and grammar of Stanley Kubrick’s great film, Dr. Strangelove, or how I stopped
worrying and learned to love the bomb.
http://kubrickfilms.warnerbros.com/video_detail/dsl/index.html
So my long-winded title of tonight’s rant is…
WHY WE SHOULD ALL HAVE A DRINK. Or, how I learned to
appreciate the reflection on the water
that brings it all together to project the story of a life well lived.
Give me a moment while I top up my rum’n diet
Coke….Well this oughta’ be an easy one. Write about drinking…drink…write about
drinking…drink…ritebut drinkinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…drrnc…and ah,.wrriiiiiir4te
afv…
Anyway…Yeah.
So we have an advocate of Suicide bombings (Hamas) now becoming the
elected government of Palestine. We
have shouting war protesters being thrown out of American Press conferences.
“New Orleans is Sinking,” (As The Tragically Hip sings,) still, after five
months since the hurricane. West Virginian families are being torn apart by a
mining accident that should be as extinct as the dark ages with the technology
that we have available to us today, and then are tortured even further by false
information that proclaimed a miraculous outcome.
Iran is building the next bomb. I.E.D. (Improvised Explosive Device) is
becoming a universally understood term today, as these insidious weapons kill
people who are just trying to rebuild a country, as well as even more innocent
civilians that we never hear about, just as W.M.D (Weapon of Mass Destruction)
became understood by families around the world when George Bush proposed the
Iraq war in the first place. Another
U.S. Postal worker has “Gone Postal,”shooting and killing six people, including
herself. Government surveillance in America is reaching back toward the 1950’s
Macarthy Era paranoia. Gun violence in
my home city is becoming infamous even outside Canada. Even though the number of 55 for the year of
05 pales by comparison to the 374 in Detroit, whose guts have rotted out to the
point where her population has dropped to 900,000. (As compared to our two and
a half million.) Hearts should bleed
for so many cities. And then you have
European newspapers publishing cartoons depicting Allah, and Muslims protesting
around the world at the indignity and…Holy Fuck!
Lets all go down to the beach and have a
drink, man!
I sit here and try to imagine what power could
exist that would make me want to strap a bomb around my belly, or raise a gun
to somebody’s head. So now I look back over this past year and remember the
times that I have imagined losing a loved one to some senseless act of
violence, like a stray bullet cutting out the life of somebody I loved. I’ve imagined how I might say “Fuck it all.
I’m gonna’ make it my mission to hunt down and kill that asshole.” But then, if I succeeded in my mission, a
second after I’d put a bullet through his brain, what would I have? I couldn’t pull the bastard up by his balls
and say “You see asshole? That’s what
you get for killing my wife/child/mother/father,” because he’d be dead. And I’d
be in no shape to love again because I’d be consumed by the thought that my
loved one was never coming back and I had spent all this time avenging her
death, rather than trying to love somebody, only to wind up with a corpse that
I couldn’t get the satisfaction of hating any more than I could hate a rock.
Or, as I heard this morning, about a guy who
had the new roof that he had slaved away to rebuild on his house in New
Orleans, ripped off by a tornado. If I
were him I might just say “Oh fuck it! Obviously
there is no god looking out for me, so I’m not going to bother with faith
anymore. So I’m just gonna’ fuck as many hookers as I can until my money runs
out and I die of starvation. ‘Cause
what else is there?” In my case, that would mean about 80 moments of sexual
gratification, (guessing on a an average price per each minute of orgasm)
followed by a long, painfully slow death. Wow. What a legacy I would leave! How
many school kids would watch the inspiring documentary of my life?
Of course, its so easy for me to preach, and
think rationally, as I sit here in my comfortable life…take a sip…in my little,
violence-free home office. And its easy to theorize that we all lash out in
anger, and cause so much grief that causes so much more anger to lash out with
even more violence. Because that is so
much easier to do than to admit, and to surrender, to our fears.
But still, I’d like to imagine that no matter
what misfortune might come my way, in the end I’d choose to run to the beach,
help build a fire, crack open a beer, and tell the horrible story of my life to
whoever was beside me, who was cracking open his/her beer, (while regarding
that person as a friend, without judgement).
And then I’d like to think that I’d repay the favour by listening with an
empathetic ear, to his/her own terrible story. And maybe we’d bond, understand
that we’d suffered the same fate, and realize that, (as God—you know, Bruce
Springsteen—would sing,) “Spare parts
and Broken Hearts keep the world turning.”
Of course, I’d have to be prepared for the
fact that if all the world gathered on this beach, that the killer of my loved
one might be the one I’m telling my story to. But, if that was the case, I’d
also have to face the fact that he was there for the same reason that I was.
Then I’d like to think that I’d be tipsy
enough to gaze into the passion of the blazing fire, and then up into the clear
northern sky at the majesty of all the stars that God placed there. And I’d hope that I could see that all the
evil I that I had done to others, and all that had been done to me, even if it
was by God, was due to human fear. Or at the very least, simply by being in the
wrong place at the wrong time. Because
what do we all want? I imagine it’s the
same fundamental things that I want. I want to be loved. I want to give the love that I have to give.
And I want to believe that a higher power is there to give me the courage to
give and receive that love that allows me to appreciate the passion of the
fire, the majesty of the stars, and the reflection on the water that brings it
all together to project the story of a life well lived.
And then I’d crack another cold one and
realize that every evil thing that I’d ever done, as well as everybody else’s
evil deed was inspired by the fear of not being included in this great goal
that we all have.
But damn! Imagine if all of the billions of us
could all take a day to run down to the beach and share our beer, vodka, rum,
or even our green tea, and realize that we are all partying for the same reason.
To get together and banish the word “fear”
from the vocabulary of all our collective dictionaries.
January 27, 2006
Okay, now that the great Alberta party is in the past and I’ve been
faced with all the nitty-gritty details of starting up a new business (cost
analysis to analyze, contracts to read etc.) my creative inspiration has been
drained to the max, not only because of the aforementioned, but because I’ve
also had to fight off bronchitis while still working out at the gym every day
to meet my goal of becoming an officer in the CAF. Although, on that note, I’m
happy to report that I can now meet two of the three physical requirements—14
push-ups and 17 sit-ups. (I can just
hear the laughter from all you physically fit people.) And, although the 2.4km run in under 13
minutes remains to be seen, I can now wear my skinniest “skinny jeans” and will
have to invest in a new bathing suit before I swim again, lest I be arrested
for indecent exposure.
But damn it all to hell, I think I’m going to have to quit smoking
before I can meet that last challenge!
So I think I’ll turn this rant over to one of you dear readers, since I
am just too exhausted tonight to come up with any “deep thoughts.” Although I asked you dear readers to only
submit “fresh” rants as opposed to responses to my thoughts, I’m breaking that
rule tonight, simply to provide you all with something to read. Please stay
tuned next week when I promise to think of something that I hope will be, at
best, provocative, or at the very least, entertaining…
And now, without further ado, please check out my “guest’s rant”
tonight, uncut and unedited, which was a reply to my rant from last week…
“(Feel free to post
if desired)
Hello Ernie!
I'm happy to say we are in agreement! So called "rich people"
do
deserve the wealth they've earned through their willingness to take
risk, and most importantly, maintain a strong, positive outlook.
Unfortunately, there is a bias against the wealthy in some
quarters.
In fact, wealth is often used as a political tool to polarize voters
into "haves" and "have-nots". Demonizing "the
rich" as though they
became wealthy solely by greedily taking more than "their fair
share"
of the pie. Ironically, some of the wealthiest among us are
frequently the ones espousing the strongest anti-rich rhetoric.
You don't have to look far to see examples of this anti-rich
mentality. Just watch the news, or read a newspaper, and you can
see
countless examples of those portrayed as "greedy" in pursuit of
what
is implied as worst sin of all: Profit! Corporations are constantly
portrayed as the embodiment of pure evil.
Why do some of us detest the rich? Why are some of the richest
among
us bashing the rich? Well, like so many other issues, the divide is
often ideological.
The left benifits from people disliking the wealthy because it means
votes. Votes mean power, and power means wealth. So by
"standing up
for the little guy" the left is ultimately empowering (and
enriching)
themselves. This is evidenced by there efforts. Efforts that
never
focus on how to earn more, it's always about punishing those who have
already figured it out.
The reality is that the wealthy and corporations continue to create
more jobs and more prosperity than any social or government program
ever will. Employment means income, and income empowers people with
control over their own lives. The more money you have, the more
power you have over your own life, and the less you need some bozos
telling you how to live.
Being negative comes naturally to us humans. Being positive
requires
effort. It is much easier to assume the role of victim, and see the
rich as having taken what should be yours, than to make the effort to
grow your own piece of the pie! What a miserable existence it must
be to spend each day feeling "screwed by the man"! A sustained-
miserable-existence is precisely the result of buying into the whole
victimized mindset.
Rob”
January 20, 2006
I was introduced to a new career opportunity this week. Somehow I had entrusted enough people in my
life to end up being sent on a business trip to the beautiful town of Canmore
Alberta, a small town nestled in the
middle of the spectacular Rocky Mountains.
I was treated like a king, not only by my former (and still sort of
current) boss, who flew me out there, but by people I had never met before.
And so, along with the majesty of the Rocky Mountains that I have seen
far too few times in my life, I witnessed the great peaks of truly wealthy
people. They reminded me of why I
respect “rich” people.
The subject of my rant tonight, WHY RICH PEOPLE DESERVE THEIR WEALTH.
Of course there is no hard and fast rule, as life is not always fair.
But for the most part, whenever I have encountered and gotten to know people
who are financially secure for life, I have been compelled to respect them for
the following reasons.
Rich people care more about how they can enjoy life, rather than
complaining about what’s wrong with it.
Rich people ask you sincere questions about yourself. And they treat you
as if you deserve to be rich as well.
They have an innate sense that you can do what they have done, if only
you can let go of whatever fears may be blocking your path. And therefore…
They’ll take a risk by trusting you first, and then asking questions
later. And even when they do ask questions, they do so to help you, rather than
to destroy you.
Rich people have been humbled by the inevitable losses that they have
taken as they charged boldly through life, and will freely admit their
failures, if only to reassure you that they are human, just like yourself.
And they share their disasters, as well as their triumphs, because they
also like to share the adventure of life with you, whatever the results are,
because they know that the adventure is the important thing.
Rich people invest in making other people rich.
Rich people are rich with money because they are rich with passion, in
its purest, truest form.
They love life. And life loves them back.
Business trip anecdote: While partying at the local
watering hole that one night in Alberta, this gorgeous young woman directs my
attention to an elegant lady across the way and says “she was the first woman
to scale Mount Everest.” A few minutes
later I had the pleasure of meeting this world-famous mountain-climber. She shook my hand and smiled warmly, just as
any good soul would do.
Does life get any more majestic than that?
January 13, 2006
(Please stay tuned for our first “Guest Rant.”)
Ooooo…Friday the 13th! And it’s only the second Friday of the year! I don’t have a calendar handy but there will probably be more on
the way this year. Does this signal a
foreboding message of bad luck coming our way? Or is bad luck just Nature’s way
of making us learn to face new challenges?
Do we see the glass “half full” or “half empty?” This morning, on the
news, I saw that the “13th” floor of Toronto’s City Hall is occupied
by air conditioning units. Ever notice how most buildings have no “13th”
floor?
I wonder how many new houses will no longer have the address “911?”
Every time that I see one, a chill runs down my spine. And I feel bad for the
occupants of those addresses for the weight they must draw on their shoulders.
I mean, just think, nearly 2000 souls lost their lives on that day. It was the
month of my birth. It was a date that symbolizes the phone # for which we call
for help. How much irony lies in
that? And why do we call that tragic
day “9-11”? Where were you when 9-11
happened? I’m sure it’s a moment that we will all remember. I, for example,
remember exactly how I woke up early that morning, for no particular reason,
since my work happened in the evening, just to tune in to CNN, and hear how an
“airplane—probably a small private plane” had just hit the World Trade Center.
And then, a few minutes later, another aircraft hit. And on a clear blue
morning. And I remember thinking, “How can this be? An accident like that might
happen once in a blue moon. But twice,
to two buildings that stood side by side?
And then I realized…”Holy fuck! This is an attack!” To which I remember
yelling out, “Oh My fucking Christ!” And then waking my wife with my cry. Then, in the evening of that same day, I had
to go to work, as usual, and make pleasantries with my customers. How do you
honestly say to a stranger, “Hi, how are you today?” when so many people, so
near to us, have not just died tragically, but have been deliberately murdered?
And yet, even as I write this, a horrible murder, rape, or psychological
crime is happening to thousands of people around the world. Maybe tens of thousands. As that old(ish)
Van Halen song sings, “Right now” somebody is having a knife penetrating their
heart, watching their baby die, or is being raped. And those are just the easy
things to imagine. And those things are happening to at least as many people as
who collectively died on that tragic day that we all, in this part of the
world, will remember forever.
What is the point of my rant tonight? I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out. Maybe it is simply THE DARK SIDE.
Ah! That’s it! My point tonight is that maybe all of us, who are now so
frustrated that we are being cut-off on the road, or standing too long in line
at the bank/grocery store or what-have-you, or have just lost too much money on
a bad gamble/speeding ticket/advertised special (that turned out not to be so
“special,”), or are now fighting with our spouse over the Christmas credit card
bills, or have just had a “Bad” Friday the 13th, should take a deep
breath and realize just how lucky we are, even on this “bad luck” day, to have
the luxury to complain about such things, since we aren’t too busy being
murdered, raped, or are watching those people we love dying before our eyes.
Because right this minute, thousands of lives are being destroyed,
violently, for no good reason that can be justified by saying something as
stupid as “God works in mysterious ways.”
For example, I saw the other day how a woman who had just survived the
crash of an airliner, and who had witnessed so much tragic death, who was
stunned to see how life went on the next day.
Traffic on the road. People
joking around. Business going on as usual. Even though, just the day before,
she was one of those people. She was shocked at the total absence of the sense
of tragedy, within sight of where the carnage had taken place. And I could feel
her point. Imagine seeing people you
have just been talking to being cut in half, their bodies exploding. And knowing that your child has also seen this,
and thanking God for and your child surviving, even though the horrors that you
have witnessed will live in your nightmares for the rest of your life. And
then, the next day you see your whole life-changing experience summed up as a
two minute “sound byte” on the news, and all of the people around you go on
with their sunny day, complaining about how they got two sugars in their coffee
when they asked for one, or about some other banal little problem that came
their way.
So maybe it is time that we actually take a moment to really understand
how dark life can be, and really empathise with the people, no matter who they
are, or where on earth they live, or what colour, race, or religion they belong
to, who, right this minute, are going through whatever unjustified hell that
they are being subjected to, and then thank God, Fate, Allah, or whatever
belief we can find, to realize just how lucky we are to have the luxury of
being superstitious.
I can sum all this up
by quoting two opposing lines from a great Terence Mallick film entitled “The
Thin Red Line.”
A General Officer, on firing a Lieutenant under his command for
disobeying an order that would surely have caused many of the Lieutenant’s
soldiers their deaths, says something like “Look how the vines crawl around
those trees, suffocating them. (Referring to the Guadalcanal Jungle.)” After a
thoughtful pause, he continues…
“Nature is cruel.”
That line, to me, shows us how we must look at life clearly, so that we
can all appreciate the last line of the same film…And the last line that we
should all be aware of, all the time.
“All things shine.”
And now, for our first “Guest Rant.”
This passage, posted below, was submitted to me, to be posted here. I
hope you all read it with appreciation for the effort that this writer put
forth to be read by all those around the world who happened to tune in tonight!
“Hello!
I must admit I do
become frustrated with people communicating WHILE doing something
else. Heaven forbid someone should actually drive a car without being
distracted by a cellphone, or stand in line without subjecting others to their
endless babel. But my greatest irritation stems from putting me
at risk: talking while nonchalantly driving. Not even the slightest
hint that driving is a primary
focus. Completely irresponsible prioritization of ones
attention!
The subject of guns
has been frequented here of late. The causes and cures are
polarizing, but the horrific tragedies that do happen are
undeniable. Yet when you come right down to it, how much difference
is there between someone haplessly hurtling multiple tons of
steel, and a bullet? Not much -- other than a car is much larger, and can
easily surpass the destructive force of any bullet!
Communication
options are good. Communicating at the expense of safety, or even
human courtesies, is not.
That's my
'communicate with anyone other than those who reside in the same room as I'
rant! ha-ha
Rob”
For all you readers, please note that you are welcome to submit your own
“rant.” I will post it, as per my rules that I mentioned last week (January
6th.) Also note that I will forward
responses to your rant (anonymously) to you, by the following Friday.
January 6, 2006,
Well, before I get into whatever subject I’m going to get into tonight,
let me briefly reiterate the idea that I came up with (thanks to a couple of
you dear readers) on Tuesday…
The Guest Rant. Anyone who
wishes to use this space to talk to the world about whatever they want is
welcome to. Send me your words in the
body of an e-mail with quotation marks around the “exact wording” that you wish
to post here. Please include your name within those “”marks if you wish your
identity to be known. Otherwise I will
leave you anonymous. Please feel free to write whatever you want, as briefly as
possible, (like I’m one to talk!) just as long as it is not obviously “hate
mail” directed at any particular named individual, race, religion, gender,
sexual orientation etc. Your deadline
is Friday evening. I will post it that night, (assuming yours is the only one
that I receive,) below my own “rant” or by itself under the heading “Guest
Rant.” Though I will not personally comment on your rant publicly, I may mail
you a response. I will also collect all
e-mail responses that I receive about your rant and forward them to you
sometime the following week, keeping the identities of those respondents
anonymous as well.
(Although, I must thank the dear reader who suggested that this “guest rant”
idea was a bad one because you guys really just want to read “my” rants!)
Now, I was offered a guest rant tonight, and would have posted it except
that this rant was a direct response to mine.
And, although it was well written, it would have required me to re-post
my own rant for his to make any sense, and therefore have decided against it.
This led me to come up with one last rule.
Make sure your message is a “stand-alone” rant, that doesn’t require the
reader to refer to some other piece to make your rant make sense.
Anyway…Hmmm…This is tough tonight, as I have undergone major life
changes in this first week of the year.
For the past seven months I’ve lived off gallons of coffee per day, been
around people 10 to 17 hours per, been accustomed to the routine of being told
when to be where to do what all the time, slept three hours per, smoked nearly
a pack per, and been so wired on caffeine and nicotine, that I easily found
inspiration, through bad health, to almost always have something to rant about
by Friday night. And now, of my own choosing.
It’s all over. And frankly, I’m
in a state of shock. This past week for example, I have been around people for
a grand total of about twenty hours.
The rest of the time I have been alone by myself, or alone in a crowd
when I was at the gym, frantically trying to undo all the damage that I have
done to my body over the past year. And the pressure is really on in that
department as I also discovered this week that, in order to proceed with my new
“military” career, I can’t submit the paperwork and then take the next six
months to get in shape to begin training.
Because one of the questions on the form is basically “can you pass
these three physical tests?” So I have to get in shape fast. Ergo, tonight, all my muscles ache, I have a
bloody toe and my back is killing me as I write this. Also, one of my two sales
jobs—the one that was stable and secure—vanished before my eyes, so the
financial pressure is on as well.
On top of all that, I’m drinking vodka and V-8 tonight, instead of my
usual rum’n’diet Coke. See! I’m even drinking healthy! (getting my veggies and all.) And damn it’s
so…uninspiring.
(Please don’t respond with lectures here! I already know what needs to
be done. But it’s my first week of my new life, so I’m on vacation. Okay?)
Well…
That was a dull five minutes of staring at the screen. Good thing you aren’t reading this as I’m
writing it. “Real time” as they say. Which reminds me that I haven’t been
entirely alone this week, since I’ve been “virtually” connected to many of
you. And for the first time, today I
was “instant messaged.” Suddenly, as
I’m checking my e-mail, my screen flashes with “so and so wishes to speak to
you” or something like that. Now I’m sure for many of you dear readers, this is
an everyday occurrence. Not for me. So
I guess my topic tonight is MODERN COMMUNICATION. Is it an improvement over the old ways?
A message flashes before my eyes, demanding my attention because it overlays
what I am directly looking at. “Flash! Flash! Somebody wants to talk to you.
Flash Flash.” Unlike a ringing phone,
that I am used to, and which is sitting over there, and which I can choose
to ignore or pick up, here is this whole new medium DEMANDING my
attention. And of course the novelty of
this whole new medium makes it that much more demanding. Oh…where am I going
with this?
Anyway, I answer this call from a perfect stranger, who has found me
through a website that I have joined, and which, through my joining, invites
perfect strangers to contact me. So of
course I’m flattered. And I’m obligated to “Put my money where my mouth is.”
But then I find myself typing sentences in “real time” when all my instinct
tells me that I should be “talking.” And, because she has chosen to contact me
first thing in the morning, I must ask her to hold on for a few minutes so that
I can go out and have my morning smoke.
Luckily, a smoker herself, she understands. But then, as I’m having my butt, I remember that my wireless
connection often gives out on me and I contemplate whether or not I should warn
her that we may be cut off at any given moment. Then I come back from my smoke, rejoin the conversation where we
left off, and start getting used to the idea of typing fast, observing when
she’s typing so as not to type new words ahead of her replies and I just start
getting into the groove of this whole new medium when BAM! The connection is
lost. I click on “repair, wait ten seconds, we’re reconnected. I begin to apologize for the lost
connec…BAM! The connection is lost. I
click on “repair,” reconnect, finish my sentence. BAM! The connection is
lost. Finally, after this goes on for
another five times or so in the space of ten sentences I have to tell my “IM” caller
that I have to end this conversation. I
e-mailed her an apology tonight.
But even aside from the constant headache of my failing wireless router,
I’ve come to conclude that conversations—i.e.—real time communication between
two or more people is best left to the human vocal chords (or hand signing—in
the case of the deaf).
Now, through a program called “Skype,” that you can download for free,
you can call me right now, as long as you have speakers and a microphone. And,
no matter where you are in North America, the call is free. I’ve had this on my computer for about six
months and yet I’ve used it for about ten minutes. Because either I am “away” or the person I want to call is
“away.” Or my connection is failing me again.
Or maybe we’re all just putting our settings on “away” all the time
because it is just too disconcerting to be working on your computer and all of
a sudden have it “ring” at you and cause a big visual commotion before your
eyes.
Maybe the advent of e-mail was the zenith of modern communication. Because electronic mail gave us the ability
and ease to go back to the old way of writing somebody a letter. Where you
could take your time to think about what you wanted to say, edit your words,
perfect your message, but then allow you to bypass the whole cumbersome
procedure of putting it in an envelope, going out and buying a stupid stamp,
and then having to write out a big long mailing address. And then knowing that
the person you wrote to wouldn’t receive your message for days.
Now we have the good old art of “writing letters” combined with the
modern and instantaneous convenience of the “SEND” button!
Combine that with the former great stride in modern communication, the
cell-phone, which suddenly allowed us to never have to look for a payphone if
we weren’t by our home land-line, and what more do we need? More importantly,
why do we want it?
Oh…Now I’m catching my stride…Finally…Now that I think of the ridiculous
tangents that the cell phone has taken on since its brilliant introduction.
Size, for example. Just the opposite of
the penile analogy, does small size really matter? How small does a cell have to get before it
gets ridiculous. Granted, the 1st cellular phone I ever got weighed
about 3 pounds and was the size of those old WW 2 walkie-talkies. (You can still see them in old “Miami Vice”
re-runs!) Now my phone is…wait…I’m going to measure it…11 centimetres long by 1
and a half centimetres thick. (about 4” by ¾” for you Yankees) And by today’s
standards, that’s huge! I’m so uncool
by having a phone that has buttons that are easy to use. And speaking of buttons…Text messaging. Oh my god! I can sit and watch a teenager
spend five minutes typing “W..H..A..T…...A…R…E.......Y…O…U……D…O…I…N…G…..T…O…N…I…G…H…T…?”
And I want to grab him/her by the shoulders and say “HEY! Guess what? That’s a
fucking PHONE that you’re typing on! Doh! Why don’t you just press the
speed-dial button and say ‘Hey, what are you doing tonight?’ It’ll take two seconds…And that is what the
fucking phone was made for!!! The whole purpose of that thing in your hand is
to give you the ability to ‘talk’ to a person! Its inventor spent a good part
of his life to figure out how to give you the ability to do that, just so you
wouldn’t have to do what you are now doing! Just as he was forced to do a hundred
years ago, because the phone didn’t exist!!!”
And then you have your camera phones and internet phones and all these
services that only serve to make cell companies rich by sending us huge bills
for things that we don’t need and which really only hinder communications
anyway. A camera in a phone. What’s that good for? The proliferation of
“Up-Skirts” websites? Or do you really
want to pay extra to see a tiny 1” x 1” picture of the boy/girlfriend that you
are talking to? And is your life a
better place to be because you can spend two hours of it trying to choose
between one of ten thousand different ring tones?
Oh…I think I’ll just summarize by taking a deep breath and suggesting
that maybe we should all take a moment to think about what we’d like to say to
someone. And then say it verbally, or with the written word. Then savour that communication that we just
had with each other.
Then let’s pull out our “communications” bills and ask ourselves if we
can’t step back a little from all the marketing schemes, save ourselves some
cash, and talk a little more like we used to…
By the campfire.
God I sound like such an old fart, don’t I? And at the tender young age
of….ah…forty-one.
Have a good morning, everyone.
December 30, 2005,
A GUN battle takes place on a busy Toronto street leaving six innocent
bystanders wounded and a 15 year girl, caught in the crossfire, is dead. The day after Christmas. I wish to God that my argument hadn’t been
proven so tragically.
That is the last comment that I am going to make about handguns. And
while I always welcome your comments, please don’t expect a response if you
don’t agree with me as nothing you say will make me change my mind about the
simple fact that the handgun must be eradicated from the hands of all private
citizens around the world. (Just as I never expected to change your minds’ in
the first place.)
Anyway…
So a new year is only 24 and some odd hours away as I write this. I guess that means that its resolution time
for those of us who decide to make only one day out of every year of our lives
the day that we decide to make ourselves better in any number of ways. Isn’t that sad? I mean, that only gives the average North American 78.5 days or
so, (less than a quarter of a year) out of their entire lives, to make a point
of improving themselves. (Minus the 12 to 16 days in our wise childhood years
when we don’t even think of such things!)
So tonight I post my resolutions for 2006, so that the world can be my
witness, and so that I will be forced to answer to all of you out there, should
I fail in any way.
ERNIE’S NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS
(Beginning January 2nd,
2006. As I’m sure that January 1st,
2006, will be occupied with recovering from the last night of
2005.)
I resolve…
1. …To make every day a
resolution day. Every day I will attempt to do something that
scares me. That doesn’t mean climbing the Himalayas on Tuesday necessarily,
just that I will push myself beyond my idea of my own limitations. Whether it
be writing another page when I’m sure I have no creativity left, doing an extra
rep at the gym or pushing myself to understand someone else’s point of view.
2. …To be “cut” by the end of
the year. I will
weigh not an ounce above 159 lbs and I will be in the same standards of health
as a professional athlete which means that…
3. …This will be the year that
I quit smoking. This won’t happen tomorrow and probably not
even next month. But at some point this
year, when I can’t think of anything else to do that scares me, that will be
the day that I pick to quit. For
good. For life.
4. …To let go of all past
wounds to my soul. I will live with the wisdom of how much life can and has dished
out in my history, and remember how much I have dished out in retaliation that
was inspired by the weakness of my own heart.
But I will understand that all has been cancelled out. And that I now have a blank cheque with
which to write a new destiny, free of bitterness, preconceptions, and
philosophies that haven’t worked in the past.
5. …To be honest with myself
and with others. No matter how many times it may mean changing
my mind or altering my plans I will do nothing that I don’t want to do, (within
reasonable bounds—I won’t necessarily bud to the front of a line at a bank for
example,) convince myself of something that I know is wrong, or lie to myself
or anyone else about my intentions, my emotions or my ideas. And finally...
6. …To find a partner to love
in all ways. I won’t
rush this one, even if it means working on it into ’07. I won’t presume to know
who she is or what she will be like.
All I know tonight is that she will be someone who gains my complete
respect and devotion. And when I find
her, (if I haven’t already) she will know that I will make it a mission in my
life to make her life the fullest and richest that it can be.
These resolutions I make so that I don’t suffer the fate of the
character in God’s (otherwise called Bruce Springsteen) wistful ballad, “My
Father’s House.”
“My father's house shines hard and bright…It stands like a beacon
calling me in the night
Calling and calling, so cold and alone
Shining 'cross this dark highway where our sins lie unatoned.”
And I think I’ll leave it at that. For all of you dear readers, I wish
that all good things come your way next year and I thank you all for reading my
thoughts since I began this crazy escapade, and for responding to them, and I
hope that we are all still here, still healthy, and still talking for years to
come.
Sincerely,
Ernie Kosanyi.
December 16, 2005,
I’ve received comments from you dear readers that imply my rants are too
long. Or that you haven’t been reading
because it takes too long to download my site.
So tonight, I’ll try to accommodate you with a “Rant-lite, Version One
point O.”
Its hard to come up with something to be pissed off about tonight, as I
feel so much at peace with my world. However, I have been dismayed about how
many people have been killed by other people with guns in my city over this
past year. Fifty, at last count, have been murdered in Toronto by handguns,
raising our murder average to about 75 in total, over our yearly average of
about 65. And with the Christmas season now upon us, surely more tragedies,
spawned by loneliness, will come, raising our total even further.
Now, debates about handguns are pretty polarized. Either you are in the
“guns kill people” camp or you are in the “people kill people” camp. I hesitate going on about this because I’m
not sure if I have anything fresh to add to such a tired debate. And, I must admit that it’s even hard for me
to get emotional about the people who have lost their lives to a bullet, since
most of those killed by one (or more) have also been perfectly willing and able
to kill someone with their own gun. Sometimes I’m tempted to join the cynical
chorus and say “let them all just shoot each other until none of them are left
alive.” And poof! The violence ends.
But then a father, watching t.v. with his child, is killed by a stray bullet
that has blasted right through the wall of his house, and he dies right there
in front of his kid. Or a mother,
running into a coffee shop, gets hit in the back and is paralyzed for life. Then you hear that she was the primary
caregiver to a child of hers who was also incapacitated and you just have stop
and mourn for the injustice of it all.
And even for those killed who were would-be-killers. Even they have mothers and fathers who must
be devastated by the loss of their sons.
Because even a killer with a gun was once a child with a look of
innocence who loved his Mom and his Dad.
He was a whole person, an individual who, at one time or another, made
his parents smile.
The HANDGUN. What is it? A piece
of metal with a few moving parts which, if utilized properly, can end
somebody’s life prematurely. By itself,
however, it is as benign as a toaster.
Just an object. It’s a thing that could sit on a kitchen table and never
hurt a soul. So why should it be the subject of so much controversy?
Well…because, as a local politician recently said “it turns a punk into
a killer.” And why is that? Because a handgun is designed to shoot
something at close range, with easy carrying capacity. A punk can shove it in his jeans and know
that he has the power of life and death over anybody who crosses his path. And this is the only reason for the
handgun’s existence. Because of its short barrel, it is inherently less
accurate than a “long gun,” i.e. a rifle or a shotgun, the former of which is
suited to hunting animals or for target practice, and the latter of which is
more suited to shooting birds, or for shooting attacking predators while you
are out, openly armed, hunting birds.
So my point is, is that it is the “potentiality” of a handgun that makes
it a killer. It is knowing that, if you “carry” you can be lethal. And you can
be silent, mobile and ready at any given moment, to kill a person. That fact
negates all the work that humanity demands for one to be loving and whole and
spiritual. It negates family, which negates the continuation of the human race.
Because, with a gun, you don’t have to worry about reason or
understanding. You don’t have to work
to understand your enemy’s point of view. You don’t have to think about why you
disagree with this other person’s clearly wrong viewpoint. You don’t have to give your money away to
this individual who is robbing you with his handgun. And, most importantly, you
feel you can defend yourself, and those you love, against that individual, with
your own gun, by killing him, before he kills you and yours.
But if there were no handguns, there would be no easy way out of
humanity. There would be no “point-shoot-end-of-problem” mentality. If you
wanted to kill somebody you’d have to pass many tests that most of us would
fail. First of all, you’d have to plan
ahead. If you plan to kill a person
with a long gun, you’d have to think about how you would get that gun within
range of that person without being detected.
That fact alone would make most people reconsider and start to think,
“Is it rational, what I am planning to do?” Or consider the case of a “crime of
passion” where somebody thinks “Oh I have to kill this fuckin’ asshole right
now!” How are you going to do it without a handgun?
Are you going to run to the “rifle-closet” with your key in hand, and
then go to the “ammunition-drawer” with your other key because you are a
responsible rifle owner who always makes sure that his weapon is secured and
only taken from storage when you go hunting or to target practice, while your
would-be victim innocently stands there with the target-cross over his
heart?
Or are you going to do it with a knife, while knowing that you will have
to strike your victim’s body with your own steel-sharpened hand? Feel his flesh
collapsing under your weight? Ugh! How gross?
How…intimate! And if you use a
knife, or even your bare hands, you must face the fact that your victim might
turn the tables on you. He might deflect the stab of the knife, or have hands
stronger than you. So, without the
convenience of a handgun, you will have to convince yourself that killing this
person might not be easy, and that you are risking your own life by making that
decision.
Now tell me. Is that murder still going to occur? After all those damn
inconveniences that a handgun would eliminate?
I’ll tell you, in my humble but correct opinion, roughly 97 times out of
a hundred, it won’t. And somebody who,
no matter how fucked-up he/she is at that moment in their life, will not die,
and will therefore not cause the grief of all of the family who loved and
supported him, and whose lives he enriched. And it would all be because that
handgun didn’t exist.
Which would also negate the argument for having a handgun to defend
yourself. You don’t need to carry if you
know that nobody else is carrying. And if nobody can ever bring “a gun to a
knife fight” even the “knife fights” will be less frequent.
Therefore, despite how cool it felt for me to hold a handgun; and
despite the fact that it was handed to me by my friend, who owned it legally,
and who I trust never to use it against anybody in anything less than a
defensive, life-or-death situation, I must say that the eradication of the
handgun from society is logical, imperative, and will one day be seen as humanitarian
as the abolition of slavery. Or of
cigarettes. (God, I can’t wait until
that happens, since I can never seem to quit.
In fact, I think I’ll go and have one now!)
Danm! That felt good!
So…where was I? Oh yeah. The handgun. Destroy it wherever it is found.
Except in a military force. And even then, one must question a military. If a
military force must exist, it must be in existence only as a last resort, and
only because, as a civilized society, that we have collectively decided that it
should be there to defend us against people who will not listen to reason, who
will not take the time to debate their point of view. And that military group
of people must accept an oath to never bring harm against anyone unless we, the
people, have debated enough, with enough reason and rhetoric to put humanity
and understanding above vengeance and hatred as only debate amongst individuals
can accomplish, to come to the conclusion that the only way to save our lives
is to have an “organized militia*” and that that organization must now be used,
with whatever deadly force is necessary, to defend us against those who have
decided to kill us without mercy.
(* To quote the United States
Constitution—which then goes on to say that that “militia” has the “right to
bear arms” as opposed to any just any redneck or gangsta’ with a beef against
somebody—who often misquotes the Constitution by saying that “I” have a right
to bear arms.)
But still, I must admit that I wouldn’t mind owning a gun. After all,
it’s hard to resist the idea of that rush of power. And, although I will never
“own” a gun, if all goes according to plan, by this summer I will be trained
and have access to any number of high-powered military-issued firearms.
All because “I let go and let God” as my Ex would say. (This is where I start to sound flaky. But,
just as clichés are clichés because they are repeated so much because they are
true, flakiness is often that because so many of us jump off the beaten path
that we look ridiculous—like lemmings jumping off the proverbial cliff—even
though we know there is some unexplainable reason for doing it.) Recent events in my personal life have
caused me to let go of outdated ideas, let go of bitterness and resentment, and
make me feel like a teenager again; full of hormones and dreams of greatness.
So, one day, after I just felt good to be alive again, I happened to
overhear a conversation between two of my co-workers that started when I asked
one of them, a reserve infantry soldier, about how the army life was going. That
question sparked an interest in another of my co-workers who happened to be an
ex-USMC (United States Marine Corps.) This ex-USMC is a Canadian, now
delivering pizzas to augment his full-time day job and part-time business to
pay support because he couldn’t keep his fly zipped when he was young. So I overhear this conversation and realize
that a Canadian citizen can join the American military. I stopped in my tracks
and thought, how come, with all my interest in shit like that, I never came
across that piece of info. Then this ex-marine started bragging about how he
receives “$391 Canadian per month, for life” because he served for three years
in another country’s armed forces. To which my fellow infantry reservist said
something like “Oh! That’s nothing!...” And then finally I had to interrupt and
ask my Canadian Infantry reserve soldier-co-worker “So, you’re saying that you
can get a pension like that after three years of service?”
“Yeah.” He says.
I believe I then recalled a CBC Radio story about how the CAF was
desperate to recruit more people, which caused me to ask, “So…ah…what’s the
cut-off age for joining the military. He (who looks just like Harry Connick
Junior, and who I will, from hereon-in refer to as “Harry,” responded with “Oh
anywhere from 16 to sixty-eight.”
“So you’re saying that
I could join up?” I ask with a cynical laugh.
“Oh sure!” he replies.
And then adds “Do you have any education?”
“I have a university
degree. A Bachelor of “Fuck-all.” I reply with another cynical laugh, after
which I explain that “B.F.A.” means Bachelor of Fine Arts.
To which he responds,
with all seriousness, “Oh, well then you could be an officer! You’d make about
$400 a day! They’d hire you next month.”
To which I reply with
another cynical laugh “Right. Except that I have asthma.”
To which he responds
with, something like “Oh that doesn’t matter. Long as you can handle it.”
To which I reply,
without any cynicism, but now with a genuine interest, “So…let me get this
straight. You’re saying that I, a pudgy,
41 year asthmatic, could be an officer in the Canadian Armed Forces?”
“Yes.” He says with all
the severity of someone who has learned how to treat a sincere question with a
sincere answer.
So then I go and
deliver a pizza, awash in this stunned silence of possibility. I think… a career that is payed for, rather
than getting a loan for. A career that
would pay me about as much as I’m making now from day one, just for my
training, to teach me discipline and how to lead people, how to take responsibility
for my life, and then, after a short period of service, would reward me with a
life-long pension. And this just drops into my life at the very same time that
I am ready and looking to make a serious leap into a new life?
So, half an hour later
I come back from my delivery to the “South End” of the “Shwa,” having received
a shitty tip and no respect, and find myself asking the same questions over
again, looking for the “catch” that I must have missed the first time. So I
repeat all of my formerly joking questions to this soldier, only to receive
honest answers, all of which deny my “this-is-too-good-to-be-true“ attitude.
And he concludes by giving me a phone # and a Sergeant’s name to contact from
his Unit, The 48th Highlanders.
So, just to make sure that this kid is selling me a pipe dream, I call
the man.
And this man’s response is “Oh I get this call twice a month from people
who think they’ve missed the boat.”
Then the pipe dream is slightly adjusted, though far from destroyed.
“Training for officers
takes place over the summer.” So I
wouldn’t start getting paid to be an “officer” in January. But, as soon as I think about it I realize
that this gives me several months to physically train myself, and I have worked
enough hours to last at least half that long without making a dime if I wanted
to spend 24-7 in the gym. Covering the other three months wouldn’t require
hardly any effort at all.
“Now I should tell you
that I have asthma. Does that
disqualify me?” I ask the recruiting sergeant. He doesn’t say “no.” He does
mention the fact that I’d have to undergo basic training and that it is
extremely tough and that he lost a pound a day when he went through it but he
survived even though he was an asthmatic as a child.
Sorry. I just remembered that this was supposed to be a “rant-lite.”
So I tell you all this now, so that I will be egged on by any comments
that any of you might have. However, I
know that I will take this opportunity to better myself and defend those I
love. After careful research, I have
learned that there are two major hurdles that I must overcome. The first is the interview. So I probably
shouldn’t go in there like Arlo Guthrie saying “I wanna’ kill!” (From the film
“Alice’s Restaurant,”) If I get through that unscathed, then I can flunk out on
Basic Training.
But aside from those
two variables, I should be in. Okay so that’s about all I have to say about
that. Except, if anybody out there has read this, and plans to respond with
some unseen realism, feel free. Otherwise, this time next year, I’ll be wearing
a funny-looking beret. And I will be trained to kill with a handgun if I must.
Please taunt me, dear
reader, to fuel the fire of my new plan. And please come back. For I, like
“Colonel Kurtz” who “Got off the boat—Way
off…” value any opinion that honestly questions my sanity with a question that
goes something like “Ern! Have you lost your fucking mind?!”
November 25, 2005
Aaaanyway…Last week I went on about all these “support our troops
ribbons” and then I received a very astute reply from a really cool American
friend of mine who rebutted my rant with a number of well-reasoned points. His most obviously correct rebuttal was that
you CAN hate cancer just as easily as you can hate terrorism. To which I replied something like “Yes, that
is a good point. My point should really
have been about revenge.” I also
realized, from his reply, that I might have sounded like yet another
anti-American, pontificating about how much better we are than them, when all I
really meant to rant about was two very specific things. So, In response to his
own rant, I replied…
I
never meant to imply that America has grown strong by taking "from the
thin man." In fact, (and I was going to mention this in my rant but
never got around to it 'cause I would have woken up to a far worse hangover if
I kept going) at a party once, their was some intellectual banter going on
about America taking over middle east oil and some very detailed arguments
going back and forth about how and why they were doing this and finally I had
to say, "If America wants to get all the oil, why don't they just go and
take it? Why all the sneaky politics? I mean who's gonna' stop them
if they simply say, Ah, hey folks, now that we got all the nukes ah...well
we're gonna be taking that oil now, thank you. And if that argument is
rejected because you think Russia and/or China might get involved, well
how about Canada? Why should Americans waste their time and money with
court battles and NAFTA legal debates about "Softwood Lumber" or
fishing debates or lax Canadian borders? Why not just march over here and take
us over? Who would stop America if they really wanted to take over the
world?
(That's
a basic summary of what I had to say anyway) And dare I say, nobody said a word
in rebuttal. I mean it was dead silence for about ten seconds. Revision here: Actually it was probably about five seconds, and then
the conversation continued as if I had never spoken a word. At least that is how I remember it.
As
for the Islamic Jihad, I agree that there is probably no room for
negotiating there. Which is very sad. This is one of those cases in history
where civilization has no choice but to react with decisive and deadly
force.
Revision here: I refer specifically to defence against a particular
enemy force. That is, those particular
individuals who have decided that we are their sworn enemy; or those
individuals who have decided that they are the sworn enemy of nations other
than our own. That is, not the religion of Islam, not Muslims in general, nor
anybody in general. Unfortunately, we
cannot always avoid armed conflict, at this retarded stage in our human
development, with people who appear, despite all our attempts at negotiation,
to want to kill us.
But
what I (and I think more people should) respect about America is that
although this world has many political and religious ideoligies that don't
agree with America's way of life, America knows and respects that, when she
could fairly easily take offence and wipe them off the face of the planet.
Two
examples from General H. Norman Schwarzkopf's autobiography to illustrate my
point: When he led the Gulf War in 1991, he was invited to a formal
dinner with his Kuwaiti allied counterparts. When asked if he wished to
attend wearing Arab clothes he wisely said yes. And when he asked why he
was asked, his Kuwaiti friend replied that when they go to America, they wear "western clothes. But when
Americans come to Kuwait, they don't wear Arab clothes." So when
Good Ole' Norm showed up for dinner draped in his Arabian duds he showed his
allies that he was their friend and, no matter how proudly American he was, he
could still respect another culture. And also, when the war ended,
Kuwaiti Prince Khalid stated in a speech, "If the world can only have one
superpower, thank god it is America!"
I
agree.
Why do I agree? Well, that is the point of my rant tonight.
Before I go on, I should mention that I just re-read my last week’s rant
to remind myself of what I said, and have just now realized how intense it was
and how easily it might be for any American to have taken offence at my
ramblings.
I didn’t plan on discussing this any further. But After I replied to my American friend, I thought more about
my reply to him, and how much more I could have said. This inspired me to pull a memory out of my brain about how my
Dad once told me about how Ämerican” (Okay.
I know I promised not to do this.
But, do you notice how there are two dots over the Ä?-There! It did it again!-in
America? That’s what happens when you
ask Microsoft Word” (notice again-no 1st quotation marks) to change
its default setting from American English
to International English. It somehow interprets quotation marks as those weird European dots!
Or it leaves out the 1st quotes entirely! Why can’t I just write
Canadian English, spell colour with a ü [-SEE WHAT I MEAN!?] and still start a
capitol vowel sentence with a quotation mark? ***
And here I am, an international,
trying to write an essay in support of America! Please understand that I do
appreciate the irony but, because I am Canadian, and therefore have integrity,
I am going to finish what I started!
Aaaanyway…I can just hear My American friend say “Well…you should’ve
bought a Mac!”
And now, after re-reading my last week’s rant, I understand how he (my
American friend) came up with the “mob mentality” phrase that he replied with,
and why it is so important for me to qualify last week’s rant with the
following rant…
My Dad is a Hungarian, born and raised in Yugoslavia during WW II. He
told me once of how, during the war, his town was “bombed” with American Red
Cross packages, stuffed with food and other life necessities. Understand that this was a town, in a
country, that was allied with Nazi Germany.
And while one might argue that this act might have been a manipulative
ploy by America to “win the hearts and minds,” there is no escaping the fact
that, in 1944, America really didn’t need the help of a few villagers in
Yugoslavia to win the war. It actually
might be true that Americans were simply trying to help people. In fact, in my humble, yet correct opinion,
I’m sure that that was the case. This is the memory, inspired by my friend’s
reply, that led me to think of all of the great things about America, that led
me to want to share those great things that I thought of with the world
tonight. So here goes…
A whole bunch (I’d give an exact number if I new where I was going to stop) of things
that are great about America.
1. Of course, the greatest thing is so obvious that I risk insulting your
intelligence by even mentioning it.
But, just in case some of you have been living under a rock, the
greatest thing about America is Bruce Springsteen.
2. This is really a corollary
from #1. If the man we know as Bruce Springsteen existed, born and raised in
what is now New Jersey, and he grew up with all the musical and poetic talent
that he has, but there was no America around him, would he still be the 8th
wonder of the world? No. And this is because what makes his music the greatest
thing about America, is America. I dare argue that every great song of his,
from such blatantly Ämerican” songs as “Born in the USA” to such intimate,
teenage angst songs as “Candy’s Room,” could only be inspired by a country that
is as greatly passionate, diverse, powerful, conflicted, and liberated as this
one. Which leads me to…
3. If America didn’t exist today,
it would be because of one or two scenarios born, most recently-although I
might have also picked 1775-6, out of the year 1941.
Scenario A. The mother of Japanese Admiral Hirohito would not have been
fertilized by his father. And
therefore, the brilliant strategist who planned the attack on Pearl Harbour,
and who said something like Ïf we can conquer America in six months, we can win
the war” would not have been born. And
if America had not suffered such a devastating “9/11” style attack, on December
7th, due to that brilliant Japanese tactician, she might not have
finally entered the war.* And if that had happened, Good Old Bruce would have
been raised, a great musician and writer, with no inspiration other than to say
“Nazi America! Love it or leave it.” Except that it would be “Love it or die.”
Because there would be no “Nazi” place in the world to leave. Or,
Scenario B. Bruce, like the rest of us, might not exist at all because,
had the world war played out without America’s powerful intervention, Germany
and Japan might have won the war, leading to a “Cold War” between those two
very different cultures. And they might
have practiced less reason and restraint than the American’s and the Soviet
Russians did, which would have caused the annihilation of the human race.
Think about that for a second before you move on. Please. I beg you. Don’t just accept or reject my phrase “the
annihilation of the human race.” Try to
feel what that means, beyond the abstract, or beyond Hollywood movie
destruction. Imagine the entire history of your family, your children, your
parents, not only dead, not only gone, but never known to have existed.
This is surely dramatic and probably never would have happened in our
lifetime, in any possible warped-writer’s scenario. But no matter how warped it may be, no matter how improbable, I
argue that we must accept the idea that the human race might not now exist in
any way that we understand, if there was no such nation as The United States of
America in the year 1941.
Actually, now that I think about it, I’m not going to continue my list as
I planned. Even though I was going to
go on about the great diversity of American culture, politics, religions, and
artistic sensibilities, and even the climate (like-yeah I know I’m breaking my
promise about brackets again-how you can wake up on February 1st at
4 am in New York, get in your car, drive out of a snowdrift, with the
thermometer reading minus a hundred, hit the Interstate South with a determined
attitude, and be rewarded with the privilege of jumping in the ocean in your
bathing suit under a hot evening sun on the same day.) I was going to regale you with anecdotes
about all my travels through almost all of the lower 48 and all of the great
things I experienced in all my roadtrips through the south-western deserts and
New Orleans (“Na-arleens”-as the natives taught me to say it) and my time
living in San Diego. But, as I am
probably already doing, I would have bored you to tears because I am just not
talented enough to relate the wonder of my experiences in such a short and
mind-altered time as this.
So let me try to summarize my rant tonight as clearly and succinctly, and
with as much weight as this topic warrants…I believe, in my un-researched,
uneducated, but correct opinion, that America is the latest, and not
coincidentally, the most mature of civilization’s empires. And as the Roman
Empire became Italy, and the English Empire became the British Isles, America
will someday probably be simply the Ünited States.”** But it will be known in
history as an empire that influenced the world for several centuries, was
attacked many times during its reign, grew strong in defence of itself, and in
its protection of others, grew weak while doing so, argued amongst itself in a
democratic manner unknown in the history of empires, and while doing so, quite
probably prevented us from destroying ourselves. If it had only had Canada’s
very costly, very troublesome but mostly compassionate universal health care
system, which you could always bypass if you were rich enough and desperate
enough for your life to bypass the less fortunate kidney-transplant victims who
were waiting in their fair line-up, by paying an American physician to treat
you, America might still be flourishing today.
So in other words, I’m getting a little tired of all the America-bashing,
from myself, as well as from everybody else. Let’s move on and get a little
more sophisticated about our complaints about humanity.
And…ah…that’s about all I have to say about that. I hope you will join me next week, and
please answer to anything you either agree or disagree with in my words. I will be thankful in either case, for your
acknowledgement that you actually listened to what I had to say, even if you
think that its total bullshit.
* This leads me to imagine how
history might compare to today if the United Nations had existed in 1941. Imagine if Roosevelt, with George W.’s
southern drawl had said, back then that there is an Äxis of Evil.” Except that, back then, the Äxis” was Germany,
Italy and Japan. I can just imagine, in my simplistic, un-politically educated
mind, the Polish, or French, or British, Norwegian, Netherlands, or any number
of other nationalities of U.N. Secretary General’s saying “So you want to
declare war on Germany? Okay. U.N.
resolutions? Yep! They’re passed. When
did you want to start kicking ass?
Well…yesterday would be good.!”
** Except that, while America is an
Ëmpire” it is, unlike empirical England, an empire without any territorial
land, outside of any land that it claimed over a hundred years ago. Unlike the
English Empire, America gave back western Europe to the French, Belgian, West
German, and Scandinavian countries that it helped to recapture from the Nazis,
As well as the Phillipines and all of the other Asian nations that it liberated
from Japan, including Japan itself. Just
as it gave South Korea back to the Koreans, Grenada back to Grenada, and Kuwait
back to Kuwait. And despite the fact
that my American-designed word processing program is completely ignorant of the
fact that I, as a Canadian, have my own way of doing things, I can put up with
the double dots over my vowels quite easily (especially considering the fact
that I am sure I could defeat this American ignorance if I really put my mind
to it) considering that, without America, I might not be here at all or, in the
best case scenario, I would either not be writing this tribute, or I would be
writing it under political duress. I
would also not be allowed to qualify my opinions, in a “non-American”world by
saying here that my opinions expressed above do not mean that I do not
acknowledge that American power has treated its native people unfairly
(because, like us, it has) or that it has not made many other mistakes while
pursuing its basic and noble endeavours to create a free hand for its citizens
to prosper in any fair and ethical way that they see fit, and to fight for any
people in the world who ask them for their help to accomplish the same goal.
***But then, in the end, that’s what
makes us Canadians, in my humble yet correct opinion, the world’s best nation. For,
as a Canadian, I can remain humble enough to admit that America is great, while
accepting that, because of our own fault, we can accept an un-caring,
thoughtless American software program into our country, one that causes
Canadian writers no end of grief, without feeling the need to declare a
“Jihad.” And, in the great history bible of the human race, it will probably be
a Canadian author who pens the future historical words “Nothing was more
unfair, in the annals of human history, than the condemnation of America, by
the very peoples of nations that it had protected from tyranny in the latter
half of the twentieth century.” Of course, that same time-“the latter half of
the twentieth century” will probably come to be known as “the Ascension of the
Canadian Empire.”
November 18,
The highway. It’s always a good
source for inspiration. For instance, the other day I was passed by a transport
truck (a whole source of ranting in itself) with a big American flag on its
rear cargo door, along with a caption that read, “Support our troops. No mercy for our
enemies. No way!” Now the “Support our
troops” sticker-ribbons are something I’ve grown quite accustomed to,
especially after my road trip to Florida this past spring, where at first I assumed
they were to be, (what was it now,) the same “support cancer research” message
as were on the Canadian ribbon-stickers. (Now that I recall, I believe it was
“Breast Cancer Month” in Canada at the time.) It was only after I realized that
fully one in every ten vehicles, in every state from New York to Florida were
sporting these decorations, that I looked long enough to read the difference
between the American yellow “troop” ribbons, versus our pink “cancer” ones.
Mind you, this was back in the spring, when we didn’t have the “support our
troops” ribbons (as we do now.) So I was quite confused, back then, to see all
these ribbons, all across America, all concerned (or so I thought) with cancer.
Of course, while I believe
that any taxpayer should support the soldiers who protect him/her, and
displaying your support can never be a bad thing (except for how ugly these
things can make your vehicle look) the fact is is that the juxtaposition of the
Canadian “Cancer” ribbons versus the American “Support our troops” ones raises some
very interesting analogies and comparisons, especially when you add the “No
mercy” slogan that I mentioned at the top of this “rant.”
Maybe this “ribbon”
phenomenon demonstrates a more reasoned approach by the typical Canadian brain to
a perceived threat. Maybe us Canadians
are more apt to promote cancer awareness because we realize that cancer will
kill more civilians, and more military personnel, than terrorists ever will,
and therefore it is more reasonable to promote “cancer” awareness, than “troop”
awareness.
Conversely, maybe the more
emotional American mind finds greater satisfaction in “supporting our troops”
because this implicates that we are satisfying our emotional hunger for
revenge. Because, by supporting our troops,
we are satisfying our emotional needs with the idea that we are supporting
people who are fighting for us, against something that is inherently bad, and
that will feel pain when we kill it.
Cancer can’t fulfill that
emotional need because we can’t hate it.
Because it won’t feel pain if we kill it. And we know that we can’t make it “feel” bad. We can’t make it know” that it is wrong by
attacking us. It has no mind. And therefore, we have no ability to hate
it. Forget the fact that Cancer will
kill far more people this year than terrorists, ”insurgents,” ”enemy
combatants” or “WMD” combined, along with domestic homicides thrown in. Even less emotionally gratifying is simple
poverty. It will probably kill more Americans this year than foreign enemies
will kill American soldiers. (Of course I am now in B.S. territory as I have no
scientific evidence to support this theory, except my absolute knowledge that I
am right.)
But I doubt that we will see
one in ten vehicles sporting “support our poverty-stricken” ribbons anytime
soon. And this, I believe, is because if you are a person who has a “troop”
ribbon on your car, you probably believe one of two things: A) people in
poverty are there because of their own failings, and therefore don’t deserve my
support, or B) people in poverty have been let down by their country, of which
I am a part of, and which therefore means that by displaying a “support our
poverty-stricken” ribbon, I am laying blame on myself.
And that is not very
emotionally gratifying. Trust me on
that one.
And when you find a
foot-high message on the back of a Transport Truck (that I don’t think was
independently-owned, based on all the official legalize on the driver’s door
and some company logo on the side of the box) that follows the “troop” message
with “No mercy for our enemies”, you really have to start wondering, no matter
how conservative you might be, if people really are “supporting” their troops
with these ribbons.
I stop now, because I’ve
written myself into a corner.
Shit. I hate when that happens!
Before I turn the corner on this subject I’ll ask the question (and hope
that somebody actually makes an objective study) how many relatives of people
killed in battle…no…make that…what percentage of direct-relatives of K.I.A.’s
have “support our troops” stickers on their vehicles versus the percentage of
the average population?
I’ll leave that question now, and forget my revulsion at the “No mercy,
No Way” message (which to me means, “Let’s inspire hatred and kill all the
people that we randomly decide are bad guys” so “that we can feel better about
our losses to a bunch of sick fucks”) and not bring up my disgust at how a
Canadian acquaintance of mine couldn’t get served at various gas stations and
restaurants in America shortly after we refused to help America invade Iraq,
despite the fact that our troops fought alongside, and died at the hands of,
the American military in Afghanistan, while we were fighting alongside them
against terrorists who never killed a Canadian but who DID kill our brother
Americans, and after the population of
Halifax doubled with Americans after we took them into our hotels and our
homes, free of room and board, when their planes couldn’t enter American
Airspace on 9/11…to offer this counterpoint.
Our (Canadian) worst, single-event, man-made, loss of life was
(coincidentally), the great Halifax explosion of 1917 when a munitions-ship,
bound for Europe in WWI, blew up in the harbour, creating the largest-ever
man-made, non-nuclear explosion in human history. (Source: Guinness Book of World Records.) It caused a similar
amount of deaths (and far greater property-damage) as the 9/11 terrorist
attacks. Except that the greatest act
of terrorism in that case was the bad judgement of a single individual at the
helm of a ship. That disaster didn’t
inspire hatred. There was only one man
to hate and he fessed-up to what was simply a mistake in judgement. I doubt anyone ever created a “support naval
training” ribbon because of that horrendous explosion.
Whereas the 9/11 attacks were deliberately planned against a nation. A
number of individuals conspired against America, to kill as many Americans as
they could. One man came up with the
plan, nurtured it, put it into operation, and successfully conducted it. And,
as far as anybody over here knows, he has no remorse for it, and has gotten
away with it so far.
Imagine if terrorists blew up the TD Center in downtown Toronto? How rational and reasoned would our thoughts
be? Would we still be thinking about cancer, even though it will kill more than
the entire population of the TD Center, or the Eaton Center combined, this year
alone, not to mention the next fifty years, if we don’t hate it as much as we
momentarily hate those “Terrorists?”
Now the natural response here would be to say, “Well yeah, but we don’t
bring on such hatred from the world to inspire such acts of terrorism.”
Yeah. We’re the nice guys. Nobody hates us. Well, before we get too sure of our humble selves, let’s remember
that we are on the official al-Qaeda (Spelling source: CNN) five-nation
hit-list because of our military force operating in Afghanistan, and all the
other four have been hit. (No sources for this last statement except for my
fallible memory—Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. But I’m pretty sure that
Britain, Spain, Italy, and Australia [via the Bali bombings] have all been
victims of the threat) So maybe we should think about that. But aside from that, let’s just think about
why we are the nice guys.
Oh, oh. Stumped again.
Well…Obviously we don’t have the military might. I leave it to historians to explain how we
became wimps while our southern brothers became the heavyweights. But, before I let that one slide, let me
remind the world that Canada took Vimy Ridge in WWI when everybody else had
failed, and that Canadians, on their “Juneau” beach charged further inland on
D-Day in WW II than either the Brits or the Americans, and that a Canadian
sniper, stationed in Afghanistan, while serving under an American command,
holds the all-time world record distance for a sniper kill shot. And let us not
forget that we are one of the only two countries in the world, along with North
Vietnam, to have ever defeated America in a War. (I once mentioned this in a
company boardroom in San Diego. And, to my naive amazement, not a single one of the half-dozen or so
twenty-something Americans had ever heard of the War of
1812!)
And that is really the only issue.
There is no other significant difference, in my humble opinion. It’s
just about power. As Tony Montana
explains to his best friend in Scarface…(The 1980’s remake..So put on your best
Cuban, Al Pacino accent)…”First you getcha’ money. Den you getcha’ power… And
den…Den you getcha’wooman.”
Tony Montana’s problem was when he “getcha’d” the woman. Once he got
everything, the woman turned out to be everything, including his downfall,
because a ”woman” isn’t a thing. A woman is a “relationship.” A woman (or man,)
is a potential, through the natural sharing of emotions and ideas, to rise
above “da-money”and “da power.” And all the other “dings” that really offer
nothing to make a person feel challenged or whole. A “woman,” i.e.…a
relationship, is a thing that challenges you to, as the American Army slogan
states, “Be all that you can be.”
And that is why I believe that America is so wonderful to watch and to
wonder about. The “Tony-Montana”
America fought for his life to get to this chunk of Earth, just to be free of
having more powerful people tell him how to live. And once he got here, fired
by all of the oppression that caused him to fight for this piece of land
without having anybody tell him how he should live, he fought just as hard to
create a creed to live by, for people like himself, that dictated via a
“Declaration of Independence” that all men are entitled to live free. Even today, the pleasant, forest-carpeted,
New England State of New Hampshire licence plate reads “Live Free or DIE!”
(Okay, I embellished with the full caps on “die.”)
That idealism all worked well and good while America “got da” money in
the early 1900’s, and then “got da” power in the 1940’s and 50’s. And, of
course, while it had its financial downs in the 30’s and its social downs in
the late 60’s and most of the 70’s, America finally “got da woo-man” in 1989
when the Berlin Wall collapsed and she became the world’s only “super-power.”
Then the real problems started.
It began with a relationship with the rest of the world, already
burdened by its “divorce” from it because of its failed marriage with the
Vietnam relationship test. This showed
its potential bride, “the world,” that it was fallible. And the world judged it
harshly. Despite the fact that it saved
the world from fascism and communism, and despite the fact that America had
proven by the time of the first Gulf War that it could have taken down all who
opposed its power, but decided not to, the world community turned against it
because one man, George W. Bush, didn’t have the patience to nurture the
relationship with the “woo-rld.” But can we really fault him for that? I mean. C’mon! If my Daddy was the former
King of the world, and with all his power and “Saudi Arabian*” money, and all
his nukes at my disposal, and all my “Good Óle Boy” charm, I might be just as
capable as George W. to say to my advisers, “Find me a bad guy to kill for
9/11”. And think that I’d get away with it.
The fact is, is that in my humble, though correct, opinion, is that
America, and particularly the American administration, is suffering today
because one simple man who rose to power through no fault of his own, has made
errors in judgement based on his lack of ability to care for the welfare of
others. If he had been blessed with the
strength of character of his father, to simply hunt down the individuals
responsible for the attack on his country, (or, in his father’s case on any other country) and not try to
convince the world that he was trying to do anything more than that, and if he
hadn’t tried to do anything else, America’s cars wouldn’t be emblazoned with
“support our troops” ribbons because those drivers would be more concerned
about cancer because (…my god…I think I might have forgotten the name of
America’s greatest enemy…let me think…Well Isn’t that a coup for the media! I
can’t remember the name of the man that we and the Americans tried to hunt down
in Afghanistan because he orchestrated the 9/11 attacks that killed 2000
people.) Anyway, we would have gotten
him by now. So their sons and daughters
wouldn’t be over there, “in harm’s way.”
And American soldiers and innocent Iraqi civilians, and United Nations
workers, and Italian soldiers, and Spanish transit riders and insane terrorists
and Australian vacationers wouldn’t have died by this date.
And as for Saddam Hussein, well, no good liberal like myself, can tackle
that issue easily. For, while it is
obvious today that he never posed a threat to America, for which reason the war
was based on, there is no doubt that, if souls exist, many are rising up, with
good reason, to thank George W. for capturing their monstrous killer. But then
there will also be millions of others—Rwandans, Guatemalans, Cubans, East
Germans, Tibetans, Czechoslovakians, Jews, etc.--murdered by other sadistic
power mongers, rolling in their graves with despair and anger because America
didn’t help them when they were in need, because it either didn’t serve
American interests, or it would have caused too many American deaths for public
opinion to continue supporting its government. The unfortunate reality is,
however, that this great result came about because of a misguided cause,
ordered by a misguided king, that is causing further deaths of American troops
even as I write this rant.
So what would I do if I were the King of the world? I.E. the American
President? Well, I guess I would have to take the unfortunate “Kerry” position
and acknowledge the fact that, despite the fact that I would might the election
for looking like too much of an intellectual wimp next to George W.’s Good Ole Boy common sense, we can’t just
simply pullout of Iraq tomorrow because, despite world opinion, and even the
opinion of a certain mother who lost her son in Iraq, and despite the fact that
we invaded Iraq for all the wrong reasons, based on my predecessor’s
politically motivated, but incorrect ideals, and despite the fact that if we
are willing to go to war with a country, thereby causing civilian deaths to rid
the world of a vicious dictator like Saddam Hussein, we are thereby obligated
to take out North Korea’s Kim Jung Il (spelling?)For the same reason, as well
as a host of other vicious despots, we have to stay on in Iraq to clean up the
mess that we have made and to honour promises that we have made to minorities
to protect them from retaliation against those who would kill them for siding
with us. Because, despite the errors in
judgement that our former leader made, we are, in essence, a land of people of
integrity, who fulfill our promises and who believe that all people should live
free…or die. And we are willing to
fight and die for all people who strive only for that goal.
Because what America needs to do now is make his bride know that he cares
about the woo-man dat he got. For “hell
hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
I thought I was going to end it here. But I can’t. Because what it really
comes down to is my wish that we could all have God’s understanding. But I’m
not God because I can’t bring myself to understand the “gangsta” mentality that
is striking down so many of the people of my own city. I can’t understand why
so many people kill each other for and over “bling.” To kill a man who is
attending the funeral of another man who was killed because of some
non-understandable reason. When I hear
my own brain screaming out “Get a fuckin’life you pathetic animals” I realize that
I have no cause or credibility to preach.
But still I wish for the day that ten out of ten cars on the road are
adorned with the same ugly sticker-ribbons that say, simply…
“Support peace.”
November 11, 2005
How do you rant on Remembrance Day?
What issue out there warrants complaining about more than, instead,
paying tribute to the thousands of men and women who died so many years ago,
whose sacrifices gave me the ability to sit and complain today? Obviously, nothing warrants that. So there will be no rant today.
Just a moment of stunned silence as I sit and stare at my screen…
November 12,
Okay…I can’t hold off any longer.
(This content deleted. Available
by request only.)
My first “BLOG”
November 5th, 2005,
Let me begin by saying that I fully
realize that everything I have to say here is going to be based solely on my
own opinion. This space will be based, like most “blogs’ purely on emotion and
undisciplined thought. Because anybody in the world can access this document
and use it as research for anything from a Psychiatrist publishing a report on
“the schizophrenic mind” to a third grader doing a “spelling bee,” I must
acknowledge the fact that I am unedited, uncorroborated, and unrehearsed by
anybody but me. So I can say that the sky is blue because I painted it that way
because I have that power because I am an elite member of the “Illuminati.”
And nobody can stop me from
publishing this bullshit to the world. Because of the internet. I don’t have to
send this to a newspaper or a publisher or an agent, hoping to get my absolute
knowledge spread to the world at large without question. I don’t have to
research for years to get a P.H.D. to spout my opinions about “global warming.”
And then have my research cross-checked by a million scientists to verify that
what I am saying is true. Hell, I don’t evin hav’t spel rite’t get mi messij
out, yo!
Okay, before I begin to waste my
thoughts with bitterness, let me try to make my point a little more eloquently
with the following comparison.
I was recently (about two years ago)
forced to go to an art gallery. The AGO. (Art gallery of Ontario, Canada).
There I saw a small carving of a sailing ship, carved out of an ivory bone.
Now, I’m one of those geeks who grew up building plastic model airplanes. In
fact I got so into it that when most guys discovered girls, I just started
learning that you could make model airplanes more realistic by “scratch
building” from bare plastic. And then, twenty years later, long after I gave up
trying to perfect the hobby, and relegating it to a once in a while form of
escape, here I come across this two hundred year old model of a sailing ship.
Now I beg you to please try to picture this, despite my poor communication
skills, otherwise my point will be lost.
This was a fully detailed sailing
ship, circa the 18th century, complete with almost microscopic
portholes, deck railings,
tall masts shooting up from the deck, a forecastle carved out, cannons sticking
out of the hull, and all of this carved out of a SOLID CHUNK OF IVORY. To
finish the project, the rigging, made from the sculptor’s hair was perfectly
rigged to the outcrops of the ivory masts and the sails, blown out by an
imaginary wind were sculpted (I believe--if memory serves correct, from human
skin). This entire creation was less than six inches long. It was built
hundreds of years ago and yet it had survived all of this time, in perfect
condition, and it was the most exquisitely detailed reproduction of a
life-sized human creation that I have ever seen in my life. If it only had been
painted, with today’s technology, it could have passed for an authentic
“Man-O-War” in “The Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Again, please try to picture it in
your mind…an entire sailing ship, recreated in perfect detail, without the aid
of scientists or engineers to measure the vessel, or mould makers to mould the
plastic, indeed, without any pre-fabricated material at all, without anything
but a BONE TOSSED IN YOUR CELL, ALONG WITH YOUR MEMORY OF WHAT A SHIP LOOKS
LIKE, right down to the engraved lines of the planks, all carved out of a
single block of bone and only six inches in length.
Now, not to take away from Da Vinci,
or Picasso, Rodin, or Monet, all of whom were artists who are likely never to
be matched again, or all of the great sculptors whose names don’t come readily
to mind, but…
This little carving, displayed to me
hundreds of years after its creator had died, was described, by somebody at the
gallery, as something like “sculpted by a prisoner.”
And please note that I use those
quotations liberally as I never expected to need to remember exactly how that
artwork was described.
But my point is, is that , hundreds
of years ago, an unaccredited, unrecognized sculptor, who was a “prisoner” no
less, could find the time and the patience to sit still for perhaps years
to create something that could make a lasting impression on a total stranger two
hundred years from the time of his death.
Let me try to put it in another
perspective. In the time that this man took to create a two hundred year impact
on our society, jumped forward to today, that same man would have gone through
about twenty-five pairs of shoes and thrown away hundreds of pounds of clothes,
a ton of other waste, and probably changed his mind about a million times. He would
have been taught, learned, forgotten, and thrown away hundreds of years worth
of accumulated knowledge because it was no longer needed today. Today, he might
have settled for a comfortable job at Wal-Mart. (Here’s a good one. “Walmart”
was , according to my spell-checker, “recognized,” as being spelled wrong. It
knows how to spell this great brand name correctly. However, it didn’t know
what to do with my bizarre creation of the word “Rodin.”--Auguste It suggested,
“Robin?”)
Anyway…today he might have gotten
away with selling a few ounces of crack Today that same man, who was nobody
then, in a time when time moved at a pace when a human mind could keep pace,
would probably be spending all his energy just to stay alive in prison. Today,
that same man’s greatest accomplishment in life would probably have been
stamping a licence plate. In other words, what I’m getting at is that
yesterday’s criminal might have had a greater strength of character than
today’s best Supreme Court Judge.
And I believe, humbly, and with all
due respect to the past, and to my own responsibility for my own lack of
patience, that this is the big problem with this great technology of today…the
single object of my attack being the single object of my communication with
you…the internet. Because I can say anything I want to say. And I can say it
without having to have any knowledge about anything beyond a basic knowledge of
the English language, (or I could even just be telling my half-baked opinions
to my crack-addicted partner who just happens to know how to punch a keyboard
because she went to college for a year or so before she decided that it was all
for nothing) and, without any knowledge at all, without any understanding of
all of the achievements of mankind, without even a basic knowledge trained to
an eight year old English student of one hundred years ago, I might be able to
convince a kid, or a Mom or a Dad or a plumber or a dentist, somewhere in
Mongolia or Sweden or America or Jamaica or Brazil, that my way is the right way.
I don’t need to be published. I don’t need to prove where my facts come from. I
don’t need to have any understanding of human history. I don’t need to know how
to zpel, so long as I care to bother with my spell-checker. I can say anything.
And all I have to do today, to convince you that I am right, is to believe that
I’m right, harder than you do…
Unless one has the patience to
educate one’s self.
As Lulu once sang. I love to love
love.
It’s 5:24 am and, despite my entire rant
about patience and education and all, I feel kind of proud that I have written
my untrained, undisciplined thoughts for nearly six hours. Just for fun.
Actually, now that I have re-read this, and fixed a few things, and brought
this document up to, what I hope to be the skill level of a 11th
grade student of fifty years ago, I must admit that it is now 5:55 am and my
butt is killing me!
(NOW 6:26) I thank you for spending
your time with me, for whatever your reason, and I invite you to reply with whatever
your thoughts to my e-mail at zort@rogers.com