The Grumpy Owl

The Grumpy Owl Has Left the Building

2007-11-16T02:02:00.001-05:00

I am sick of blogger. The love affair is over. You can now find me here.

RCMP Murders Robert Dziekanski

2007-11-15T14:08:00.000-05:00

In the past, I have accused the RCMP of being a criminal, KGB-like organization populated by brutal thugs who should be relieved of all duties except entertaining tourists. But recent event have caused me to reconsider these inflammatory statements. They should not be allowed anywhere near tourists.

On October 14, in cold blood, they murdered a Polish immigrant who was looking for customer service for ten hours. I don't know what the worst thing about this story is: That his mother saved for seven years to bring him to Canada; That he never saw said mother before being murdered; Or that an Eastern European found the Canadian bureaucracy insurmountable and its "police" murderous.

I've watched the video. They should not have acted in the way they did. There is no excuse for it. And it's too bad that we can no longer call these things isolated incidents. There is a serious problem with the RCMP. As usual, they lied to cover this up and they're still lying now. They will never stop. They will just get worse.

The next time an RCMP officer is shot dead -- I will be cheering. Any one of their officers who had an ounce of integrity would have resigned by now. They are a national shame.

Movember 14: I Need a Reichstag Fire

2007-11-14T13:13:00.000-05:00

I look like a cat-molesting, CIA agent disguised as Groucho Marx. The lack of a tie is explained by it being laundry day.

My journey towards the Hitler mustache was greatly helped by Anita from I Want-I Got and BlogTO and Gloss Magazine, who basically made all of you look bad by dropping fifty bucks. This brings me up to $165, not including the cash donations. So I need another $35 by credit card to have another ticket to the gala. It's not much. You can do it and you can do it here. I'd be close enough to smell it if I could smell anything other than my mustache.

Perhaps I can take a lesson from another fellow who was once on the verge of reaching his goals. (You may not of heard of him, he's an obscure political figure who was once the leader of a fringe German political movement called National Socialism. His name was Adolph Hitler but his followers had nicknamed him the Fuhrer.) He had risen in German politics but looked like he had more or less reached the end of his popular support. He still needed that little push over the top -- some excuse to undermine the judiciary and the democratic institutions of the Wiemar Republic, which were holding him back. Luckily, for him, a lone communist burned down the parliament.

Adolph seized this opportunity, interpreted the fire to his own advantage, claimed Germany was on the verge of a terrorist-communist revolution, and passed something called "The Enabling Act" or "The Decree of the President for the Protection of People and State of 28 February." The historian, Michael Burleigh, in his excellent book "The Third Reich", explains further:

"Hitler informed the cabinet that the 'struggle against the [KPD] must not be dependent upon legal considerations'. The decree suspended freedom of assembly and expression, authorized wiretaps and opening of mail, and sanctioned search and indefinite detention without warrants. This formed the basis of police power, until the police became so powerful that they eventually required no written authorization at all."

We may never know how all that turned out but you can help to push me over the edge (and fight prostate cancer) with a donation here. Twenty dollars or more gets a tax receipt.

3 Quick Points

2007-11-14T01:47:00.000-05:00

I know that I have readers and I do my best to cater but I still view this blog as a private enterprise and notebook. Please excuse me while I indulge myself -- aka bore you. There's just a couple of things I want to jot down because I think they're basically right -- yet am not sure -- and want to think about them. And I can't be bothered to organize them into a post about something else that you may care to read. Just too fucking tired.

1.) Your ethical duty is usually right in front of you. Do not waste time with your imagination. Its purpose is to simulate reality and possible outcomes. Keep it in its place. You should not build an imaginary future life within your head as you will build one in which you are a success. Doing that will make you remiss in your direct and obvious duties as you will be afraid of damaging that imaginary success. It is bad enough that a person can be controlled through the threat of losing what they do have. It is repugnant to be controlled by the threat of losing what you do not have. You do not have a future. You have a present. Your duty will be presented to you. Fulfill it.

2.) Most people who are fucking up are fucking up because they are making their decisions based on their poor use of the imagination. They are not ill-willed. They are kissing ass and stomping people, filling the world with lies and cowardice along the way, not because they are mean or stupid, but because they are insane. They are afraid of losing something they do not have, will never have and yet believe is real. They are hallucinating and their hallucination brings them comfort. They will incorrectly see a similar illusion in you and pander to it. Be careful of these people as they lie without knowing it. Don't believe their hype. They're sad and pathetic creatures just doing the best they can on false premises and they cannot be held to account any more than your average madman. Learning will cure them and reality will eventually teach them. But some people are just plain mean. Learning will not cure these people. They know reality and exploit illusions to evil ends. While both cause harm, be careful to know the difference between these types of people. One deserves kindness, the other does not.

3.) When the demands of reality conflict with your ethics - as they will - you have a duty to attempt to create change. Not to make a meaningless, flamboyant and symbolic gesture. Those simply ease the conscience. They are an act of pride and accomplish little of import. Your conscience does not deserve to be eased. Either attempt to alter the condition that has made reality unethical or alter your ethics that have made reality unbearable. Doing nothing is not an option -- it is desertion from life.

Remembering Remembrance Day -- Two Days Too Late

2007-11-13T12:03:00.001-05:00

It's time to declare Remembrance Day a failure and to do away with it. Having said that, I did buy a poppy. My Nan is in The Legion. I don't mind giving them a couple of bucks; mainly because they provide cheap beer and were the last holdouts against the anti-smoking campaign. But I don't think the poppy works. When one looks around, it's hard to think that Remembrance Day is accomplishing its stated goal of peace through recalling how horrible and pointless war is.

Now it's just another cheap holiday with quasi-fascist overtones. Year after year we are treated to same ridiculous news stories that all the holidays get. For Christmas we get to hear about how it is now apparently illegal to say "Merry Christmas." For Halloween we get the same tired tropes about whether or not it's evil. And for Remembrance Day? Usually the talk radio hosts bitch about immigrants not selling the poppy. Apparently there should be a pogrom of some kind. We should make them celebrate freedom under penalty of law.

But this year, there was a new story. One that I think will catch on. The poppy itself was being criticized because the Taliban funds its efforts against Canadian soldiers by selling opium. In an unintentionally hilarious article in The National Post, Don Martin does not suggest that we buy opium from the farmers, use it for medicine and recreation, thus cutting the Taliban out of the deal and bankrupting them while helping the farmers whose hearts and minds we are attempting to win. No, he suggests a far more logical and realistic approach. We should find a new symbol. The poppy, he claims, is too ironic. Since everyone has forgotten about WW1 and its sequel WW2 and its survivors are all dropping dead, we should move on and remember what is happening now. We should find a new symbol to commemorate an ongoing conflict.

Although I'm not quite sure how one remembers the present day or if "Remembrance Day" is the appropriate time to forget your past, I too think we should have a symbol for our ongoing conflict with the evil hoards of dirt poor farmers living in some godforsaken hellhole on the other side of the planet. Sadly, the swastika is already taken. The yellow ribbon may be a good idea.

Either way, it's important that we divorce our war symbols from any memory of how terribly vile and completely void of redeeming qualities war is. They should instead be symbols of our support for the troops and for endless war. Then, once the war is over and the troops are dead, we can just forget about them and move on. Their sacrifice should be remembered until the next war or until they return home with no arms. What more can a solider ask? If they didn't want to be immediately cosigned to oblivion --probably before they're even dead-- they wouldn't have joined the army in the first place.

Movember 12: Crossing a Border

2007-11-12T10:03:00.001-05:00

It's hard to believe that I'm still single with morning attire like that. And yet that mess is what I start the day with. Usually without the mustache and, after this month, thankfully, without it again. Still, it's bad enough. The careful observer may note that my pajama pants are inside out. Thank god that my mismatched socks and hush puppies are not shown. It's a long journey from there to here. Not easy and not always successful. And that trip is just a cog in a machine.

At some point this month I reached the cusp of yet another level of organization. One suit a day has become inappropriate. Logic now demands that I have two -- one for the daytime and one for the evening. Although I knew this was coming I'm not sure what finally pushed me to this precipice. Perhaps it was my last two purchases.

But there now exists a clear hierarchy in my closet. There are suits that are nice enough for around the house and then there are the ones that I would wear while attending something. The division is quite clear and I have to deal with it. This has put me on the bad side of a threshold but I hope to master or, at least, grip the situation within half a year.

Grumpy News Roundup

2007-11-12T06:53:00.001-05:00

Los Angeles Police to Map Muslims: "We want to know where the Pakistanis, Iranians and Chechens are so we can reach out to those communities." Not so they can put them on trains to concentration camps. So just relax. It's the LAPD. You can trust them.

Dolphins Recuse Surfer From Becoming Shark's Bait: A shark was happily eating a surfer when some dolphins interfered. He would have got away with it too, if not for those meddling dolphins. Why don't they mind their own business?

Dog Shoots Man: While hunting some fellow's dog shot him. Ah, so the hunter becomes the hunted.

Memo Warns Kids Using Human Waste to Get High: I don't think they are but I can't understand why a police department would lie about such a thing. But seriously; huffing sewage? Just doesn't seem believable.

Fla. Companies Forbid Smoking in Private Lives: They own you even when you're not on the clock. No word on when they'll ban masturbation.

Henry Forbes of The Donegal Rail

2007-11-10T13:02:00.000-05:00

You may look at that fellow to the right and immediately think that it looks like a genetically primitive version of Ryan Oakley. And you'd be correct. That is my great grandfather, Henry Forbes of County Donegal.

Aside from being a cultivator of a striking mustache, he was also the general manager of The Donegal Rail, which operated two narrow gauge tracks from 1863 to 1959 and is the subject of much nostalgia, including a Shane MacGowan song: "The Donegal Express." Under Forbes' watch the Donegal Rail introduced the first diesel trains into Britain.

Now, a good deal of what I know about the man is not available online. [This is something that I will, one day correct but, for the moment, it is a lot of paper to get through.] He was, by all accounts a stern but fair fellow who was kindly thought of by his workers, many of whom blamed the rail's eventual bankruptcy upon his absence. "Henry Forbes was a railway man first and last and made no secret of his preference for trains he was also a man of great perception." His management philosophy seemed to be that you gave the hard workers more work and basically ignored the lazy ones. And he had balls the size of boulders.

During one period of "The Troubles" in Ireland --there's been a few; in this particular batch my Nan's house was burned down-- two fellows hijacked one of Henry Forbes's trains. Unknown to them, he was on the train. He climbed out the window, made his away along the roof and paid them a visit in the engine room. A running gunfight ensued and he captured one of the men in a field. Although running gunfights --as well as lunacy and murder-- are something I've come to expect from my family history, especially the English side, this particular one stands out as one of my favorites. For once we weren't the crooks!

When the rail finally closed down, two of the staff, "Joe Thompson and Guard Tommy McCafferty, who operated the services between Donegal and Ballyshannon simply refused to accept the company edict that all rail services cease as from the night of December 30, 1959. They continued to use the rail car laid up in Donegal to carry on a regular goods service between the two railheads. They submitted their journals regularly and it was a month before the powers-that-be realized that they had a two-man Railway operating their goods service out of Donegal." That's the Irish for you. Stubborn.

R.I.P. Thomas Drayton

2007-11-10T01:53:00.000-05:00

Though I hardly knew him, Mr. Drayton struck me as a remarkably kind, pleasant and competent man. He's one of the few people in this city who I wished I knew better.

His son [--not pictured, that's Andre 3000--] has the same air of civility; so gentle and genuine that it almost breaks your heart. Anyone who has met them will know what I mean. These are good people and their shop, Cabaret Vintage, is close to me for reasons too personal and probably silly to discuss here.

I wish them all the best.

THOMAS DRAYTON
Poet, Author, Sculptor, Clergy

Passed away peacefully after a sudden illness, surrounded by his family on Oct. 24, 2007.

Raised in California, Thomas traveled the globe, publishing his first book of poetry in Paris, France in 1967. A prolific writer and consummate poet of the people, he went on to publish four more books of poetry and two children's stories, as well as completing a novel. His travels eventually led him to settle in Toronto area in 1971, where he became well known for his fine vintage clothes stores, most recently Cabaret on Queen Street West. With his dynamic charm and spontaneous generosity, Thomas was a familiar face and charismatic presence wherever he went. He will be remembered most notably for his megawatt smile, uplifting the hearts of friends and strangers alike when they least expected it.

Thomas' family invites all to join in a Celebration of his life on Sunday November 11th at 2:00 p.m. at The Great Hall, 1987 Queen Street West, Toronto. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in Thomas' memory to "Eckankar Canada" or "The Daily Bread Food Bank" at the service or through Cabaret.

Movember 09: Can't Think of a Title

2007-11-09T14:16:00.001-05:00

The mustache --catfishy and teenagerish though it may be-- has, at least, made me feel more like my old self. Rather, my future self.

I had intended to grow a mustache when I turned grey. Be a bit of a silver fox. Chase skirts in the retirement home , stumble about the Bingo parlor in a morphine stupor, upset people at the church meetings and reflect on how everyone I love has died. Perhaps even head down to the old boneyard to dance upon their graves. Humble plans, to be sure, but I would need to somehow occupy my time. At least until my robot body is ready.

I even have plans for my death. I figure that I'll catch some utterly fatal type of cancer, go into the woods, look up at the big awful sky, reflect on how pointless the whole endeavor actually was, and shoot myself in the head. Then, as I've made it very clear to my friends, my corpse is to be donated to necrophiliacs. At least the parts that haven't been eaten by animals. I've heard they start with the genitals so I'm not sure how much fun a necrophiliac could have. But my mouth should be intact and there would even be a new hole in the back of my skull so . . . I'm sure they could use their imagination.

And, as usual, you can help the fight against prostate cancer - perhaps helping to ensure that it will not be the one that causes my eventual suicide -- by sponsoring my gala night, man of Movember, Hitler mustache here. I would like another gala ticket. I fear I may get lonely -- and beat up -- without company.

All Black Schools in Toronto

2007-11-09T13:34:00.001-05:00

In Toronto, the idea of all black schools is once again in the media. All black schools are not just a bad idea, they are a disastrously bad idea. Not for the reason that most people seem to cite --bad memories of segregation-- but for another, better reason. Someone here is getting lied to and screwed out of their education. And it's not just blacks. It's whites.

In the Toronto Star article they mention summer camps where: "students learned that Picasso based much of his work on masks from the Congo, that Africa had a university long before Europe – in Morocco – and students based a math grid on the patterns of lush "kente" cloth from Ghana's royalty." Can someone explain to me why white people should not learn this?

Aside from that, I find the whole idea of there being a homogeneous group of "black people" a bit fucked up. There's a lot of different types of black people, many of which like each other about as much as differing groups of white or Asian people like each other. What ones will be covered in these schools? I know that I'd be pretty pissed if I went to the white school to learn about my culture and they taught me about a bunch of fucking Belgians.

At the end of the day, the school system fails a lot of people. It fails whites, blacks, yellows, greens, reds. Basically everyone except the pinks. But that can't be an excuse to fail yourself. No matter who you are, the world will provide you with ample excuses to fail and only one to succeed: Yourself. And that's about the best anyone can expect.

Movember 08: Mein Mustache

2007-11-08T15:24:00.001-05:00

That picture was from yesterday, when I reached the height of sloven. What a depressing mountain to climb. I was surprised and distressed at the effect poor grooming had upon me. I went completely to pieces. My face constantly felt dirty. I did not want to leave bed let alone the house. I even went grocery shopping so that I could eat my cares away.

But today is a new day. Carolyn Rohaly threw me over the hundred dollar mark, thus ensuring my gala ticket. If I get up to two hundred - I get another one. If I reach a thousand dollars, well, you may get some erotic Hitler shots. I know you want them.

To celebrate, I finally carved a mustache out of my hair. It is not yet the Hitler but it feels much better. Pretty silly looking but at least it looks like I'm doing something as opposed to merely avoiding shaving. I can stand looking silly in the service of a decent cause. Not unkempt though. Any cause that demands its adherents be slovenly must be a bad one.

Anyway, my roommate said I looked like a 1970s swimmer, so here's a little treat for the ladies and some of the fellows too. There's nothing worse than a whore who won't put out. But just remember, you can donate to the final product -- the Hitler mustache and the fight against cancer-- here. Please do.

Atheism and Religion: Another Retard Fight

2007-11-08T00:24:00.000-05:00

If I had to define myself --something I'm loathe to do at the best of times-- I'm an apatheist. I believe the existence or non-existence of God is unprovable and totally irrelevant. I think it's a goofy question and a goofier argument. God exists: Now what? I must be acting according to His will as He made me and obviously has some idea of what's going on. God doesn't exist: Should I murder you?

Like I said, goofy.

The only thing I hate more than militant religious fundamentalism is militant atheist fundamentalism. I think it's naive to reduce all or, really, any of humanity's problems to religion. If we didn't have it, we'd just find other reasons to ignore facts, destroy new ideas and to kill each other. I can't understand why the people who accept evolution find this hard to believe. We are pack hunting, predator apes. Religion is not the problem. We are.

So, while I spend some time attacking things that are demonstrably wrong - astrology etc. - I usually leave religion out of it. But the atheist movement is demonstrably assholeish. And hopelessly stupid. They have left themselves open to this attack in "American Conservative Magazine" entitled "Secular Fundamentalism". It nails them on everything they have done wrong; their smugness, their arrogance and their whole religious fervor for what remains an unproven and unprovable position.

What's even worse is that they were warned. Not just by me -- no one listens to me anyway -- but by Robert J. Sawyer, who wrote an op-ed piece for the Ottawa Citizen in April of 2007. Titled "A Bright Idea For Atheists" he recommends they drop the whole I'm smart and you're dumb attitude and even predicts the response from the religious community. He's a science fiction writer and this is hardly his most impressive prediction, but it was certainly right. The article in "American Conservative" proves it.

I hope that the atheists listen --now that the evidence is in and all-- but something tells me they won't. People get drunk on dogma and really drunk on feeling smarter than each other. Robert's belief in reasonable people having a reasonable and polite conversation until truth wins the day is a good one. I hope it catches on. It won't. My belief that "I'm an evil stupid twit and so are you but at least I'm trying" probably stands even less of a chance. Oh well. The dickheads win again. Doesn't mean they always will, but they have this round.

You see, religion is not the problem. Atheism is not the problem. We are the problem. But we can also be the solution. All we need to do, to begin with, is accept reality. You can't change something you're afraid to look at. But it sure can change you. Probably not for the better either.

Movember 06: Street Fighting With Communists

2007-11-06T12:18:00.001-05:00

I feel like a total mess. Can't even be bothered to put a tie on today. Some of this is, no doubt, caused by my facial hair, but some of it is because last night was so stupid. I had two run-ins with a street psychotic. That sort of thing always leaves one feeling bad.

What I like --and hate-- about working on the floor in restaurant is that it is a brutal education in human nature. I used to have a lot of illusions about the sort of creatures that people are. I no longer have these. Illusions are luxuries and I can't afford them. The aristocrat can think what he pleases about the the butler, but the butler had better understand the aristocrat. Aside from efficient service, there is always the psychological aspect. And a lot more people than you would ever expect have mental problems. Most of these problems only come out in groups.

One thing I've learned about humans is that they attack weakness and too often mistake kindness for weakness. I was serving a table of twenty and they were fine. Run of the mill sort of people. But two amongst them --not so surprisingly, a couple-- were douchebags. Douchebaggery is contagious. This couple's douchebaggery was spreading to the people next to them and then to the people next to those. I could see it moving. Blood was in the water. Efficiency was not going to be enough.

There was no problem with the service. This is just the sort of thing happens when a table is unorganized and has no clear alpha. It gets dragged down to the lowest common denominator. That's why so much of what a good waiter does is maintain control. A really good waiter does it without the customer ever being aware of it. But make no mistake, humans need to be controlled. It's sad but true.

I had made the mistake of leaving the table in anarchy - thinking that it would be preferable to the ostentatious display that bringing a table of twenty --with no alpha of their own because they were all strangers-- to heel would require. And I was watching my reward for this slowly spreading from two douchebags to everyone else. Bad news. It's the sort of thing that can lead to nothing but conflict and trouble. Like I say, blood in the water.

That's when a fairly large street psychotic entered the restaurant. I had a run in with him earlier. Since our first encounter, he had been in a fight and his face was a bloodied mess. He started screaming at the table. They went dead silent and I approached the fellow to get him to leave. The thing with psychotics is that you can't reason with them. It's just repetition and baby steps. The idea is to avoid introducing violence because it's unpredictable. I've dealt with quite a few and I know, by now, how to get them out.

I accomplished my first goal of making him stop screaming at the table and to turn his attention to me. So he screamed at me instead. That's fine. I'll take a bullet so people can enjoy their dinner. I'm a professional. And having his attention makes it easier to convince him to leave. In theory. In reality, he would not budge. Aside from his agitation and threats, seeing that he had already been in a violent altercation meant that violence was very much upon the table. Who wants to fight a bleeding schizophrenic? Not me. After my patience was exhausted, I told him that, if he did not immediately leave, I would have the cook, who was nearby, call the police. He threatened me. I told the cook to call the police.

It's the first time I've ever had to do that. As you might expect, they never showed up.

I did, eventually, get him out of the restaurant without violence, unless you count a shove as violence. But here's what pisses me off. None of the douchebags, none of the big guys at that table did anything to help me. Nothing. They were all perfectly capable of picking on me in a group but when the shit hit the fan they sat there and stared at their plates. After the whole thing was done, none of them could even look me in the eye. Assholes. These are men?

But, that crazy man did bring them to heel and I had no more trouble from that group. So, in a way, I'm grateful to him. Just shows you the value of an external threat.

Donate to my Hitler mustache and the fight against cancer - not the mentally ill - here.

Porn and Sexual Violence

2007-11-06T01:41:00.000-05:00

I found this article in Reason Magazine -- "Is Porn a Catalyst of Sexual Violence" --to be fascinating. In the eighties and nineties the case was made, by the left and right, that porn leads to sexual violence. But the prevalence of smut on the internet, combined with a decline in sexual assaults and -- at the very least-- the failure of an outright orgy of rape to appear, disproves this. Turns out that porn may actually decrease sexual violence. At the very least, it obviously does not cause it. Not that the people who want to ban it will listen.

I remember an assembly at my school where some frumpish people came in and told us that porn was rape and that, if you watched it, you'd almost certainly become a rapist. It all had the ring of hairy palms and blindness to me. So, being a bright young man, I launched my own study and concluded that porn never made me rape anyone. I can't say that didn't make me not rape anyone but, let's put it this way: I watch porn. I haven't raped a single person. (To be completely fair, I'm a still a fairly young man and perhaps I will, one day, rape someone. I doubt it but anything is possible. That's what people say anyway - anything is possible. I have my doubts about that too.)

The fact is - just about everybody watches porn. The people who don't - well, they're probably more sexually fucked up than the people who do. It's not evil. It's just sex. People like to watch other people hump. Big fucking deal. Hump your brains out for all I care. Just ask first or something. In the meantime, enjoy your humping.

Grumpy News Roundup

2007-11-05T13:44:00.000-05:00

I wish this was news and not just a movie but let's play make-believe.

Irony and the Male Mustache

2007-11-04T23:00:00.001-05:00

Since Danielle was nice enough to use her photoshop skills --which may or may not be mad-- to give everyone a preview of my Hitler mustache, I thought I'd be nice enough to give a very long answer to a very short question she asked on her blog. But it's the right answer. It's me after all. Anyway, Danielle asks: "Why are post-modern mustaches grown in the service of charitable stunts and purposefully ironic ugliness instead of good old fashioned fashion?"

First off - I want to be clear that my mustache is not ironic and certainly not po-mo. (This mo needs mo' mo and less po for it to be po-mo.) I am not ironic. People think I am. Minister Faust even coined a term - "Iryany" - to describe it. I'm not even trying to shock anyone. What, then, are my real reasons? I don't like to give my real reasons for anything. You'd all laugh at me. Fact is, I'm just trying to get in touch with my inner Hitler. We all have one. I want to meet mine and kill him. I think the mustache will help. It's Hitler bait. Just hope he doesn't bite my lip off.

Having established that, the reason mustaches are grown for purposefully ironic ugliness instead of good old fashioned fashion, is quite simple: Women are allowed to vote. The ironic mustache is a product of a post-feminist western world.

The mustache is a uniquely male accoutrement, though hormones and spirit gum are making inroads. It has long been a potent symbol of male virility and in many parts of the world, still is. The ironic version only exists in a certain stage of post feminist cultures and, within these, across a very narrow, demographic band: Straight, twenty something white boys. Those masters of irony. Those wearers of ironic hats and ironic shirts -- those twits who think repeating something in a sarcastic tone is a form of rebellion. What some people call hipsters and what I call twits.

You see, irony is a way of doing what you want to do, while pretending that you don't really want to do it. You wear a Big League Chew shirt because you love that shit, but you wear it ironically because it's embarrassing to love that shit and you want to send the message that you're too cool to really love Big League Chew. It's just cowardice. Love what you love, I say, hate what you hate. Do it openly. Life is short. And pointless. Might as well be honest.

So why do these young men wear ironic mustaches? It's simple: They have no idea how to be men. The baby-boomer fathers, the ones who actually stuck around to raise their kids, gave no usable example of grown-up male behavior. They didn't really adapt at all to feminism. Mom might have been working full-time but you can be damn sure she was still performing the household chores. Her daughters are uninterested in that bad deal and who can blame them? Not me. I think it's bullshit.

Feminism was a necessary upheaval but, make no mistake, it was a major one. And it left the fellows a bit confused about how to act. They don't know if they should open doors for ladies or offer their seats on the train or even if it's all right to call ladies ladies. They really have no idea of what's expected of them and, unlike me, they care. Years of tradition were pulled out from under them. This left them totally baffled. I hate confused people. It makes them feel weak. That's when they're dangerous.

So these frightened, baffled children did what all frightened, baffled people do -- They did the exact wrong thing. They did the thing that made them feel strong as opposed to what would make them strong. Instead of finding a meaningful way to relate to women as equals, they started listening to angry music that called them bitches etc. They sought to degrade women and, by doing so, make themselves powerful. They developed a warped view of manhood. A bit like a certain group of Europeans about thirty years into the last century.

Gone were the virtues of quiet civility, gentlemanly conduct, kindness, cultivation and civilization. These were replaced by the vices of macho display, rudeness, depravity and degradation. I, for one, believe those vices belong in private. Preferably hidden beneath your bed or on your computer. Some aspects of the human mind are not for public display.

The mustache is a symbol of manly virility that these young fellows are attempting to reclaim. (Being old enough to grow a mustache, they're old enough to know that calling a woman a bitch, even ironically, is not nearly as successful a gambit in the real world as it is on television.) But they're still confused and afraid so they're using irony. This way they can wear one without really wearing one. See how it goes before they get serious about it. They're trying to be men. They're testing the waters. Is the mustache okay? Can we be virile yet? Will the women allow us to be men? It's just like opening a door for a lady. Should I, shouldn't I? Men are confused. That's all.

For my part, I think they're crazy but I don't know how much you can expect from a generation of men raised by women and/or middle aged adolescents. If you want a mustache then grow one. Who cares what women think? At most, you should care what a particular woman thinks and even then, not so much. Mainly you should pretend to care. (Unless it's my Nan - she's always right.) You should never care what people think about you, only about what you think about yourself. You know what you want and what's right so just do it. There's no need to live by running your decisions through an imaginary simulation of someone else's mind. Know your own mind. Act on that. And open the door for the lady. It's just nice.

As for my Hitler mustache and my reasons: Well, I'm your grumpy, mustache, Hitler-Christ owl. I would have thought that was obvious. But don't forget about the cancer donation.

Seriously. Cancer is bad.

Movember 04: A Street Urchin

2007-11-04T11:24:00.001-05:00

Bit of a sneak preview. I'm useless with photoshop so I used my cat's tail. She was really happy about that.

Yesterday's trip to the tobacconist was terrible. I have certainly been more poorly put together - staggering into bars, my suits in tatters and me covered in blood - but I have never felt so poorly put together. Aside from my hairy face, my suspenders broke. I wanted to jump in front of a subway -- I usually do -- but I was afraid my pants would fall down before I crossed the yellow line. When I finally made it home, I just trembled and sobbed on the couch for a while. All in all, a fairly normal Saturday.

Anyway, here's today's Hitler fact. The book "The Unknown Hitler: Notes From the Young Nazi Party" is a fascinating read. It's written by a friend of Hitler's, Ernst Hanfstaengl, who, in spite of his Harvard education, was a complete airhead. He introduced young Adolph to the best social circles but left the party over a practical joke. Ernst was never really de-nazified but he distrusted the leadership. His book concentrates on what he calls "the grim Gilbert and Sullivan face" of the Nazi years. This means he spends a lot of time talking about what a fine whistler Adolph Hitler was. A strange read. From that book:

"It seemed a good moment to bring up something which had been worrying me ever since I had met him, and that was his stupid little mustache. There had been a time during the war when he let it grow, but the first time I saw him it was already clipped back to the ridiculous little smudge which made it look as if he had not cleaned his nose. I called on the evidence of Van Dyck, Holbein and Rembrandt to bear witness that a mustache should either grow out full or at most be clipped to the end of the lips. I said I felt it would be much more dignified if he followed one of these patterns. He took it quite unmoved. "Don't worry," he said. I am setting a fashion. As time goes on people will be pleased to copy it." And in due course it was to become as much a Nazi trade mark as the brown shirt."

Not not only was Adolph Hitler a mass murderer, a dictator and a fine whistler, he was also a trend-setter. Tomorrow, we'll talk about some of the Nazi products that you probably like. In the meantime, you can donate to fight cancer through a Hitler mustache here .

Posh Spice Goes on Detox Diet

2007-11-04T10:03:00.001-05:00

Posh Spice is going on a new diet for the upcoming Spice Girls tour. She'll actually be eating. It's not a bad idea, considering that she has the waist size of the average seven year old. Think about that for a moment. A seven year old. Why does Beckham fuck her? Like, it must be better than talking to her but still . . . A seven year old?

But one thing struck me about her upcoming diet. She's doing something called "the big cleanse." Since her "health mentor" (aka "resident quack") is a gynecologist, I thought I knew what she was talking about. But I was wrong. She is not cleaning her vagina --a good habit -- she is detox dieting -- an idiotic fad. And, because people are fucking twits who think celebrities actually know something, I'm sure a lot of other people will detox too. So let's clear this up.

Detoxing does nothing. It may even hurt you. Your body already cleans what you cannot use - toxins - from your body. It's called taking a shit. It's not hard. Everyone can do it. There's no need to starve yourself for a week, drink hot water, eat lemon grass or cayenne pepper. Just sit on a toilet and let nature perform its magic.

But why should you believe me? You shouldn't. But maybe you should believe Professor Alan Boobis OBE, Toxicologist, Division of Medicine, Imperial College London, even if his name is Boobis. Boobis, who just might know more than Posh, says: “The body’s own detoxification systems are remarkably sophisticated and versatile. They have to be, as the natural environment that we evolved in is hostile. It is remarkable that people are prepared to risk seriously disrupting these systems with unproven ‘detox’ diets, which could well do more harm than good.” A lot of other scientists say the same.

All of them, actually. So Posh should just eat a fucking sandwich, do some exercise, have an early night and then kill herself. I've had enough of this woman.

Movember 03: Gassed in the Trench

2007-11-03T13:52:00.000-04:00

I'm very itchy. I feel just like a certain young Austrian runner for the 16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment when he was hit with mustard gas in the trenches of the First World War. It was a good thing that his superior officer had ordered him to shave his unruly mustache into a more efficient shape; one that would allow him to put the gas mask on. And just like that odd little fellow, I too feel ready to fly into a girlish panic and develop a hysterical case of blindness.

For today, I have decided to solve the problem of my slovenly appearance with a velvet jacket. I think that if I have to look like I just crawled out of a knocking shop after a three day hemp binge, I might as well really look like I just crawled out of a knocking shop after a three day hemp binge. And nothing says whores and jazz cigarettes like velvet.

Or itching. Did I mention that it's itchy? I feel like I have case of crabs on my face.

Anyway, thanks to the generosity of Elliott, who has no website and a rabid hatred of Facebook, I am now up to $45. You can add here.

Appurtenances of Terror

2007-11-03T12:28:00.000-04:00

Do you what an appurtenance is? Neither do I. But that's what the clean-shaven Brits called the mustaches of the French soldiers: "Appurtenances of Terror." Being thus terrorized, the British soldiery did the only reasonable thing and, in the 1830s, started growing their own.

In English hands, the mustache quickly became an appurtenance of empire. In 1854 it became mandatory for soldiers in the Bombay Regiment. According to one Dr. Brendon, the reason was quite simple: “For the Indian sepoy the mustache was a symbol of virility. They laughed at the unshaven British officers.” And if you're trying to run an empire, being laughed at just won't do, old chap. Doesn't quite cut the jib.

At home, the civilians quickly started to emulate their gin and tonic sodden heroes by growing their own facial hair and using this to terrorize the local barmaids.

British mustache fashion peaked with the empire and declined with it. But perhaps the beard will come back into vogue. British soldiers in Afghanistan have been ordered to grow them so that they will win the respect (not be laughed at) by the Afghanis. It's only a matter of time before Johnny Peacenik follows suit.

Donate to the fight against prostate cancer (and my Movember Hitler mustache) here.

Day 2 of Hitler Mustache Movember: Treaty of Versailles

2007-11-02T14:25:00.001-04:00

There's going to be a bunch of Movember posts. It should be as exciting as watching hair grow. But, after this one, I'll try to give you facts about the mustache, Adolph Hitler and Adolph Hitler's mustache. So you can learn all about dictators and what is on their face.

Much to my amazement, some hair has actually grown. I feel shadier already. Perhaps I'll spend my evening crouching in a bush to leer into your window. Also, for some bizarre reason, part of my hair looks orange in that picture. I have no idea why. It is not orange. I can only hope that growing a mustache does not change my hair color.

I do have some other worries. The main being that I will forget myself after stumbling out of bed one afternoon and accidentally shave. The other being that facial hair seems to assault the fundamental logic of my appearance. I have no idea how one is supposed to pull off a suit and cane while looking like they couldn't be bothered to take a razor to their face. I suspect that sweaters are the solution. Tomorrow, I'll buy some.

I've already raised twenty dollars -- thank you Danielle -- for the fight against cancer. This brings me within eighty dollars of my goal of a free gala ticket. And you can help by sponsoring my Hitler mustache. It might be crazy and futile but so was invading Russia.

Movember - Please Pay to Help Me Look Like Adoph Hitler

2007-11-01T23:40:00.001-04:00

Believe me, I know that this is utterly useless. There's no way that you people will ever help me with anything. I have no idea why I'm even trying. But here it goes:

To raise money to fight prostate cancer, there's something called Movember, where men grow a mustache and have it sponsored. Well, I'm registered as a "Mo-Bro" even though the term makes me vomit, just a little bit, into my mouth. So this month I will be attempting to grow a mustache. I have no idea if I can. I've never tried. I don't trust men with mustaches - my father has one. And I think fighting cancer is like fighting the sky. But anyway . . .

What I want to do is this - grow a mustache and attend the gala event where there will be a runway show of the, ahem, "Mo-Bros". But I don't want just any mustache. I want a Hitler mustache. Some people have asked me why. I have accused these people of loving cancer.

Now, you may feel that you need a better explanation than that. Perhaps, if I called it a Chaplin, you would feel a bit better about donating. But I don't really want to make you feel better.

So here's my explanation. It's ridiculous that Hitler managed to wreck a whole mustache. His last piece of conquered territory is a square inch below our noses, where we are not allowed to grow hair because it apparently belongs to him and him alone. Well, I don't buy it. The fellow is dead, he's never even seen my face and he owns no part of it. I'll grow a Hitler if I feel like it.

And I do. If you wish to help me in this absurd and doomed endeavor of ruining my pretty face to prove an idiotic point - please donate to me here.

Halloween

2007-11-01T23:06:00.000-04:00

Halloween went fairly well. I attended the Satan's Candy show at the El-Mo and even managed to buy their souls for a mere bottle of Jager. It's frankly amazing how cheap souls go for these days. Definitely a buyer's market. People always say "buy low sell high" but very few put that into practice.

No doubt inspired by their recent Faustian bargain, their performance was even better than the last one. There were also other bands but these bored me into a stupefied silence and upset my ears. I honestly have no idea what compels people to get up on a stage and make such a stupid racket. Really, it's just being a nuisance.

(If you'd like to -- for some reason -- see more pics of the show, you can find them here.)

I also attended Jeff Lemire's book launch. It was also quite good and much quieter than the rock show. He did publicly inform me, using his microphone device, that there were, in fact, no pedophiles in his last book. I was certain there were. I still am. Jeff merely proved that artists never understand their own work.

Other than exposing his own ignorance on this subject, he gave a good reading, using a power-point format so that we could see the pictures. I remember that, when I first met him, I was deeply impressed by his talent. Well, I'm even more impressed now. That fellow can draw and tell a story. Just keeps getting better.

And it may seem that I often compliment my friends. I do. But there is a risk -- in this corrupt and filthy world -- that you may get the mistaken impression that I compliment them because they are my friends. This, I can assure you, is not the case. I'm not that nice. Ask anyone who knows me. I just refuse to have friends who are not worth complimenting. I dislike being around people whose talent I do not respect. They bore me.

Dog the Bounty Hunter is a Racist (And a Twat)

2007-10-31T17:40:00.001-04:00

And is anyone actually surprised? I sure wasn't.

I've spent some time around white folks and I can tell you something. You see that guy to your left? (Not me - the mullet headed chap.) If you ever see a white guy who looks like that -- He's either a flaming queer or a racist. There's no middle ground on this one. Same goes for skinheads.

So Dog - yes, they call this fellow "Dog" - did not surprise me by making a quite racist phone call to his son about his black girlfriend. But I was amused, to hear, on the National Enquirer website, Dog saying : "I'm not going to take a chance, ever in life, of losing everything I worked for, for thirty years because some fucking nigger heard us say nigger and turned us into the Enquirer."

Just when did all of our scandals get so post-modern? I blame Kramer.

It did surprise me that Dog's son was such a pussy. I mean, he tried to reason with dear old dad. To defend himself. He should have just told the goofy cunt to fuck off, if you ask me, but I'm a bit old fashioned. Parents are best seen and not heard. In the case of Dog, not seen either.

A. Whitney Brown: I Support the Troops

2007-10-31T16:19:00.000-04:00

Via: The Bro-Log

My Halloween Plans

2007-10-31T12:10:00.000-04:00

I like Halloween. It teaches children to beg and threaten while dressed up and, by doing so, prepares them for their future Saturday nights.

Although I already have next year's costume planned, I really had no idea what to do for this year. I thought I should wear some khaki pants, sneakers and a shirt that proclaimed: "I'm one of you!" but decided against it. I won't do that. Not even for Halloween. So, instead, I'm going as Ryan Oakley going as Superman going as Clark Kent going as Satan going as Ryan Oakley. All I need for this costume is red underwear, a superman shirt to wear beneath my suit and devil's horns. Not a problem. I have an abundant supply of all of the above.

And it's going to be a busy night. For starters, I'll be attending Jeff Lemire's book launch at the Victory Cafe. It's the third part in his trilogy and, although I already have a copy, I need to finish a book about Hitler before I get to it. From there I'll be scooting over to El Mo -- with my entourage, of course -- to see a bunch of girl bands, the only one I'm aware of being Satan's Candy. But they're good. I suspect that I'll be telling you more about all of this tomorrow.

After that, who knows? I'm always up for an after-party but so many people work during the week. Rather, they sit at their desks and pretend to work but it all adds up the same.

Raytheon Oakley: This Time It's Personal

2007-10-30T11:50:00.001-04:00

Immediately after I did a post on Raytheon's torture device, I started seeing, on my statcounter, searches for "Oakley Raytheon." Now, I'm hardly paranoid but, I must confess, I raised an eyebrow.

After looking into it, I've discovered the reason: The company that made that horrible machine acquired a security company named "Oakley Networks". So Raytheon is now Raytheon Oakley. Almost sounds like Ryan Oakley.

This pisses me off. Destroying my family name is my job. I don't want or need these people's help.

And, if you came to this post, because you're thinking about investing in this company or because you work for them. You should be ashamed. You should probably commit suicide. Have you ever seen that movie, "Fargo"? Remember the end?

You guys know that there's more to life than making a little money right? You do know that? Right? So do the right-fucking-thing for a change. Refuse to profit by torture. That's all. It's very simple.

But you're probably not very interested in the right thing. So consider this bet instead: Sure, you may make a bit of cash but what if I, or someone like me, one day gets the chance to put you and/or your children in your own despicable creation? Because I will. Wouldn't even think twice about it. And what good will that little bit of money do you then? It won't buy you mercy. It won't stop the pain. So you're gambling a lot more than money here and it might not be worth it. A bit like staking your life on twenty bucks. Sure, if you win, you get twenty bucks but if you lose . . . Just be aware. That's all I'm saying. Be aware.

Grumpy News

2007-10-29T10:28:00.001-04:00

Hey Oscar Wilde! It's Clobberin' Time: A really good site with pictures of literary characters and authors as drawn by comic book artists.

Man Jailed for Urinating on Woman: This fellow pissed on a dying woman and shouted: "This is Youtube material!" I don't often say this, but I hope he is throughly sodomized in prison.

Voters Make Quick, Shallow Decisions, Study Suggests: As if every election I can remember didn't suggest the same thing.

A Good Word for Dandyism: A short but interesting editorial on the subject.

Human Race Will Split into Two Species: A bullshit article masquerading as science. For why it's bullshit, read this.

British Intellegence Recruiting Through Video Games

2007-10-28T10:37:00.001-04:00

The Brits have decided to start recruiting intellegence officers by advertising in video games. Aside from being a great way of maintaining secrecy, they also say that it's cheaper than the American Army's approach of actually building their own games.

It just makes sense

Someone who is good at video games will obviously have the real-life skills needed in a good spy, just as everyone who played "Leisure Suit Larry" is a dynamo with the ladies. And my skill in "Civilizations" obviously qualifies me to be a world leader. If only they started advertising for dictators in that game - maybe then I could finally quit my disappointing day job as a plumber, which I got through "Super Mario Brothers."

Muslim Women Scare White People

2007-10-27T18:02:00.001-04:00

I was out shopping today, buying owl-kites, banana-split favored coffee, pipes and pink ties because, apparently, I'm well on my way to becoming a villain in a children's story, when I happened to glance the cover of today's Toronto Sun.

"Veiled Threat" it says. With a picture of a Muslim woman in a veil. Pretty clever. Do you get it? Don't be worried if you don't; It took me about ten minutes and I'm still not sure if I completely understand.

You see, I thought we white people had, at our last meeting, agreed to be afraid of young black males. But now, in our paper, I'm being told that we're supposed to be afraid of Muslim women? I'm confused. I thought we were fighting a feminist war in Afghanistan to liberate them and thus increase our pool of "Sunshine Girls". And now I'm supposed to be scared of them?

This is exactly why I stopped going to these stupid meetings in the first place. Until you people get your act together, I'm just going to be afraid of losing a cuff-link or making the wrong choice in socks. I just can't keep up with all these other paranoias.

Fashion Grindhouse

2007-10-26T15:35:00.001-04:00

Look it's me at a party, doing what I do at parties: Sitting quietly and trying not to bother anyone while watching what they do at parties. That is, get drunk and dance. While sober, I've never been able to make much sense out of the whole thing but I don't mind. I have a very strange memory; I can never remember what other people do when they're drunk. And look - a smile is even trying to break out on my face. (It was brutally suppressed a moment later, I'm sure.)

My roommate Amie is sitting with me, but she's not smiling, probably because she's sitting with me. I told her that if she wants to have fun or socialize, she'll have to do it herself because I don't go in for that sort of thing. I just like watching people. They amuse me. I like to speak with them too but there's always so much music. Plus I don't really know what to say to strangers. They might not get my Hitler jokes. So I just quietly watch, while speaking in telepathy with my imaginary gorilla friend, Mr. Chippernutz, who is an edgy ape in sunglasses and always sits beside me, says some pretty clever things for a gorilla, even if they're in sign language.

Anyway, this was the after party for the Fashion Grindhouse show that I posted about here. It was fun and Mr. Chippernutz, as always, enjoyed his eXtreme bananas.

Grumpy News Roundup: Better Late Than Never

2007-10-26T13:32:00.001-04:00

This is just some news about a slight change.

I threatened to do it and I did: Now in the right sidebar, below the archives, you can find all of my theme weeks. Except for the religion one because I got rid of it. I was really drunk when I wrote that and dishonest atop of it. So it embarrasses me. Greatly. And it's gone to wherever all the dead posts go. Sorry. But it's my past and I'll edit it as I see fit.

So here's a simple guide to it:

Heroes: You just read that one. It's about my heroes.

School Days: Still unfinished. I got bored with all the scanning. Sort of like my school career.

Dandarchism 101: About manners and whatnot. It's one of my faves.

Things I Own That I Like: I think that's easy enough to understand.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do: This was when I joined the dark side and started blogging about my personal life and thoughts and all that crap. (I'm still trying to stop.) It was easily my most popular theme week. People really loved to watch me suffer and I hate you all for it. There's a bit of Grumpy Psy-Ops at the end, so, if you read it, I suggest you start from the bottom and move your way up. Otherwise you may get lost. That's actually not bad advice for any of the theme weeks.

Gangsters: A very short one. They're not very interesting and I had other things on my mind. Like six martinis before dinner.

Fascists and Fascism: It's all about one of my fave topics.

Grumpy's Guide to the Revolution: Just some posts about what a revolution is, how to throw one and the people who have done it. Most of my thoughts on the subject are different now that I've sobered up.

Grumpy Kulture: My first theme week and, frankly, I'm not sure what the theme was supposed to be. What can I tell you? I was drunk. But I think it all worked out in the end.

Theme Week's End

2007-10-26T12:40:00.000-04:00

And that does it for another theme week. I honestly never realized how many of my heroes had been murdered. (All of them except for Lydon and, frankly, he'd be the first overboard.) And most of them didn't even deserve it. So this week failed in one of its goals. I'm still in hate with humanity. I'd even say that my hatred is reaffirmed.

But, aside from being slaughtered by their inferiors, I did discover some other common points between these people. It may seem odd that I didn't discover these points before but I never know what I think until I write it down and, even then, I usually disagree with myself.

They all had a talent for words and ideas. (Even Caesar was considered the best poet of his age.) For the most part they were also stupid enough to believe that such things could change the world. I like that sort of stupidity. Against all evidence, it shows a belief that humans are reasonable and that the moral high-ground is important.

None of them were where they belonged and no one welcomed them in - instead they kicked the door down and then acted like they owned the place. This generally pissed off the people who really did own the place. But fuck those people. They're overrated. If they owned as much as they thought they did, they'd have better locks on their doors.

And all of them were brave enough to trust their own integrity. Because, if you think about it, their talents were not only employed as weapons against injustice, stupidity and lies but also used to advance themselves. This is, perhaps, the toughest line to walk. But, if you're actually interested in change, it's an important one. To do good, you can't be afraid of looking bad.

Sell out but never buy in.

War Protestor Confronts Condi

2007-10-25T17:17:00.000-04:00

I am incredibly sympathetic towards the woman with blood on her hands. Sorry, I mean the woman with fake blood on her hands. But I would like to raise an issue here. Why hasn't she done her hair and put on a business suit? I'm not kidding.

The woman from Code Pink is absolutely right to confront Condi. Condi is a murderer and a war criminal. This is why, when you face her, you cannot afford to look like a nut. It is the job of the press to make you look crazy. (They'll use words like "Accost.") You should not help them to portray you as insane. You must look even more respectable than she does. You must come down upon the woman like a ton of bricks from every angle.

Do people seriously think that politicians wear suits because they want to? They do it because people listen to the well-dressed. This is an ugly but unalterable fact of human nature. Bush never would have gotten away with the Iraq War if he had of made his case while wearing sweat pants, no shirt and sandals. We will never see its end until the protesters start combing their hair before the photo-op. You have right and truth on your side. For fuck's sake, look like it.

Theme Week: Malcolm X

2007-10-25T16:02:00.001-04:00

Malcolm X didn't hate white people. And that frankly amazes me. Not only because he had every right to but because it's a lot better than I do on most days. He did, however, understand that it was ridiculous to ask people who had stolen your freedom to give it back. You need to take it back yourself. "By any means necessary."

The thing that impresses me most about Malcolm X, is that he did not just revolt against the power structure but what it had made him into. This was something that he continued to do until his death. It's his relationship with history -- personal, cultural and political -- that I admire. Just as I doubt Wilde saw any difference between his three geniuses of conversation, prose and life, I doubt that Malcolm X saw any difference between the personal, cultural and political.

He met life as a petty crook and left it as one of the last century's greatest orators. Along the way, between the Malcolm and the X, he was thrown into jail where he had a religious/political/personal awakening. He saw that he was diseased, diagnosed the illness and treated it. This was a man who, when he saw the truth, accepted it and acted upon it. Refusing to avert your eyes from the truth, even when it makes you and your whole history look bad, is bravery. Most people lack it. Most people would rather live a lie. But not Malcolm. He evinced the same courage when he saw through Elijah Muhammad.

I think that a lot of people see him as a person who blamed the "white devils" for everything. I've never been under that impression. I think he laid blame where and when it belonged but, more importantly, advocated a rigorous philosophy of human decency and self-responsibility. He refused to be a dog begging at his master's table. He was a dignified human being who accepted and dispensed nothing other than equal treatment. Use force upon him and he would use it back upon you. That scared the people who were accustomed to monopolizing justice; people who were, in other words, unjust. It scared the right people. Real justice does that.

To me, Malcolm X is a history of names. He was born as Malcolm Little. On the streets he became known as Red. In prison, he was called Satan. But history knows him by the name he gave himself: Malcolm X. It's a good name.

Theme Week: Julius Caesar

2007-10-25T13:41:00.001-04:00

Last year, as a birthday present to myself, I bought a replica of Julius Caesar's sword. It was to serve as a reminder to me. When Caesar was 38, he had nothing except a lot of debt and was head-man in a tiny little shit-hole somewhere in Spain. Although he had said that: "I would rather be number one in this wretched little village than number two in Rome," his soldiers one day found him crying in front of a statue of Alexander the Great. They asked him why. His answer spoke of his great ambition. He said that by the time Alexander was 33 he had conquered the world. Caesar was 38 and had nothing. But all of that was about to change.

To understand Caesar, one has to understand that he was not an especially great general except for one very important quality: He made up his mind fast and moved faster. His decisions were often wrong but he was able to correct them just as rapidly as he had made them. This speed is the aspect I respect. He was often outnumbered and usually outgunned but his speed, bravery and luck always carried him though. He'd come, he'd see and he'd conquer. "Veni Vidi Vici."

Caesar always dealt with what was in front of him; directly and quickly. (When, as a young man, he was kidnapped by pirates, he never backed down from them. Instead told them that he would have them all crucified. Although he had to raise the navy to do it himself, he kept his word.) His success is a testament to the virtue of never wasting an opportunity. His failures are warnings about the vice of arrogance. The man never met an honor that he would refuse and that is what finally caused his assassination. His last words were not, as often reported, "You too, Brutus?" but were, instead, an exclamation of surprise: "What?! This violence done to Caesar!?"

But my favourite quote by him is not what he said as he was dying. It is what he said as he crossed the Rubicon to conquer Rome. It's often reported as "The die is cast" but that is wrong. The die was far from cast, the outcome far from certain. He was, as usual, outnumbered and outgunned, relying only upon his speed and audacity. He had no way of knowing that he would win and every reason to suspect that he would lose. In that situation he said: "Throw the dice high." And that's the Caesar I find heroic. Not the one who conquered Gaul, not the one who led Rome and not the one bleeding on the Senate floor. It is the one who stands at the Rubicon, facing down destiny and says: "Throw the dice high."

Damzels in The Dress and Playdead Cult Runway Show

2007-10-24T18:21:00.001-04:00

I just got back from a fashion show for "Damzels in this Dress" and "Playdead Cult" at L'Oreal Fashion Week. I don't understand what the whole big deal about this fashion week is. It seems to be a big tent in Nathan Philips Square. Picture a circus without the elephants. (Tyra was not in attendance.)

The shows were mainly women's wear and I am totally incapable of judging that. I only judge the women wearing it. And they passed. One even had a breast fall out her dress. (Pictured right.) Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've seen a breast; a soft, lovely, nippled, like to kiss and suck on . . . Anyway, it's been a while. They're still the same.

There were two outfits for men. I didn't like either. Just jeans and a t-shit (you heard me) and another t-shirt type of thing. I don't think anyone other than cowboys has any right to wear denim. I can't believe people still wear those pants. It's almost as if everyone went through a work-shirt phase that never ended.

Oh, yes. I forgot. They did.

Theme Week: Oscar Wilde

2007-10-24T07:47:00.000-04:00

I thought it may be amusing to write about Wilde without quoting him. But that would be impossible. So let's start off with one: "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you." Sometimes they'll kill you anyway. They certainly killed him.

He's a complicated figure and I've always been a bit disapointed that he's often viewed as a purely gay icon. This reduces him, not because homosexuality is immoral -- which it is, when done well -- but because it's just a shame to see anyone defined by their sexual practices. In its own way, I find loving him because he was gay as wrong as hating him for it. One must always realize that you're dealing with complete people.

There's a lot to admire about this man. One thing, of course, is how he conducted himself in court and, indeed the fact he showed up at all. He could have ran to France. A lot of people did. The day after he he was charged with homosexuality, Calais in France was full of young, male, English aristocrats. But Oscar never shied away from a fight. Aside from being gay, he was also Irish. A fact his mother reminded him of when he thought about fleeing.

Oscar has the trait that I most often admire in people. That is, he did not, by the standards of his day, have much, but what he did have, he had a lot of and was not afraid to use it. He lacked the benefits of class, race, wealth or even proper sexual orientation. But he did have genius. Three actually. One for prose, one for conversation and one for life. I doubt he saw much of a difference between the three. His prose is, I think, some of the best ever produced in English. His conversational ability is legendary. And about his life, he said: "I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works." When one realizes that this is true, and yet his works are still masterpieces, that says quite a bit for the man's life. He brought art alive.

But my favourite thing about him is his ability to turn things upside down. You see it in his quotes: "Work is the curse of the drinking classes" but also in certain incidents such as the speech he gave after one of his plays. The audience demanded that he speak and he appeared on stage with a cigarette, which was absolutely shocking to the Victorians --women fainted, I'm sure-- and told the audience: "I know it's rude for me to smoke on stage but it's also rude to interrupt me while I'm smoking." It doesn't sound like much today but, back then, it made headlines. People were horrified. Editorials were written.

Aside from also looking down on the aristocrats because they were not him, thus turning conventional morality upon its head, while building an imaginary hierarchy that he could stand atop of -- the only place to pass judgment from -- he even used this ability to overturn himself. Dorian Grey is a refutation of his own philosophy of aestheticism, delivered by the only person who could refute it. Himself.

And yet, as shocking and irreverent as he was, the man had an essential humanity and kindness that is too often overlooked. When I was in my misery, Wilde's letter to Lord Alfred Douglas, "De Profundis", was a great help to me. There is so much more to Wilde than even the wit. There's also a great deal of wisdom. I feel as if I owe him a personal debt.

But perhaps it's paid in part. In London, during the midst of his destruction, when his friends had abandoned him, he lived on Oakley Street. This can only mean one thing. Oscar Wilde heard my name long before I ever heard his.

Theme Week: Marcus Tullius Cicero

2007-10-23T12:11:00.000-04:00

Make no mistake, although some people still hate the fellow, and however HBO's Rome chose to portray him, Cicero was a great man. He was a very rare thing: an attorney and politician with integrity. As a lawyer, he thought that no lawyer should ever turn down a just case on the basis of money, just as a doctor should never turn away a sick man. As a politician he rose from humble beginnings to Rome's top office. He was also a philosopher, whose primary interest was not in developing his own system of thought, but in making the difficult theories of the Greeks comprehensible to Joe Roman. And he did not scare easily.

He has, over the years, taken a great deal of flak for his alleged vanity. And while it is true that he did enjoy the finer things in life and he did sing his own praises, he did so for a simple reason. He was not an aristocrat and appearances are important. If he wasn't on his own dick, then no one else would be. Actually, they'd probably chop it off. The man had enemies.

Some people also criticize his integrity, ignoring that he never took bribes and pointing out that he befriended Pompey, then Caesar, and seemed to basically befriend anyone who would do him any good. An example of this is that while he did not get along with Cato the Younger while Cato lived, he wrote a book that portrayed him as great patriot after he killed himself. The reasons were political. Writing that book was a protest against Caesar, who responded with one of his own. It was not as popular.

While it is true that Cicero's methods changed, his goal -- a Roman republic that worked in harmony with itself through with checks and balances -- never did. He was a politician, after all, but he was one who worked for a good end and was not afraid to get his hands dirty to achieve it, to appear unscrupulous by currying favor with or offending the aristocracy or the people as the situation demanded. As he said in a letter to Lentulus Spinther in 54 BC:

"I believe in moving with times. Unchanging consistency of standpoint has never been considered a virtue in great statesmen. At sea it is good sailing to run before the gale, even if the ship cannot make harbour: but if she can make harbour by changing tack, only a fool would risk shipwreck by holding to the original course rather than change and still reach his destination. Similarly, while all of us as statesmen should set before our eyes the goal of peace with honour to which I have so often pointed, it is our aim, not our language, which must aways be the same."

Unfortunately, he never did reach his goal. When Mark Antony took power, Cicero saw in him a man with Caesar's ambitions but lacking Caesar's virtues. (He called him a corrupt madman who wanted to start a bloodbath.) This was after Cicero's daughter had died and, when that happened, Cicero is said to have "turned to iron". He delivered a series of speeches against Antony, while supporting Augustus in his campaign against him, mistakenly believing that the youth could be controlled and taught the value of the republic over the dictatorship. When Augustus and Antony needed to make friendly to defeat Brutus, Cicero was a piece traded for another. Antony hated him but Augustus spent two days trying to defend him.

Knowing his situation was hopeless, Cicero stopped running. A man, who he had once defended in court, murdered him in his carriage. Cicero presented his neck and said: "Though what you do is improper, at least try to kill me properly." The chap accommodated him and Cicero's tongue and hands were nailed to the Rostrum wall. The tongue to represent his great power of speech, his hands to represent his writings. Neither of which died as easily as the man.

I admire Cicero's changeability of method and integrity of purpose. He was a realist but one who did not allow reality to corrupt him. It had to kill him instead. Sometimes, that's the highest honour that can be done to a man. But the way he faced it, that, like so many of his honours, was one he gave himself.

More on that Fashion Letter

2007-10-23T01:56:00.000-04:00

You'll have to believe me when I tell you that I didn't want to get involved in this whole fashion letter controversy. I was quite happy to remain on the sidelines and make my usual smart ass comments. But the group who wrote the letter managed to irritate me with their hypocrisy. And, we all know how I get when I'm irritated. I get frisky.

I may not approve of Robin Kay or L'Oreal Fashion Week or of any of the corporate parasites who ride on the backs of creative people and then charge said creative people for the privilege of advertising their crap, while establishing a corrupt, pointless and ultimately pernicious hierarchy . . . Yeah, I don't like that. (Same goes for you Nuit Blanche.) But that doesn't mean I approve of her enemies. Not liking Hitler does not mean one likes Stalin. I think they're both twits and this is a retard fight.

But, like I said: I've gone and involved myself now. Here's a copy of the email I sent out to everyone whose address this anonymous group made the mistake of giving me:

Greetings, Friends, Citizens and Fellow Apartment Dwellers,

This is Ryan Oakley, who some of you may know as The Grumpy Owl. I would like to bring your attention to an issue that is important to me and, I suppose, to you, The Fashion Community.

Yesterday I received an email from the anonymous creators of an online petition, which demanded transparency in L'Oreal Fashion Week. In doing so, they managed to give me all of your email addresses. Worse still, they gave you mine. Something like this can only result in mass emailings from crackpots like myself. But please, hear me out.

Although I found it uncomfortable that a group who demands transparency is remaining anonymous, I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. I did as they asked in their last correspondence. "We hope you understand our reasons for remaining anonymous for the time being." I understood. They are cowards. I expect that.

But, when they invaded my privacy by sending all of you people my email address, they ceased to be the run of the mill swine and became repugnant hypocrites. Why should they retain the luxury of anonymity while they deny basic privacy to me? Just who are these people? More importantly, just who do they think they are?

Whether or this was just accidental stupidity on their part or purposeful idiocy is irrelevant. The simple fact is this: Their request for anonymity has become completely untenable. I can no longer support it.

I'm asking you to sign a petition, demanding that they reveal their identity. If they wish the Mayor and Ms. Robin Kay to respond to theirs, it only seems right that they respond to ours. It would be a good first step to regaining some credibility.

The petition:

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/Anonymity/

Best Wishes,

Ryan Jack Arthur Oakley
http://thegrumpyowl.blogspot.com/

Theme Week: John Lydon aka Johnny Rotten

2007-10-22T08:48:00.000-04:00

Let's get this fucker out the way first.

I said some time ago that there's two things that relax me when I'm miserable. Owls and John Lydon. The owls are easy enough to explain. Owls are great. But what is it that I like about John Lydon? It's certainly not his celebrity. And I can't even say that it's his music, even though I liked the PIL albums "Metal Box" and "Flowers Of Romance" enough to buy them on vinyl. My affection for "Honest John" boils down to a few things.

He is evidence that any disadvantage can be turned into an advantage if one is just blunt. The Sex Pistols were terrible musicians. But they didn't hide that behind a bunch of glossy nonsense and production. They just did the best they could with what they had and they gave it to everyone straight. Of course, everyone immediately missed the point, and started to think that A) There was such a thing as punk and B) that punk was about not having any talent.

When punks try to sound bad - they're missing the point. It's fucking stupid to enshrine failure as a positive value. You should always do your best. Skill is important. It's just not as important as actually having something to say. All the talent in the world is just nonsense if there's no content and just a little bit of content forgives more errors than gloss covers. Do the best you can with what you have even if it's not very much. And if you're honest it might work. It might not. Oh well.

I also like that John Lydon is weaponized against lies. Like Colbert, he uses bullshit against bullshit and by doing so, often cuts right to the reality. (Sometimes it goes horribly wrong.) Truth is a funny thing and Lydon is hilarious. But I have an extremely dry sense of humor. It amuses me to see someone base their whole career on attacking the expectations of their fans. He consistently and flamboyantly does the exact opposite of what people want and expect. And he's consistently pissed people off for the same reason. They hate what they love.

So from Lydon, a few lessons -- be blunt and open about your good and bad points, don't play a role, be yourself, write your own script -- but the most important to me is this: Attack. Attack yourself, other people, life itself. Just fucking attack it. There's no rules. As John succinctly says in this well worth watching vid: "We're betting on ourselves in a one horse race. Well, fuck's sake, we better win."

Theme Week: Heroes (Not the Show and I am Not Going to Watch That No Matter How Many Times People Tell me It's Good. Just Don't Care. Sorry)

2007-10-22T06:08:00.000-04:00

It's been a really long time since my last theme week. So long, in fact, that I forgot I even did theme weeks. (One of these days I need to figure out how to organize all of those into the side-bar.) So I'm doing another one. About my heroes. There's a couple reasons for this. The first is that I have to occasionally force myself to look at the good in humans. (This is one of those times.) The other is that I've noticed a strange trend on various people's online profiles. When they're asked who their heroes or idols are, they often claim not to have any. I think that's sad.

I don't know if it's an underhanded way of saying that they're the greatest people who ever lived, if it's some sort of cynical cool thing, where even great people have to be brought low. Maybe looking up makes people feel demeaned. For my part, looking down makes me feel demeaned and I need to occasionally look up. I need heroes so that I can take their actions as guides in how to conduct my life.

I understand that my idols are, for the most part, humans and that no one is perfect, but this isn't about looking at their bad sides. There's only so much you can learn from doing that. It's about looking at their good sides. So you shouldn't be too shocked by the appearance of Adolph Hitler, Karl Rove and Joseph Stalin. Sorry, just fucking with you. Those are anti-heroes.

Anyway, I should mention that they're in no particular order. I don't have a top hero any more than I have a top friend. I don't even know how to rank things like that. Maybe it should be by how much money they make.

Books From BMV

2007-10-20T19:06:00.001-04:00

This is why I try to avoid BMV. I was in there for about ten minutes and next thing I know, I'm dropping books, hemorrhaging money and planning a trip back to buy what I could not carry. Furthermore, I actually had to take the TTC because I was too lazy to walk home with all of this crap. I don't even have any room left on my bookcases or any more bookcase space in my room. This is getting stupid.

But I can, if I wish, finally divest myself of a bed and sleep upon the floor. A couple of weeks ago, I decided that no human will ever again be allowed into my bedroom. I like to sleep with my cats so they're still welcome. If they want to sleep on the floor with me, which they won't.

It may seem a strange decision -- I don't know -- but considering my utter lack of a sex life and love of privacy, it seems logical and easy enough. (A bit like if I decided to create a rule about the sky being blue on sunny days.) Every person should have one place that is completely their own. For too many of us, that place is atop a toilet.

Accosted and Detained on the Way Home (Again)

2007-10-20T14:12:00.001-04:00

One of these Friday nights, I'm going to be attacked by drunken louts on my walk home. There is a period right after last call when the men are out on the street trying to pick up the women. That's okay. They're occupied. But the time after that, when they have failed and know they have failed, worries me. There's just too many sexually frustrated, intoxicated and aggressive suburbanites moving in packs and attempting to reclaim their brutal notions of manhood from the jaws of emasculation. I try to avoid that time but it's not always possible.

So last night, when some fellow tapped my shoulder, outside the Gladstone, my first thought was - Should I hit him now or wait? For, if I can give any advice about winning a fight, it's this: Hit the bastard first and follow through. But I decided to wait and it was a good thing I did. This unshaven chap, who claimed to have often watched me walking around, merely wanted sartorial advice. And to know what my deal was, whatever that means.

He certainly needed the sartorial advice, being clad in jeans, sneakers, loud T-Shirt, louder baseball cap and -- for some reason - a black blazer. His clothing looked, to my eyes, like something a garbage bin on Sesame Street might vomit.

But since I've never listened to anyone's advice, I dislike giving it. He saved me from doing so by never allowing me to speak though he walked with me for two blocks. Instead he ranted about "International Man of Leisure" and how he wants a cravat and to hang out with me in Parkdale as "International Men of Leisure." He must have had the phrases an "international man of mystery" and "gentleman of leisure" somehow confused. (Maybe the "International House of Pancakes" was also rattling around in his upstairs.) This would be fine if the phrase was coming off the top of his head but his endless repetition of it indicated that he had spent quite a bit of time naming his imaginary club, which he wanted me to join.

When he started raving about "the new dandyism" I could understand why the Sesame Street garbage bin was moved to throw up on him. I don't seriously call myself a dandy -- it's just the latest in a long line of what other people have called me -- but I do have a passing interest in the subject, being interested in why people are interested in me. I sometimes call myself that just because it's a more comfortable cage than any of the others that people seem determined to shove me into. It's short form for "I don't know what my deal is but here's something you can pretend to understand." I think of myself as Ryan Oakley. Already being possessed of two middle names, I don't really want to add to the confusion by adding another. If I need a title, then I like The Grumpy Owl. Not A Grumpy Owl but The Grumpy Owl. The definite article.

And it irritates me when people think that I'm some sort of off-the-shelf model that can be so easily copied. This fellow was convinced that, if he simply wore a suit, we would have something in common. After listening to him for ten minutes, I can assure you, we wouldn't. Not ever. And if we did, I'd have to do something about it. If he had of closed his mouth and opened his ears for two seconds, he would have received some wisdom: I try to act exactly to my taste and only expect others to do the same. Without apology. That's it. And it has nothing to do with a suit except I happen to like suits. If I liked Big Bird costumes, then I'd wear those. As you can see from the above picture, I sometimes come close.

The Vast Elephant Conspiracy

2007-10-20T04:54:00.001-04:00

I can understand why elephants would run away from humans but Live Science is reporting that they also run away from bees. They do point out that bee stings hurt but still . . .

I'm not saying that elephants are cowards. I'm saying that this is part of a vast conspiracy. It's evidence of Liberal Science Media bias. The elephant is code for Republicans the bees are code for terrorists. Or something else that you have feelings about.

Now, the science-media probably isn't sending us subliminal messages but I sure haven't seen any stories on the crazy, old, irresponsible, tax and spend donkey lately. And probably just isn't good enough in a post Sept 11 world. We have to assume that these are coded messages.

Furthermore, the Freemasons are behind it. And we all know who's behind the Freemasons. That's right, the Jews. But they're just a front for the Illuminati, who are working for the aliens. And the aliens are working for me. That's right. All your problems are belong to me.

The Empress Has No Clothes (Anon Writes Protest Letter About Fashion Week)

2007-10-18T13:20:00.000-04:00

Some people look at me and think that I care about fashion. I don't. But fashion cares about me. It has to. I'm style and fashion is how the vulgar imitate style.

Having said that, something in fashion has recently aroused my interest. It's this letter of protest to David Miller about L'oreal Fashion Week and its resident tyrant, Ms. Robin Kay. I know nothing about the woman and, after reading her description of a perfect day ("I’d have a breakfast of raspberries, blackberries and organic light Liberty yogurt, plus a cappuccino, all delivered by Concierge by Request. Fuelled up, I’d take Lulu, my white Bichon–Shih Tzu, for a ride on a vintage Peugeot bicycle from Cyclemania to the waterfront.") I would rather keep it that way.

My mind recoils from the mere thought of a middle aged woman, hopped up on caffeine, riding her poor dog around on an old bicycle and farting from her fruit heavy breakfast, until she returns home, only to leave again in her rented limousine to shop, have fawning sycophants grind her nails off, eat even more and to finally be filmed while she performs her greatest accomplishment - that is, getting belching drunk on martinis with a hundred people. If that is her perfect day, one has to congratulate her. She has the imagination of a bag lady.

So I am sympathetic to our anonymous letter writer. She or he or s/he accuses Ms. Kay of corruption, cocaine scandals and cliquish behavior. It is said that: "Over the years Robin Kay has openly maligned the reputations of those who do not agree with her. Many individuals and companies who have shown promise for innovation and leadership have been shut out as potential competitors and a threat to her position as "the Queen of fashion in Canada". Companies and individuals have been blacklisted by Miss Kay and her associates and their reputations subsequently smeared. Miss Kay continues to treat people who do not serve her purpose with disrespect and contempt."

If true, this is, of course, sickening behavior. Yet, one need only watch reality television to see that it is perfectly at home in the world of fashion. Perhaps things will change and change for the better. I have my doubts. Whether or not these allegations are true, people generally get the leader they deserve. At the moment, fashion deserves a self-obsessed, coke-snorting, cliquish child as its self-proclaimed queen. If this is to change, it will not be due to a letter to the mayor. It will be due to artists who take things into their own hands, control their own shit, put on their own shows and do exactly as they please without regard for the opinions of petty tyrants. The emperor has no clothes. In fashion, of all things, people should not obey the naked.

Satan's Candy

2007-10-18T04:09:00.001-04:00

Everyone knows that I hate music. The only reason that I listen to the stuff is because there's no possible way to escape it. If I don't listen to the music I choose, it just means that I end up hearing the music that someone else chooses. And then they try to tell me why it's good. Or, even worse, why the band is important.

Look, no band is important. If you think a band is "important" you just need to grow the fuck up. Let them hold down a job for thirty years. Then I'll listen to their ideas about how to run the world. If they're good ideas, which they probably won't be, considering that a band came up with them. So, like I said, no band is important.

But some bands are fun. Satan's Candy is fun. They sing songs like "Cougs Rule" "Six Pack and a Blow Job" and other things about Satan and Jager and stuff. You know, stuff. You can't really fuck with it. It's just plain, stupid fun and I like it.

But I would like it. I'm Satan. And I'm always on their guest list. So, this Halloween, turn down the suck and turn up the Satan. Go see them at the El-Mo.

Folding Napkins

2007-10-18T03:56:00.000-04:00

When I saw this site about fancy napkin folding, I thought - I should have a new feature here. I'd call it "Things to Learn While You're Getting Up the Bravery to Kill Yourself." Then I decided that I approve of all this fancy napkin folding.

Folding some napkins would really kill some time. And they'd, you know, jazz the place up. I'm sure whoever got the unlucky job of cleaning your brains off the carpet would stop and wonder -- Why would someone who could fold such a perfect napkin ever kill themselves? It just doesn't make sense.

The Dandy Droid

2007-10-17T12:21:00.001-04:00

For some reason, this week's Dandy Droid at BiteTV is under the wrong header and one of the links is not to be found so I'm reproducing it here. Enjoy.
When it comes to a suit, there are only a few areas that allow for self expression: the tie knot, the socks - if one is British— and, of course, the cufflinks. Unfortunately, too many fellows have squandered this small opportunity by wearing poorly tailored shirts or cufflinks covered in diamonds. This is revolting. Bling-Bling, or whatever the children call it, is an ostentatious display of the swinish ideals of the bourgeoisie. It has no place anywhere near the wrist of a gentleman.

Rather than covering oneself with glittering trinkets, one should peruse the selection of cuff links from Cuffwear and find something suited to their personality. For my part, I favor the bullets or fishbone. Although I would not recommend these to lesser souls, as their personalities may pale in contrast to their wrists, thus disappointing the ladies who will inevitably choose to examine both, I'm quite sure that one may find something that does not make them look like a street pimp.

YABO Robot for the Lonely Human

2007-10-16T14:19:00.001-04:00

It's been a while since I've seen a nice robot - you know, something that wasn't built to kill humans. But, luckily, there's YABO. It's built to keep lonely humans company. YABO "is friendly robot for lonely unmarried persons. The late night, he is going out to the door to meet a master that reterns to home. The face looks like a sphere, it rotate up and down, right and left, and changes facial color." Some people may think that's sad. I think I want one. And I think that's sad. Go figure.

Dead Pope Appears in Fire

2007-10-16T13:52:00.001-04:00

Vatican TV is reporting that John Paul 2 is waving from beyond the grave in a bonfire that was lit on the second anniversary of his death.

Let me be clear: He is in a bonfire. He is not in a cloud. He is not playing a harp. He is in a fire. Burning. The pope is, according to Vatican TV, burning in a fire.

Being a Catholic, I don't pretend to understand Catholicism, but I think it's pretty obvious what's happening here. The Pope is burning in hell.

Grumpy News Round-Up

2007-10-15T11:55:00.001-04:00

Strike: IBM workers take to the picket line in the metaverse of Second Life. Best quote in the article: But he admitted he did not attend the IBM virtual strike. "I don't even have time for my first life," he said.

Cannibalism Suspect Arrested in Mexico: He's an aspiring horror writer who has a book called "Cannibalistic Instincts." You see what happens when people listen to that advice about writing what you know?

Alan Moore's New Book: This comic book author and extraordinary gentleman has a new book out. It's porn. I really want to read it. I honestly think porn may be the hardest medium to work in and actually do something decent with. This could be the best shot we'll ever see. Took him 15 years to complete.

Center For a New American Security: This is the think tank that has the ear of the Democrats. Sounds like The Project for the New American Century to me, but what do I know.

Lecture on "The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius"

2007-10-13T14:09:00.001-04:00

I know there's not exactly an overwhelming demand to learn more about stoicism but, after my last post about The Church of Spock, I thought there might be a need. Besides, "The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius" is one of my favourite books. So here's a lecture in five parts about it.

And a quick summary of my own philosophy: I think we're basically born in a dark room full of cacti, porcupines and vampire monkeys. We just sort of grope our way through the room and try not to get hurt. There's no point but we invent one because it's just too fucked up and scary otherwise. Although there's no light some people pretend to "have seen the light" or claim to possess special powers. They don't. They're just scared in the dark like everyone else. Maybe they're not even lying. Just hallucinating.

We meet people who either lie to us about where the dangerous stuff is or are unreliable and lead us into danger through their own ignorance. We meet other people who give us good and reliable information such as - don't turn left, there's a big cactus there or turn right, there's a hamburger. Most people are a mix. So we try to avoid our enemies and hold hands with our friends. We just basically try to, you know, move around without getting ourselves hurt or killed and to entertain ourselves with stories and whatnot. Sometimes we make love but that's all it is - making love.

It's a despicable and vile sort of life but it's all we have. If we get hurt -- when we get hurt -- it does no good to scream. That just attracts the blood drinking monkeys. To us and to our friends. When you bump a cactus, a quiet word of warning will suffice. If we find something good, the same quiet words. So we should try to be honest and well intentioned; brave enough to share our suffering when we think it will do some good and to keep our mouths shut when we know it won't. Things are hard enough without calling down the blood monkeys.

And then we die. There's no light. We just die as we lived. In the dark. It doesn't matter.

Anyway, here's all the links for the lecture on the Meditations. Enjoy. It's almost a map. Not complete, of course, but it'll tell you where to find some food and how to avoid some porcupines.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

The Church of Spock

2007-10-13T13:28:00.000-04:00

If Lynchburg didn't already have enough to be proud of --with a name like Lynchburg and all -- they are also the home of The Church of Spock. This is the world's only Star Trek Church and it's based, like every other church, on the teachings of a fictional character.

Founded in 1977, these television zealots eschew emotions and love pure logic, occasionally modify their ears to look more like an imaginary alien species and have already had their first schism. Some people apparently thought that emotion should play a larger role - given that Spock is half human - but they were excommunicated for this creeping heresy and no longer allowed to participate in the mind melds.

While I would like to commend these people for actually finding a way to make it even more embarrassing to like Star Trek --no easy task-- and while I fail to understand why worshiping a television character is an exercise in logic, it's nice to see that Lynchburg now has something to offer tourists other than "Mags the Headless Cat."

Hitler Vs Microsoft: Who You Got?

2007-10-12T12:37:00.000-04:00

Robot Insects at Anti-War Protests?

2007-10-12T03:40:00.000-04:00

The insane might be true. And we've hit a reality bump.

Some people at anti-war protests are now claiming that they are being watched by insects. This sounds like a paranoid fantasy. It might not be. In March of 2006 I wrote about DARPA's interest in manufacturing cyborg insects. It's now October of 2007. They might have had some success.

We have entered a world where we cannot trust dragonflies. (Pigeons and sharks and rats have always been suspect.) It doesn't even matter if the allegations are true or if this is some sort of disinformation campaign. The fact is, we don't know. The insects might be watching us. The birds could be armed. Mother nature might be weaponized against us. We don't know and no one will tell us.

This fills me with disgust and grief. I don't know how a person can remain sane when every creature could be the agent of a conscious human enemy. This is the stuff of paranoid fantasy. Making the delusions of insane people real is a definite step towards rendering humanity utterly mad.

We're already crazy enough. Do we really need to start thinking that even the bugs are working against us? I don't think so. DARPA does. That's where we differ.

Dandy Droid

2007-10-12T01:36:00.001-04:00

Here's my weekly post for BiteTV.

Grumpy's Guide to Canadian Politics fo the Interested American

2007-10-12T00:02:00.000-04:00

The election in Ontario is over. Norman Bates lookalike Dalton McGuinty and his Liberals won. I thought this may be a chance to explain Canadian politics to my American readers. I know that they're interested - particularly now that our dollar is worth so much more than their peso.

The first thing you need to understand is that Canadians, as a rule, hate all politicians. So when you hear us berate Bush, you shouldn't jump to the conclusion that we're democrats. We're not. Canadians always vote for the person they hate least. We now have four or five parties to choose from.

There's the Conservatives. This party is basically an American Fifth Column. So why do people vote for them? Usually it's to punish the Liberals for something. Their hardcore supporters are basically hippies in suits. The hippies try to say "I'm a rebel" by wearing their little hippie outfits -- funny hair and grubby clothes -- while banging a drum and having peculiar dietary habits like veganism. Conservatives try to say "I'm a success" by wearing their little conservative outfits -- suits and short hair -- while talking on a bluetooth/blackberry and having peculiar dietary habits like eating lots of steak. Just like the hippies are anarchists because it makes a statement about who they are, some yuppies are conservatives because it's part of the whole "I'm a success" package. They love America because they have an inferiority complex about being Canadian. They think that being born in Canada means you're not as cool or successful as someone born in the states. They're usually pretty annoying. Their women range from frumpy to hot and frightening. (To me, hot and frightening are the same thing.)

Then there's the New Democratic Party. They're socialists and the favored party of people who think that all their problems are caused by society and can be solved by society. No one really takes them seriously. (Not even the unions anymore.) It's good when they have a voice --like in a minority government -- because they do have some good ideas (healthcare) but I'm not sure that anyone actually wants to see these people run the country. They seem to believe what they say and they say some crazy shit. New Democrats are usually pretty annoying. Their women are either humorless university students or disgruntled and out of shape welfare cases who aspire to being factory workers.

The Liberals are who usually run Canada. It doesn't mean the same thing up here as it does in the states. The Liberals are a conservative party. They don't do anything except preserve the status quo. They're also hopelessly corrupt -- lying and stealing like most people breathe. But Canadians want two things from their government. The first is stability. We love stability. The Liberals provide it. We also want to bitch about high taxes and corrupt, lying government. The Liberals provide us with this pastime and we reward them by constantly voting them back in. Unless they've been caught stealing too much and then we vote in the Conservatives to punish them. The rest of the time we vote Liberal because we're like an abused wife and they bought us flowers. They also seem less dangerous than everyone else. The Liberals are a cynical bunch of bureaucrats and we vote for them out of cynicism. They're pretty annoying but, if you volunteer for them, they'll probably hook you up with a job. I've met plenty of women who voted Liberal but I don't think that I've ever actually met a Liberal.

Finally, there's the Green Party. This is the party for people who have become so cynical that they can't even bring themselves to vote for the Liberals anymore. Basically, if you're the sort of person who feels guilty about not voting, you vote Green. They have a platform but I don't know that anyone has heard it. Something to do about the environment? I guess so. I mean they're called Greens and plants are green so it stands to reason. These people actually don't annoy me because they don't even know what they stand for. And their women are pretty, stoned, smart and friendly.

There's also The Bloc Quebecois. They're nationalist socialists who want Quebec to separate from Canada. Until then, they'll take us for all we're worth. The conservatives kiss their ass because if Canada breaks up we'll all be Americans. The NDP kiss their ass because they think Quebecers are oppressed. The Liberals actually have a beef with them. I think The Bloc must be horning in on some of their rackets or maybe it's because there's nothing less stable than a country breaking apart. And who knows what the Greens think? The Bloc is annoying but very smart and actually has some good points. Their women are French and that's good enough for me.

That's politics in Canada and that's why I voted for a cat.

Toronto Goes Mad in the Heat

2007-10-09T00:39:00.001-04:00

I don't know why I have to be the one who rains on everyone's parade. But -- from the looks of this article on City -- I might be the only person who realizes just how fucked up today's temperature was. They didn't mention global warming once.

And I don't want to be "Mr. The Sky is Falling" but come fucking on . . .

32 degrees in Toronto. In mid October.

That's like chickens falling from the sky. Everyone who thinks it's good is insane. 20 degrees for today would be good. 32 is insane. Thinking insane things are good is insane. I mean, if chickens started falling from the sky, would the reporters and people getting interviewed ignore the reason to talk about how good the chickens taste. Apparently they would. That's berserk.

Grumpy News Round Up

2007-10-08T10:16:00.000-04:00

The Apartment at the Mall: After a mall advert talked about how great it would be if you could live there, some fellow took them up on that and secretly built a luxury apartment. He was arrested.

Circa Nightclub: Toronto has a new nightclub and everyone is excited. It looks nice but it will be full of assholes in no time. Richmond Street is a veritable horror. There's no word on when the first shooting is scheduled for. And long time Grumpy friend -- though apparently not a good enough friend to invite me to the opening -- Anita, is mentioned in this article.

A New Dove Ad: Some soap company is really trying hit that neurotic woman demographic and they're hitting harder than a drunk husband discovering a cold meal.

Walter Potter Taxidermy: Fairly disturbing but interesting. This fellow liked to stuff kittens and arrange them into tea parties. Everyone needs a hobby. Just not his.

Thanksgiving With My Cats

2007-10-07T23:46:00.000-04:00

My cats and I just enjoyed a wonderful thanksgiving dinner. A co-worker and friend gave me a tin of "Snappy Tom" catfood. Apparently, he did this because I remind him of Snappy Tom and not because this is what I'll be eating for thanksgiving during my august years.

At the sound of the tapping can, Alistar stampeded into the kitchen and started screaming.

She was so greedy that she ended up with a lot of Snappy Tom on her head.

Schroedinger finally arrived and the family feast began in earnest.

He even managed to muscle past Alistar to enjoy some of the food.

But she was quickly back on the case.

Is there any love better than kitty love? I don't think so. Just look how happy she is! You should have heard her growling with glee.

President Petraeus Won't Betray Us

2007-10-07T12:34:00.001-04:00

The media is obsessed with covering a story quickly. Then they move on to the next one. Now, I'm not Mr. In Depth and I'm not even media but I very occasionally stop and think before I comment. (I have to. I'm not very smart.) It often takes me days or weeks to reach a conclusion and, even then, I'm usually wrong. But, after some thought, I have a few comments to make about General Petraeus and his speech.

It's been called politically smart. I don't see it. I measure every political move using two simple principles:

A) The move should help you achieve your goal.
B) The move should increase your power.

The vast bulk of our problems with politicians stems from the fact that their goal is point B. But it's a dirty business. For example, acting like that is still politics. But, if you make a move that helps you achieve your goal without increasing your power --God forbid one that decreases your power-- you are not playing politics at all. You're having integrity. It's very different.

Being a soldier, the general should be primarily moved by duty and integrity, but this is the real world. (As Cicero once said to Cato: "You act like you're in the republic of Plato, not the cesspool of Romulus.") So while hoping for integrity, we must expect politics. Yet the two are not mutually exclusive. It's just the foul nature of our leaders that causes you to think so.

Here's how I read what the General did. He went to Washington, saw a bunch of asses and kissed them all. He told everyone what they wanted to hear. He said that Iran is behind the attacks, that the surge is working and that there should be a gradual drawback of troops. This actually makes no sense. If a strategy is working, why would you reverse it? Simple answer is, you wouldn't. You'd do more of it. So he's definitely lying about something and probably lying about everything. People are calling this good politics because they think that lying is the same as politics. It's similar but it is not the same. And what he did was astoundingly bad politics.

So I ask myself, what would I do in his shoes? Well, it's hard to say because we don't actually know his real position on anything. I assume that he's a realist and understands that the war is lost, the soldiers did their job (their function is killing the guys in the other uniform, not acting as a police force or building democracies) and the States has to retreat. On this big assumption, what should he have done? What would have been the politically smart thing?

He should, I think, have given everyone shit. Democrats, Republicans, the whole lot. He should have delivered a table-banging speech, calling his masters incompetents and assholes. (Yes, she should have sworn. People forgive that in a soldier.) The nation would have cheered. His troops performing mission impossible without body-armor would have cheered. Everyone would be happy except for the politicians. But fuck them because, at at the end of his speech, he should have resigned his post -- saying that he cannot work for these corrupt twits and windbags anymore -- and then he should have announced his unwilling but necessary candidacy for President, swearing upon his honor that he's going to get the troops out within six months no ifs, ands or buts about it.

Then, run as a Republican. As the straight talking general who's fed up with Washington and is going to bring some goddamn order, common sense and good, old-fashioned know-how back to the states. He'd win. America is confused. They're hungry for integrity and authority. They need to be told who they are. I have no doubt that he could have taken the Republican nomination --weak race there-- and attracted disapointed Democrats with his anti-war attitude. Some straight talk and table banging from a general is just what the yanks want to hear. It'd be a vote for real change. Once nominated, he probably could have even gotten away with a democrat running mate. The zeitgeist is that strong.

The fellow was in a dynamite position that, properly played, could have taken him straight into the Whitehouse. But he failed to see his position. Instead of playing politics, he was played by it. And frankly, I don't know if a general who is incapable of seeing something that obvious should be in charge of a mess like Iraq. The fellow does not even know what he's doing on his home turf. I can't begin to imagine what he's getting up to in Baghdad.

Rudy Rucker to Launch "Postsingular"

2007-10-06T17:58:00.001-04:00

This was sort of weird so I thought I'd pass it along.

About half an hour after I mentioned that my roomba was named after Rudy Rucker, I got my first mass email from Rudy Rucker. He's launching his new book "Postsingular" at the Live Worms Gallery in San Francisco. It's a three day art show featuring his paintings.

I, of course, live nowhere near San Francisco so I won't be attending. But, if you're near, you should go anyway. Now, I know that a party without Ryan is really only half a party but I'm sure that Rudy will be entertaining. You should also read his books. They're quite good and have my much coveted and very rare seal of approval.

For the address and more details - go here. And then go there. I don't think you'll be disapointed by anything other than my absence.

Happy Thanksgiving

2007-10-06T03:44:00.000-04:00

I'd like to wish all my Canadian readers a happy thanksgiving. I like this holiday. It's nice to have the family get-together without the attendant bullshit of Christmas. Too bad that I have to work this year and will be spending it alone. These things happen. And, as I always like to tell myself when I'm down: At least it's not Stalingrad.

And you're very lucky. Every so often I feel that I've done enough grumpy posts to earn myself the right to some feel-good Oprah bullshit. And this is one of those times. So let me just cash in some of those cynic chips and tell you about what I'm grateful for this time around.

The genocide that made this land ours. No, wait. I don't want to start with that. Let me try again. The millions of dead turkeys who . . . Okay. Fuck. Deep breath, clear throat, one more shot: I'm grateful for my friends. They're all good people and I have no idea how they put up with me. I like them very much.

Okay, that was easy enough.

I'm also grateful that when the wheels fell off with X and I that they didn't fall off -- for very long, at least -- with me. I'm really fucking grateful that I somehow found it in myself to straighten up. I don't know how. I wish that it pointed to some quality of character, doing the right thing in a crisis or whatever, but sometimes these things are just dumb luck. You never really know how you're going to react. Just as easy, I could be throwing up on the street tonight like the two people I saw on the way home. Just as easy. I'm happy I'm not.

I'm grateful that no friends or family died in the past year. That doesn't mean they won't but they haven't yet. And I know some of you fuckers are going to start dropping soon but we still have some more time. Not enough. (The universe is pretty fucking cheap about time if you ask me, but you or it didn't, so there's no sense whining. It doesn't care. It will eat us all.)

And I'm grateful for my family. Auntie Vik, Uncle Avril, Auntie Brian, all of whom make me laugh -- for different reasons. My cousins Melissa and Ashley, whom I never see but would like to. Distance and life keep getting in the way. My sister and exact opposite Amanda, who lives too damn far away and helps out difficult autistic kids. She had some practice on me, I'm sure. My stupid-ass parents who are in Turkey right now probably having a great time while their eldest son spends Thanksgiving alone and doesn't even get to eat a turkey. Nan, who is a master of subtlety, and always gives me books that were banned in her youth and twenty dollars. (I get the message, Nan. Okay? I'm not listening but I get it.) Granddad, who is not so subtle but taught me the value of a party dress and a strategically placed cake. And the lot across the pond. You're crazy if you think I'm naming you all.

And that's about it. Only four things out of a whole year? Shit. That kinda sucks. I guess they're sort of big things but still . . . Out of 365 days? More than four things piss me off every hour of every one of those days. I must be forgetting some stuff but I hear the music playing. Time to leave the stage.

Roomba; A Few Months Later

2007-10-05T11:21:00.001-04:00

Some of you may know that I bought a roomba a few months ago and named it Rudy after science fiction author Rudy Rucker. After reading this article about owners who name their roombas, I thought I should provide an update.

Rudy is still working and doing a fine job too. I'm extremely happy with him. I'm asked some recurring questions about the little fellow. Like, do you have to clean him? The answer is yes. He is a robot. He is not magic. He does not send the dirt into another dimension. Can he do stairs? No. He might get hurt. Does it work? Yes, better than me, actually. Can it go from carpet to hardwood? Yes.

As for the personal relationship thing -- well, that's between me and Rudy.

Hyper Realistic Sculptures

2007-10-04T20:20:00.000-04:00

I love these hyper-realistic sculptures by Ron Muek. But I like anything that's hyper, ultra or super-duper. Too bad Nuit Blanche didn't have something like this.

The only sculpture I saw there was a red wagon with candles and flowers in it. But at least it inspired a possible book: "From Michelangelo's David to Candles in a Wagon; A History of Sculpture and What Went Wrong." I pretty sure that assembling found objects is not art. It's decorating. And too bad I'll never write that book. I'd like to know just who destroyed art.

I suspect it was art teachers.

Vote for Lucky

2007-10-04T10:29:00.001-04:00

I was considering withholding my vote in the upcoming Ontario election. The candidates are all terrible. I can't stand the Liberals, The Progressive Conservatives or the New Democrat Party. Last time around I voted Green.

They're all lying scoundrels and, when they tell the truth, it's even worse than when they lie. On top of this, they're all in the pocket of people who are not in my pocket. I felt that I could not, in good conscience, support any of them.

But there's finally a candidate that I can stand firmly behind. Lucky the Cat is running for office in my riding. Aide from being a handsome fellow, he promises to bring a measure of dignity that the office of MPP has lacked for too long. The world should be governed by cats.

The Dandy Droid

2007-10-03T12:54:00.001-04:00

Because I know you crave more bikini clad women and beer adverts on "The Grumpy Owl" I've condescended to blog for a television station. BiteTV. (Channel 530, I believe. Jesus, is that how many channels there are now? No wonder this stuff is on the air.)

I don't watch television so I have no idea if BiteTV is any good. I doubt it. Television is, well, let's be frank: It's garbage. You'd be better off with a book. But, by hiring me, they will have improved. So, there's that, at least.

The blog is titled "The Dandy Droid". It's about gadgets, gizmos and useless items. It appears every Wednesday and, since I retain all the rights to everything, maybe I'll double post some of the things here. Or, because I'm lazy, it's much more likely that you'll just get a link on Wednesdays. Like this.

And check out my overuse of the word "anymore" in the first paragraph. I have to be a bit more careful. Starting to sound like a malfunctioning raven.

Who Polices the Karma Police?

2007-10-02T02:33:00.000-04:00

When I go out amongst the great masses of the people, I have to brace myself. Most people are flakes. I can accept that. Actually, I can't. The only thing that keeps me from stabbing a fork through their eyes or into my ears is bitching about it here. This blog keeps me polite. It's something like Bush says, we fight them here so we don't have to fight them over there or however that goes. But they do make it ever so hard.

The subject of karma came up today and someone told me that anything that's been around for thousands of years can't be totally wrong. I said: "Like incest?" So, you see, sometimes the blog is not enough to keep my well-mannered straight jacket on. Sometimes I have to tell people that karma is as stupid as Santa Claus.

At least Santa Claus is honest. He hates poor children and, really, who doesn't? Santa makes no bones about that. How good you are is in exact proportion to how rich your parents are. There's not a lot of sanctimonious shit when it comes to Santa. He's just a capitalist prick. But Karma and the people who believe in it are another story. They actually think they're good. They have halos and police hats. They're on another level of consciousness. It's called "Shithead Town."

Let me break this down for you. Karma just means cause and effect. It is not a moral principle. It is very basic science. In the Pop Culture West, we have decided that we need it to mean something different. Here it means that if you do something bad, something bad will happen to you. That, of course, is nonsense. Bad things happen to good people all the time. And vice versa.

Karma, as you probably understand it, is no more than an impotent revenge fantasy. Nobody who claims to believe in this crap has had something really bad happen to them and said: "My karma just kicked my ass." Never. They have absolutely no intellectual integrity. None whatsoever. It's justice that the universe dispenses on their behalf and not against them.

I'll prove it. Would you ever bring karma up to a woman whose ten year old daughter was just raped and murdered? Perhaps at the funeral you'd bend down to her ear and whisper: "Jesus, you and your kid, you musta really had that coming, eh? That's some bad karma. What did you two do anyway?" Of course not. It's repugnant to even think it. But you might say the killer's karma will catch up with him. All I'm saying is that you can't have it both fucking ways. Sorry. You just can't. It's not allowed.

And if you're crazy enough to actually believe this nonsense - then you're also an asshole. It means that you cannot do a good deed just because it's a good deed. No, you expect the universe to pay you back. (Who the fuck do you think is keeping track anyway? What's the mechanism here? An invisible bureaucracy run by ghosts?) It also means that when you see suffering you know that the person is just getting what they deserve. And that's just fucked up.

You have to invent bullshit like past lives to explain the discrepancies. Maybe the victim did something bad when they were someone else. In another time. You know, twenty years ago, when Sally was Bob and Bob was Tim who is now Harry. Of course it can't be proven but it sure can be asserted. Loudly and repeatedly. Perhaps to a holocaust survivor.

What sort of thinking is that? I'd say it's not thinking. Just because you hear voices in your head, parroting lies people have repeated for thousands of years, does not mean you're thinking. It's just noise. Question that noise. That's thinking. Use the questions to edit the noise into music. That's art. And don't publicly spout crazy bullshit like karma without doing either. That's common sense.

Grumpy News Roundup

2007-10-01T12:36:00.000-04:00

I'm thinking this section is a lot more like "Grumpy's Website Roundup" than actual news. But the news is so dull. Just people murdering each other and acting like it proves their point. Anyway . . .

Giant Crabs: Even bigger than the ones you get at the Drake. Reminds me of something my dear old Nan used to always say: "It does no good to stand on your seat, in here, the crabs can jump ten feet."

Paris Terrorists: They fixed a clock. I don't approve. But, if they had of smashed an alarm clock, I would like them.

Move Over Jason Bourne: A site where you can learn how to do some rather dangerous and interesting things. But, for all I know, this is like "The Anarchist's Handbook" - a government ploy to help subversives blow themselves up.

Sneezing Baby Panda: Get ready for the cute.

My Very Long and Often Off Topic Nuit Blanche Story

2007-09-30T23:48:00.000-04:00

How do I describe The Drake Hotel? More awesome than any place in the world? No, that's not it. How about this: Pompous, bourgeoisie pigs at a booze-filled troth? Now that's closer to the truth. No, wait - that is the truth. It's a beautiful building full of ugly people.

Although I utterly hate the place, I do sometimes go there - either because I'm dragged in or carried on a wave of friends. During Nuit Blanche, my friend Eugene won some contest and we were given the opportunity to jump the line and be treated like a VIPs in front of the status-fucking retards I so utterly detest . . . Well, I'm completely up for that. It drives those shrieking morons in the lineup crazy and I want those people to go crazy. I want them to suffer. So, I was in. Both feet. Deep end of the pool.

In.

I took a seat, lit my pipe and waited for the women to start throwing themselves at me. You may think I'm kidding. I'm not. This actually happens. Two of them once tackled me while I was attempting to leave the place. You may think I enjoy this. I don't. And you may think I'm bragging. Could be.

But there's nothing more depressing than a woman attempting to use you for money you do not possess. Except, maybe, when it happens at The Drake. These ladies are much like the hotel: A beautiful building full of ugliness. I have no money - only a wardrobe - and like Wilde once said: "I'm finding it increasing difficult to live up to my blue china." It may be hard but I really have no choice. When I learned that a person can either get by on good looks or a good personality, I decided that I needed a good suit. The day I give that up, to be "real", is the day I put a bullet in brain. (In about ten years at the outside.)

The madness started almost at once. Some pretty, young lady attempted to wrap herself around me, smoked from my pipe -- women often do this in an ill-mannered attempt to increase intimacy with me -- and then, finally, vanished. I could already hear the brain deficient menfolk grumbling things along the lines of: "What am I doing wrong? All he needs to do is sit there and smoke a pipe." Etc.

I thought, one day, I'm going to get the shit kicked out of me here and it'll be a woman's fault.

Some burly fellow approached -- you might say he was the stereotypical musclebound jock -- and asked for some food. I gave him a beef kebab from our table, treating him like a the mangy, begging dog he was, and then his girlfriend arrived. A pretty blond. You know the type. A pretty blond. Her male companion kept saying: "She's eating my meat. She's eating my meat."

He'd nod at me and repeat it. I have no idea what he was trying to communicate. But, I swear to God, he repeated that again and again and again and again and again and again. I realized that I was dealing with the most stupid and vulgar person I had ever met. So I started mocking him in a language he didn't understand. It was pretty easy. I just used English. He finally left. But not before knocking five years off my projected suicide date.

So, while my friends underwent a corporate psy-ops called "The Experience" which involved feet washing, painting and some other really strange stuff that I did not sign up for, I remained seated, smoking and enjoying my tonic water. I was called "dapper" about fifty times and asked what I do about a hundred. What do I do? Now there's a question I love.

I have no shame about waiting tables or washing dishes. I like my work. As hard as it may be for some people to believe, waiting tables is an improvement. I'm not underemployed, I'm doing fine. The best I can and be happy you never saw the worst. As long as I am out of jail and not dead I am doing fine. Thank you.

There's basically two things that really bother me about that question. (Aside from how familiar it is.) The first is that the people asking it immediately think I should be ashamed of my job. Unsatisfied, they usually ask: "But what do you really do?" And I hate talking about writing. It embarrasses me. It's personal.

The second is that I resent people interrogating me so that they may put me in a psychic cage. Stick me in a category to help them comprehend why I do what I do. It's no way to have a conversation and it's no way to get to know someone. Whether it's asking my sign, my occupation, my religious beliefs or what have you, I resent it. Don't try to wrap me up in some definition. I'm a Rubik's Cube and I've moved the stickers around. You can't solve it, don't try. And if you knew what I actually thought and really believed - you would call the men in white coats to take me to the rubber room. Seriously. You'd be concerned. So let's just leave it alone and take Ryan as he is. More fun that way.

Anyway, some other girl comes up. She's nice, even though we went through the whole "dapper" "what do you do" routine. Turns out that she's a Buddhist and she wants to share our vegetable tray with the starving, poverty-stricken masses on the rooftop patio of The Drake Hotel. She informs me that excess breeds envy and hate. Instead of telling her, like I should have, "Let them eat cake" I politely nodded and said: "A place like The Drake is predicated on envy and hate."

"What?"

I actually had to explain to her that not everyone can get in, that not everyone can afford the drinks and the working classes of Toronto pretty much hate this place and everyone in it. She'd never suspected any of this. I felt guilty telling her. She was a very sweet girl but very stupid. Not really in a bad way. It was the sort of stupidity that only money can buy. So I told her that she should ask the contest winners if she could have the tray. I was happy when they let her take it. Her heart was in the right place. If we could only find her mind . . .

And a lot more happened. I'm only scratching the surface of my Nuit Blanche experience here so there might be more posts. Short posts. Some will have a point. But that was The Drake Segment and if you made it this far . . . Well you deserve a kebab. You may even eat my meat or something like that. Would you like that? Eat my meat. Yeah. Eat my meat.

Swarming Robot Brain

2007-09-28T14:31:00.001-04:00

Any individual ant is stupid. But the colony is smart. So how do a bunch of stupid things make a single smart thing? And, more importantly, can this be applied to robots?

All robots are idiots. But if you put a thousand of them together, with the right sort of programs, this idoicy may produce intellegence. As long as it remains a distributed system where no one is really in charge. Just like in human societies, strong leadership leads to mass stupidity.

In Kentucky some fellow is trying to make a robot swarm and hoping that intelligence will emerge. It seems like a good bet. My mind is basically a series of anthills. Just different ideas, personalities and traits -- each one incomplete when alone -- cooperating and/or battling for supremecy. I'd love to see this acted out by mechanical creatures in the raw world.

Hypo-Robbery

2007-09-27T18:21:00.000-04:00

"These are not the droids you are looking for."

Skunk in the Street

2007-09-26T14:47:00.001-04:00

Last night, while strolling though the factory district, I saw something strange. At first I thought it was merely a giant rat dragging another large but dead rat behind it. Then I realized that it was actually something scary. A skunk was blocking my path.

Loyal readers will know that I have my fair share of confrontations with impertinent animals and that I often manage to teach these beasts a modicum of respect. But I do not fuck with skunks. They win. That is all. If they allow it, I keep my distance. If they do not, I hold still and try to avoid attracting their notice.

Having dealt with them many times before, I was not afraid that the beast would take fright and hose me down. But its location filled me with cold dread. It was in the middle of the street. Cars often come speeding down this particular stretch of road with total disregard for anything except the testosterone levels of their pilots. I did not want to be anywhere near a skunk who has been run over or suddenly frightened. Yet I couldn't exactly wave my arms about, start shouting and attempt to scare the animal off. Skunks have no speed. They know this. Instead of running, they will simply stop and scare you off.

You can see my dilemma. So I just waited. There was, happily, no exciting end to this story. The little lady finally grew sick of pacing in the road and wandered off. Giving her a wide birth, I did the same. A bit quicker than she, I will admit.

Women Want Manners

2007-09-26T02:19:00.000-04:00

An article in The Daily Mail claims that women want manners over looks when choosing Mr. Right. I'm hardly an expert on this, but I think it's balderdash.

Although I hold the fairer sex in the highest regard --often against my better judgment -- I have never heard of a group of women anywhere, at any time, in any place hiring a butler instead of a stripper for a bachelorette party. Manners simply cannot be that big of a turn on. Are they nice? Certainly. More important than looks? Certainly not.

Now I'm certain that this varies from woman to woman but I think women are attracted to success. It needn't be money or any of that but a woman generally wants to know that you are good at whatever it is you do and that she, as well as your mother, isn't the only one who thinks so.

I can also inform you, with a reasonable degree of certainty, that grumpy and bookish eccentrics who dress funny, lack small talk and are prone to saying outrageously insulting things by accident are not in the highest demand. We probably have a niche market but I have no idea where she is.

Grumpy News Roundup

2007-09-24T14:55:00.001-04:00

It'll be a short round up this week. I'm beat after last night's ROFC party and I'm about to go to work. So here's a couple of links of note.

We Were Abandoned: About Canadian snipers in Afghanistan and how poorly they were treated by our government.

Baboons on a Crime Spree: I'd usually say kill the baboons but, because I'm at peace with the monkeys, I'll say kill the tourists instead.

Beautiful English Online: Interesting site about the English language.

Fanclub Party Tonight

2007-09-23T14:16:00.000-04:00

Amie is throwing another party for the Ryan Oakley Fanclub. These things always make me a bit nervous. It's probably my Irish side. We have a nasty habit. And it's not just fighting, drinking or being incredibly stubborn. I've just noticed, over the years, that whenever an Irish person has fans, they end up pissing their fans off. Really pissing them off. Then those fans turn on and eat us. If we're successful, that is. If not, someone else eats us. Either way, we're usually dinner.

Tonight I get to look at the knife and fork.

Calling Bullshit on 9/11 Conspiracy Theories

2007-09-23T05:54:00.001-04:00

Someone had to do it and I'm happy that Douglas Rushkoff has. All of this nonsense about a vast conspiracy to knock down the WTC . . . It's just nonsense and it makes everyone who is against the war in Iraq look like a total moron or a total anti-semitic moron.

Now ask yourself - who does that benefit?

Did the US government cynically capitalize upon the incident to promote their insane and brutal foreign policy? Yes. Were they sloppy and arrogant enough to let info slide? I think so. But did they sit down, plan this, bomb those buildings and just basically fake the whole thing? Of course not, you dumbass. What are you? New?

If they went to all that trouble, I think they might have, at least, arranged some better optics on Bush. He would not have been reading a book about pet goats with that terrified look on his face. That's not good propaganda. It's bad. He would have been like Rudy - a hero for doing the bare minimum that should be expected from leader. That is, he would have been present.

For my part, I think the Americans, like the Germans after Versailles, can't accept that they were simply beaten. Fair and square. They just can't believe that some Saudi, living in the mountains, had a gripe about American actions in the mid-east, outsmarted the whole system and pulled off a brilliant example of 21st century warfare. But I think Osama Bin Laden is that smart. Give your enemy some credit. He did it. He saw and took an opportunity that was laying right out in the open. That's all. His soldiers certainly have some ethical problems but they were not cowards and this Bin Laden fellow knows what he's doing. He's smarter than Bush. It's not much of an accomplishment. Neither is blowing people up.

Rushkoff says it real nice: "And that’s where I suspect all this theorizing really takes us: to the heart of a racist jingoism worse even than the triumphalism justifying our foreign policy to begin with. They can’t bring themselves to accept that our big bad government can really be so swiftly outfoxed by a dozen relatively untrained Arab guys. And rather than go there, they’d prefer to maintain the myth of American hegemony. On a certain level, it feels better to believe that we are only vulnerable by our leaders’ sick choice—not by our adversarsies’ increasing strength and prowess."

So, here's Grumpy's advice: Grow up and deal with reality. These days, the political shit is a bit too heavy for these trips into fairy land. What the American government has admitted to, what the West has done in the open, is bad enough. The lot of us, though action or inaction, probably deserve a trip down the Tiber. Deal with that. And read Rushkoff's article. Think about it the next time you spout off some ridiculous bullshit about there being no Jews in the WTC that day.

There were. They died too.

Blue Jays

2007-09-23T03:55:00.000-04:00

The Blue Jays season is drawing to a close. And yes I know that they're now called "The Jays" but they're still the Blue Jays to me. Even if they don't play like it. They certainly had a pretty bad season. At the start I thought they could do well as long as they didn't get hurt -- a decent team, just extremely thin -- and they went out and all got hurt. I think it was only in July that they finally had their opening day line up together. But, whatever, I don't mind them losing.

There is something that I do mind. A while ago, Alex Rodriguez, while running from second to third, shouted "Mine!" thus causing our infielders to let a flyball drop. That's baseball. I get it. Can't blame him. It was clever. Cute, one might say. But, in baseball, as in life, when someone gets cute with you -- though it may be fair -- you do need to take the fucker's head off. Just to maintain a sense of order. The Jays didn't do that.

They bitched to media. They cried like babies. But no one hit A-Rod with a pitch. It just isn't right. If anything, they should have kept their mouths shut and pegged him the next time he came up to bat. He would have understood. Everyone would have. But they did nothing and I stopped supporting them after that. The manager needs his ass fired. And there's still two games left against the Yankees. It's too late to do anything now. But - God, someone should just knock A-Rod down. For God's sake, put the universe back in balance.

And that clip above - that guy was out. That was a world series triple play. I miss those Jays.

A note to this post: I'm an idiot - Josh Towers beaned him in the next series. Thank you, Anon for not allowing me to persist in this stupidity. But I still say that they should have kept the media out of it. And Gibbons should still be fired.

Fake Art Bombs

2007-09-22T18:41:00.001-04:00

You've probably all heard the one about the girl who goes into an airport wearing a circuit board attached to some flashing lights and a battery. She also has play-doh. Then she acts surprised when security goes berserk. You know what - airport security will do that. No sense of humour. They're not comedians -- at least not intentionally -- and really, they shouldn't be.

But where this story really picks up is when one hears the girl's defense. Some cop says: "She said that it was a piece of art and she wanted to stand out on career day. [Mission accomplished.] She claims that it was just art, and that she was proud of the art and she wanted to display it."

Now, I'm not an art critic but does a circuit board with nine flashing lights qualify as art? I like to think that I have an open mind about these things. Once I even saw a picture of a horse with a horn coming out of its head. I can't say that I understood, liked or even approved of it, but I'd certainly defend the artist's right to draw something like that. Seems like the sort of thing some people might find "fun". Not me. But some people.

But this thing . . . I really don't know. She's an MIT student. And this is what she views as an exercise in pure, pointless technological accomplishment. A circuit board. A battery. Nine flashing lights. The scotch tapes adds a nice aesthetic. Furthermore, she was proud of this and wanted to display it. In an airport no less. And it's well known that airports have all the best art. So either she's a moron or she thinks everyone else is. Considering that she's from MIT, both are possible. At the same time even.

William Gibson Reads At Bloor Street United Church

2007-09-22T01:36:00.001-04:00

Churches all smell the same. The Bloor Street United was no exception. It's a familiar stink, similar to wood but pious. And, when the crowd stopped talking, that old church feeling hit hard. Gibson got behind the big podium and we got ready for the sermon. Too bad no one replaced the hymn books with copies of "Neuromancer".

Being part of the "This is Not a Reading Series" the host, who introduced Gibson, was obliged to tell us that this was not a typical reading. But it was. The author read, there was a brief interview and then nervous audience members asked questions ranging from pompous to nonsensical. That's your typical format. Why bother with the bullshit about being different? Maybe the church had something to do with it. The smell was certainly in the air.

Though I tried, I paid almost no attention to Gibson's recitation from his most recent novel, "Spook Country". Books are private things and public readings remind me of urinals. Not a big deal but basically unpleasant. It ended quickly enough and the interview, ably conducted by Mark Askwith of Space, began.

There were too many feedback and microphone troubles. Then firetrucks outside the door. It was difficult to recognize speech patterns in the ambient noise. The firetrucks eventually left but the feedback remained, swelling and fading on the edge of hearing like a spooky, subliminal accompaniment. After a while I even started to like it. Felt like the church was humming along.

Gibson just seems like a regular, quiet guy who spends too much time in his basement. He said that he doesn't really know what he's doing. This came as no surprise. Bruce Sterling has been saying that about him for years. (Since Cheap Truth, I think.) And he was asked quite a bit about google and ebay. People seem amazed that he uses them. I don't know why. It's not exactly the height of technological savvy. Doesn't everyone use them?

He called eBay "the absolute democratization of the connoisseur." And he referred to google as humanity's collective memory. My friend was especially impressed by that. He wasn't so impressed when I said it last week. What the fuck? Do I need a podium to make my friends listen to me. It's just common sense. The internet is a hive mind that we interface with, not through wires in the back of our brains, but through keyboards and screens - fingers and eyes. It lets us remember what we don't even know.

But that's Gibson's greatest strength. He doesn't know anything that we don't. He just makes what we already know and do appear strange. There's basically two types of writers in this world. One takes the weird and makes it comprehensible. The other takes the mundane and makes it weird. Gibson falls into the latter category. He does not appeal to the reason but to the senses and he always creates a perceptual change. Tonight was no exception. After the show, I walked home through the same old open-air crack bazaar. It felt the same but different.

Just like Chiba City.

William Gibson's Shadow

2007-09-21T15:57:00.001-04:00

As promised, here are the links to Daryl Bank's pictures from Turkey. There's one group here and another here.

The one on the right is my favourite but that might be because I'm seeing William Gibson speak tonight. And I'm actually excited. That fellow wrote the best first line of the twentith century: "The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel." It's perfect. You just can't fuck with that.

The whole thing has me thinking about cyberspace -another one of his terms - and it's impact on my life. Before I started working for BlogTO they interviewed me about The Grumpy Owl. One question still stands out in my memory: "Has blogging changed you or enhanced a personality trait? " I answered: "My alcoholism is certainly getting worse. I blame blogging."

And I wasn't kidding. Often, I'm not. You just laugh at the truth because that's all you can do with it. Make a monkey noise that indicates fear.

Writing in general and blogging in particular are not about expressing the mind. They're about editing the mind. (Unedited, you have "Ulysses" by Joyce and no one but tweedy, Guinness swilling, barroom professors wants that. And they don't even want it. They just think it impresses girls.) When you write, certain traits are dragged into the light and other ones are rudely shoved into the shadows. For me, blogging illuminated robots and booze. I accidentally created an online persona. In the raw life, I became that persona. It was an electric Jekyll and Hyde. The Grumpy Owl, as much as the booze, was my bubbling red potion.

All of this was a strange enough process. But when I rode that personality until the wheels finally fell off, blogging helped me build another. By sitting down and altering my online persona, I was able to alter my raw-life personality. But this time I knew what I was doing.

The internet that other people build is a hive mind. The part that we construct is a funhouse mirror. And we, in the the raw world, have to get dressed looking in that mirror. It's good to be aware of this every time you log onto your facebook, myspace or whathaveyou. As it turns out, you can actually bend the mirror to your liking. I think you should. It's a power of self mastery that people have craved for eons. And we have it. We just need to learn to use it.

Some of the thanks for this wonderful but dangerous tool has to go to Mr. William Gibson. We're all living in his shadow. It's not a bad place to be.

Post Its

2007-09-21T01:04:00.000-04:00

I've been getting a lot of gifts lately. The most recent is a stack of post-its that Anita from "I Want - I Got" bought me while she was covering fashion week in New York. It's from The Metropolitan Museum of Art and it has a picture of Oscar Wilde on one side and Mark Twain on the other. It says "Writer's Block" on the top so it might be a curse.

I love post-its. They let me mark up all my books without destroying them. And I really do love to mark up a book.

Raytheon: The Silent Guardian Controls Through Pain

2007-09-20T21:07:00.001-04:00

It looks like a photocopier. Just some bland piece of office equipment to be used by beige clad bureaucrats as they go about the slow, methodical, detached and surprisingly dull work of destroying the world. Just another one of Eichmann's paper-clips.

But don't be fooled. That is Raytheon's Silent Guardian. According to the company it is "a revolutionary less-than-lethal directed energy application that employs millimeter wave technology to repel individuals or crowds without causing injury." In plain English, it attacks your nerve endings. It burns you without leaving a mark. Nothing happens to your body, not really, but you feel it. It burns. Put your hand on a hotplate. Like that. Except everywhere.

This is certainly a device that I'm very comfortable with the government having. No longer will they have to use telephone books and batons. Now they can burn you. For as long as they want. No marks, no muss, no fuss. Your word against theirs. What could possibly go wrong?

They promote this as good crowd control. I must have missed something. When did the debate move into this territory - It's better to burn protesters than to shoot them? Well, perhaps it is but it is supposed to be a democracy. People are supposed to be able to protest. The government is not supposed to shoot or burn them. Not even a little.

And let's just forget about the countries that this thing is going to be sold/given to. Let's pretend we've never heard about the kidnap victims - sorry I mean prisoners experiencing rendition - who are going to be sent those countries to be tortured -- sorry, forcefully interrogated.

Have we actually given up even the appearance of democracy? Have we finally outgrown the lie? I'd say we have. And I'm kinda happy about it. Now we know what we're dealing with. It's all up front. Phone-tapping, torture, and The Silent Guardian. We're the Soviet Union that science fiction warned you about. The analysis is over. The fun's about to begin.

And human ingenuity . . . I'll never get it. How the fuck can a species be smart enough to make something like this and dumb enough to make something like this? Anyone have any answers? Because I'm lost and listening.

Heaven

2007-09-20T20:42:00.001-04:00

I don't believe in God but I've decided to believe in heaven. Since there's no evidence either way, disbelieving seems like a failure of the imagination or a symptom of a grubby one.

So here's what I think it is: Everyone goes to heaven. There's no door man, no velvet rope, no security check and certainly no judge and jury. Everyone gets in. And the drugs are terrific. They actually do what the drugs down here just make you think they do. It goes on for about 5 years and then that's it. You die.

Kestrel Eats a Bat

2007-09-20T05:30:00.000-04:00

Not much to say about this. Happy bird, unlucky bat. That's just how it goes.

Beautiful Water Tiger

2007-09-19T12:39:00.000-04:00

I was looking through my Statcounter last night when I found the site "A Shipful of Cats. And One Dog" and this post about a tiger. It's a pretty tiger and I just wanted to show you the pics.

As for my stats, I think you may be surprised at the amount of people who come to The Grumpy Owl looking for information on vomit porn and sex with robots/machines/birds. And "Sarah Heywood". Hey Sarah, stop googling your own name and get back to work. You're not getting paid to screw around like this. Don't you have posters to rip down?

But my favourite keyword searches that brought people here: "Ryan is an immature retard and needs to grow up" and "Why is Ryan so grumpy". Boy, did those people find the right place. Google is amazing.

Daryl Banks Buys Great Pipes

2007-09-19T00:58:00.001-04:00

My dear friend, Daryl Banks, just returned from Turkey. It was his first time out of Canada so before he left I, being a good and sage friend, gave him some much needed words of wisdom. "Here's a hundred dollars," I said. "Buy me some meerschaum pipes. I want an eagle claw holding an egg."

Daryl Banks did not let me down. He returned with the exact pipe that I wanted. And, to top things off, he also returned with one that I didn't want but like very much. A carved Sherlock Holmes head. It is utterly beautiful and though I haven't smoked from it --yet-- I am looking forward to it. It will be good. Meerschaum is my favourite. You just can't beat it. Briar wood can go fuck itself. Calabash is for amateurs. Meerschaum is where it's at.

The eagle claw pipe has in the course of a single evening excited comments from two passer-bys.

One chap said to me "New pipe. Nice." A bit odd. I don't know that fellow but apparently he's been paying close attention to my pipe collection.

The second was from an older gentleman who was walking his dog. He had one look at the pipe and smiled like Monica Bellucci had just tickled his ribs. "Meerschaum," he said.

"Meerschaum," I agreed. Then I told him of how I came into possession of the pipe. He asked me the going rate for the same one here. Although I often find such questions vulgar, it is rare to find someone who knows anything about pipes. "About two hundred dollars," I said, thinking of my loyal but expensive tobacconist.

"So in Turkey," he replied, "it cost what; About fifty dollars?"

He had it exact. Most people have no idea what they're looking at when they see me. This fellow even knew the price. I was amazed. As he left I thought, now there's a man of the world. Nice dog too.

Aside from being a great pipe shopper, Daryl is also an accomplished photographer. You should check out his site and see if he has any time to do work for you. (He is extremely busy. If you live in Toronto you've likely seen his work.) I can't wait to see his pics of Turkey. One day, I plan to move there. It would be nice to know what the place looks like first.

Fellow Tasered and Arrested for Asking Questions

2007-09-18T12:54:00.000-04:00

I cannot understand why people let this happen. I can see why the police attacked this guy. Police are assholes. But how come no one did anything? Cowardice will get you nowhere.

They should have beat the officers to death and then rushed the stage. Kerry should have been hanging by his feet instead of endlessly droning on and pretending that nothing is happening. Instead the crowd cheers. They applaud.

America, you do not even deserve freedom. You can't look away from this shit and just pretend it isn't there. It's not television. Someone is being attacked in front of you. If those people weren't wearing uniforms you would have done something. You need to expect more and forgive less of your police than from your civilians. That's the responsibility of putting on a uniform. They know it. You should too.

If this fellow's crime was going over his alloted time I want to see people getting dragged off the stage and tasered at the next Oscars. That at least would be funny.

Some US Cities Ban Baggy Pants

2007-09-18T03:15:00.000-04:00

It seems like only three weeks ago I was congratulating Iran on their banning of certain haircuts. And now I'm happy to announce that certain US cities, determined to not be left behind in the fashion banning war, have joined in and are disallowing the wearing of baggy trousers. Or "Jazz Pants" as I prefer to call them.

Good for them.

And while the Iranians are merely closing down the businesses involved, the Americans are actually throwing people in jail, fining them and forcing them into the clutches of social workers who will "redirect" their lives. Sounds like fun. Who doesn't want to be redirected? It's a bit like being reeducated but without the trip to camp. The Iranians also made the error of diluting their absurdity by offering a reason for it. Certain haircuts piss off God. The Americans avoided this mistake and offered no real reason at all. (We all know it's about the Negroes. Shhhhhh.)

All I can really say is that we're all very lucky. If the Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Christians, Muslims and The Cult of Etcetera ever realize that the only things they disagree about are totally imaginary and the things they agree about are very real . . . Well, not to put too fine of a point on it, but we'd be fucked. They'd gang up and kill us all. But first they'd dress us funny.

Seriously. You ever see how religious zealots dress? Just sayin'.

How to Wash Your Hands, You Filthy Pricks

2007-09-18T02:19:00.001-04:00

I remember when SARS was happening in Toronto. Government officials appeared on television and not only told people to wash their hands, they even demonstrated how to wash their hands. They had a sink and everything. I remember thinking: What sort of fucking moron needs to be told to -- let alone shown how to -- wash their hands? My question has been answered.

It's men.

Apparently men are filthy, stinking idiots. One third -- that's one in three, three in ten -- of my fellow males are exactly the type of fucking moron that needs a government demonstration about hand-washing. And it's actually getting worse. Less men are washing their hands after using the toilet. In public, no less.

Fellows, listen up. I know you want to get back to whatever it was you were doing before nature called. I understand that the twenty or so seconds it takes to wash your hands are precious and that you'll never get them back. We live in a super high-tech, fast-paced world of uber-convenience and perhaps you feel that your hands should wash themselves. Maybe your refusal is some sort of protest against this awful encroachment upon your time. I understand and appreciate your point of view on this matter.

But here's the sad truth.

Your hands do not wash themselves and no one wants to touch your piss fingers. So break out the fucking soap and stop disgusting me. My God man, if you cannot handle even this basic requirement of civilization, how the hell are we ever going to get back to the moon? There will never be world peace if you cannot even perform this most simple of duties. I don't know how you managed to graduate from kindergarten but you are utterly shattering any hope that I have for a well mannered and civil anarchy. Do you need to be put at gunpoint to do this? To do something so self-evidentially in your and everyone's benefit? Does there actually need to be a law? Should the police tell you when to eat as well?

Every time you take a piss - just in public, let's start there - and you don't wash your hands, the Grumpy Owl will shed a tear. Holy fuck - you people are killing me. I swear to God, you're just killing me. Dead. I hope you're all very happy.

Grumpy News Round-Up

2007-09-17T14:00:00.000-04:00

I wasn't paying much attention to the news this week. Instead here's some books that I've read and liked since I quite reviewing books. I recommend them all.

Sewer, Gas and Electric: The Public Works Trilogy by Matt Ruff: A satire of Atlas Shrugged. It's really funny but I think you may need to know Rand to get the most out of it.

Altered Carbon by Richard Morgan: A hardboiled, murder mystery set about 500 years in the future. Lots of killing, cool techs - what more do you want?

The Futurological Congress by Stanislaw Lem: Like Phillip K. Dick except, I'd say, better.

Lust by Geoff Ryman: It's all about sex and it's good anyway.

Spycatcher: The Candid Autobiography of a Senior Intelligence Officer by Peter Wright: A lot of fun just for the info about MI-5 and the Soviets but also for lines like this: "There was just a trace of socialism about Hanley, which showed itself in utterances about achieving the job on his merits, not through the old boy network."

Flash: Vanity Interrupted

2007-09-17T06:34:00.001-04:00

The seagull's claws were sharp enough to draw blood on Flip's forehead. The bird had been harassing him since he left the Sushi Surgery Parlor at 101 Cyberpunk Road. It dive-bombed him all along the cobblestones of Steampunk Avenue, lacking even the basic courtesy of shouting "Nevermore" so that it might be considered a kitschy and original Edgar Accessory. But this was a deeply inconsiderate avian.

Flip tried to ignore it. He cursed what had become of his new seaweed hair. It had looked good, perhaps even great, when he left the parlor, forming an exquisite and tightly wound knot about his head, but that was five blocks ago and two blocks before this bloody seagull – not even a parrot or bird of paradise or a raven – had started prying it with beak and claw.

Swatting had not worked. The seagull only hopped up and down on Flip's exposed brain, scratching the expert cut of the skull and scuffing the protective shellac. Its idiot raving and beating wings distracted passer-bys from the expensive and perfectly rendered spider-web of green lines over Flip's grey matter. He was being shown up by a hungry seagull in plain view of the public. And the disaster just got worse.

He had worn a selection of green because it was almost spring and he did not want nature to get the jump on him. While it still sported last season's brown, he wanted to be bright and fresh as a budding tree. But now he had blood running down his face. Original blood. Its bright and tacky red against his vibrant greens made him look like a Christmas ornament. That is, passé. He attempted another swat. The seagull squawked, pecked him through the glove then cut him above the eye.

This would not do.

His evening was wrecked.

Flip had planned to attend the party at Gallery Seven on Biofunk Lane, showing off his new sashimi penis and allowing Caligula's minnows to nibble it away, while it sent signals to his modified taste buds, lighting up his brain with erotic ice-cream. But that was now out of the question. Totally out. He could just hear the mocking voices of his so-called friends. They would call him St. Nick or perhaps even sing "Silent Night". He sighed. Couldn't blame them.

Praying that he would not see anyone he knew or, more importantly, that they would not see him, Flip turned upon his heel and skulked towards home. His penis would either have to rot in his pants or he'd just eat it himself. Flip didn’t even like sashimi. He wondered how the seagull felt about it. He smiled as he realized that the night still held a possibility. A single but sharp one. It would have to do.

Grumpy's Cynical Plan for the Mid East

2007-09-17T00:53:00.001-04:00

Politics is a cynical business. I'm not actually a cynic. But if I were a cynic and a powerful American of some kind this would be my plan to deal with Iraq and Iran.

1. Pull completely out of Iraq. Just forget about it.

2. Give Iran the go ahead to invade Iraq.

3. Sell weapons to everyone involved.

Here's how it works. Pulling out of Iraq creates a power vacuum. Iran rushes in to fill it. But c'mon, the American army couldn't bring order. Do you really think the Iranian one can? Not a chance. They'll be in the same quagmire that the states is now in. Sounds like a good place to put your enemy. It'll keep 'em busy at least. Drain their resources and kill off their young. That will cause civil strife in Iran. It will create a class of angry, trained vets who are pissed off at their guv and actually know how to do something about it. Sounds like a good way to get a revolution going. Just wonder where they'll get their weapons from . . .

Some future ally perhaps?

Oil will skyrocket. You'll make a killing. And of course you sell arms to everyone who wants to use them, including the Saudis who won't be too happy about the Iranians walking up to their borders. Seriously, why fight a proxy war when you have proxies to do it for you?

And, in time, everyone will forget who was responsible for this mess in the first place. You'll just have to spin things a bit so that it looks like you won or some crap. There's money to be made. Peace is profitable. The right sort of peace --the type that's not really peace at all -- is extremely profitable. Especially for the Russians. Never forget, every time oil goes up, Putin gets a bit richer. Sounds like our sort of fellow.

Holocaust Porn

2007-09-16T13:26:00.000-04:00

In the early sixties Israel produced its first porn. And it was, not very surprisingly, about the holocaust. Apparently the story lines went like this - A group of buxom Nazi women beat up a Jewish inmate until Jewish inmate turns the tables, beats them up and rapes them. The results, delicious. And it's stuff like this that makes me proud to be human. Or, at least, it makes me less ashamed of my own fantasies involving Belinda Stronach in an SS uniform and kicking me in the throat for half an hour. Less ashamed. That's about the same as proud.

Vacation is Over

2007-09-16T02:55:00.001-04:00

I enjoyed my vacation. And it was productive. I managed to paint/destroy the kitchen and washroom. I gave my cat a badly needed haircut. And she loves it. Her short hair really lets her feel those pets. She flies into a love frenzy almost immediately.

I did fail in a couple of goals. I never did make it to the cobbler. And I still don't have a pair of gloves. I know exactly what I'm looking for. Grey strangler gloves. The sort of gloves that allow your victim a whiff of quality as you grip their neck. Nothing too expensive. You don't want your victims to feel like it's all about the money. I want strangler gloves with some heart. Let them know I care. But I have big --actually huge-- hands. And that's a problem.

And I finished rewrites on two novels. Never really finish these things, of course, but I'm fed up and that's about the same.

Other than that, I'm actually looking forward to going back to work. So these last 10 days were a success. Now I should try to get some sleep. Bet I won't.

Ayn Rand: She's Partially to Blame For Me

2007-09-15T18:21:00.001-04:00

Here's a dirty little secret. I'm an Ayn Rand fan. I've read "The Fountainhead" more times than I can remember and "Atlas Shrugged" three times. Love them both. I don't agree with everything she says --I'm not totally insane -- but I agree with the bulk and certainly with the spirit of the work.

What do I like about this Russian born defender of the plutocracy who wrote rape fantasy sci-fi? (Aside from the fact that she's a Russian born defender of the plutocracy who wrote rape fantasy sci-fi.) It certainly isn't her economics. Those are as rational as Marx. Rational has no place in economics. That shit is voodoo. The pet rock proves it.

No, it's Ayn's sense of life. Perhaps this is because every personality test I take tells me that I'm an INTP, which is apparently the same as her protagonist Howard Roark. All I know is that when I first read "The Fountainhead" I saw my feelings put into a clear and simple world view. I wanted to cheer when someone asked Howie what he thought of them and Howie said: "I don't think of you."

This is a hard and ruthless sentiment. And it's one that I share. But it's difficult to explain it to people who think differently. I don't do anything to bother, offend, shock or please anyone. I do it because I want to do it. Because I think it's right. (Or amusing.) Other people are completely irrelevant to me. Their tastes are their own. Mine are mine. I can get along with anyone who accepts that. Even then I usually manage to offend them. Being my friend often means being offended.

Sometimes it's a misunderstanding based on a previously undetected difference in philosophical premises. [Now that is one ugly motherfucker of a sentence. I should be shot for writing that, let alone thinking it.] Sometimes not.

When people present their emotions to me, I can be very cruel without cruel intent. I don't understand the importance of emotions. A good friend of mine once sat me down to explain what a conscience is. I'm still not sure that I believe in such a thing. Something is good or bad based on reason. Having a feeling about it is . . . Well, I think it's kind of silly.

I understand emotions as evolutionary prods. If something is wrong it will make you sad, angry or afraid. So correct it. When you get it right, you'll be happy. But people try to change their emotions without dealing with reality. And if you can't change the reality you just have to accept it. That can be hard. I actually have sympathy for people in that sort of situation. Often the people who most want to act on their grief and change the reality are the ones most hurt when they cannot. They're the ones that acceptance comes hardest to. It's just not in their nature. So they're hanged by their own virtue. That's my definition of shitty.

Like Ayn, I hate grief and suffering. They're nothing to be proud of. They're not virtues. They're symptoms of problems. Problems need to be stamped out. Life should be about joy and solving problems. They go hand in hand. That's why a joke --even a dirty one-- makes you laugh. It's an odd and sudden solution to a problem. It transcends conventional morality.

When people feel grief without acting on it, I have no sympathy. Their grief is useless. The display is disgusting. It's usually a monkey trap. Instead of just dropping the food and removing their arm from the trap, most people just cry and shriek. They expect someone to help them. Meanwhile the first person on the scene chops off their head and eats them. If you're my friend, that's usually me. You can recognize me by the axe.

It's blunt.

For me, that's friendship. The ability to be blunt.

But I'm getting wiser as I get older. I've learned that my friends often just want to feel better without actually doing anything about their problems. And kind words can help. I don't understand it but I'll pretend to. Even if I feel sick and wrong for petting and feeding a monkey in a trap. Even if I know that I should put them out of their misery, chop off their arm or rip the nut from their hand. Encouraging a bunch of emotional nonsense is a betrayal. Of them and me.

But that's how it is. That's how people like it so that's how they'll get it. I'll pretend to understand. Sometimes I'll even give people hugs. Not very fucking often, mind you. But I am trying. I still think you're a bunch of infants who have confused whining with sensitivity and insincere display with actual affection. So I'm still fucking up. But I am trying.

It gets harder with every passing day.

And this post was almost as long and pointless as one of her books. Go figure.

Brain Fingerprints for Total Honesty

2007-09-15T05:27:00.001-04:00

While our so-called leaders would like us to think that the best way to prevent terrorism is endless war against poorly defined enemies, there are other options. Technological options.

How about brain fingerprinting? Ask people simple yes and no questions and get the truth every time. Put it on airlines but don't stop there.

Hook it up to your hubby. Does he think you look fat in that dress? Tap into your president. Is he actually a Zionist robot controlled by space aliens? Does he think you look fat in that dress?

You too can enter the horrifying world of total honesty.

Honesty is the only thing more terrifying than liberty. I think most of us would rather die than tell the truth. Let alone hear the truth. Can you even imagine not having a choice about it? I can. Brain fingerprinting should be mandatory.

Hilarity will ensue. Just imagine humanity grappling with itself as it really is as opposed to how it would like to be. A lot of motherfuckers will get murdered. Think about how much damage people can do when they're acting on the wrong information. Think about how much more they can do if they have the right information. Zoo Keeper's first rule: An animal is dangerous in direct proportion to its intellegence. If we get the truth, we get smarter. That makes us a lot more dangerous. Having the truth will not make us kind. There's a reason it's called "brutally honest".

Most of our laws would collapse because most of them are just lies we tell ourselves about the sort of people we want to think we are.

All those rules about paying for sex, drugs, jaywalking and theft. Do humans behave like that? Do we even want to? Of course not. We just want other people to behave like that. We ban the vices we don't have. Bring on the brain fingerprints. Just make sure that our leaders get them first. Then us. The hypocrisy of the crowd can't be underestimated.

But I think we need a certain amount of dishonesty. Honestly I do. Or maybe I don't. Without a brain fingerprint, you'll never know.

Party at Bay Station

2007-09-14T15:55:00.000-04:00

I'm not very good at parties. I don't have very much to say to strangers and I've never found silence uncomfortable. This, as you can imagine, is not a winning combination. Throw in my natural misanthropy and you could have a disaster. Combine with alcohol and you do. But I don't drink anymore. This allows things to remain calm and non-violent. While sober, I just don't terrorize the public in the manner they so richly deserve. Instead, I sit quietly and feel like a tree with a bunch of woodpeckers knocking at it. That's not so bad. It gets the grubs out.

Maybe that's why, in spite of my handicaps, I still enjoy a good party. And last night I had the good fortune of attending a good party with two people who are great at parties. You may even say that they're experts. One was Christabel and the other Sonja from Toronto Street Fashion. Watching those two work is fascinating. Frightening but fascinating. That is a team. Sonja can talk to everyone and everyone wants to talk to Chris. I just get blown about in the whirlwind. Certainly not uprooted but definitely blown about.

I still cannot believe that Sonja had the unmitigated gall to smack my ass like I was horse in need of goading. That simply is not the sort of thing that happens to me. Well, I suppose it is now, but it shouldn't. And I cannot fathom why people react so well to compliments. I hate them. Insults, I trust. Silence, I prefer.

Apparently the party at the abandoned Bay Subway Station was full of the elite. (Perhaps that's why I'd never heard of anyone there.) But I wasn't fooled by the gauche red carpet or free wine. If I'm at a party, it just isn't elite. Even if Sonja managed to get Christabel and I past the door without any trouble, my mere presence proves that they'll let anyone in. That's just how it is. I'm dreadfully common. Rare to be sure, but common.

A lot of people were taking pictures and looking at each other. I really don't know what they were looking for. It certainly seemed like something was happening. Christabel was happening but I'm fairly used to that. I've been watching him happen in one form or another for years. And Sonja was happening. That was a novelty. I was sitting. That's about all I do since I'm not a performing monkey or a horse to be goaded with smacks on the bottom. Just a tree. And other people were milling. The masses love to do that. They'll just mill about all day if you let them.

What can I say? It was hopelessly stupid, of course, but the fun things in life often are. And it was quite easily the most fun I've ever had on a subway. That is, however, a low bar to jump.

All pictures stolen from Sonja. But pictures steal my soul so, I dunno, it's even or something.