The worship of false idols with false eyelashes

Britney Spears is big news—whether she is dancing or driving, lip-synching or drinking—and anyone who stands within a few metres of any media source is well versed in her life. It is common pitfall of celebrity that with fame comes a bit of shame—but Brit makes sure that her dose of disgrace is higher than any pop “idol” before her, causing many to wonder if she is trying to advertise for the ASPCA with all of the pussy she has been flashing.
So why does the general public care so much about Britney’s spearhole? Are people that nosy? Do folks actually care about the fame-whores they fervently follow, or is it as case of waiting for the stars to crash and burn?
Our obsession with fame surely shows the state of society, and, channelling Socrates, should beg each of us to wonder “What is the life that is worth living?” if we have this much time and money to waste on trash.
The life that is worth living has surpassed mere survival and rewritten the definition of success; meaning that although most people in Western civilization are not struggling for food and water in the natural sense, modern humanity is faced with the new challenge of higher-stakes living.
Evolving pressures in the home and workplace give hectic atmosphere to our current lives, and during our downtime we don’t want more real-world anxiety—we want to relax, and switch our tired minds away from our problems.
This means scrutinizing the lives of others, mainly the rich and famous, and relishing in their falls from grace. Tabloid journalism is about distraction, not morals; and their publications are the furthest thing from ethical reading as one can get. The timeless quest for the “meaning of life” has been blotted out by Tara Reid’s disfigured nipple, and any major life solutions discovered by the more-enlightened humans are being drowned out by hordes of American Idol contestants.
Culture also plays a role in our fame fascination. North America has been a cultural melting pot for centuries, and many average white mutts do not have a history or background of their own. While the Chinese have their traditions and the Scandinavians have their folklore, the mixed-ancestry youth of the U.S. and Canada have adopted a celebrity culture in lieu of ancient ceremonies—shallow roots will grasp at anything to stabilize themselves, and modern man has chosen simplicity and scandal to worship.
When someone reads perezhilton.com, it is not to “test their own standards of morals and principals,” as Trina McQueen wrote of tabloid journalism in The Globe and Mail—it is to get dirt, plain and simple. When Kevin Neuman (Global National) segues from coverage on riots in Paris, France, to Paris Hilton’s new court date, it is to give the television audience a intermission from the horrors of the world—take a break, and chew on this celebrity for a bit, and then we’ll be back with more real news that, although it is stressful, is real news.
Britney lost her babies, but so have a million mothers in the Middle East—mothers who actually wanted their kids. As bad as K-fed is a rapper, he doesn’t seem the type to behead his own children, so Brit shouldn’t be too worried and neither should outsiders; it’s not really our business, anyways. But, perhaps it’s that intimate connection we have with Britney’s boys that has the public in such an uproar—don’t forget, we’ve all seen what those babies came out of, and, as scary as it is, we can’t wait to see more.

A thanks to silence, sex and all things sacred

Everybody should spend a week in a hospital, strapped down to a bed by an interlacing network of tubes that simultaneously give and take fluids from their shrivelling body; it not only gives a person a new outlook on his or her life, but a new appreciation for other humans as well.
Hospitals are a place where humanity’s strengths and flaws are clearly displayed, from the caring nurse, to the impatient doctor—or vice versa. Within the walls of a medical facility are a million memories of pain, yearning and death.
For so many people, a hospital is the last place they ever saw grandma, or the setting where their brother had to be pronounced dead after an accident. So, when it comes time to visit other family or friends who have fallen ill, the sterile smell and the pasty walls of the building trigger a person’s recollection of grief and fear, which prevents her from being with a loved one that needs them at her bedside.
But as scary as hospitals can be, there are also flowers and forgiveness in the facilities; and in honour of Thanksgiving, here are a list of new appreciations that may happen to strike a person after a week in a gurney.

Food: When a human hasn’t eaten for a week, strange food combinations start to sound delicious: McNuggets on pizza, ice cream on toast—anything to fill the aching void of a shrinking stomach and an empty mouth. Dreams of delicacies only taunt a starving palate, and TV throws constant insults by way of appetizing advertisements—all while the doctors refuse to put chocolate in the IV drips.

Friends: A person will always remember who didn’t care when she was ill—but she will also never forget those that did. Small gifts go a long way in a hospital room, and even a hand-made card can be a best friend on a long, lonely night.

Mobility: Being strapped to a bed is sometimes kinky—but a week in a bed can drive a soul mad. And the physical feeling isn’t any better. Unless someone spends 24 hours a day watching TV or playing video games, even the most sedentary spirit gets restless in a bed where the only movement is the twitch of her toes.

Nurses: Nurses need to be hugged hard and often by their friends and families, as they have one of the toughest jobs on Earth: A job that requires patience and authority, compassion and detachment. While writers must deal with irritated editors, and salesmen juggle cranky clients, nurses have a whole world of shit to contend with—literally. Nurses must deal with fluids and excrement of gastronomical proportions, along with dying babies and demanding patients. Anyone that can stand those conditions deserves a hug and a large paycheck.

Privacy and Sexuality: When a patient is admitted to hospital, two aspects of life are traded with entrance so that one can receive care—signing in means signing away shame and sexuality. There is no space for embarrassment in a ward, and as farts and food are regurgitated all around, there is not a lot of room for romance, either (unless a patient is a frequenter of medsex.com). But patients need a sense of normalcy, and many attempt to fix their hair or conceal under-eye circles—all in vain. Energy spent on appearance in a hospital is energy better spent on recovery—if one is sick, others will understand if she looks sick! One can always tell how long a person has been in a hospital by how tightly she ties her gown—by day five, no one cares anymore—and there are bottoms-a-plenty to be seen on any floor.

Seniors: The news often says, “the population is aging,” which is no surprise, as people get old. But the reality is old folks seem to be multiplying and toothlessly consuming our healthcare dollars and hospital beds. Although calls for a geriatric genocide have yet to be answered, it does seem strange to observe an 80 lb. 90 year old being supplied with an artificial joint if her biological clock is already on borrowed time. But life doesn’t end at 50, and joy doesn’t end with the loss of libido—love and wonder still visit a woman even if her period does not. Elders are to be treated with respect, living or dying—there can be a lot of wisdom behind those wrinkle-rimmed eyes.

Silence: Living at the corner of Hastings St. and Boundary could not prepare anyone for the unnerving ruckus of an emergency ward, or the constant whir of machines and pumps in a recovery room. The sound of traffic is surprisingly calming when compared to a hospital’s continuous commotion—even a traffic accident has more of an audible appeal than a nurse screaming “Code Blue” over the intercom. At least with the traffic accident there is a chance that no one is injured, and that a regular Joe can run out and offer aid to victims rather than watch doctors pump “Code Blue’s” chest and stand-by, helpless.

Sleep: Sleep is a glorious, elusive sanctuary that is never to be taken for granted.

Swear words: Cursing is a liberating act of freedom—so go give a good “FUCK BLUBBER!!!” to the sky right now—because the outdoors won’t mind, but a hospital room full of quiet patients will!

Water: Water is a mesmerizing entity when it is scarce—there is nothing like a shower after bathing in sweat and blood for a few days—even if the hot faucet is broken.

Windows: A person can memorize a large tree if they stare at it for long enough—the amount of branches it has, the way it glitters when the breeze that she can’t feel sweeps through its leaves. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then windows are the soul of a hospital; the glass may prevent a patient from leaving, but its pane will still allow a mind to wander when there is nothing else to look at.

Women: Women very commonly view other women as competition—competition for dates, for jobs, for attention—and often admire the “brotherhood” guys seem to belong to with their friends. “Bros before hoes” is a more familiar term to most than “chicks before dicks.” A girl has an air of pride about her when she proclaims, “I’m one of the guys,”—when she is actually “one of the guys that the real guys hang out with to fuck.” It is not uncommon for women to view other females as bitchy, backstabbing whores—until they are faced with adversity, and realize other women really do “got their back.” Females that a woman thought long forgotten will come out of the woodwork to her side, while the men in her life just wonder where their bedmate has gone.

At the risk of sounding demented, the world may be a better place if more people got sick—Thanksgiving would be more about thanks than turkey.

Hahhaha

Laura --

[adjective]: Sexually stunning

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

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Kimon-oh!

Yet Another Reason to Hate Drunk Drivers

It was not the way anyone wants to spend her birthday weekend, but I was living the nightmare. I had been taken to the emergency ward with acute pain in my side, and now I was lying in a draped-off cubicle full of tubes and discomfort—sleep was a far-off, elusive sanctuary.
So, when, at 3 a.m., there was a great commotion outside of the curtains surrounding my bed, I knew that peaceful rest would still be a long time coming; however, I was not prepared for the ridiculous uproar that erupted only seconds later.
A gurney was rolled in carrying a man strapped to a board with a support collar around his neck. He was followed by a troop of uniformed officers; whether they were RCMP or Police officers, I could not see through the space in the drapes, but I could hear their discussions clearly.
They spoke of a drunk driver who had swerved to miss an oncoming vehicle and had rolled his truck over, possibly down a ravine. The driver and front passenger had been wearing seatbelts, but had still been thrown around the overturned truck.
Thinking that the male that had been pushed to the bed beside me was an innocent party in all of this, I felt initial sympathy for him. I may have been in pain, but this poor guy had been injured horrifically in a car accident by a drunk driver.
But, then I heard this: “Well,” the guy was telling the officers, “I only had six or seven beers before I started to drive home.”
So he was the driver, I realized, which explained the gaggle of law enforcement accompanying him. My sympathy melted to disgust, and then even my disgust managed to deteriorate to something beyond abhorrence.
The guy was explaining his side of the story: “…so I was driving down the road when this Chinaman came at me in his Civic. I had to get out of the way, and that’s when the truck flipped.”
I thought it was obvious that this drunk driver was much more intoxicated than he was admitting to, and I was a bit relieved when a female officer began to ask for either a blood test or a breathalyser to determine his blood alcohol content. The drunken young man danced around the subject, not only pretending he was going to call a lawyer, but also by attempting to flirt with the female officer.
“Your name is beautiful,” I could hear is overly obnoxious voice holler. “SA-MAR-A…I’m going to name my next daughter after you…you are beautiful…do you thin k I should call a lawyer, beautiful Samara?”
The officer was explaining his rights, but the guy wasn’t listening.
“You can call a lawyer to at least consult about your situation,” said officer Samara. “But if you don’t do the test you will be charged with refusal. I’d at least call a lawyer to discuss this with, Tom.”
So that was his name: Tom—the bane of my slumber. Tom was a loud, racist wreck who I secretly declared emergency room warfare on—if Tom didn’t shut up, I was going to strangle him with my tubes.
For the next hour, Tom shouted and yelled, sometimes in mock pain, and sometimes with declarations of love for officer Samara. The hospital staff seemed indifferent to his shouting, probably accustomed to unruly idiots being wheeled through their doors.
But, despite my situation and current position, I was not going to take this laying down, so to speak. When Tom continued to yell out, his voice disrupting my sleep and all those around him, I said something.
“Why won’t you guys unstrap me,” Tom was shrieking.
“Because no one cares about you, Tom.” I spat his name off my tongue like it was a squirming mosquito that had accidentally flew through my lips.
Tom shut up for a bit—but, he was soon back to his vocal self, yelling to his friend in another bed. He was claiming that his friend could sue him, and they would just take ICBC’s money. The officers seemed to have given up their requests for his blood and abandoned the situation. I sat there seething, hoping that Tom was now horribly scarred from his accident, or perhaps would never walk again. And that’s when Tom pulled back the curtain, and I saw his unhurt, very young face.
“Oh, hi,” said Tom. “Sorry I’m so loud.”
I looked at him straight in the eye.
“I hate you, Tom.” I said, not believing his apology. “You are the most disgusting, rude and obnoxious person I’ve ever met. You have been yelling for an hour now, and you have been disturbing not only myself but everyone else in this ward, including many older patients. SO. SHUT. UP.”
He attempted to apologize again as I turned my back to him in my bed, but his voice trailed off and the curtain swished shut. I felt a little better after telling off Tom, but victory would not come until he either left…or died!
And unfortunately, Tom was fine. He ended up walking out of the hospital himself, which I found to be the more disappointing of my two victory choices—but at least he was gone, and sleep took his place in the hospital.
Drunk drivers are idiots, whether on or off the road.

Ethics

The life that is worth living has surpassed mere survival and rewritten the definition of success; meaning that although most people in Western civilization are not struggling for food and water in the natural sense, modern humanity is faced with the new challenge of higher-stakes living. Evolving pressures in the home and workplace give our current lives a hectic atmosphere, and during our downtime we don’t want more real-world anxiety—we want to relax, and switch our tired minds away from our problems. This means scrutinizing the lives of others, mainly the rich and famous, and relishing in their falls from grace. “Hot stuff” journalism is about distraction, not morals; and tabloid publications are the furthest thing from ethical reading as one can get.

Culture also plays a role in our fame fascination. North America has been a cultural melting pot for centuries, and many average white mutts do not have a history or background of their own. While the Chinese have their traditions and the Scandinavians have their folklore, the mixed-ancestry youth of the U.S. and Canada have adopted a celebrity culture in lieu of ancient ceremonies—shallow roots will grasp at anything to stabilize themselves, and modern man has chosen simplicity and scandal to worship. When someone reads Perez Hilton, it is not to “test their own standards of morals and principals”—it is to get dirt, plain and simple.

Jon Nödtveidt: Into Infinite Obscurity (2nd Try!)

It’s been over a year since I stumbled upon a website that announced my favourite vocalist was dead. In August of 2006, Jon Nödtveidt, front man and founder of the black/death metal band Dissection, shot himself in his home, causing as much controversy and as many rumours as he had during his life. It wasn’t that his suicide was a surprise—to the contrary, Jon had not only been contemplating it but announcing it for years. No, the speculation swirled more around what he had surrounded himself with as he pulled the trigger, and how many Satanic Bibles he used as headrests as the bullet pierced his brain.
Jon had recently been released from jail, and his band, always a force to be reckoned with in the 90’s, had just released an album (Reinkaos). But the album was a terrible failure in the eyes of most Dissection fans, and I joked that it was the result of the horrible reviews that further motivated him to kick his own bucket.
Whether it was the intense belief he had in his religion of “anti-cosmos based Satanism” or simply that his raging river of creativity had run dry was not really that important. In his hay-day, Jon had inspired many a musician, myself included. “The Somberlain” and “Storm of the Light’s Bane” will always be hailed as classic albums, and the world of metal has him to thank for them.
In late 2004, I had a chance to meet Jon in London, and witness the unholy gory-glory that was Dissection, (before the release of “Reinkaos”). A friend of mine had set up an interview with the guitarist/vocalist, and I was happier than a Viking at a pillaging to go along with him.
Jon was fresh from jail, and obviously happy to be free. The fact that he had been convicted of accessory to murder did not cross my mind as I sat myself next to the Swede; he was my musical icon, but not my god—sharing a certain aspect of my life with someone else does not connect me completely to his ideals. Besides, Jon came across as a well-spoken, highly intelligent man who spoke passionately about his music and beliefs, not an enraged killer, and the show that followed was the best concert I have ever seen.
The experience caused me to wonder about his evil reputation, and how, in general, a person can truly be evil if they inspire such great joy in others. Does an evil man create “evil joy” to prosper in the souls of those that appreciate him? I thought it strange that a man with such supposedly misanthropic views would choose to sit down for an hour-long interview, and then shake hands and sign autographs after his concert—shouldn’t he have sacrificed us instead?
But regardless of his motives for suicide, or his jail-term, Jon Nödtveidt left behind a musical legacy that instigate further head banging for many years to come…well, his first two albums, anyways.