Musings of the speaker

These dogs won't take me. It's a swift scrape that snatches this one, I'll tell you. They've been growling around the damn solar panels all day, probably thinking I'd be down for water. What they can't detect can't be shredded to bits by them, I say. All it takes is a digital transmitter that reads landscaping, with a rerouter on the police frequency. The little friggers think there's no one around because they're 'seeing' a sensory recording of when you weren't there. You just gotta hope they don't snoop outside your transmitter radius. I'll give the authorities a week to figure out that little trick before the bastard hounds' programming is updated. Until then I'll be eating canned peaches and UHT cream, dearie.
We've been storing data on them for weeks. The dogs, I mean. I'm going to try to get a live one today with a program I bought off some haggard cleric from Oman with a cleft lip and a mole the size of a peanut hanging from his damn eyelid. I'll be the first to hope he's not a loyalist pawning off detection software to speaker-folk like me. The thing seemed solid anyway. Better well be, cost me two litres of oil and the plastic bottle to go with it. I've got plenty.
Here goes nothing...

Saturday in.

It's like something romantic the day after. The potpourri is still in the tub, but careless euphoria circumvented whomever from cleaning the bathroom. A room full of the odious smells of stale beer and grounded smoke rather than the cheerful laughter and easy warmth of it's former occupants. Minor tragedy and subtle decay. The foolhardy drawing on the wall now winks a sinister grimace where it used to grin. Even the mundane contingent of dirty dishes, caked with dried up rice grains that were never quite finished, mock me. It's like the feeling that you should be home even though you don't have a telephone and nobody ever comes by.
That's what the taste in the back of my throat is like right now: Seedy, quite simply. It's a devil I know, though, so I take what comfort I can from it, like a loyal slave. The bakery didn't even fix it. Maybe I need a vacation from my own grumbly, hung-over self. A week of detox and a few gym sessions. Back to vegetarianism and non-smoking.
Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrm.

Ramble

It's a slick, tarry job, I'm thinkin'. You get it all, you know? The things people usually think of as 'underground' are more or less phantoms and reveries, but that doesn't mean that the grain of salt that the myths represent is any less incredible than the fallacies. The funny thing about it all is that when you contact these giants of pop culture, they're just 'struggling artists' who want to have fun. I always wondered about the too-cool-for-school stereotype of DJs and bandmembers, but to date I haven't gotten any guff off of anyone. That says something, too, seeing as I use an alias for publications. The reality is, of course, that while these people usually have less attitude than the scenesters themselves, they do party really hard. The lesson really, is come on in and have fun, because the cooler the happenings, usually the less pretentious the people there...

Racist media fun! Wheeee!

Ridiculous quotes from the BBC and my ridiculous reactions to them:

“At UK airports on Thursday - with the country on its highest terror alert of "critical" - bottles of water were taken from passengers and mothers asked to taste their babies' milk before it could be taken on to flights.”

Quick: Were on high alert! We need as many babies crying and paranoid bystanders as possible! Get out the ether, fire up the cattle prods! Civil liberties are running rampant over our democratic* society!

“Sources told the BBC the "principal characters" suspected of being involved in the plot were British-born, some with links to Pakistan.”

They’ll really say anything to reassure the public that these are no ordinary, white citizens. Look out: they have suspected ties to Pakistan. Pakistan’s over there! It ends with the suffix –stan! They must be Al-Qaeda Terror Death Muslims!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111111111111111111111111111111111111oneoneone

*Democracy is a registered trademark of Newscorp. Any unauthorized transmission or reproduction of Democracy is copyright infringement and thus punishable by Antiterrorism.

Flood 'em with Ersatz

When I was 16, my mom presented me with the complete works of Che Guevera, copies of all his transcripted speeches, and a bright red Che T-shirt, bearing that familiar, empathetic silhouette. When I was your age, she said, Che was my hero. As an adult, my parents’ incessant advice to me, somewhat of a road-worn cat in my own right, is always, Boy, you gotta go to Cuba before Fidel Castro dies and the friggin’ Americans flood the place with new cars and consumer junk. They’re from a generation that adored Trudeau and maintained reasonable hopes of a system recalibrated to suit the needs of the many. They’re not communists. Au contraire, my mom spent over a decade as a politician here in Canada and my dad votes conservative. But they, like their progeny, are politicized socialists in the extreme.
So now Fidel’s on the way out, as far as anyone cares to extrapolate, and his brother’s not the man of the people that this unflappable stalwart of populism was, in an age of elitism. You can almost see the froth at the corner of the mouths of all the Yankee businessmen at the prospect of filling one more little niche economy with monocultural garbage in hopes of causing a miniscule spike in the growth of a market that is in the process of eating itself. Just one more little hit of dirty skag at the ass end of a junkie’s bell curve. Soon they’ll be in there proclaiming the victory of ‘democracy’, bulldozing villages to create opulent beach resorts, broadcasting any kind of advertisement that an analyst decided was a hit, and just generally sucking out the place’s soul through a vacuum called development.
Fidel, I’m not a communist; I don’t agree with half of the things you say; regardless, our sincerest thanks for being one of the only people on this goddamned planet to keep the wolves at bay until now. We love you. Get well soon.
Gracias. Que te vayas con Dios.

Fuckin' Tories

We were strolling St. Catherine this morning when we noticed the kafuffle of several thousand protesters from the Lebanese community and beyond responding to the Qanas Massacre and Stephen Harper’s support of Israel’s invasion. Naturally we joined in, despite our disdain at the presence of the odd bit of vaguely pro-Hezbollah paraphernalia. Rotten apples, I say. Regardless, the numerous Lebanese flags flown and chants of “Vive le Liban” were quite heartening. Later on in the evening, we cycled off to the village to see the Pride parade. I’m not Lebanese, nor am I gay, but you gotta join in your support. If the right can unite, so should we. Therein, however, may be the problem. For, you see, in the Pride parade there was a great and laudable presence from the Lebanese community, fags and otherwise. Not to mention a major Anti-Harper tone (in fact, the first float was accompanied by a banner that stated, “Harper: L’Union Civil. Un droit, un choix”). So is it sides, then? Are the fags pro-peace and the Conservatives anti-Lebanon by role?
Gilles Duceppe was there. The NDP was there. Heck, the Liberals were probably slinking around there somewhere, too. They’re the ones who legalized same-sex marriage, after all. It wouldn’t’ve hurt Harper to at least give the damn thing a shout out. The inaugural edition of the World Outgames: ‘So what’s the big deal about a bunch of fags playing professional sports?’ you might think. ‘Why snub it?’ you might say. Well, Stephen Harper has a reason or two. First of all he’s a homophobe. Even he doesn’t deny that. So along with that comes the Conservatives’ pending challenge of the constitutionality of gay marriage. One of my professors always said that civil struggles go two steps forward, one backward. He doesn’t speak French, either. You’re potentially wondering what the hell French has to do with gays and Lebanese. Well, nearly the entire Canadian Lebanese community is francophone, and I don’t imagine anyone’s about to argue against Quebec being more tolerant of homosexuality than the rest of Canada (maybe even the world, according to certain members of the local gay community I’ve encountered, but that’s tough to say).
Maybe I should see the silver lining here. Most countries probably don’t have enough queers and peaceniks in the left camp to represent the occasional majority government. This is on the backslide, I’m afraid. Canada’s not the bastion of socialism it was when I was a child. And it shows in the language, conduct, and political affiliations of our PM.

Meandertron

Okay, I ended up turning this post into an edition of my music editorial in Montreal's The Mirror. To see the final version, which reads a lot less like the drunken rant that this is, check my other blog HERE (Disco Volante)

Ah, Montreal! My heart swells to hear her name! Montreal! The only city where, instead of getting chased down and given a fine for skateboarding, cycle-cops give you props on your slicin’ manhole-gap-to-intersection-manual. True story. I ask of you: where else can a guy get bought a $200 bottle of champagne for thoughtfully complimenting an errant economist on his smashing socks-shirt match? Never mind that I was rolling with the sweetest chicas in the bar; that’s just details. Indeed, when thousands of queers flood in town for grand-scale debauchery and general fuck-wittery, how many other business communities take the laudable official policy of, “Word up. Let’s get stoopid.” Yes, Montreal, penultimate location to find crotch-bustingly beautiful people, second only to downtown Barcelona. Orrelay, gato! Yup, here and only here does a guy get heard rockin’ !!! and LCD Soundsystem at an all-night rager, then subsequently get asked to DJ a wedding. Seriously. It’s been a wild month, I tell you.

Today I met the guy who did all the hairstyles for the X-Files series, and a bunch of Hollywood movies. WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT FUCKING TV!!!??? Interesting enough chap, though. He came in wondering where we got our elegant sofas. Yeah, that’s how we roll. You might think, by reading this post, that I am a self-interested coke-monger. You might think, by seeing the way I bash my head against the wall, metaphorically and otherwise, that I am touched by dark gods. You might think, following a google.ca search, that I am a lush. Anyone ever heard “crap kraft dinner” by Hot Chip?

“Lasting, Permanent, and Sustainable”

Those three words are officially slated to be the replacement jargon which will be used in the coming weeks in lieu of “enduring”, according to an exhaustive study conducted by me, this morning, while I smoked cigarettes and read the news. The study concluded that the conspicuous appearance of these three words in press releases from several nations today, most notably the United States, in reference to a nonexistent cease-fire in Lebanon, will also be used to describe Israel’s occupation of Northern Lebanon, now that they’ve intentionally fucked their chances of establishing a UN security force in the area (The words promise, jointly, to characterize my newfound disdain for the Canadian news media’s devised ignorance of this painfully obvious move. See below for idiotic, nearly-identical quotes from the CBC and the Globe and Mail).

You heard right: after demanding that the UN’s replacement force to control Hezbollah be “robust” (also a new hot term in the propaganda market), and heavily armed, a request that the UN filed under I, for “In your dreams, fascist nutbars”, the Israeli military blasted a UN observer outpost sky-high to ensure the UN’s official position continues to mount against the invasion. “Why?” you ask? Well, here’s the scoop. The US and Israel have been attempting to destabilize public opinion of the UN for years, measures including withheld funding, militaristic juntas in UN sessions, and a stack of media propaganda big enough to shake a Scud at. Now that Canada has joined in on the fun, with Neo-Crony, Stephen Harper at the helm, the right wing nations of the UN have decided that this is the time to strike a media blow at the UN’s credibility. About time, I say! Those filthy, do-gooder centre-lefties at the UN are one step away from blowing our cover in the Middle East! Huzzah!

The plan, which I’d call devious at worst, genius at most generous, is to extract a statement contrary to the invasion from, oh let’s say, Kofi Annan, the UN’s kooky, moderate Secretary-General, who has had a recent penchant for anti-fascism that rightly shivers the proverbial timbers of Neo-Conservatives and PNAC members the world over. As it were, that statement would be that the attack on a UN outpost seemed "apparently intentional." Ten phonecalls? Seriously Kofi, people spend a hell of a lot more effort to no avail than that to stop Israel from destroying their houses. Once the UN is established as 'against Israel' in the eyes of the international news media, right wing governments are set to begin lambasting the UN with charges as wild as “sympathetic to known terrorist groups” or something of the like (Don’t believe me? Wait three days). From there, I’ll bite my tongue ‘till my next post, as I piece together the strategy. Here’s the trailer: destabilize UN; cover up major massacre in Lebanon; stage attack in Gaza strip, then retaliate…

In the mean time, here’s some damning evidence that the Canadian news media will use this project to get Stephen Harper re-elected to a majority in a surprise election in, oh, let’s say, early October, caused by a no-confidence vote over the softwood thing:

“Prime Minister Stephen Harper says he doesn't believe Israel deliberately attacked a United Nations post, a bombing that resulted in the deaths of four UN observers, including a Canadian, in southern Lebanon.”

"He said he wants to find out why the UN post was attacked, but also why 'it remained manned during what is now, more or less, a war.'"

CBC news, Wednesday, July 26

"Prime Minister Stephen Harper said Wednesday he doubts that the fatal bombing of a United Nations observer post in southern Lebanon was a deliberate act."

"He said Ottawa now wants to know why the UN post was attacked and why it remained occupied during 'what is now more or less a war.'"

Globe and Mail, Wednesday, July 26

Chance trip to the dark continent.

It was in a sterile, 4-storey youth hotel just off of the vibrant Las Ramblas of downtown Barcelona that my quick-witted, smooth-talking brother, Riley, and I were holed up on Christmas Eve. This was the kind of place that you were as likely to be rooming with an alcoholic Brazilian linguist as a stout, commanding, tribal prince from the shores of Togo and his decrepit German wife. True story. What a prick that guy was…

Between the three alluring Mexicanas, the Chinese-American college boys and their two Japanese companions, stock was taken at 3 quarts of real mezcal Tequila, 7 pints of 75% absinthe, and a few loaves of bread. With the gram of dry shwag that my brother and I scored off of insert-Tunisian-here, we were perhaps a tad hungry, but no worse for our wares. Spain nobly retains at least a shade of its Christian heritage, duly closing stores for the holidays, leaving us without mix and thus no choice but to chase the absinthe with tequila shooters. Not to embellish too much my inebriated endeavors, I will say that the ensuing holiday bender falls no short of my Top 3 Most Mashed, and landed me some distressing health conditions, and even worse sexual straits, which will be left to the reader’s right hemisphere. The gem of this, however, is that on Christmas day I had a poignant conversation with Tsu-Tomu, one of our derelict holiday number, who was a sushi chef and former professional football player, ostensibly residing in San Diego, California. Our none-too extended dialogue marked the man’s chiseled, feline face in my mind.

From Barcelona, Riley and I headed south along the Costa del Sol, then westward, to Granada, where we arrived shortly before new years. Amongst the classic, Moorish architecture, shoved between the tiered hills which are alive with modern-day cave-dwellers and hidden squatter communities, my dear brother and I continued our feverish photographical quest. After a minor spat with my brother, the content of which escapes me, I went for a walk around the cobbled, labyrinthine streets, crowded by the closely-packed buildings. It was on this walk that I would chance upon my would-be friend Tsu-Tomu, who had abandoned his guide-book-following companions in favor of the impromptu adventuring sought by a minority of backpackers, of whose number I count myself part. He was on his way to Africa, weary of the padded thrills of continental Europe.

And that’s how I ended up on a midnight boat to the infamous Tangiers, Morocco.

Windbags and wingdings.

It’s a sultry evening on the Plateau, and after an invigorating conference at the Deli over what the DJ monikers of all the freaks meandering by should be, I’m retiring back to the keyboard. I scan the news. Condoleezza Rice is at it again, off to Lebanon to churn up support for Chevron’s new petroleum additives, before skipping off to Israel to strike up a deal with Ehudiot Olmert over upcoming arms trading. Those Yankees sure know how to double-time developing nations. The protection racket has never been better. Stephen Harper’s probably at home having wet dreams about being taken advantage of by American businesswomen. After Powell, then Rice, I reckon they should get a black female gay to be head of the Ministry of Truth. Maybe a single mother on welfare, too. Keep narrowing the image until it’s the ultimate statement of fluffy, American diversity.

Bloc Party’s playing on my stereo. Balroom was rad last night. I seem to have leveled off my downward spiral as of late. I’ve curtailed the self destruction to what could probably be described as responsible moderation. Unfortunately, the artistic output is at a proportional relationship, leaving me with a sour disdain at my editorial and reviews of late. There were only three score wastoids and change, but, boy were we cuttin’ a rug. Balroom’s about the only place that has 85% of the clientele clapping, obstinate to leave at 3:30am Monday morning. Terrible bar, great people, unbelievable tunes.

I like how the UN will make aid appeals for Lebanon, but they won’t condemn Israel or the US over their fascist maneuverings. What would we do without Kofi Annan?

Polemics and Politics.

In an eyebrow-raising, if somewhat predictable editorial statement Thursday, Ed Greenspon (editor-in-chief of the Globe and Mail) publicly announced his allegiance to the Yankee propaganda machine, and unrepentant support of the Israeli invasion of southern Lebanon. Despite decades of intermittent oppression and military occupation by Israel, Mr. Greenspon feels that the kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers by Hezbollah members is, somehow, a politically unrelated and unique phenomenon that more than justifies the displacement of hundreds of thousands and murder of hundreds, including eight Canadians, so long as Israel issues a “heartfelt apology.” So let’s get this straight. If a nation is technically unoccupied, there is no reason to expect violent backlash from members of said state, even if the backlash is against a group currently involved in the demolition of a neighboring country (i.e. Palestine). Well that philosophy will certainly prove useful if our new prime minister’s diplomatic blunders lead any “terrorist” groups to retaliate against Canada’s newfound right-wing military maneuvering. We’ll have carte blanche to call up the Pentagon, get a posse together, blast their country sky high, take their oil, and call it “defense”. It was certainly a useful doctrine for progressive politicians of the like in the 30’s. “Oh ya, mien fuehrer, the French militants have inexplicably attacked our bases in Poland. We blow them up? Okay, ya, das is gute. Das is de antiterrorism.”

Okay, okay. Rewind. So what are the official positions of everyone involved? It must be said that the Lebanese government has already called for a cease-fire. The US is prepared to “perform a peace mission, when the time is right.” I can understand that. No need to go sending American ambassadors into war torn areas. Just wait ‘till the Israelis get the interests secured, then move in and implement the cease firing. Israel confusingly claims that it has no quarrel with the people or government of Lebanon. Their mission is humanitarian: free the peoples of southern Lebanon of the deplorable evils of Hezbollah, healthcare services, water, civil liberty, and food. Not too far off of the Neo Conservative Party’s platform for Canada, actually. Now I’m starting to understand. It’s an ideological alliance. Unite the right. Well, naïve old me, I should have seen it all along. And never mind Canada’s historical neutrality and peace-mongering, says Greenspon, because coalescence with military aggression is “refreshing.” We know, Eddy, you were getting bored of reporting all this disgusting peace and prosperity in Canada until Stephen Harper came along and started making real news. Okay, I’m with ya, buddy! What’s our next move? Let’s get all of the Lebanese, no wait, all of the Moslems in Montreal, send them to Gulags in northern Saskatchewan, and call it anti-terrorism. Good, old-fashioned preemptive profiling. Filthy militant bastards probably don’t even speak English, for God’s sake, THE national language. Not like you and me and Steve-O: real, white, Canadian Anglophones. The good old boys.

PS. I hope the terrorists hit your house first, you fuckin’ short-sighted, naïve Republican wannabe.

More Futurenews

Nets Glitches Reach New Peak

Tuesday, May 16, 2036

This past Sunday at midnight saw what experts believe to be the largest yet-recorded of the net phenomenon known popularly as ‘The Ghost’ and ‘Mr. Internet’ among other names. A large corporate database, property of a UK produce distributor, was formatted and replaced with information consisting mostly of garble. A flight was also accidentally redirected from Buenos Aires to Singapore. Media experts and analytical programmers are currently analyzing the data-anomalies detected during the event.

Scientific Controversy

Many technical experts and scientists attribute these “emergent phenomena” to the wildly mushrooming amount of information being sent around the world’s media structure. Some theorize that as communications, or ‘commands’ on the nets increase in volume, many program-directives conflict, causing errors on major systems. These errors then compile like snowballs in certain circumstances, according to certain studies.

Researchers at a university in Beijing have applied decay-rate algorithms from rotting wheat to graphs of the frequency of the events. The researchers involved claim to have made significant findings. The scientific community at large remains skeptical. Some of the world’s senior science leaders, including several Nobel Prize laureates, have claimed that these events will continue to increase in frequency and size until data on the nets becomes largely unmanageable.

A locally celebrated Italian mathematician has developed a controversial equation that relates the sizes and ‘tempo’ of the events to the Golden Mean.

(viewlink: Italian Mathematician Claims Golden Mean Explains Internet “Intelligence”)

Pop Icon Status

The “Mr. Internet” craze, popularized by German Artist, Cristoph Burensen in the mid twenties, has seen its strongest boom yet in response to Sunday’s event. Netsofiles and casual users alike have rejoiced about some of the bizarre, often comical effects of the events, or ‘moodswings’.

“I got an eighteen foot… well, dildo sent to my house on Wednesday!” Said a surprised and somewhat embarrassed Schoolteacher in Brantford, Ontario, CanadaWest.

“It’s fantastic fun. He’s really starting to think, like in the Sci-files.” Said a British Mr. Internet fan. “The kids love it. I got them all Mr. Internet Detectionware for their wristtops. Nobody believes in Santa Clause or Jesus anymore, do they? They’ve got to have some mystery in their lives.”

Not All Fun

Many involved parties are concerned about the potential danger of the anomalies. Markets have already been hit in certain sectors, most notably in single-site datastorage networks. One business has filed bankruptcy over the loss of their infodomains. The insurance industry has jumped on the phenomenon, with ‘Ghostbuster’ software-protection plans already available.

Recently reopened SETI’s massive “AI Detection Lab” has billions of NCU’s invested in the search for ‘The Ghost in the Machine.’

Cubesender, BBCNN News (BBCNN/infotainmentfiles)

Reality Check No.1

This is a stream-of-consciousness article chronicling some of my superficial observations about my experiences in Montreal.

At this point I'm eight articles deep into my literary nightlife forays. With a shaky-but-improving grasp on the lifecycles of Montreal's musical mechanation, I'm now in the process of trying to refine my filter for talent. As a relative newcomer to the city, I find myself in a position of some minor, but seemingly relevant, influence on the community. As a result, I'm pitted with the views and aspirations of myriad promoters, DJs, bands, and venue owners, many of whom know the beast a heck of a lot better than myself. It's a bit nerve-wracking in the sense that some people understandably get the idea that I think I know what I'm talking about. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I'm not too sure most of the time. But nevertheless, I've situated myself as such, and thus must deal with the consequent sway I sometimes have. In trying to do justice to the efforts of all the people in the business of pleasure, I'm realizing that I'm gonna have to break out of my closed-loop of parties(namely, the ragin'-est, loudest, most rediculous shit I can find) and find stuff that's under my patchy radar-screen. I know this because some of the wildest events I witness are way out of my column's current boundaries. That's the dichotomy of the writer, I suppose: I'm not an expert on the scene, or a literary prodigy; I'm just a writer with a serious addiction to crazy parties, tectonically working towards being those things.

Part two of the equation is that my favorite ways of expressing myself seem to be pretty much unsuitable for the magazine, so I also have to refine my writing skills to get to a level where the two worlds jive. These things are essentially my current challenges, and my gurus are all the wierdos I talk to when I'm out. I have essentially no critical input, so I'm shooting in the dark for the most part, using the slurred phrases of wisdom yelled at me over a dirty bass-beat on the dancefloors of all the clubs, bars, lofts and apartments this job drags me around to.

The next, perhaps most complicating factor, is of course my indulgent, chaotic, arrogant personality: my best weapon and my biggest crutch. Years of the road-warrior lifestyle, rife with mystery, challenges, catharsis, self-reliance, cops, criminals, tribulations, poverty, and, ultimately, success have certainly sanded the edges of my beligerence. But I've still got fire in my eyes. There's not much other than time and good council that's going to refine that, I'm afraid.

My savior so-far seems to be the surprisingly understanding, well-intentioned people I meet on the scene. Sure, there's a lot of coke and sinister personalities around: c'est la vie. I can smell those fuckers a mile 'round the corner, anyway. Five years of highway banditry set me up with some keen ears for deceit. But the cats I deal with on the incidental schedule of the night each have a whiskey-spiked piece of truth for me to absorb, and I'm lucky they're there to unintentionally point me in the right direction. The scene takes care of it's own, in it's own jagged way.

And so, the ruminations continue to another all-night party, and hopefully another narrowing of the gap between my personality and the identity superimposed upon it by my job...

Sunrise

“You have any idea what comes out of those things when they fall, boy?” He lifted the old stainless steel espresso maker and poured some of the tarry black scum into their cups. A sputtering whisper of steam echoed in the pot and reminded Jack of his grandmother’s emphysemic coughs. She used to sit there, puffing cigarettes through those lovely yellow teeth, smiling and watching the TV. She’s long gone, he mused. “Asbestos, lead, mercury,” the old man continued, barging through Jack’s idle thoughts. “Dioxin, PAHs like you wouldn’t believe. When they did the studies on the first ones, nobody wondered what would happen if they all fell at once.” He then closed his eyes and paused to either sigh or doze or reflect. “Well, not all of them. And certainly not all at once. But you see what I mean.” He chuckled, heh, heh, heh, like a creaking piece of furniture. “The fires burn in the rubble for months. Years if no one bothers to put ‘em out.”

Jack looked toward the mainland and tried to imagine one of the gritty behemoths rolling over onto the insects below. He’d seen pieces fall off of some of the older commercial complexes in Downtown. Once he almost got hit by a gigantic hamburger that just hinged off a marquee in the wind. Something in his forebrain couldn’t fathom building something that large without a thought about its eventual decay.

The sun was peeking out over the port, blazing, blinding. The heat was directional, the way it often is in the morning, so the two groggy companions nestled around their cups with their blankets up to their earlobes.

Monday, May 14, 2036

Senate (Up 116.90 points at 298,131.3) fails attempted CIA leadership block

Wall Street

The United States Senate has failed to block security firm, SECI’s (Secure Enterprise Compound Incorporated) bid to gain control of the Central Intelligence Agency, sources say. After an optimistic day on the market, the Senate was still unable to convince investors of the potential risks of recent corruption allegations against SECI, America’s Hope For A More Stable Future.

In a Senate multicast, CEO Ron Schaefer said, “The wellbeing of the American market is clearly not going to be aided by SECI taking over the CIA. The agency itself has countless media files indicating that this corporation is in direct negotiation with the Chinese regime…”

The security firm refutes involvement with Chinese interests. “Our ship is run tight as a rubber band. Our Chinese shareholders have all purchased a Pledge Of Allegiance in accordance with due procedure.” Said Graham Selton, a company spokesperson.

“We represent the same thing American investors and citizens want: security.”

Certain members of the Senate, however, point to Exxon-Disney-TimeWarner’s recent controversial purchase of the Territory of Taiwan as evidence of subsidiary company, SECI’s unpatriotic intentions. “SECI have trading stock not only in various divisions of Exxon-Disney-TimeWarner’s Taiwan project, but have published plans to bid in Kazakhstan’s nation security system. The American market won’t stand for this!” Carl Russel, Ohio Senator said.

SECI spokespeople deny allegations of wrongdoing.

The Senate, Serving America Since 1787, has released various multicasts urging American investors to choose a different company to head the 2036-38 CIA term.

SECI agents are set to take over command at the Freedomgon and the Libertyplex next Friday.

American markets have been holding steady since the decision, with the DOW Jones up 346.80 points at 517,987,413,706.9.

CubeSender, BBCNN News(cast/BBCNN/infotainmentfiles)

Hired

Now there's an industry response. There's a magazine that pummels out 70,000 corantos a week; tomorrow they publish me. It's no short of pivotal that all these ones and zeroes on the cathode tube in front of me are capable of getting me a job in my real life. Art sale is a funny thing, though. Once it's sold, it is the sole right of those in control of the means of production to edit, cut, paste, copy, and distribute. From my animal forebrain it has been emotional. Imagine someone takes your paintings, adds a few brush strokes, crops out a detail here-and-there, then shows it to everyone in your entire city. It's tough to see that happen, but in the same breath, I can see the advantages like a blinding light. From my slowly-germinating wisdom bank it's just another morsel of enlightenment to teach me of the ebb and flow of systems. After all, these guys make a fantastic magazine. There you have the inevitable dichotomy of the cultural marketplace: It's nice to be noticed; It's tough to be critiqued and edited. But you learn from it.
Here's me pleasantly shocked to have my shit revamped by a third party. I'm certainly not complaining about getting free tickets to the hottest shakers in the sexiest city on the orb and getting paid to write about it. That would be preposterous.

I no longer have to mention the local goings-ons on here, due to my new Myspace dedicated to just that, for my new job.

Strange Week

In my continuing adventures in self destruction, this week I managed to expose three undercover cops, visciously anger an entire collective's worth of rave hippies on trust funds from their Montmartre parents, quit my job, and acquire a virus that is only shades inferior to bird flu. I think that thing on my foot might actually be gangreene, too. Oh well, such are the trials and tribulations of garnering a paystub in these worrisome post-post-modern times. By the way, my party was insane. Popular belief has it at awesome, but I personally had a terrible time. Maybe giving away free booze at a party mysteriously overrun by yayo smellers isn't the pro-life choice. Go figure.
No track posting today because my media host is slow a..s....s......h...........i........................t
But I recently became aware of Belgian Soulwax's companion albums 'Any Minute Now' and 'Nite Versions', which are like a chainsaw grinding through your head while you dance. The electro-noise festival is this weekend, so I'm preparing myself for further headaches. And I also learned that MSTRKRFT is playing the SAT soon. Yay!

Yes!

So it's official. We're throwing a crazy party on the 11th of March. It's Called Yes!
Deejays are:
Sean Kosa on Electro
Justin Flower on Trance
Pat Pourri on House
I'm doing a slideshow, and various other visual artists are going to be hitting the scene. More to come on that. Until then there's la Nuit Electronik, Saturday at monument national.
Here's an anecdote from living in Guatemala:

Two Words at a Time

That sweet, cold river snakes through the jungle, along the lush banks of Lanquin, sourced from Las Grutas, the spiritual focal point of the local Mayan tradition. There are a few things that always happen there, regular as the drips of mineral water that construct stalactite columns the size of buildings. The wild, galloping rains come and go with the rhythm of the sun: a rhythm fully and necessarily adopted by the Qek’chi. The soccer ball bounces endlessly around the pitch under the discerning watch of tiny Abuelas, keeping an eye on the conduct and defense skills of their grandchildren. Every morning the ropey men go to the fields, machetes in hands. Every evening the silent eruption of bats descends mercifully from the caves to quell armies of nameless, biting bugs.

Everybody there speaks at least functional Spanish. But that’s not their tongue. Even five hundred years of colonization hasn’t yet robbed Lanquin of its pride and its rhythm. Every day I learned a new word of Qek’chi. Sometimes I couldn’t imagine how they kept themselves, versus highways rumbling across Alta Verapaz; versus ignorant tourists, like myself, floating in on foreign exchange like sun kings. But they did. So I made a point of communicating even binary ideas in their home tongue. Call it respect. Call it curiosity.

Everyday I would get on my patched-up inner tube after the long, barefooted hike up to Las Grutas and descend the river. That river is everything. You wash your cloths there and you find your food there. When I came around the bend after the pools, they’d be there, just about every time. Eating, bathing, or fishing. “Sa lat’chul!?”(Is your heart well?)

“Sa! Lat?” (Fine, you?)Would come the reply, amidst the never-dulling glee and disbelief of the children at a westerner uttering something in the old tongue. It started like that. It was a game. I would say the newest thing I knew:

“Chabil ha!” (nice water) Roaring laughter, then:

“Boo’mshik!” And as I floated around the next bend, I turned my newfound gem over in my head, waiting to get home to ask a friend what the reply was:

“They told you you’re swimming.” Aha! So I would wait for the next day, the next sun and the next rain. Would grab my tube and hike up the valley, with my reply ready. And they’d be there, rosy-cheeked with mirth at my continuation of the dialogue.

That conversation lasted three months, two new words a day. But I could see the changes closing like a vice. I could see electricity, phones, T.V., and the internet on the horizon, ready to squash three-month-long conversations down to minutes, seconds, then text messages. I could see them racing towards Lanquin to squash the Qek’chi language into Spanish. On my last day in the village, as I put my shoes back on and said “Banu ucilal,” I wondered if the dripping spikes in the caves and the clouds of bats would be squished away, too. I wondered about tradition, repetition, and the dreary lack thereof in my jaded western life.

Quick word on music, more prose.

Enough Politics and wishy washy emotional crap, eh? Today's issues are: the local electro scene, skateboarding and those cool clappy-noises.


Faq, si t'es pas encore convaincu, cette track (hyper groovy, puis hot aux clubs en plus) va etre le troisieme, et dernier, coup de la scene elektro d'Allemagne, avec Matty Safer de Rapture. Voici: Warning Siren par Tiefschwartz. Holy Fuck it's good! Wait for the 'walking disaster' part with all the SHAKE d-d-d-d-d-d-down. Then imagine it with a Zillion Watts of bass and 600 raging plateau-ites buzzing down. One thing I'm really sold on these days is all the gratuitous, too-fast-to-make-sense clappy-noises that have creeped into all the remixes of everything. Cowbells are making a formidable stab at the freaky-DJ-beats award, too.

So, it's Sunday night, and as I reflect on the week's worth of debauchery, I'll sing the praises of unemployment. In my full two weeks off, I started and continued and finished a gazoodle of personal projects, including getting this blog bologna on the blocks. Here's some -oh no!- poetry(not much) and a blast of prose I wrote in an attempt to describe what it feels like to skateboard in a big, smooth, concrete bowl-park. It's called:

Get On It:

unnatural- to instinctual
muscle memory
stomped it
the gritty clacks and
growls of my skateboard
as it battles
the urban promiscuity
gravity and motion physics
are the
zen
of this inertial
dance
to make them your ally
not your enemy
is to win the battle

I'm careening around that skatepark almost deleriously. Beer, coffee, marijuana, and adrenaline fuel this frenzy. I'm grinding and flowing like a bleary-eyed maniac. I focus on it like a marial art. Is the concrete any less deadly than a skilled fighter? More? I stave off the blows by using the momentum of the oncoming planet to my advantage. Roll. Surf. Get Rad. Here I am whole. In control. Hear the howls and grunts of the other skaters. The sweat is falling. Time is slowing down. As I reach the top of the ramp, the coping is my slow-motion button. The second expands into a graceful conversation between my reflexes, my imagination, and the universe.

But see, I'm not the sole director of this moment, so therefore I'm not the only varible of input. This is how I came to realize that reality hinges on more than will and some arbitrarily established rules of conduct. I'm not talking about god here. That guy can fuck off. Mystical has nothing to do with this. I'm talking about the whole not being a sum of parts, but an expression of them, right? Monet's not the paint and the painting's not Monet, dig? Okay, let's get back to the easy-to-swallow, 'cuz I can tell you're looking back up at the poem and the line about the intoxicants and wondering about quantity. Just to put that to rest: I can still do frontside crails on a bad-ass 8' concrete quarter, so I can sure as hell wax smart without going hippy.

So now that no one's getting creeped out by unindented paragraphs and drug consumption, feel me: think about those moments when you're on it. When it's all locked down, see? Whether you're a dancer or a fantastic conversationalist or a mad, zen-master dude, you're totally on it sometimes. You read the line about time slowing down and thought, Yeah. Or you don't get out enough, and this monologue is so not up your alley. Anyways, sometimes we can see the fluency of interactions more clearly. In these moments(as I have ascertained through a really good chat with this super-chill yoga guy while hitching up from Vancouver one time) we are all connected to, like, the universe. And when you're connected you can see that if the only will involved in any action was the will of the living, then there would be no mystery to things.

You could gain complete control. But when you get there, and you're on point, you always know that there's more to it all than just a few laws of physics. There's some mad quantum probability shit on the go, and when you start interacting with the moment, there's a combined, reciprocle expression that springs forth. Serendipity, dig? Like another person on top of the moment, who is a total figment of coinciding actions. And there, you've got your art, your kickflips, and your successes at the bar.

And so you've got this huge amount of cultural and genetic syntax in your brain and muscles that is having a, like, mad subliminal effect on your day. So there's another variable. You've got yourself, the physical universe(with all it's probabilities), and, like i said, your subconsious heritage. And then you've got everyone else in the mix, too. The chick who smiled at you in the supermarket this morning, the guy who designed the skateboard or the park; what's his bedroom shaped like, and how big are his feet? All factors.

And the loopy part is that there's a theme to all this shit. It's not just random, because it's all in the context of a mass of human activity. A history. A tendancy for things to work a certain way, cuz' of every other thing going on simultaneously and in the past. And, Holy Fuck! there's a crazy pile of shit happening right now. Computers and communication, and you know all that shit gets right in your boardslides. Know why? CUZ' IT'S ALL FUCKING CONNECTED, SEE? And, when you're on point, your ass is in control of your corner of the ring. So you've got a stake in the flow of things, when you're on it. So here's the meat of it, man: forget the mundane. Go out there and do them fuckin' yogas, or synchronised diving, or whatever, and communicate with the world. Cuz' you've got one life; one chance to be a thread in the universal tapestry. Get on it, man!

Mon Coloc et Mes Politiques

Here's my portfolio article about all this wild Mohammad cartoon stuff. The tune of the post is brand-new- destined-to- be-classic Zdarlight by Digitalism, part 2 of my hommage to the explosive new German electroclash outbreak. On l'a vu le jour de l'an a la S.A.T., et j't'dit que ca tue. Ca s'en vien bientot, la nouvelle album.

Franz Ferdinand

-or-

A Personal Response to Blasphemous Cartoon Publications

When the rusted perimeters of crumbling empires grind tectonically together, as they so often do, there exists a state of potential energy. There exists a possibility of something small knocking dominoes on an entire generation. Who threw the first rock in the Gaza Strip, whose momentum we still feel today, amplified in a wave pattern over the phonograph tunnel of time? If Rosa Parks met Franz Ferdinand, and they checked it out on Google, what would they say about the squabble over recently published Mohammed cartoons?

It is sure that words turn into bullets, and bullets, in turn, to bombs. Bombs to radiation, radiation to genetic alteration. There is a logic puzzle that proposes that the wind off a butterfly’s wings millions of years ago could have had a profound subsequent effect on our current reality. And for all the quantum probabilities we’re finding hidden in uranium atoms in dusty corners of physics labs, it seems this might be a reality we’re living. So if, for the sake of argument, these are the framings, and little things sometimes do explode like Margaret Mead’s “small groups of concerned individuals”, are we now witnessing it in Denmark’s infamous Mohammed Cartoons? Who are the players in this row over a lost game of marbles? Is it simply freedom versus religious rights, as the media has quickly framed it, or is it more culturally rifted?

I think we're about to see that the debate over "free speech" or publishing rights is more or less moot in this situation. You can absolutely find many fully justifiable defenses of the original publishing of these comics, just as you can find an equal number of honest arguments respecting Muslim beliefs. But the bottom line is, as much as the US and EU would like it to, the Islamic world does not always play by the imposed western rules. Muslim people all over the world are going to make their own decisions, and as Muslims become more and more prominent in the world arena, and more and more informed, the west is going to have to deal with boycotts, election of "terrorist" groups like Hamas, and maybe even the odd embassy take-over. It's de facto: as we have every right to publish such diatribe in our society, so do they, in turn, have the right to reject our values, especially on their own territory. This is culture clashing, not just a bruised knee over freedom of the western press.

The question not being asked in the media is: what tumor are we going to let this cell mutate into? Can we make it a Rosa Parks and (eventually) find a common understanding on the other end of the bus ride? Or is this Danish newspaper like Franz Ferdinand, waiting to burst into a global conflict: Samuel Huntington’s “Clash of Civilizations” rearing its head? Where, in other words, is the last straw for the oppressed East and the frightened West? And as these two beasts lock horns as so many times in the past, we’ll see if anybody has learned the differences between freedom and tolerance; response and reaction.

Originally published February 8^th, 2006

Old Bullshit

This is something from one year ago this week. While you're reading it, dig the groovy sounds of this hot new Modeselektor track.

Just another zeitgeist. Another set of people phasing through my field of notice. Another bizarre, unmeditated conclusion. Circumstance and coincidence flash by, and everyone just parries the blows with the singular human defense of choice. So soon we all blast off again to our various futures. So quickly the moment in time slides away from my comprehension, lubricated by myriad complication.

Just another plane ticket. Another list of countries I plan to visit, gambling on the incidental enlightenment of travel. Another history washed away by my careless bookkeeping and truncated memory. I just shove all the experiences into my head, like wolves and goldfish at the dinner table. I keep hoping that I won't explode; that all the stimuli are being consolidated into meaningful knowledge in my subconscious.

I keep trudging through, ever positively aligned, hopelessly optimistic, trying to remind myself about something that's started to get a little dusty. Something filed in a dingy corner of my cobwebbed head. Maybe you could call it enthusiasm, but that's probably just symptomatic.
There's whole slew of other things crammed away back there. I cried last month. I can't remember the last time that happened. Although, to be fair, I can't remember much that's happened to me. Either way, it had been a while. But now I'm coming to identify with the cliché: once you let one loose, they all want to come out to sun. I'm getting all sorts of weird emotions these days. Little bouts of melancholy late at night. Fragile reverences for the unique people I meet. Quiet awe. Itchy fear. I've started putting my hands to my chin when I'm anxious. I swear that for a couple of years there, the only feelings I ever expressed were manic happiness and vicious anger. Now I'm drudging them all up, uncontrollably. They're probably simple, natural feelings that are only confusing to me because I didn't have them for so long.

Is there a connection somewhere? A theme? Maybe I'm not busy enough. I've got a lot of energy. I absolutely rely on it, but some view it as a problem. I just need lots of outlet. Maybe that's why I'm starting to feel. An alternative outlet. Bollocks. I'm just dwelling. Soon enough I can forget all this. Delete all the superfluous files. Names, faces, stories, situations. Back to Tom the Cool Cucumber. Leave yet another penguin of a friend to deal with the emotional baggage of yet another vulture of a girlfriend. Substitute. Mute the implications. Ignore the explanations. Avoid involvement. Forget about it. Move on. But then what do I get from leaving? Am I running? Am I just bouncing along to abscond from the responsibility of establishing lasting, meaningful relationships?

Or am I just a little too uptight? Too goddamn judgmental. I think I'm trying to make each decision carefully, while maintaining a level of respect for the concerns of others. But it's hard to keep up when people are so concerned with acquiescence to norms. Where are the checks and balances? Sometimes people gathered in groups seem so intellectually defunct. Maybe we all have to make independent conduct codes. Which, when you can clearly watch everyone go right off the deep end of global morality, means you're not so sure who's going to mentor you. But, then, I suppose this is just a moot concept, modern life being what it is. No village elders to hook you up with the info: just a huge melange of self-interested consumers trying to con their way back into the womb. This is life in 2005. Existentialism is not really a question of choice without cultural underpinnings. Me sitting at a computer doing rambling stream of consciousness rather than knowing anyone who has the time to talk, or who even gives a fuck. And I'm no introvert. Au contraire.

Anyways, I probably don't really have the time to spare to talk about it, if someone I knew had time to listen. It's not even that I have any big personal issues to discuss. I just hope my tactics of total self reliance don't turn me into a megalomaniac. It all seems so minor when I box it in like this. Meanwhile, out here, it's not just a bunch of sentences. Not just a creative writing exercise. It's a crying friend who doesn't know if she wants to talk to me again. It's a mean hangover. It's question marks all over my future. My brother and all the things left unmended. Marijuana. It's collapsing ecosystems and falling skies. It's life. So on I trudge, off to Central America. On to new things. Off the beaten track. More, better, cooler. Nothing is ever enough. Live in the now and tomorrow never comes. Perpetuate philosophical expansion. Endless growth! Psychic capitalism! Delete emotions, learn from mistakes. Ignore implication: focus on repercussion. A monkey with a computer in his cortex. Tom the Cool Cucumber.

Enter: 2006

The frayed wires interspersing the surface of ny brains crackle in retaliation to technicoloured events and synthetic material.
Now I'm using the internet. I just spawned this digital journal out on the magnetic strips of some supercomputer databank in Taipei or Bruxelles or the googledotcom orbital spy satelite. Or however the fuck this stuff works. The picture is of me.
This week I got new cdjs, which I'm beyond excited over. I also joined a message board to check what all this zany inter-befriending is about. And now the 'blog.' I like to go through jilted, racing modernizations from time to time - just to see how the other side live, you see. Now the impending AI hidden in all these emergent, technological phenomena can have a flash of my personality to go with all the credit reciepts, letters to the editor, adresses, shots of me at raves, applications, surveillance profiles, border crossings and plane tickets jumbled up out there under the heading: tom.
The music program's random setting has picked out the 'like i give a fuck'(Pardon My Freedom) song for the third time today.
So, Mr. Internet, thanks for the blog space, and nice to meet you, and perhaps we'll be seeing more of each other.

Testing Testing 123