Going Hard - Talib Kweli

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.

You gotta love white parties. You just gotta. They're just so chill. Everyone is around, drinking, dancing, talking, making noise... just for the hell of it. Enjoying life. Is it shallow? Who cares? A fine balance in life is walking the line between being a pretentious asshole and a shallow-brained asshole. As much as I love cigars, beer, and well, more beer, Freud and Jung give me that tickle that no one else does.

I bet it'd be fucking awesome to drink with Voltaire.

People watching

As far as guilty pleasures go, people watching might be a little tame, but I'm still addicted anyways. You sit there, look around, seeing people going by, and it's like you're having hundreds and hundreds of tiny little one-sided affairs-- like you're a slutty ass peeping tom. Probably the best is when you're people watching and you notice another watcher. Then you try and watch them without them knowing, wondering if they're doing the same.

Malls are interesting things. They're like little microcosms of Las Vegas-- a civilization constructed out in the middle of nowhere. Wholly artificial despite tireless efforts to seem real. Clothes hung on mannequins and on models with impossibly 'perfect' features. Ever so pleasantly chilled stale air. Really, they personify the delusions of false grandeur that we're all still clinging to so desperately.

I was sitting at a C-Train station today downtown, watching the rush of people go by. I can't remember the last time it was like this: I had nowhere to be, no schedule to follow, no restrictions. It was... nice. Didn't have to talk, didn't have to listen, didn't have to use any of my pseudo-Carnegian, well, pseudo-charm.

In light of Bush's recent victory in the United States presidential election

Bush did not win on policy or action. Instead, polls indicate Bush won on moral values; on principles; and on his better image. Consider this election a triumphant victory by the Republican spindoctors, destroying their Democratic counterparts. A president that suffered the first loss of jobs in recent memory, the president who vacationed while Al Qaeda planned their attacks, the president who was utterly destroyed in the presidential debates, has been given a significant mandate or "political capital" as he likes to say, given the domination of his party in the Senate and House of Representatives, and achieving over fifty percent of the vote, something remarkably even the likes of Clinton did not do.

Much of Bush's appeal sits with his Southern, traditionalist American image. The president appeals to those individualist, America-centric 'patriots'; they see Bush as a strong, America-focused leader, refusing to bow down to foreign pressures. They believe that Bush will do whatever necessary to ensure the best for America first and foremost, and any international concerns should be secondary at best to American interests. A friend of mine made the remark that "Kerry was a very European politician." Very apt- say you get your ass kicked by another kid at school. If Bush is your dad, he's just going to go over and kick the kid's ass, no questions asked. Kerry will file a complaint with the school board over this 'inappropriate behaviour.' Oooooooh! I'm ALMOST going to write a VERY stern letter about this!!!!

Polls can be notoriously inaccurate, of course- the Zogby poll predicted a significant Kerry victory- but exit polls showed that Bush found favour with eighty percent of those voters whose largest concern was terrorism. Looking at this statistic in combination with how the votes broke down- essentially, the (Midwest, South, etc) states that will be the last places to suffer an attack controlled the fates of those states that will be most likely to be attacked. Is you friendly neighbourhood mujahideen going to attack Nowheresville, South Dakota, or Los Angeles, San Francisco, or New York? Indeed, a commanding three quarters of NY voters voted for Kerry- and yet, the leader that they desired to ensure their safety will not be in government.

Irony at it's most dangerous.

A Study in Contrast

Remembering my childhood, I realize the maxim "youth is wasted on the young" has become true for me on a personal level. It's very possible- probable even- that the original author meant that saying towards young people around my age, speaking from the perspective of a more aged adult- but as for my personal meaning... it all became so completely true when I stumbled upon my Grade Six yearbook.

The cover is a brilliantly neon amalgam of yellow and green, still shining bright after all these years. It remains in better condition that you'd think- armoured in cheap laminate, something that my welfare-sponsored elementary school splattered on everything, like the way an eleven-year-old girl playing with her mom's makeup. Covering up for something that isn't there? Trying to give an illusion of beauty? Or a thousand of other pretentious similes. Inside are blurry photocopied computer sheets adorned with our photographs.

Our photographs. We were so innocent, then.

It makes me sad, for the children of today. It's only been a few years- but of course, because of my relatively small experience, it seems like a lifetime.

We're so different.

They're so different.

Our faces smile so innocently. They try to look sexy, mean, angst-ridden, or smile not at all, afraid of their appearance, that their smile might not be up to par. We're dressed in oversized grey or navy sweaters, cheap department store jeans, and any sneakers that have soles on them. They're adorned- not dressed- with Diesel, FCUK, and Puma gear, with clinging sleeveless tops, distressed jeans and only the latest kicks. We listened to Green Day, Our Lady Peace, or in all reality the largely sexless Backstreet Boys- they weren't "sexy", but "cute", or at most, "hot." They love Justin Timberlake's coying lyrics, 50 Cent's violent gangster posturing, Christina Milian's commands to "dip it low."

We lived for the adventures of Ash and his unbearably cute Pokemon, Pikachu, singing along merrily to the tuneless theme songs. They die for Tony Soprano and his human meat-grinding.

Maybe I'm being... no wait, I am being melodramatic, but of course. The point is that I feel sorry for the children today. They're missing their childhood, their time to be innocent and free and fun and whatever. They're having their childhood taken from them by the juggernaut of the media machine and the societal pressures of coolness- probably two things that are inextricably linked.

I'm so going to win that competition next year or the year after

Troy and Amy from last year's The Apprentice were at Tantra yesterday. Wooooooo!

Everything (well, almost)

(there was a picture here originally... I still have it, somewhere.)

Girl from the 1950's , Voted Most "Faaabulous", your Worship, Japanese Ghost**only one of these nicknames was ever used. If you know, you know which one.

Missing those days... those days of Math 30, skipping class to be with a crying friend, having my eyelids sliced open by slippery hands, eating homemade sashimi and playing the Friends board game. Playing the meanest (and of course, therefore funnest) game of Charades EVER, wasting massive amounts of time on CP, and laughing as some of us dodged teachers (creepy McKeage) left and right as we skipped class for no reason. The dominance of Big Two. The drama that seemed so important at the time. Someone's first kiss. Scaring them at New Asia. The last day, there at Banana Jak's. Singing the three or four Chinese words we hadn't forgotten how to read from Chinese school. Falling asleep in Ernest's bedroom simultaneously. Coordinated our spares together...so we could waste it in the library. (Not really) having their boobs stared at. Some lesbian-onic boob grabbing, ass squeezing, nipple touching. Someone touching someone's ass like everyday, come on I know it was you. Someone drinking their bum-bum off and getting, for them, soo touchy. Someone denying their complete love of drinking. Someone despising drinking (party pooper =D ). Someone with two other dudes helping birthday boy drink his skinny, children's shoe size-ass off. Someone pretentiously spouting during seminars. Someone's generosity I won't forget when I was pretty much broke... you'll get what you want when I'm a rich old dude, although I can't provide what you REALLY want. Unless it's sex, but that's what someone is else is for. Someone's black coat. Admitting they masturbated, right there on MSN and saved on two people's computers. The "things" that that black coat hid and weren't as obvious until the time they drew their arms back at that person's house. Three-way phone calls. Realizing who we wish we had spent time with more during high school. The devil Charney. The awesomeness of Jan Mohamed. Computer-like writing. Two dudes who wrote like Asian girls. The lunatic Taven. The super-genius Wagner. The evils of chemistry. Being a big brother. Talking at Beddington Mall and chilling at Boston Pizza. Graduation night. And thinking we were the greatest philosophers of our time. Oh wait, I still think that last one. Someone pooping their pants. Oh wait, Colin still does that.

NW- We never see each other, but hopefully you still know I'm there for you anytime, whether it be to listen, or to protect you from some guy. You've got your own knight now, though. He's a good guy and a hell of a lot smarter than you haha jokes. Consider me his assistant then, and make sure to call me if he's a jerk. But he won't.

VL- I wrote this long ass shoutout for you a long time ago. Everything I said back then is still true. You're still amazing and we still don't do enough stuff together. Missing Math 30 everyday. And when are we going to strippers / casino? CC's underage, how lame. Here's to hoping you find your "first and only". Do you remember what I'm talking about?

CC- Brilliant. Cynically optimistic. Tries to show lack of confidence when everyone knows he aced the test. Existentialist Buddhist, apparently. Utterly pretentious raging liberal, like myself. Mr. CC. You say you want security, a steady paying nine-to-fiver in a cubicle where you type away at numbers. In your heart you'd rather be an SNL or Conan writer, though, but you want security so much. You know, for a guy who's so organized, and in some ways, conservative, to my completely improvisational personality and complete lack of shame, my God Colin, you're one of the most interesting and intelligent people I've ever met. You just might be my favourite person to have a conversation with about anything remotely meaningful, except when you're being an asshole or party pooper, which is most of the time, haha. I don't know dude, I wouldn't be half as the pretentious blowhard I am without you. Just know you've had a fucking profound impact on my life in so many ways. Woohoo.

There's others who have been amazing. I'll post something sometime, promise.

comment from way back when

seeing sanjay at the library

Thursday, September 16, 2004 - 5:05PM

It all started with the noblest of intentions- as some might say, with very typical asian intentions. I was going to the library to reformat my psychology notes and print them off. How very nerdy. But alas, as always, I was thrown into yet another misadventure. Mister Sanjay Biswas, as always, managed to be where I was.

The guy made me realize so many things. It would seem I am learning nothing from university and would be better served as an acolyte at the Temple of Sanjay. Without his remarkable teachings, I never would have known that "the Punjabis are the brave race of India. They are the brave warriors. All the soldiers, they are Punjabi. All the Hindis are cowards. They would rather be professors." Sanjay, by the way, is Hindi.

Forgive my sarcasm. In truth, I highly doubt I will ever meet a more fascinating guy in my life. I also think he stands a good chance of being the first person from my graduating year to die, but that's another matter. The boy genius/completely insane bizzare male chauvinist inspires me. I have decided that one my life's works (how corny is that) will be a book about his life. What better way to celebrate the person who called me late at night on my cell phone, and subsequently had this conversation with, which bordered on pure lunacy (well, actually, knowing Sanjay, probably not, but I digress):

SB: Is this Terry?

TW: Yes...yes it is. Who is this?

SB: It's me, Sanjay. Anyway Terry, you have been my friend for a long time now. Because of that I give you exclusive video rights to my suicide.

TW: What...the fucking fuck. What the fucking fuck are you talking about?

SB: No seriously. I have a handgun, you'll make millions.

TW: (a revolution in reality TV, I'm thinking. but anyways.) Sanjay...no.

SB: (is drunk, I later find out. not surprising.) Come on it'll be cool.

TW: ...No, Sanjay. I have to go.

Really, I'm doomed to be an wannabe-NYC cool writer, with live material like this. Or maybe I can grow up to be a brave bare-chested Punjabi warrior. For King and Curry!

"stella ella ohla, tap-tap-tap, singin' es tigo tigo, tigo tigo tap-tap, es tigo tigo, baloney, baloney, with cheese and macaroni..."

"bananas... UNITE! peel bananas, peel peel bananas, peel bananas, peel peel bananas. slice bananas, slice slice bananas-"

While the acrid smoke sliced with surgical precision into my nostrils and a menagerie of coloured lights pierced the darnkess of the room, a notion entered my head that I couldn't escape. To risk vulgarity- as dancer after dancer stripped and swayed and gyrated and ground the air and mock-fellated, as pairs of jiggling breasts and shaking asses made their wildly cheered processions around the stage, I was puzzled. It wasn't thoughts of these violently thrusting body parts that filled my head so much as the idea that it was someone's daughter up there. Someone's kid. Could you imagine seeing your daughter in a strip club?

"Oh daddy... Daddy??"

"Oh baby.... Baby??"

While I'm an admitted addict of the surreal, I think I'll pass on that particular experience.

We humans believe ourselves to be so utterly advanced. We're civilized- not base animals or simple-minded cavemen or anything beyond remotely akin to the barbaric peoples of centuries ago, but we've really remained stagnant. The strip club is the same as the slave bazaar of the Romans which is same as the football field or wrestling ring or gladiator's colosseum. We bear in our minds and hearts the same basic wanton lusts- blood and sex.