A Day Less Ordinary

Justin Bieber Is a Bunt Cake

2010-07-18T13:32:00.000-07:00

I wanted to say something ruder but withheld myself.

I guess I like to swear, but I have a friend or two, mostly one, maybe a half somewhere, who frown on it a bit, and I sort of try and refrain... except for the casual "fuck" here and there. In quotes just to be safe. Use protection with your words people. They are bloody dangerous.

So...

Justin Bieber smells like poo. Like... I hear his voice and somehow I can smell shit. It's like Miles Davis hearing colors, I smell music, and Justin Bieber is a Turd. I don't even know how old he is. I hear his voice is breaking, egads, so is probably 14, maybe 15, maybe younger. I feel he is far too young to be prancing around whining about how he thought his love would last for ever.

This brings up two possibilities.
He is either lying, which makes him a big douche bag. Because fourteen year olds are running around thinking they are in love, and vampires. But they might have already been thinking that. I'm pretty sure there were some twits in my class who thought they were in love. Though I did like Daniel's comment in grade 8: "I'm just in to her body." Kids are sweet.

Which leads to the other option. Maybe Justin Bieber really does feel that way. He's dumb and mislead, but he might actually feel that way. Romeo and Juliet felt that way. It seemed like really really huge passionate love. It probably was. But immature and mislead. Who's to say Romeo and Juliet aren't responsible for Justin Bieber, and who is responsible for that story, or for inspiring Shakespeare to write it.

One thing does separate Mr. Bieber from Shakespeare though. Shakespeare smells considerably less like shit than Mr. Bieber. Justin may believe in his subject matter and really feel all those things he's singing about, but his songs are still terrible. The music is not good, and he may be ridiculous.

I'm glad lots of people are enjoying them and feeling better for hearing him. I don't know if they should really stop. But they probably should are likely dumber for it, though I think I may have boogied to an S Club seven song or two... and I am likely dumber for it... but perhaps happier.

p.s. totally unrelated word of advice. don't be afraid of saying fuck you from time to time.

A day in the life

2010-03-07T07:26:00.000-08:00

Today this is just an online diary.

I had been thinking of writing a blog loosely set around some of the songs by broken social scene, and focus on the ideas they present that appeal to me, or are at least challenging things in some way that I like. This first popped into my head with the song "Lover's Spit." Which I wasn't entirely aware of until my friend Mike started singing it with full rock involvement outside the music school we work at. Go Mike.

The body is... what it is. It's what you've got. And it feels a remarkable amount of things. Ranging from tiny little breezes, and things you ignore most of the time, so the orgasmic. The whole spectrum is to be appreciated. But it's... kind of dirty and strange and gooey, and I find it's just, not properly enjoyed sometimes. Something about a song about people kissing and swapping spit really symbolises something for me.

I think I'll come back to that and give it it's proper due. Really rant on about bodily fluids in a near embarrassing manner.

(Just to note, I'm quite enjoying writing this.)

Well... now I have to double back to my wandering train of thought and not let it go on its tangent right away. My head isn't really liking that idea though. It was enjoying the tangent.

So... let's go with that.

Why is the tangent so fun? Because that's where my head went. That was my head, being purely itself without concern for how what I think or say will affect someone else.

I find that concern very problematic. On the one hand, it seems that if you don't think about the things you are going to say there is a great potential for being mean and horrible to people, and in such a case you are a "douche bag", as the fella says. But! I don't know if this is exactly the case. I find the "douche bag"ness of such action comes from the fact that it conflicts with your normal restrained behaviour. Careful, considerate, generally boring behavior. It may be a harsh criticism but I feel it to be true enough that it warrants some form of simple statement. That behavior is BORING! Though, it is highly valued for being stable and helping the modern world go around in its clock work way.

So... you the conflict arises when you adhere to so called good behavior and then let your wilder personae go. You make yourself out to be a liar. You said you wanted A. and behaved in a manner to get A. but every now and then you did something that was very not A. seemed to totally contradict A. and you do it in a manner that seems completely honest and believable. You reveal parts of yourself, and people go... but wait... that's not really you, and well, disaster ensues. You find yourself trying to resolve the pain of the people who are hurt by your revelation, and might do so by putting on a certain showing of type A. behavior, while not wanting to compromise the validity of your other behavior. So... it see saws. People get emotionally weary and things just get worn down, get ugly, and stop.

The desire to fix the situation makes it worse, in my experience.

Get on with being who you are and things take care of themselves. People who don't like you, will not spend time with you, which is nice. And people who do genuinely like you will stick around because you don't fluctuate erratically, and thus confuse them. You can have massive fluctuations of emotion, have very sad days, very mad, very happy, and bouts of daily contentment, and these might fit in to who you are quite nicely. People just don't like feeling lied too. And feeling confused about what they think about things. It's too tiring and eventually you just stop doing that thing. Or at least, there's a good chance.

Tangents... are me.

I don't like chit chatting politely.

I like talking...

I get bored quickly.

I become depressed when I don't do something about situations that are not as I want them. I don't like to compromise beyond a natural heartfelt desire to make someone else happy.

It's amazing to what extent I am struck by the force of moments where I am unwilling to act. Everything becomes total shit.

It seems like it should be, well... that kinda sucks... oh well...

but no, it's massive and terrible.

Which is horrible, and yet... does inspire me to do the things I really want quite a bit.

I wonder why that happens...

I'll think about it some time.

Life... as written and performed by Matthew James Cook, sometimes esquire.

2010-02-02T20:27:00.000-08:00

This… will… ramble…

Each day is a bite, and it's sometimes a bit tart… but I’m pretty good with food.
This is a good start. It’s simple. That’s the point. If you can get it there, then you don’t have to read more, and can stop. Have you learned how to stop yet? I’m getting there on that one.

I get it (the other thing), but I like to keep going anyways… that’s another point.

This might wander…

I, have not written… a long time…
I do not write.
Sometimes I don’t even speak. I feel, there’s not much to say.
There was so much nonsense to stop talking.
I play music, upside down, inside out, round and round, until I pass out.
That's what I do. In closed rooms. Though, I won't stop if you come in.
And will play if you ask me...
This is what I do, instead of speaking.
I sing on the bus.

It is... much later than last I was here, and much has changed.
Usually it is much later, and very little has changed, except for the time.
I haven’t noticed the time for a while now.

Time has sprawled and crawled, and lurched forward through a series of days.
And I along with it sometimes. Have crawled and managed, and things have been strange, and not strange, and generally… they are… just what they are.

And these are old words… past words… they're a bit confused...
While I am not

But, looking back... I see that much has been...
And they can only be described… in... confused ways…
Otherwise… they are not done justice… and still there are things that seem unresolved from all that confusion...

But my feet are steady. So are my eyes. I stare a lot, at all the things that just are. Nothing to say, apart from the odd overwhelming thing. Everything else seems… obvious.Almost… embarrassingly so.

This is new. Usually I’m confused, even when I know things.

Each day I care less and less…
(These are words that linger on the tips of the lips of my brain.
No longer quite my own. Words that I want to use, but don’t quite recognise.)

Maybe…Each day, I… worry less… (a bit closer to the right words)
And care, fiercely, about the things I really care about…
And really just don’t give a fuck, about the things I don’t give a fuck about.
And when you step into that area, I don’t give a fuck about you.

Apart from the rare few… who I might wade in after.
Because after all…
I Do Care

I’m still making my mind up about some of you. Sorry.
I might never do so. I don’t have the time.
Some of you I have forgotten about entirely.
I don’t feel bad. I don’t have the time.

I know what I know. Sometimes it’s a bit stupid and painful… but I know it more than Christmas… just because.

So… what is going on?

It is a quiet night. And in a pause between breaths…
I am writing.
Because, I am a writer, and always knew I was.
I just didn’t want to write.

I don’t really have anything to say. But I just felt like talking.

Evolution in a Blog

2009-07-18T15:00:00.000-07:00

I have a bottle of shampoo sitting in front of me.

It's close to empty.
It is pink.
It has an attractive, circular, green symbol on the front, with some sort of ivy thing going on. It has a small amount of writing on the front, and more on the back, all of it is ridiculous, or bullshit.

I am relatively ignorant to the sciences of hair care.
The bottle in front of me that the shampoo it contains is particularly good at straightening hair because it contains honeyed pear and silk. This is stunning information. I didn't know silk could be reduced to a liquid form, but if it can (apparently so) I suppose it would be nice in your hair. Honeyed pear sounds like it might smell nice, and I do value a good natural smell over perfume, but I don't know why they used honeyed pears. Perhaps it contains pear and honey, but I can't quite believe they bought pre-honeyed pears to make shampoo with, the same pears some people might eat.

This combination apparently makes for a powerful shampoo that will "straight to your head." The lame appeal to a popular turn of phrase is so unfunny that any association with other head benefits such as a pleasurable non-headache sensation or an improvement in your mental faculty is unlikely. I feel dumber just looking at this thing.

Other tacky lines are listed out on the back: "I think it's better straight than never," "Get in line right here" "for straight sake"... the french translations are so bad shouldn't be mentioned here.

The whole product is said to be "dangerously straight." There is something about it that is subtly dangerous.

I've been looking at this bottle every now and then when I was in the washroom, which I share with two roomates, one of them female, who's hair product this is. The bottle originally appealed to me, when it was new, because its shape and color were quite appealing, and the designs were simple and effective. As I read about it's contents its initial glamour wore off. Soon it's external glamor began to fade, until now it is an almost empty bottle of goo, with a surface that is just smudged and scratched enough to remind that this is a plastic bottle that will be absolutely useless once it is done with.

From this point my mind wandered further... to be continued.

Heretical Slip Up on Q

2009-07-10T12:56:00.000-07:00

As the first segment of Q, the popular CBC Radio One show, wrapped up for a news break, the now iconic host Jian Gomeshi, tripped up over the the words "letter" and "later", repeating them out of order several times, before shouting them out angrily in the correct order.

This would have warranted no more than a small titter, except that as the theme music faded out, a soft but still clear heretical blashpheme was heard, uttered by the said icon.

Not only is Jian Gomeshi treading on dangerous ground with iconic status, taking on the role of a false icon, but is now actively besmirching the name of the lord.

Angry protests are already taking place outside of the CBC offices in downtown Toronto, and as word continues to spread, it is likely that the crowd will increase. In all likeliness a riot will soon take place, and CBC Toronto will be leveled to the ground, as if smitten by the Lord.

We desperately urge that Jian Gomeshi publicly apologise to , the entire earth, the heavens above, and he should swear his everlasting soul to the one Lord and saviour, and redeem himself from fiery perdition, where is surely heading.

Way To Go CBC and The Conservatives

2009-06-17T08:36:00.000-07:00

As a public broadcasting company the CBC is required to provide a platform for certain political updates. This is not the minister of this or that, the prime minister, or the leader of the defense having a frank if somewhat careful chat with Michael Enright, but rather a one minute spot on why we're great and the other side sucks, in words that are not much more eloquent than that, but much less to the point -- painfully so.

I shook my head, as I do, at most political commercials, or any commercials for that matter, as Tony Clement delivered a monotone message for the Conservatives their economic reforms, which "are working." The only actual detail of proof of a plan that I heard was that two people could now split one job and have the difference covered by e.i. if that company needs to cut back. That is something I suppose, and might be very good, I don't really know, but it doesn't seem to tell me enough at all to justify the repetitions of "a plan that is working" "a plan that is working" "we want to see it through, because it's working" that cropped up throughout the minute long add. Oh, and Michael Ignatieff is the only man in Canada who wants there to be an election and though he says he doesn't, he is doing his utmost to make it happen, and we must fight tooth and nail, gumming him if necessary, to prevent his nefarious plan. And he said thank you of course.

This was followed by the CBC news, with an opening report about Michael Ignatieff who had come to an agreement with Stephen Harper to keep the government in power and avoid an election for the time being. Oh...... so that ad.... was just.... oooo.

I know and you know, the political powers that be feel compelled to err on the side of potential stupidity rather than risk not putting out an ad and finding themselves booted out of power. This just happens to be a moment where the larger stupidity of politics, which denies any chance that anything honest be said, was wonderfully highlighted in a small, visible, form of itself, and gave me, and I hope some others, a good laugh.

Good night and good luck!

2009-05-03T20:00:00.000-07:00

So I post when I have had a few drinks... or other odd moments. Shhh.

And I don't have any pictures on my god damn blog. Not even a minor lAterary figure... Damn... what am i doing wrong? Why aren't I surrounded by sycophants and people;book people, movie people, music people, naked people... anyone with money... give it to me.

Well, I suppose it's only because it's not what I want... as I've never really pursued that.

Ah ah ah...

the question is then: what do I want?

Has anyone figure that out yet. You people who walk around like you know what you want, do you actually? Or is it all just a show?

Lives full of wild capers. They don't really happen. I'd settle for... a sense of something. I don't even have anchovies.

I love bad jokes.

But seriously... intense dreams... and I look sexy in the mirror. Sure of it.

It all ends up being confusing.

Hello. And Good night!

Where The Days Go

2009-04-28T06:54:00.000-07:00

A ramble for the sake of rambling...

Yesterday it was hot. Women and men, both alike, wore much less clothing. Some wore next to none, and lay in the park, making as much of what they will show the world a lovely golden brown. Some may have turned an ugly red.

There were frisbees everywhere, and volleyballs. Several men were running up and down hills and stairs. One looked like he did only that, and was entirely made of muscles. The others seemed to be chasing after that man with panting breath.

Sweaty chests on display. And thighs blow into sight, as wispy summer dresses swish as you jiggle.

It might not be summer today, but it was yesterday. It felt like it, and people felt like. Everyone fell all over themselves into the role. Everyone was different, or trying to change.

I undid a button or two on my shirt, and walked with mostly quiet ease. The odd twist put in my step by thoughts of my own "new beginings," my own changes, women and other people, myself, my life... as much as I would let myself think about such things. Some are still locked down tight. Just in case. Though, I thought about dealing with them too, and even looked at them out of the corner of my eye.

It feels like a good season to be easy with yourself and everyone.

And just what happens.

I feel like sharing something... really because it's the first time I've had something of my own to share in a while... but I almost don't care what it is.

The Stare

I stared around the doorway
As she brushed and fiddled
Until I filled the place
And she stared back
“What do you think?”
What do I think?
I was thinking about hair
So I took it to me
Slid into it and moved it
Looked at her in the mirror
Held it in a bunch
Let it flow around her face
Pretended this was cut
If I could have it all my way

“like this” I said
When my stomach churned

I hadn’t been paying attention to her
She was staring again
Almost shaking in silence
I wanted her to acknowledge
Her sex, and her effect
And missed until later
Any feeling of significance
In the weight of her gaze
That chewed me

I was filled with knowing
My hands would smell of her
Whenever I sipped something

Daily Log, Mark number number number beepy noise.

2009-02-27T08:01:00.001-08:00

Just looking at the time as I start to write this.
It is almost 11:11, which has managed to remain a special time for me.
It's god damn true, really special sometimes. I just can't hide it.

Anyways.

For anyone interested.

I've been doing some reading for the OAR - OTTAWA ARTS REVIEW.
They just had a very cool fund raiser on Feb 13th and their new issue is hitting the Ottawa area very soon. Also note, that their content is being broadcasted globally via the world wide web at http://www.review.artsuottawa.ca/

It will be worth checking back now and again.
Part of the great literary community of Ottawa and Canada.

Yes Canada has some great stuff.

A couple of Canadian recommendations for the day. Really obvious but fun stuff.
Al Purdy - Attempt
Al Purdy - Home Made Beer
Lorna Crozier - 0
Lorna Crozier - Getting Pregnant

Both have many other great poems. If you do not at least know this two reknowned Canadian poets, then you should get off your wonderful bum (all bums are wonderful) and have a read at them. I was quietly informed yesterday (that recently) that their works are hard to find on-line, as there is a movement to keep Canadian literature in print, and out of digitalised format for now. Not sure if that's due to tradition or respect, or because poets have to sell whatever they can to increase the modest income.

Also on the lierary radar. Tobias Wolff - Awake. I had to read this to help out a friend but it turned out to be quite stunning, though simple read. Don't let the douche bag tone of the first little bit get to you. The character, well, in my opinion, is a bit of a doucebag, but an interesting one.

It also mentions having sex a few times for those of you who need more of a thrill to get you motivated *whistle* grrr ooooh. I'm getting excited just pretending to be excited... ooooh... ahhh..

Now I'm distracted.

Good reading all.

Matthew

Inter Discourse

2009-02-26T07:27:00.000-08:00

-Rant

intransitive verb
1 : to talk in a noisy, excited, or declamatory manner
2 : to scold vehemently
transitive verb
1 : to utter in a bombastic declamatory fashion

-Discourse

1archaic : the capacity of orderly thought or procedure : RATIONALITY
2: verbal interchange of ideas ; especially : CONVERSATION
3 a: formal and orderly and usually extended expression of thought on a subject
b: connected speech or writing
c: a linguistic unit (as a conversation or a story) larger than a sentence
4obsolete : social familiarity
5: a mode of organizing knowledge, ideas, or experience that is rooted in language and its concrete contexts (as history or institutions)

Interactive, interconnected, discourse, inter nos.

I think somebody mixed up their prefix in the grammar books.
Would you like to communicate via inter . . .

Well, of course!

Sometime inter vivos.

A Couple Of Things

2009-02-26T07:23:00.000-08:00

I'm just having a few moments of reflection on the nature of a blog.

I was just writing something to put up here, but the reality is that I have to get to work on things that pay bills, fill my tummy, pay for my way from here to there, and let me lavish my attentions on those I love.

Needless to say, I think I may have been going about this all wrong.

The daily form of interaction that makes up a blog has been lacking.

I have only been posting odd bits of writing that consist of rants and social commentaries.

So I will, unless I get bored or don't care, post more frequently, less formally.
I will also try to integrate a bit more with the Ottawa writing community. Give them the odd shout out.

I am also considering a little reshaping of the page... as much as I like the Cookie Monster, he's just not doing it for me.

Check out today's bit of fun, coming in the next few minutes.

Matthew

Walk Well

2009-02-11T05:58:00.000-08:00

Really, this has nothing to do with walking.

Walking along the other day, coming back from Opera, where I had just had a very vigorous and successful night of vociferous vocalising, I found I had a certain spring in my step. My legs were swinging out in front of me just a little bit more than usual, gaining, I am supposing, a few more inches on each stride than I would with my usual side. And so I was propelled along on my speedy stroll, in a very relaxed and elated manner. There was no more effort than usual, but I knew, be it by the whisps of wind that wandered over my face, or by feeling of solid connection that thrummed up through my legs, all the way, to my stomach, and heart, I do not know… but I knew! I could feel it in my ass.

It is a very old adage. Whatever you do, is worth doing well. And in my case, it seemed to spread like some miraculous disease. I sang well, and that gave me joy. That joy propelled my legs along with a youthful vitality I have rarely known, which gave me further joy. I then got home, felt happy, talked to my girlfriend happily, which gave me further joy, and even though she was nearly in a comatose stage of sleep, this did not bother me, and I was happy to kiss her goodnight and let her sleep, while I, still carried along, I drew for the first time in years. First a couple of doodles, something slightly romantic, as my mind was full of girlfriend thoughts; then some cool guys smoking; and finally a very detailed sketch of Mordecai Richler’s face, who’s book was sitting near by, with a very expressive snapshot of his ugly mug on the back cover.

I slept like a baby.
I have been walking for years, but I usually walk quite slowly. I am just a little fellow. When I try to walk quickly, I find I get shin splints. I never knew why.

I was walking wrong. I was trying to walk fast instead of walking fast. Leaning forward and motoring away with my legs did no good. Relaxing back, and swinging my legs out, planting my feet firmly on the ground, getting a good grip, rather than trying to lightly brush over the world, escape its gravity, rather than embrace it warmly… with my feet… this was the way.

The World Is Donkey Shit

2009-01-22T09:10:00.000-08:00

Some musings based on a spontaneous and interactive argument

Philosophy class breeds curiosity, convoluted debates, the odd headache, and poverty.
Its value is somewhere between the cracks, that people blithely step on while tuning out the world through their ear phones.

Democracy. Government. Economics. Natural Science. All stem from it in some part.

But the vision of it now is what? Only useless poverty and academia?

“Philosophy is useless?” One says.

“How can you say that?” Another says.

“I agree, but that’s the point.” One more.

While the last just laughs.

“I like it because it’s useless. I don’t want to study something useful. That’s why I’m in university.” An amusing, some might say, idealistic point.

“Philosophy has a part in everything we do.” The livid protest continues.

“It does nothing. We need science. Science makes the world work.” The snide rebuttal.

“None of that would exist without the environment that philosophy has provided through the establishment of democracy and ongoing discourse!”

“Without Science you would be cold and hungry.”

“No, without philosophy there would be no science.”

“I just like philosophy.” The interjection.

“Look. Here it is. Without Science the world would be Donkey Shit.”

Boisterous laughter from the other, while the others sit shocked, split between the desire to flip off the offending voice, and the curiosity of the distracting laughs.

The conversation is at an end. Succinct eloquence brings it to a somewhat crass stop. Without Science the world is Donkey Shit.

My worry is that the world is Donkey Shit anyways.
Can it be anything else? Or do we just embrace the shitty world.

Shit happens… or worse still… shit IS. And we can only be happy… by learning to love shit.

It seems we might as well laugh.

Do-Rags Change the World?

2009-01-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

For the unfamiliar, as many may be, though not for long, we must first ask: what is a Do-Rag?

I had originally surmised that the word came from a combination of the words “dew" and "rag,” having only heard it, bandied about here and there in oral tradition in the rough streets of Ottawa. I had foolishly thought that it served the practical purpose of sopping up sweat from the wearers head. I had noticed that it was sometimes worn by professional athletes, mostly in the NBA or NFL, where sweat in one’s eyes or on the court must be a particular hazard. However, this is apparently not the case.

A do rag is a large handkerchief that you wrap around your head in a particular way, similar to a bandanna, though, covering the whole scalp, in an effort to protect your “do.”

It may have originated with G.I.s in Vietnam, or may date back as far as emperor Menelike II of of Ethiopia (Aug 17, 1844 –Dec 12, 1913). What good it would do for protecting a “do” from a Vietnamese sniper, I do not know. It may alternately be spelled “doo-rag,” “du-rag,” or “durag,” with no apparent change in the meaning.

The “do rag” is solely an item of personal statement, a sideline fashion item that expresses one’s inner “badassness.” Apart from wearing it on one’s head one may also keep their do-rag around one’s belt loops. This is particularly “badass” as any functional value of the do-rag is removed and only its “bad ass” element remains behind. Be sure to watch which side you hang it on. If one were to hang in on the left side, that would be the “crip side.” If you wander into the wrong neighborhood with this conspicuous label you may find yourself confronted by gang members for being off your “turf”.

The do-rag has recently taken on a new level of cultural importance following the popularity of rap artist T.I., who’s biting lyrics in his song "Swing Your Rag" have led to a neo do-rag movement. A small sample of the songs lyrics succinctly describe this evolution: “I don’t dance, no way. I pull my do-rag out and wave it around. I pull my Gucci rag out and wave around.” The actions involved in the lyrics are easily understood, but what of the meaning behind them?

Through the lyrics may seem simple, this do-rag waving movement has lifted the do-rag to a symbolic level. Through this song T.I. is making, I think, a carefully constructed protest against the need to prove yourself by dance to any man or woman within the highly judgmental confines of a dance club. The extremely overt action of standing isolated within a club and furiously waving about a large piece of cloth, perhaps in general protest, or perhaps in response to being asked to dance, shouts louder than words could over the club bass that there is no need to please anyone but yourself. The selection of a very expensive designer rag allows the waver to maintain that he is still a successful “go getta” and is choosing not to dance and not tha he is unable.

Once emphatically alone in his do-rag waving, a whole host of followers have rallied around T.I. and now pass their Friday nights furiously waving their own, usually neutral coloured, do-rags in dance clubs across the North American continent.

There is yet no word that the phenomenon has spread beyond North America, inquiries into Europe have only had the response “mais c’est de la merde, non?”

Still the phenomenon continue to grow here, seemingly without limit, and one has to wonder if this will eventually remove straight male dancing from night clubs altogether, leaving only circles of barefooted women and gay men to actually dance.

Lisa Robbins, a frequent club goer and girlfriend to Josh Adams, a do-rag waving follower, had this to say.

“At first I thought it was weird like. He never liked to dance anyways, and when he did he just grabbed me all over, and you know, sometimes that's nice like, but sometimes you just want to dance. He’d get all moody and pissy if I wouldn’t let him touch me. Once he tried dancing near me by himself but got angry and said it was gay. He got really drunk that night. Then one time I ask him to dance and he just whips that thing he started wearing off his belt and started waving it in my face. At first I thought it was some new dance and tried to go along with it, but he kept whipping me in the eye. Now I dance with my girlfriend while he and some other guys stand in a corner drinking cheap champagne and waving their do-rags at anyone who comes near them. It’s really fucked up. Why doesn’t he just stay home? He says that’s gay too. I don’t get it.”

Despite the protests of girlfriends, other club goers and gang leaders, do-rag wavers maintain that they are engaging in a serious protest and refuse to back down. I asked Josh to possibly sum-up the socio cultural influence he thinks do-rag waving has and will continue to have across North America. “It ain’t stupid,” Josh replied angrily, flicking his do-rag towards my face “and I ain’t gay,” he added before stomping off to refill his champagne glass, do wag quivering at his side, ever ready, to lash out for his cause. With such energy firing Josh and fellow do rag-wavers it seems there is no end in sight to this dance club phenomena, this crusade to change the world.

Does My Posture Offend You?

2008-12-15T15:07:00.000-08:00

This blog is becoming quite the mish mash of Matthew Cook observations...

I suppose that's the point. I'm thinking of starting up another one with my poetry and some personal critcism on poetry. I'm trying to become an active member in the poetry community (very slowly) rather than just a mild mannered (drunken rambler) reclusive poet.

Off we go...

DOES MY POSTURE OFFEND YOU?

So yes, I like beer. I’m not sure if you heard that. I like wine too, but I’m really on a bit of a beer kick at the moment. Here’s a little bit of free advertisement, for a few companies, via my five or so readers. Apart from Brick Brewing, and St. Ambroise, both of which are pretty well known and fantastic Canadian beers, people should also check out Neustaadt which is, yes hard to believe, from Ontario, and 666, which is also from Ontario. Let the 666 sit a bit after pouring it and for whatever reason its taste very noticeably improves. A bit fizzy and bitter right out of the can.

So anyways, I like beer. Perhaps a bit too much sometimes, though not too often. And there’s this great little local pub down the road that is quiet, has nice, though kinda lousy staff, and who have recently picked up a fine selection of beer that makes my palate, at least, very happy. It is full of local characters, and those I have talked to are great people whose company I really enjoy.

It turns out however, that I may drink beer in a bit of a cocky fashion. It is generally known that I have a bit of a cocky… some might say, even arrogant character at times. It amuses me, I’m not sure where it came from, but if people don’t have a sense of humour fuck them, and really I love you all. Did that come out right?

When I drink beer it seems that I get quite relaxed and scoot down in my chair a bit, giving up my normally impeccable straight backed posture, and cock one of my legs up and rest it on my other leg’s knee. I have an elbow up on the back of my chair, and my other arm is attached to my pint, which I sip from generously.

On my last visit to my favourite local pub, as I sat quite comfortable, sipping, and chatting with a merry group, it was pointed out, in a slur of languages, including drunken gibberish, that I sat in a way that was “not right.” This is the only bit of clear information I understood, but I got the distinct impression that there was something about the way I sat that upset the rambler in a fundamental way. It was “not right,” clearly upsetting, and gradually more upsetting as I could only grin at what seemed like a great farce to me.

The whole thing ended up with me getting my nose rubbed in a critical manner, and me roaring with laughter.

With only a few tears, some friendly handshaking and much post-event head shaking we all went our separate ways, and I none the wiser.

11:11 and Life

2008-12-13T07:36:00.000-08:00

I had forgotten about writing this. I have been recently reminded by another bit of writing on the same subject. It seems that perhaps, as they are mutually inspired, that they should both be put up around the same time.

11:11

I would have laughed not to long ago at what I thought were some delusional beliefs about the meaning of these numbers; this time.

Someone I love mentioned to me how often it occurred that she happened to look at a clock when triple or more digits were displayed: 3:33, 2:22, 5:55, and 11:11, the rarest and longest in repeating numbers. She also said that it seemed to coincide with notable moments of her day, or with momentous moments of people she loved. Yes, things that she had no idea of until later, but felt connected with at that time. Yes, extra sensorial perception of some sort.

I was incredulous. I told her so. I looked up websites and statistics to prove how incredulous it was. “Do you know, how many times a day your eyes look at a clock?” “Do you know how many minutes of one day, whole minutes, there happens to be repeating digits on a clock?” There are at least 24. That you manage to look at a clock once or many times a day when those double digits are displayed, is not unlikely, and that you notice it, even less so, especially now that you hold this wacky belief.

Then I came across a site claiming that 11:11 was a divine sign from God, to all his true believers, spreaders of faith, his chosen ones, letting them know… something. They are meant to do something great and they are all linked together by this common symbol; common being the key word, the word that makes the whole concept ridiculous.

I dismissed this… but then… as I loved this person that told me, I was led to think of her every time I saw any double digits. At first it was just teasing, about angels looking in to make sure we’re saving the world at said and said hour. “Oh my GOD! God told you to buy that muffin, it’s 11:11.” But over time, during conversations; in person, or by phone; someone’s eyes might flick to a clock and notice it. That person would pause, halt the conversation or get the other person’s attention from the book they were reading, just to tell them it was such and such time. It made me feel good. Particularly 11:11, I suppose because it was rarer… and that it came up enough times meant I spent a good deal of time with this person. Each time was a small anniversary. It was a moments pause, to stop, be still, feel love, and maybe say it. Even when we were not together, it happened that we might both look at a clock at 11:11 on the same day every now and then and think of each other, then mention it later, to pause all over again, and perhaps wonder a bit about the divine.

This has led me to reflect on the whole “chosen messengers” proposition. Logically I still think it is bunk, but still there is a little grain of something beautiful there, linked to my personal appreciation of beauty in my life. If I extend that feeling, perhaps not as intensely, but comparably, from between just two people… to many people… to a small group… then a larger group… then that would be quite the moment of reflection on the many people I love. That seems quite beautiful to me.

This is just one symbol, and happens to be mine right now, the one that fills me with love, at this late time of night… 11 something or other… and there could be any number of other ones, bunnies, feet, airplanes, songs, food, that make people think of love… well they’re all beautiful. Though this one is special in its near universality. Most everyone has a clock or many about them during the day. I like the idea of everyone taking a moment to think of the person they love at 11:11… ridiculous as it may be.

A First Day Less Ordinary

2008-12-01T13:37:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking about looking into the possibility of starting a blog, and my words are chosen carefully. Until sometime yesterday I had not really even looked into what is actually involved in blogging. In fact, I have only read about three blogs in my whole life, including one my very favorite of persons started yesterday, who has, by so doing, inspired me to just start one. Nike would be an apt name for he at this time, but she has already selected her own Greek deity, fully convinced that she is a deity herself. Well, whatever your damn name is, thank you.

I am rather rushed at the moment, and so the quality of this blog may not be up to the professional standard I might like, but as a very first blog, fired off into the sea electronic information, and with so much other educational, informative, entertaining and pornographic material freely available already, well, hopefully a few people notice my typos.

So as a token offering, a quick bit of writing I rushed out one day.
It was inspired by an over zealous moment of my roommate. I may have been too hasty in judging his commitment, only time will tell. But whether it is he, or any number of other sex deprived, and testosterone addled, young men, I think it holds a certain truth that many may recognize.

Without further delay (baring this quick intro) I give you...

My Penis Is In Love

My friend let slip rather casually at breakfast that he is "absolutely in Love" with a girl he was bringing over that evening. This was the extent of his explanation and the very first words I had ever heard about the existence of this girl. Not one to usually omit any story about a girl who paid him any attention the sudden visit stood out as a bit strange. But apparently he had met her before and knew her well enough to invite her round for the first time, one can only assume after such a statement.

My friend has a rather fired up personality when it comes to women. He gets rather excited in their presence at times. He has, I think it will be understood, a large libido, and perhaps not enough self control to reign it in. So rather than directing his enormous libido with self assured charm, distributing enormous quantities of pleasure to one or multiple women, his libido has tendency to run ahead of him, like a puppy pulling on a leash, yanking him along, and inevitably tangling him up, awkwardly.

The only other detail he offered was: "she's Asian."

He has a thing for Asians it was whispered. Not much else was said about the potential of her having a personality beyond this: she comes from somewhere in an area that accounts for about one third of the earth's landmass. Perhaps I exaggerate... from somewhere in an area that accounts for about a quarter of the earth's landmass, which narrows it down considerably.

With such a personality, and such a vague description of the love of one's life , the grandiose statement, to me, seems misplaced. I don’t want to say he is making no objective judgment that her personality is generally pleasant and likable, but I do believe it would be more understandable if we were to translate the statement, “I am in Love with her,” with “My Penis is in Love with her.”

Despite the accuracy of this statement, it is nevertheless a troubling statement, as it could be a rather awkward and risky, and not, perhaps, something someone should think aloud. It provides a terrible insight into the nature of the sex depraved man. He is no longer a complete character. His body, mind and mouth, no longer represent his personality. They have become mere extensions of his penis. His mouth will speak the words of the penis, and the mind will machinate to achieve the goals of the penis, and his whole body will have been reduced to a mode of transportation to move his where it desires.

To fall for the personality of man in this state, is in fact to fall for a complete prick.

Well I ended up rewriting that story a bit as I went through it. It could probably go on but I'm short of time.

Here's one little tid bit (it is tid bit isn't it? the spelling tool tells me that it is a mistake, but I have shied away, with a tiny snigger and smirk, from the possibility that it should actually be "tit bit.") This is an apartment add that a friend of mine came across on craig's list some time ago. The add itself is quite astounding... but this was also the first time I read a craig's list apartment ad, and found their living options remarkably bizarre in their own right, and so I have included them to give the overall effect. Ironic that it includes "it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services."

Free or cheap rent for open-minded girl

Please contact me for more details if you might be interested.

cats are OK - purrr
dogs are OK - wooof
Location: Ottawa
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

go listen to "Chocolate Jesus" by Tom Waits.

Best, wishes.
Mattew James Cook. The two and only.