Choices

Editor’s note: I fucking hate writing impassioned stuff when I’m feeling passionate about it because it’s always clumsy and sloppy and has no flow or rhythm it’s just me blurting out random sentences with regards to how I feel about whatever it is I’m talking about. And inevitably I’m always writing late at night and can’t be bothered to read through it. I blame this phenomenon as a whole for the general poor quality of this blog.

People make an issue out of everything, and really it doesn’t matter. If anyone ever asks my opinion on an issue, by and large my response is “pro-choice”, even if it doesn’t really apply to the issue. But really, it is about choice. It’s all about choice.

It shouldn’t matter whether I would or wouldn’t get an abortion (physical limitations aside), whether I would marry another man, or whether I would buy a gun, because what matters to me only pertains to myself. Whether or not my neighbour, my teacher, my bus driver, or my dentist wants to do those things only pertains to them. (That was a badly structured sentence, but let’s just move on and forget about it.) I’m not affected by the abortions going on that don’t carry half my genetic material, so why should I make the choice for anyone else?

Society doesn’t want. Society is an arbitrary group of individuals who try to push their own personal wants on the rest of us, so that we all want the same thing. I, as an individual, have no more right to set the wake-up alarms of the people around me than I have the moral right to tell them how to live their lives. Individuals can take care of themselves. Nobody can know what I want but myself, and nobody can decide what’s good for me and thus decide how I should live because nobody has a stake in my life except me.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean my parents have put their lives into shaping who I am and how I live and as much as they’ve given me I owe them that much; I owe them my life, to cliché it up in here. So they have a stake in my life. But John and Jane Doe don’t give a rat’s ass about me as an individual, just like I couldn’t care less about them.

Choice is important, though. Choice is everything. If nothing else we are free beings and how we live is made up of the choices we make. Which is why I don’t believe in apathy of choice; no matter how small the choice is, just make it, because the smaller it is, the less it will affect the outcome, but the more important it is to be made decisively (because if you’re good at always making a quick choice when it’s not important, you’ll get better at making the decisive choice when it matters; practice makes perfect). If you’re in a restaurant, chances are this isn’t the last one you’re going to be in a restaurant, so just pick something on the menu that sounds good, and live with that one small decision. And if you have a bad meal, so what, I’m sure we’ve all had bad meals at some point, but it’s not going to matter in an hour. You’ve learned not to order that the next time, but at least you didn’t make the waiter come back four or five times to see if you’ve decided what you want. You were decisive, and in command of your own life. You chose to have the soup instead of the salad. And the chicken primavera.

And then you went and got an abortion.

And I couldn’t care less.

DFTBA

Moustaches

The other day my friends and I got into an impassioned argument (on Facebook, admittedly) regarding the moustache of Toronto Maple Leafs defenseman Ian White, and its legitimacy and effectiveness as an aid to the team. Some thought it was silly, and had no place on his face or in the locker room. Others thought it could kick certain nay-saying parties’ asses. And still others spelled it ‘mustache’. This was my reply:

Speaking objectively (for we all know I don't actually watch sports), Ian white's moustache (and I always spell it moustache) is reminiscent of a bygone era where the moustaches wore the men, and you could only be called a man if you had such a moustache. His moustache is the moustache of a turn-of-the-century man, or a rugged mid-western porn or action star in the 70s or 80s. His moustache is a classic one, one that is synonymous with cowboy boots and grainy film and middle-aged whores. Ian white has more balls in his moustache than he does in his balls, and you can't mess with a man that ballsy.

DFTBA

Awards

The thing about awards shows is that basically they’re all boring as shit. They try to spice them up, but in the end I’d rather just read who won and see the skits and maybe look up a few acceptance speeches on YouTube, because in the end I don’t care about 95% of what’s going on. There is no single awards show that has everything I care about in one nice package, although the Golden Globes comes close.

The GGs have no skits, no host, just friends giving friends awards, which is a nice atmosphere to peek in on, but even with the combination of movies and tv, I can’t be bothered to listen to what most people are saying, because I’m watching to see if my favourite shows/movies win, and if they don’t I don’t care anymore. I have no stake in these awards, so it’s not thrilling to bet for one or another, and inevitably there’s going to be some disappointment.

As for the more specific shows, namely the Oscars and the Emmys, they’re both too long-winded and self-important/self-congratulatory/self-indulgent/self-gratifying with their host and skits and whatnot. They’re trying to make it fun for everyone, but we’re not here to see this or that person do this or that lame skit or sketch or speech, we’re here to see some fucking awards go out.

I would immediately respect any body that can condense an awards show into an hour or so, because it would prove that people are there to honour the winners, not pimp their own shit.

Like the Oscars this year, where each actor/actress nominee had their own personal celebrity brown-noser to make them seem all like incredible people while making themselves look like incredible people, and I’m sure it made the actors uncomfortable to be waxed poetic upon by some old Oscar-winner, especially when what was said was either badly written or badly performed, or both, or just the fact that the person doing it was either way not into it or way not appropriate to be doing it. Like Adrian Brody doing it for that old guy nobody knows and said “If you Google [this old man], you’ll find he’s been in over 60 films in the last 25 years.” What a fucking compliment that is, that Adrian Fucking Brody had to Google you because he doesn’t even know who you are. That’s inappropriate casting.

But beyond that, whenever they have two people present they have to try to make it funny, and it’s always shit, and even if it is funny it’s not worth it, I’d rather they just walk out and be either serious or jovial but simply read out the nominees, announce and congratulate the winner, and leave more time for them to speak, because they’re the ones who deserve the time on stage, not the fucking presenters. And it’s especially bad when the presenter is clearly better than the recipient. That’s awkward. They should have thought of that.

DFTBA

Favourites

Is it just me or is Die Hard rendered tame by virtue of its taking place on Christmas Eve? All that joy to the world shit doesn't work for me at all.

Having only just watched it for the first time, however, I can’t get past the little things like that, and the twenty years of build-up the movie’s had. A movie just can’t stand up to twenty or even ten years of build-up. It’s one of those movies you really had to see as a child or adolescent to love.

It’s like those John Hughes movies from the 80s (and that whole genre of 80s coming-of-age comedies, because I’m sure one or two weren’t by John Hughes): you really had to see them for the first time as a young person or else there’s more magic to them. By and large they’re not that great unless you saw them when they came out or when you were young, and since most people do they’re standard classics. Everyone fucking loves The Breakfast Club, but if you were to watch it for the first time as a late-teen, it’s no cat’s meow.

The same goes for movies like The Nightmare before Christmas, in which I can’t sit through the first ten minutes but since everyone else saw it when they were in Kindergarten it’s some ridiculously inexplicable phenomenon. Why, out of everything we watched as children, did The Nightmare before Christmas attain such a status that its merchandise is still sold in vast quantities at music stores like Sunrise Records, to the exclusion of the merchandise of everything else we watched?

There’s a very specific window in which movies can be eternalized as a favourite by a person for life. Why people my age still list The Breakfast Club as one of their favourite movies of all time is beyond me, because I’ve seen and I know they’ve seen five objectively better films in the last ten months, never mind the last ten years.

In the end it really doesn’t matter what their fave five movies are because the list is entirely subjective, but at the same time it pains me that people are so blind to the fact that its status is based entirely on nostalgia and has nothing to do with how good the film is – or was.

That’s not to say I don’t like a few films that are objectively worse than the average “good” movie, although the only one that comes to mind right now is A Knight’s Tale, a movie that I know many of my friends dislike but I watched so frequently as an eleven-thirteen year-old I can’t not enjoy watching it. I also have a secret soft spot for Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace, a movie that everyone says was terrible but I just can’t figure out why. And for the record I loved the original trilogy before I ever saw TPM, so I’m not one of those kids who’s only seen the new stuff and doesn’t know what the good Star Wars is supposed to be. I’m just hotwired to not be able to hate anything that has anything to do with Star Wars. In fact, I have more new trilogy toys within arm’s reach than I do old trilogy toys, although actually now that I’m actually looking I see some hidden gems I’d forgotten are out on my shelves above my computer. So it’s about even.

…I realize it's just me.

DFTBA

Bottles

There are a lot of cool glass bottles out there. Just looking around my room I have a pair of Starbucks liquor bottles, a pair of Bawls bottles, a Boylan Diet Crème bottle and an old brown bottle that says “Sioux City Cactus Orange” which I can only imagine is some extinct flavour of sarsaparilla.

There’s just something about glass bottles. For instance, the instant recognition of a brand based solely on the silhouette of its bottle is phenomenal. I’m sure other companies do this too, but the classic Coca-Cola bottle is trademarked, like the shape of it, not only the bottle itself, because they use it so much basically as a second logo.

Of course I can’t get away with saying any other kind of packaging doesn’t strive to be unique, of course uniqueness in a product is generally key to helping it stand out, but just the sheer number of different kinds of bottles that are out there, from beer and wine to liquor and soda, a unique bottle can make or break a product. A clumsy bottle can make pouring or holding unpleasant; a too-similar bottle can associate one brand inadvertently with another, and maybe confuse customers.

I’ve decided that whenever I buy something in a cool bottle, not only will I keep the bottle once it’s empty, but I will stick a candle in the top. I’ve decided this because not only is carrying around a candle in a blackout easier when it’s stuck into something, but if I got a few dozen bottle-candles going in the same room, the combination of the warm light and the multi-coloured glass reflections on the wall would be hella mood-setting, and I am all about the mood.

DFTBA

Imposters

In the past, celebrities have appeared on HBO’s Entourage in two types of roles: either they’re playing themselves (or, you know, versions of themselves); or they’re brought in to play Hollywood professionals (or, you know, versions thereof). I’m not going to get into the first category, because those cameos/roles are fairly straightforward. What interests me, in this rant, is the people who play real people.

I’ve never seen Harvey Weinstein in real life, because the guy’s never in front of the camera. I couldn’t pick him out of a line-up of two. So when they get Maury Chaykin to play Harvey Weingard, an Entourage facsimile, I don’t know the difference. Similarly, Stephen Tobolowsky playing the mayor of Beverley Hills is fine because I don’t know the mayor, or what he looks like.

But when they bring in Stellan Skarsgård to play Werner Herzog (simply named Verner in the show), I’m outraged. Herzog has been in a number of his own documentaries, not to mention the Zak Penn mockumentaries Incident at Loch Ness and The Grand (in which he played himself and The German, respectively). He’s appeared on camera. He’s a funny guy, and it’s clear from his experience playing himself he has a sense of humour about himself. So why couldn’t they get him to play himself? Maybe there were scheduling conflicts, I don’t know, but knowing the real Werner makes it that much more painful to watch this false Verner storm about on the show, because he’s such a hack compared to the real thing.

DFTBA

Reconciliations

Too often, nerds fight. Star Wars versus Star Trek. Original series versus The Next Generation. Nerds need to reconcile, accept the differences, and unite under the banner of nerddom, without judgement of other nerds.

Star Wars is a series of movies, with a couple animated spin-off TV series. Star Trek is a series of TV shows that happen to have movie spin-offs. But really, the two barely overlap. There really isn't any need to choose. Star Wars is a space opera, and Star Trek is a space drama. Get over yourselves.

The original series of Star Trek is campy, it's fun, it's quirky, and over-the-top. The Next Generation is a proper drama first, one that happens to take place in space. The differences parallel quite closely the original and new series of Battlestar Galactica. I mean the old one was terrible, and the new one is incredible. The older series of both shows relied on fantastic adventures, whereas the two newer series didn't even need to mention space to have a tense character-driven episode or even multi-episode arc. So of course the newer series have a broader appeal, and are generally of better quality, but really they're in a league of their own, and the original series are more in the style of the 60's era Adam West as Batman series. You really can't take them too seriously.

DFTBA

Models

Disclaimer: If you’ve never seen America’s Next Top Model, and haven’t been watching this year yet, this will be even worse than it already is.

I’ve been watching consistently since cycle four (Naima won that cycle), and this season has not led me to alter my belief that things have been going down since then, especially since cycle seven (in which CariDee won). The contestants are all brainless, talentless twigs, and there's no real passion or skill like there used to be.

They used to have women who were photographers, who had passion about the industry, who knew a thing or two about designers, or photographers, or even models, and this year it's just a bunch of whiney girls (plus a trans-gendered girl, who's not going to win but they'll keep around for the drama of it – I mean I don’t have anything against Isis being on the show but Tyra’s attempts at creating fodder for her talk show are getting more and more transparent*) who can't name a single photographer when asked, and only care about basking in the celebrity of Tyra and getting free "model essentials" (which they wouldn't need to give out if the girls knew the first thing about anything, or if they'd even watched the show before).

Needless to say I won't be watching this year.

*Maybe it started with cycle three’s Amanda, who was blind, or cycle five’s Kim, who was gay, but really I think it started when in cycle six, Tyra sent Dani(elle) – the eventual winner, mind – to the dentist to get her ridiculously crooked teeth fixed. Favouritism much? And then she threw in plus-sized models Whitney and Diana in cycle eight, neither of whom stood a chance. Don’t get me wrong, I admire what Tyra’s trying to do to broaden the spectrum of the industry’s too-rigid stance on who can be a model, but it always feels like a ham-handed attempt at publicity instead of truly trying to break the mould. If she were actually breaking any moulds, by now half the contestants would be plus-sized (or, to use Top Model lingo, real-sized), half would be blind, half gay, and half trans-gendered. Clearly Tyra only wants to pretend to break one mould per cycle.

DFTBA

Addendums

So I’d like to make an addendum to my “Powers” post. Or make an addendum on it. I’m too lazy to look up what the proper way to say it is.

Having thought about it for some time, I’ve thought of two more practical powers that would be awesome to have. The first is the ultimate polyglot, that is, the ability to speak many languages, although of course I would be so much more than that. I would be able to not only speak in any language/dialect with any accent, but I would be able to know where people are from by their particular accent. Like a super-Higgins from Pygmalion. It would be so fulfilling to be able to speak to every person I meet, no matter where I go, and sound like I grew up next door. I would not only be an unstoppable globe-trotting tourist, but my usefulness in translation would make me a key asset around the world. Plus my ability to do accents would make me a small fortune in Hollywood (not only in terms of doing accents for animated stuff but also accent training).

My second ability I’ve come up with is inspired by Pullman’s The Subtle Knife, in which the boy has a knife that can cut between dimensions. My knife wouldn’t be a literal knife, but more of a mind-knife, and I would be able to cut through space. So, say I wanted to go to school. I could just cut a me-sized hole in my room and have the other side come out (for practical purposes) in some rarely used hallway or bathroom somewhere on campus. This way I could travel between any two places instantly, but without the obvious limitations of teleportation. For instance, I could cut open a portal between my house and my cottage, and my whole family could use the hole to come and go as they please. Or they could call me whenever they want me to open the portal again, seeing as it probably wouldn’t be wise to be setting these portals up all over the place and leaving them open for long periods of time.

My desire to be able to open up portals stems, in part, from the fact that I want to see what it’s like in Area 51, and I don’t think invisibility is the way to go. Not only would it be one hell of a walk for invisible little me, but they probably have infra-red sensors laying about, so I couldn’t just waltz around at my pleasure. If, instead, I opened up a whole bunch of eye-hole portals, I could peek around and see what’s up without actually having to go there. Again teleportation would be impractical because I’d be guessing where to jump and thus risk my own livelihood, whereas with the portals I can just open one and look through and if I open it inside a wall, no harm done I just sew it back up and open one a few feet from there. Man, Area 51. That would be great.

DFTBA

Powers

I’ve often wondered what kind of man I’d be, that is what kind of super hero. I wouldn’t want to be one of the standard supermen, either the kind bitten by a bug, born of another planet, or else wealthy and bored. Their stories play out fine enough, but that’s not the kind of story I’d want. I’d want my story more grounded in reality.

For starters, there would be no super villain, no archenemy or indefatigable gang; it would be me against the world at large, although I wouldn’t let anyone know that. Of course I’d play my cards close to the chest; I wouldn’t go public or any of that nonsense. I wouldn’t have a secret identity either, though. My identity would be as me, and my powers would be a part of who I am, to be used for the good of myself and those to whom I am close. The world doesn’t need super heroes, and I wouldn’t give them one.

When it comes to super heroes, most are built with the purpose of fighting crime or some greater evil, but few have real depth of power. What I mean is Spiderman can climb walls and sling his web-vines from buildings and shoot webs to catch villains, but really outside of crime-fighting there’s no practical value to his powers. He has the power to be a human-spider, and not much else. On the other side of the coin is the Invisible Woman, whose powers are really only useful for personal gain in practice. Sure she can work with the other Fantastic 3 to do some good but in reality being able to turn invisible can really only get you into sold out concerts and whatever movie you want. I guess you could sneak aboard airplanes too, and travel around the world. But without the ability to turn clothes or other people invisible, it would be an invariably lonely and alternatively sun-burned and frost-bitten world.

What always fascinated me were the elemental powers. Poison Ivy, Iceman, Pyro, etc. all had power over their elements, and could manipulate them. These powers were used to varying degrees of good and bad, and although some of the coolest powers, they still lack practicality, save that of Marvel’s Sofia Mantega aka Renascence aka Wind Dancer. Her ability to control air has always struck me as most practical. Many other powers become obsolete when faced with the choice to have the ability to control gases. Want to fly? Pull together some air molecules into a comfy chair and then whip up a good wind to send you on your way. Telekinesis? It’s taken care of. House on fire? Remove all the oxygen from the area and suffocate the fire instantly. Want to see the depths of the ocean, or just hide underwater for a while? Make a giant air bubble around you, simple as that. Want to live on the moon? Same idea. You’d better make it a bigger air bubble though, and bring some supplies with you. Not much to eat on the moon.

I could go on, listing for days and days, the awesome things you could do with air. Travel, self-defence, it’s all there for you to have. And there’s no limit to who you could bring with you to the moon, with whom you party in the clouds, who you lay out with a giant air-fist to the solar plexus. Needless to say you could do whatever you want, with only your imagination to limit you.

The only other power I’ve ever really considered a practical power that I would be interested in is psychic empathy, the ability to sense and control the emotions of others (à la Manuel Alfonso Rodrigo de la Rocha aka Empath). I feel like this is more practical than straightforward mind control because what can you do with a controlled mind, practically? As for the other psychic powers, like telepathy, I mean it gets kind of creepy. But psychic empathy really only affects emotions, making people not hate me, you, or each other. A psychic empath could just glide into a room and calm everyone, or make them all bloodthirsty if that was the goal of the day. Either way it all just seems so practical, in day-to-day life, to be able to make people happy all the time.

If I had to go for a completely impractical super power, my dark horse pick would be etheric projection, which Wikipedia defines as, “the ability to move about in the material world in an etheric body which is usually, though not always, invisible to people who are presently ‘in their bodies.’” How freaking cool would that be.

DFTBA

Butlers

I would make a great butler.

I mean I’ve got the qualities. I am loyal to a fault, I like dressing up and mixing drinks and preparing for guests. I like being tidy and there is always a method to my madness. Lists dominate my life, so organization comes naturally, if a little eccentrically, to me. I’m a fairly intelligent chap, knowledgeable in various trivia, and well-travelled. I believe myself to be a discreet man when I have to be, and pride myself on being able to resist the urge to spill the plumpest of beans.

The butler’s collar is that of the lightest blue. The work is not especially taxing, but rather rewarding in both short- and long-term ways. The camaraderie shared between butlers and the house’s other service drones comes with the job, and whether cavorting about with the maids or cajoling the chefs for a pastry, it would like having a second family. Plus, the servants’ quarters’ inherent proximity to my place of work means no commute. The job security can’t hurt, either.

A life of servitude fits me specifically because it’s like being rich without all the problems. I live in a nice house/castle, I eat well and dress well, but at the end of the day I’m not upper crust, it’s just my job. Off the job, I could dress down and hit a bar and shoot some pool with the locals and not be rejected by the blue collared worker bees.

My Achilles heel is of course the fact that I’m not British, nor do I have an interesting accent. The only way to circumvent this problem is to live and work in a place in which my accent is interesting, compared to the local dialect. Rural England might be a good place to start looking for work (I hear Pemberley is hiring), or maybe the South, on some ex-plantation still aspiring to regality and greatness. But, you know, without the slaves. Or the racial strife. Pretty much just the mint juleps and white suits.

DFTBA

Dreams

I’ve had this dream repeated over several nights, although not in a row. It takes place in Brazil, and although I’m writing this in English, the dream takes place entirely in Portuguese, which I can apparently now speak fluently.

It’s the middle of the night and in the backroom barracks of the Heineken store the houseguests from Big Brother 9 are arguing about sleeping arrangements on the many too-small cub camp bunk beds. The screech of tires and a Heineken delivery truck pulls up in front of the store. Did I mention the store has a front lawn? And is on a cul-de-sac?

Nikki and Paolo from Lost jump out of the truck, and run up to the house, carrying cardboard boxes of money. They drop them in the store, and start gathering myself and some random local boys who I can only imagine are from City of God. They begin doling out the money evenly between us for safe keeping, in case the cops show up. There is much scrambling for shoes and shoulder bags and other such things, and in all the chaos I somehow end up having sex with Nikki in the front window of the store.

Then the cops show up. Nikki disappears and Paolo leads us boys to a man hole cover, telling us to wait in the pipes below until it is safe to come out. It should be noted that as I drop into the abyss, the Del Segno alternate endings begin; more on that later. It should also be noted that from the Segno our money has turned into three-hole punched reams of white paper.

Now we’re in Matrix underground style pipes, and have to run a short distance down one of them to get to the underground mall that is apparently made up entirely of escalators, glass-walled railings, and guard posts. We hurry down an escalator clutching our stacks of paper, shoving them into our sweaters, bags, behind our backs, anything to keep the guard at the top of the escalator from seeing them.

Suddenly, the Rio SWAT team shows up and we’re surrounded. I hop over the railing and land on the shoulders of some punk standing around with his friends, three floors down. The SWAT team saw me jump, and now they’re after me.

The bottom floor of this place looks like a mix of high school grunge and university bureaucracy. Between spacious and extravagant frosted glass-walled conference rooms are mazes of dirty beige lockers. I turn a corner and drop my paper, because I just got shot by the SWAT team. That’s ending one.

Back to the Segno: now we’re in Matrix underground style pipes, and the same scenario repeats itself. It seems my dream is giving me the chance to escape, like a save point after which I must succeed or end up returning to it, and to before which I cannot return. I’m glad I mixed musical and video game analogies, aren’t you?

Several attempts later, having tried jumping down the escalator, kicking out the guards, breaking the back of the poor punk on whom I drop every time with several different styles of fall, I always end up turning that corner and getting shot.

On the final repetition I find myself making fewer rash decisions, and seem to take things better than I had before. First of all, I drop the paper in the pipe, because I know it’s only going to weigh me down and identify me without a doubt as one of the thieves. Next, I try to blend in, and instead of running with the City of God boys, I leisurely join the other customers, although I can’t figure out why they’re here or how they even got here, considering there are no other entrances besides the man hole, not to mention the fact that there’s no stores or things to buy; I’ll still call them customers. So I’m blending in with them, and as I ride the escalators down to the bottom floor, I wave at the punk whose back I’ve broken so many times, and he flips me off, making all his friends laugh. I let it slide, because he can’t possibly know the fate he’s thwarted by mere chance.

Next I get myself lost in the maze of dirty beige lockers, and it is at this point that I become aware that I’m dreaming. Now for some people this is when the lucid dreaming would kick in, when they’d be able to control their own dream self, as opposed to me who can only ever passively watch as my dream self makes a fool of himself over and over and over again. Now I’ve tried to keep in the dream when I reach that point of awareness, but I always find myself both aware that I’m dreaming and simultaneously aware that I’m sleeping, and I can’t seem to separate myself from my sleeping form, which leads to me inevitably waking up. Not all is lost, though, because as I have this dream more, I become increasingly more able to hold on to that last fleeting moment of awareness, and maybe one day soon I’ll be able to grasp it firmly and stay in the dream, and hopefully finally defeat those damn Rio SWAT goons.

DFTBA

Strap-ons

What honour has man?

Could modern society exist where every person had a sword strapped to their side? I don’t think it could. I don’t think the western world is man enough to be able to handle all that sharp steel. Every rule would have to be re-written, sure, and there would new laws governing the use of the sword, but what of honour?

A man steps on another man’s foot on the subway, or bumps into him in the street. A flash of steel, and the man is cut down. Is this a likely scenario? I can’t imagine it would be, but only because I can only ever be confident in the goodness of man, or else what else do we have? When it’s all stripped away, would we kill each other for food, would we kill everyone around us so that we might survive? I can’t live and still believe that man would end his own race, his own species. The Cold War only made it so far because no one leader, no one man had it in him to end the world. And how could he?

A lot of questions, questions with no answers. One thing I can say for certain is there would be a lot more fear in the world. If everyone were taught in public school the art of swordplay, if everyone received their own sword like it were a rite of passage at some arbitrary age, like 17 or something, wouldn’t everyone have a lot more damned respect from their peers? The world would be such a more polite place, and not like having guns at all. In the current situation, nobody knows if the other has a gun, nobody knows who’s packing what in the small of their back, strapped to their ankle, slung over their shoulder in a fancy shoulder holster (why does that make me think of Dr. Seuss?); if everyone knew everyone else had a sword, if everyone’s sword were clearly visible, it would be a completely different situation.

I don’t want to drag anything into this that I don’t fully understand, but as I understand it baptised Sikhs are supposed to wear at all times a kirpan as one of the Five K’s (articles of faith, each beginning with the letter K) of outward declaration of one’s religion. I won’t say anything further in case I get something wrong or insult someone by misrepresenting their beliefs, so you can do your own research if you don’t get it or want to know more. The point I’m trying to make is that Sikhs are not extinct after hundreds of years, because they treat the kirpan as a protective tool, not an offensive weapon.

The kirpan is, and again I’m treading lightly in respect, a symbol of religious and personal security, to be used to protect the weak and prevent violence. If everyone were to wear a sword, I think it would breed non-violence, through fear definitely, but also through respect. Wearing a sword, I would respect the ability of others to use it, and I would hope they would respect my own.

I can’t say that the nuts wouldn’t whip out their swords and start laying about with them, but with everyone else also carrying a sword, someone would have to be either pretty ballsy or pretty crazy. The swords we all would carry would be defensive weapons, methods of last resort, but mostly tools of social reform. You wouldn’t question a man’s honour if he wore a sword, and you’d hope he wouldn’t question your own honour either.

I’m not sure if any of this makes sense, if I’ve offended some or confused others. I just think there’d be a lot less hate and a lot more respect and honour in the world if everyone had a means of defending themselves.

DFTBA

Insincts

This is going to be somewhat shorter and less interesting than the norm (oh my, such bad news so early on? I can’t handle it!), mostly because I’m busy, and thoughtless. Well, not thoughtless, but very much more at peace with myself. Today I’m going to discuss sublimation, and in the next paragraph I’m going to combine a couple of definitions to paint a pretty little picture about it.

Freud discusses "sublimation" as a process of redirecting psychical energy from ego-desire (i.e. sexual gratification) to the satisfaction of cultural aims (i.e. work, art, politics). A Catholic priest’s passionate sermon, for instance, is a sublimation of his suppressed sexual desire.

Having read some Freud recently (Civilization and its Discontents), as well as some Foucault (History of Sexuality, Vol. 1), I’m beginning to see my medieval desires as something that really isn’t all that abnormal, but really just a defence mechanism; as it so happens mine requires swordplay and archery. Also, eating without utensils. Or maybe just a big knife.

I can’t imagine feeling better about this whole thing. Here I was, wondering why I always felt the need to parry with inanimate objects, and now I can, because I’m just redirecting some good old sexual desire like everyone else, but with cooler aims than model cars or gardening.

I do feel better, reader, and thank you for asking.

DFTBA

Knights

In my last real post I basically laid out a shopping list, a pros and cons list, of different swords, and I don’t think I really got into why I want a sword. More than just strutting down the street with a sword strapped to my belt, what I really want is my own fiefdom.

A fiefdom was generally awarded, gifted, or otherwise given to a vassal for his allegiance to some larger lord, some larger owner of land. It was a way to cement the relationship between vassal and lord, and a way to ensure a mutually-beneficial relationship. A vassal was, in a way, a tenant who paid some manner of rent (usually in the form of military service and undying allegiance to his liege lord) and owed his being there to the, duh, landlord.

In times of strife, a vassal and the able men of his fief could be called upon by the lord to carry arms against some foe, be it in a crusade or just some vagrant brigands disturbing another vassal’s fiefdom. The land would be given to a vassal so that he could have his manor, his family, his serfs, his soldiers, all his underlings support him and grow beneath him, such that they might provide for him should he and his men be called off to war or whatever.

This is, at least, my own rough understanding of the system.

What attracts me to the whole thing is just the idea of being given some land and told to raise a family, get a little manor and maybe town going around you, and suit up with my war buddies if I’m ever needed by my liege lord. I wouldn’t mind getting my land through military tenure, having to ship off the sons of my family and my fief’s families every year for some rigorous training and battling and whatever. It’s just like in Switzerland with their minimum 260 days of required army service. First, a main bout of training and whatnot, and then just a three-week check-up every year until they get too old or battered to show up.

I know it sounds cruel to just say, “Oh yes, I don’t care about other people’s sons, I don’t care about life or peace or blah blah blah…” C’mon, it’s the middle ages, get over yourself, everyone’s going to war, I might as well get a sweet patch of land out of it. And fiefdoms were generally hereditary, so I’d be setting up my kids for success too. So take that.

But more than having a sweet patch of land, more than being rich and successful in my own little world, more than having a little power to throw around and a bunch of serfs, peons, and other incredibly fun words beneath me, I’d have honour, and respect, and loyalty. I’d be a kick ass knight, in some kick ass armour and obviously with an awesome sword. And I’d name my sword, just like I’d name my horse and manor and all that other good stuff. Gone are the days when people named their homes, at least for the most part. Of course Frank Lloyd Wright named the homes he built, and of course B.B. King named his guitar Lucille, but I mean like Excalibur, like Sting and all those Elven swords I could never remember.

I might be romanticizing this whole scenario, but I’ve always imagined it as being in some sort of knight-club or knight-posse or some such, with the liege lord being captain of the Gloucester Gallivanters and all of us vassals being his team. And we’d gallivant across the country, back and forth and burn and pillage the jerks who burned and pillaged us the year before, and it would be all manly and awesome, but at the same time be noble and… manly.

Yeah, it’s basically Medieval Times Dinner & Tournament. My dream is to live that exact life, all the time. I want the life that gives me the food, the violence, the showmanship, but with fewer utensils, and more ladies. Maybe a titch more political stability too. But definitely the colour schemes. Love the colour schemes.

DFTBA

Excerpts

In my off-week, I bring you selected excerpts from Watchmen. Don't shoot, I am merely the messenger. All props, respect, and awe (not to mention the words) are property of Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons. DFTBA


Delirious, I saw that hell-bound ship’s black sails against the yellow indies sky, and knew again the stench of powder and men’s brains, and war. The heads nailed to its prow looked down, those with eyes; gull-eaten; salt-caked; liplessly mouthing, “No use! All’s lost!” The waves about me were scarlet, foaming, horribly warm, yet still the freighter’s hideous crew called out, “More blood! More blood!” Its tar-streaked hull rolled over me. In despair I sank beneath those foul, pink billows, offering up my wretched soul to Almighty God, His mercy and His judgement.

Waking from nightmare, I found myself upon a dismal beach-head, amongst dead men and the pieces of dead men. Bosun Ridley lay nearby. Birds were eating his thoughts and memories. Reader, take comfort from this: in hell, at least the gulls are contented. For my part, I begged that they should take my eyes, thus sparing me further horrors. Unheeded, I stood in the surf and wept, unable to bear my circumstances. Eventually, tears ceased. My misfortunes were small: I was alive, and I knew that life had no worse news to offer me.

I had a sudden memory of clinging fast to someone through the tempest. The figurehead lay at my feet, blindfolded by seaweed. Alone upon that dreadful shore, she smiled. I made to take the ribbon of kelp from off her painted eyes, then thought better of it, not wishing her to suffer the terrible distractions of that grim tideline. It was all I could do for her, though she had borne me through seas of blood, though her cold, wooden breast had nourished me in the heart of the storm. Her damp embrace had prevented me from drifting beyond reach, yet this small comfort was all I could offer; I could not love her as she had loved me.

~

The freighter’s murderous onslaught had surprised us.

We’d been blasted to fragments before we could warn Davidstown of this hell-ship’s approach. I alone survived upon my remote atoll. I thought of my family: vulnerable, unsuspecting, never dreaming that damnation bore down upon them, sails pregnant with a pirate wind, a necklace of heads about its prow. Crazed with helplessness, I cursed God and wept, wondering if He wept also. But then, what use His tears, if His help was denied me? My own sobbing had frightened the gulls. They departed, and in the terrible silence I understood the true breadth of the word “isolation.”

That night, I slept badly beneath the cold, distant stars, pondering upon the cold, distant God in whose hands the fate of Davidstown rested. Was He really there? Had He been there once, but now departed?

~

The morning sun found me no more wise, no less troubled. Further down the shore, several of the beached corpses had become inflated by gas. I set about burying the sodden carcasses, matching odd limbs as best I could with them, I buried all hope for my family’s survival. Using driftwood, I began a pit, deep and wide. I had never seen nor imagined so many dead people.

Noon came and went. By dusk, the crater was deep enough and I commenced hauling those cold, maimed, wretched things into the bed I had prepared. Dragging and cursing, I hoped my wife and daughters might be tucked in by gentler hands when their turn came. I began to weep again. Dear God, who would protect them? The freighter was almost upon them. Who would care for them, now I was gone?

Exhausted, I slept atop the grave, dreams ringing with the horribly familiar screams of children. I saw the black freighter bearing down on all I loved…

…But I was powerless to stop it.

Swords

I can’t even get through rereading my last post, so I promise to make this one shorter.

Another quick note: I’m too lazy to post any links or pictures, but both Wikipedia and Miss Google have been lovely in helping me develop some opinions on some of the following swords, and they can also help you look up some nice pictures if you’re so interested. But you’re not, so I’ll just get right into it.

Swords are the gentleman’s weapon. I’d like to say it was earlier, but it was probably around the time of the release of the first Lord of the Rings that I really got into swords, and by release of the movie I mean when I read the trilogy in book form before I went to see the first movie (three times) because I didn’t want to ruin the books for myself by seeing the movie first. More specifically, it was in the Barrow-downs that the hobbits came across three enchanted daggers in the cavern where a barrow-wight had imprisoned them. Maybe it was the magic of the prose, but ever since I’ve been in love with the idea of strapping a sword around my waist and strutting down the street.

There’s just something about the short sword that’s always appealed to me; long swords have always seemed too gangly for proper wielding. I mean of course they aren’t, but for my personal preferred (read: imagined) fighting style, the short sword really seems to do the trick.

Consider the various long swords. First up, the broad sword: this behemoth is long, thick, heavy, and blunt, and really made for swinging around wildly and crashing into someone’s chest, hopefully crushing their breastplate and the puny chest within. There’s no grace there, no smooth movement or flow, just crash boom bang, knock the guy off his horse and break the majority of his ribs. It really isn’t a gentlemanly sword.

And then there are the skinny swords, the ones you’d fence with: the foil, epée (rapier), and sabre. They’re all skinny, lame, and useless. Enough said.

There are of course the two-handed swords, the claymores and zweihänders, but again as with the broadsword, they’re just unwieldy in my mind. Mostly I can’t imagine wearing one around all the time. Or whipping one out and slicing some jerk’s head off on the subway. There’s just not enough space indoors to swing it around.

I’ve purposely avoided discussing the katana because honestly it scares me. Even the smaller wakizashi and tantō scare me. It’s in the blade, the sharpness, meaningfulness, and art with which there are wielded, slicing the very air itself. There’s a reason wielding these swords properly requires martial arts training, and it’s all just not for me.

There are a lot of swords I won’t be discussing, and really it’s only because they’re not that interesting, they don’t stand out as something I wouldn’t want to end up with, and they’re not something I’d specifically go out and buy. These swords include, but are not limited to, the falchion, the scimitar, the cutlass, and the dirk. A great many more didn’t even make this list, and who cares.

On to the swords I care about, and want: the gladius, the falcata, and the Celtic sword (I’m disappointed in the Celts that they didn’t give me a better name to use, it would have been cooler of them to come up with some neat name).

Firstly, the gladius, which we all know and love from the movie Gladiator (more on movie swords later), is a fine short sword that can clearly be wielded artfully and close to the body, which makes it good for both indoors and showing off. Sure there’s skill involved, but it doesn’t come with the cultural-traditional baggage that the Japanese swords do. It’s small and stylish, could easily be worn on my belt, and looks good swinging around to boot. To appease my own nerdiness, I’d specifically be gunning for either a Mainz for Fulham gladius, although ideally it’d be a Mainz.

Next, the falcata, which is a stylishly forward curving pre-Roman Iberian blade that originated centuries before somewhere in the Middle East, and has a cutting edge that can best be described as convex near the tip, and concave near the hilt. Having so much more sword near the tip makes swinging it somewhat less than graceful, but in terms of usefulness, the thing handles like an axe, and would be most useful hacking through the forest or something.

Lastly, the Celtic sword, so named because… well, you know. This is perhaps my favourite sword, and has been so for many years. It is short, which of course is necessary for my brand of urban sword fighting and general tomfoolery, and slightly leaf-shaped, that is, wider at the tip than at the base. The double-edged blade is simple and symmetric, as is the hilt. The hilt itself can best be described as follows: take the Cingular Wireless logo (that little jumping-jacking orange fellow) and cut him in half at the waist, put a simple leather grip in there, and push his head down onto his shoulders. The sword is simple, and yet curvy and fun. This is the sword I would wear everywhere and be buried with. No wait, I’d pass it onto my second child. Yeah, that’d be sweet.

A couple of Hollywood swords come to mind when I think about swords that I’d like. Of course Sting is a classic, and I wouldn’t mind having it (although it really doesn’t hold a candle to the Celtic sword). The sword from 300 is a beautiful piece, and I’d love to have it. I’d also love love love to have the knife used by the Indian in Predator. That is the ultimate in sharp kickassery on the big screen. The. Freaking. Ultimate.

Alright so now I’m just drooling and picturing myself frolicking through the woods hacking at random branches that get in my way, so I’ll sign off once again.

DFTBA

Castles

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

I’ve always pictured my castle as it would be in late August, in the magical hours before dusk. The golden wheat would shimmer in the waning sun’s glare, the kind of sun that makes driving west around dinnertime a treacherous task. The many willows sway gently in the breeze, rising drooping and majestic out of the wild grasses and shrubbery that encompass my castle.

For probably a dozen years I’ve known what my castle would look like, and it really hasn’t changed in all that time. The property would have a low, rough stone wall around it, not so much to keep anything in or out, but rather as a grey border. I like borders: they lend a sense of finality to things.

The castle itself would be made of a reddish-brown brick, the kind that makes you think of Red Square. On each of the front two corners there would rise a wide, round tower with a flat, crennelated top that would end just above the flat roof of the main structure; the back two towers would be smaller and useless. The windows would be tall and narrow, but frequent enough so as to let in plenty of light.

There would be no moat, no drawbridge or portcullis, just a large, simply fashioned and very heavy wooden double-door for the front entrance, and a smaller version for the back door. The crisscrossing iron straps on the door would make it all the heavier, but that just adds to its medieval charm.

A parking structure, you ask? And what about driveways and footpaths through the wide grasses and various shrubbery? Well they would be cobblestone, naturally, and of the same deep and neutral grey as the stone wall. As for the garage, it would be a similarly styled structure attached to its big brother the full-sized castle, and would run the full length of one of the sides.

Let me explain this, in introducing the interior of my castle: except where noted, it all looks like a castle. Stone walls, elegant tapestries and rugs, big wooden furniture and everywhere rich, warm colours. Another important feature of these “medieval” rooms is the hidden technology that rests just under the surface of it all. With just a turn of a wall sconce or a pull of a lever disguised as a vase, televisions, computers, and all manner of technologies residing beneath the top layer of medieval beauty would emerge.

The first floor is broken up into two main sections, both of which have very high ceilings and thusly feel that much more spacious: two thirds main entertaining area including a dining room, parlour/library, and lounge, and one third kitchen/pantry/bath/laundry.

The dining room would, at its centre, have a massive wooden table surrounded by no fewer than a dozen large chairs. Around the walls there would be several buffets and cabinets holding the various wares required to eat and drink, in a variety of styles befitting a wide range of guests and occasions.

The parlour/library would be the more formal of the two entertaining rooms, and although its brown leather sofas, settees, and armchairs would be tremendously comfortable, the general atmosphere would be of a generally higher nature; the Christmas tree would be in this room, and a large fireplace would dominate one of the walls.

The lounge could be likened to a normal house’s rec room, with its pool table, television, movie and video game collection, and a generally more relaxed atmosphere. Fewer windows would make for a dimmer, more intimate atmosphere, and the subdued colour scheme and soft brown leather couches would only add to the relaxed nature of the room. Although the lounge would have the hidden technology features, it is my best guess that for convenience’s sake they will never be used.

The other third of the main floor, in contrast to the warm medieval feel of the dining room et al. would be a gleaming statement of technology and cleanliness. Polished stainless steel and white tiles would be the order of the day, to make ordinary clean seem all that much cleaner. The kitchen would be almost industrial in its size and metal-surface content, and indeed it would put either kitchen stadium to shame, Japanese or American. Windowed cupboards would make finding anything a cinch, and every surface would exude order and utility.

Echoed in the pantry and laundry rooms is this aura of cleanliness, order, and simplicity that would make the cleaning that much more onerous, but the effect that much more magical and satisfying. The afore-mentioned back door would lead into the corner of the kitchen where it meets the door to the laundry room. Obviously none of this third would attempt to hide its technology, but would rather display it prominently and proudly, adding to the sense of utility of the place.

The bathroom, a large ordeal designed with entertaining in mind, would again be decorated with the larger two-thirds of the first floor and a few specific centuries in mind.

Oh, did I mention the foyer? It has a huge stained-glass closet and a large wrought-iron shoe rack. And the floor is a mosaic detailing the property as it would be seen from space.

On to the second floor, where all is taken less seriously! But wait, how do we get there? Fear not, dear guests, for the front two towers are your ticket to higher ground. One has a wide, winding staircase that takes you up to the second and third floors as well as the top of that tower, while the other tower has a circular glass elevator that stops at all three floors, with a narrow (indeed almost wiry in its minimalist structure) staircase that wraps around the elevator, but only as far as the second floor. The reasoning for this will be explained later.

The second floor is comprised of several bedrooms and several small bathrooms, the divide between children and guest rooms being made when a few critical numbers have been calculated, depending on several obvious factors and circumstances. The children’s rooms would be larger than the guest rooms, and not formally dressed in medieval style, although at its core the bed, essential furniture, walls and floors would all be more or less medieval in nature; the children would obviously have free reign as to how they decorate their own rooms.

The guest rooms would, however, be dressed in the same formal style as the dining room and parlour, and would obviously not need to be as large as the children’s rooms, as they would not need space in which to play, work, create, or whatever it is kids do these days. Each room would have its own bathroom, and it would be a part of the children’s chores to keep their own bathrooms clean, so as to help raise them with a good around-the-house work ethic that will come in handy so many years from then.

The third and final floor is my floor (or our floor? I’ll just keep it as “my” for simplicity’s sake, but there are always variables at work here, here and in the children’s rooms, and all that). Now I hear you muttering, “but what could he/they do with an entire floor for themselves?” Hobby rooms, my gentle reader, hobby rooms. Besides the obvious massive master bedroom with its obvious en-suite bathroom, Jacuzzi, and sauna, the rest of the floor would be dedicated to several hobby rooms, each with its own design and décor.

There would be a LEGO room, an arts & crafts room (which umbrellas sewing, knitting, and all that sort of dainty handiwork), a small workshop for household tool storage and small repairs and the like, a computer room/office or two, a welding room (if nothing else about this castle comes true, I want to one day have art-welding as a hobby… well I’d prefer the wife and kids, but the art-welding comes a close second), and however many other rooms needed to house the various household hobbies.

Remember that glass elevator that goes to the third floor? The third floor of that tower is a small solarium, with many more windows than the rest of the house. On the South-west corner of the castle, it would always get the most spectacular sun, and would be a most enjoyable place to sit and read in any of the various wicker or leather chairs strewn about the tower.

Up the stairs, and onto the North-west tower, from which not only a majestic view can be enjoyed, but a small staircase can be taken down to the roof of the main structure, and the swimming pool-conservatory. A large, glassed-in structure, the swimming pool-conservatory would house exactly those two things: a large swimming pool and hot-tub; and an abundance of luscious plant life surrounding it. This would be a place of natural relaxation for all to enjoy, to cool off or warm up, and mostly just to have somewhere to go when the wheat, willows, and wild grasses just aren’t up to the task of keeping you grounded.

So ends the tour of my mind.

DFTBA

Introductions

My name is Geoff and I have medieval obsessions. There is no 12-step program for me, no group sessions or sponsors. I was born 867 years too late and there is no help for me.

Enough melodrama, Geoff, let’s talk about the real me. I am your standard 19 year old freshman at the University of Toronto. I take the subway to school every day, and have no idea what I want to do with my life. As such I take a whole whack of different arts courses in the hopes that something will eventually appeal to me. Maybe a teacher. I work at staples as one of a select group known as boy copy centre associates, in a department largely dominated by women.

Whenever I’m not at school or work with any regularity, I tend to become nocturnal, relying on Youtube, DVDs, and my brother’s PS3 for company. I have a few close friends and a rather close family of five, including two parents, an older brother, and younger sister.

I think my mother has always known I am a man out of my time. I have been obsessed with everything medieval for most of my life, although I hide it well. I’ve had my perfect castle designed in my head for nigh on a dozen years, and my favourite sword for most of that time as well. More on those later.

Officially, this is an experiment in organizing my thoughts. I guess I figure I’ll be calmer of mind and soul if I write it all down. As an added bonus, I often do my best thinking in wild, nonsensical rants about going to Medieval Times Dinner & Tournament, just as an example (and preview of things to come? Stay tuned.). I find that writing things down helps keep it all straight in my head.

If anyone actually ever reads this, congratulations, you are more bored than I am. Though keep in mind this is therapeutic for me; you really do get nothing out of this. Plus I’m not so much bored as listless.

In the great traditions of organization and order, lists are key. My first will be a short list of stuff I’ve been thinking about for so long, I just need to get out into the cosmos before I implode:

--Castles & knighthood
--Sharp things, including such classics as the sword
--The cottage/rural life
--Archery & hunting
--Youtube and its sell-outs
--LEGO & other childish ventures
--Star Wars vs. Star Trek, also space ships
--Superheroes
--And many more, including various movies, shows, music, and other altogether less disturbing content

As you can well imagine, I’m not just obsessed with everything medieval, and of course this list reflects a fraction of the things I just can’t seem to ever get out of my head. As you’ll soon find out if you haven’t already, I enjoy a wide variety of subjects (none of them all too intellectual), not to mention ranting about them. Some will turn out better than others, as some I’ve brooded on for many years, while others will resemble more so the dredges of my subconscious. Again I stress the therapeutic (and hence possibly not very entertaining) nature of much of what I will be writing in this weblog, if one can call it such. I wonder if Nintendo has a Wiiblog. That’d be sweet.

I think the reason I decided to write this publicly as opposed to in some manner of diary is the satisfaction of posting. Certainly I could commit all of this to pen and paper (indeed this whole first entry was composed in its entirety earlier this weekend on a multitudinous sea incarnadine… of post-it notes while at work, between customers of course -- no, I'm serious, like half a stack of red post-its, I'm not even kidding), but there would be little actual satisfaction in doing so, and there would be no accountability. Plus I can tell people I have a blog, which is a much cooler thing nowadays than it was several years ago when I had my whiney, unfulfilling tween blog on Xanga, which is a total sell-out now by the way. It is an embarrassing and useless footnote in my “life” online, and I wish to not think about it as I strike out to clear my mind of the endless parade of pet-peeves, rants, and general tomfoolery that all prance down the avenues of my mind.

See? Already I feel calm and organized, and though my mind still buzzes softly with rants both accumulated and inevitable, a peace rests in me where before that was only chaos and CRAZY. I guess.

See? Already I’m getting distracted and talking about nothing.

DFTBA