Deal With Ivy Before Replant in Stanley Park

On Dec. 15, 2006, an intense windstorm swept through the jewel of Vancouver, Stanley Park. The storm knocked down over ten thousand trees and left the park in utter disrepair. But why?
Trees can live a long time; they boast being some of the oldest living organisms on the planet. Trees stand patiently through colonization and all sorts of weather conditions. The fact that thousands of trees fell because of one storm should speak to the public in more ways than one: If trees that have lived through many past storms are now falling during one night, the cause must be epic—or us.
Global warming has been touted as one cause of ever-increasing storm-strength. And the storm on that night in December was particularly ruthless, throwing 120 km winds at Vancouver. So, if the storm was caused by climate change, then we have ourselves to blame. But is that the only reason why this park was destroyed?
In 2004, the Stanley Park Ecology Society (SPEC) and the Vancouver Park Board started an environmental initiative called Ivy Busters. They realized the park had been inundated with English ivy, a plant not native to North America.
Alien or introduced species of plants are much more common than people realize, and many gardeners cultivate and contribute to the problem in their own backyards. Invasive plants, like ivy, replace the natural vegetation of a forest, which can have major negative impact on the ecosystem: Yet another problem humans can blame themselves for.
SPEC states on its website that English ivy also “can prevent the regeneration of understory trees and shrubs, and as it climbs trees, the weight of ivy will increase the likelihood of blow-down.”
There is still a significant ivy problem in Stanley Park, and obviously there is a correlation between trees falling and ivy growth. So why is replanting going forward before the ivy problem is dealt with? Not only could this happen again during a storm, but the young, replanted trees will be hindered by the copious masses of ivy along the forest floor.
Eventually all trees will fall, whether from wind or saws, but it is becoming apparent that ivy plays a significant role in destroying our British Columbian woods. The forest along the shores of the Coquitam River is an excellent example of the wreckage caused by these green invaders. The foreign ivy is weakening our native land, and it needs to be dealt with.
There are a few local groups devoted to stopping alien plants from taking over, including the Coastal Invasive Plant Committee (CIPC) and the Incasive Plant Council of B.C. (IPCBC).
Next month, the replanting of Stanley Park will begin again in full-force. The public can only hope the Vancouver Park Board has taken battling aliens into their strategy, as well.

So Heath Ledger is Dead

During the summer of ’97, I became obsessed with a television program (a rarity for me to care for TV). The show was called Roar, an epic drama that took place around 400 A.D. in Ireland. There were only 13 episodes, but during its short run, many North American viewers got their first glimpse at the young, handsome leader of the clan and star of the show: Heath Ledger.
The show was incredibly cheesy, which probably explained its quick cancellation. Ledger played Conor, a Celtic hero who was always too honourable for his own good; and he was the only in the cast to go on to bigger and better things in his career—although it had its ups and downs.
In 2000, he starred alongside Mel Gibson in the war drama The Patriot. The movie won several awards and brought Ledger praise from critics. But from there, besides having a role in acclaimed film Monster’s Ball, Ledger starred in a slew of slumps, including A Knight’s Tale and The Order.
That all changed with the fabulous wonder that was Brokeback Mountain. Ledger went from little known Aussie to big-star hottie overnight, and his career looked on track and promising. But some thought he played a lost soul a little too accurately, and the fact his body was found on Tuesday, Jan. 22, attests to the parallels between the character he played on Brokeback and his real life—not as a gay man, but a man that hurt so deep he couldn’t even act his way out of it.
Ledger was high school dropout, and supposedly struggled with different sorts of drugs for a long time. Watching him on-screen, it was sometimes hard to find his characters believable because something else was going on inside his head while he was acting. Whether it was his eyes or his subtle movements, Ledger had the aura of someone who had been broken and was having trouble rebuilding.
So, he is dead now. Gone the way of many stars: Monroe, Dean, Joplin. And he leaves behind a two-year old daughter who will never get to know the real him. She will only know him as we, the fans, do. She will see him in his movies and wish she could meet him, just like I did when I saw him in Roar.
In a way, all celebrities are already dead to their fans. Fans know them through the roles they play, and will never really know their true personalities; they are unattainable to us, just as the dead are to everyone. Good-bye to a man I never met, and good luck to his daughter, Matilda, who just left Hollywood and entered reality.

Dear Everyone

STOP CHASING BRITNEY SPEARS AND START FOLLOWING THE TRUTH.

You May Be Wearing Dog Fur

Humans took wolves and, over centuries, bred the wilderness from them. Within their canine selves, we instilled a sense of loyalty and service to mankind. So, after all the work we have put into making dogs the perfect people companion, it’s only natural we view them differently from other animals, such as livestock.
But thinking of dogs as pets is a very Western view, and in many countries dogs are considered just another source of food and fur.
In poorer places in the world, people do not have the luxury of caring for animals that are of no concrete value to them. Dogs are not human; therefore, they are fair game for dinner—meat is meat.
But even if someone were to argue the merits of eating a creature we worked so hard to tame, the treatment dogs are receiving overseas—and here in North America—attests to total disregard for their existence and total disrespect to their loyalty.
The recent high-profile case of football star turned dog-fighter Michael Vick woke many Americans up to the reality of dog abuse, and broke many hearts with its truth. But what many Westerners don’t know, or don’t want to know, is the foul treatment of man’s best friend goes far beyond the fighting ring, and the end result of abuse may end up on their parkas.
Dog fur is an exportable commodity in Asia. In 2000, the United States passed the Dog and Cat Protection Act, which prohibits the import of products made with dog and cat fur. Other countries have also banned dog fur, including Italy, France, Denmark and Australia. But Canada has not. Not only that, but Canada also does not have labelling requirements for fur coats and items, so consumers, thinking they have made a more humane choice by buying an item with faux fur trim, may actually be wearing German Shepherd around their necks; sometimes it’s easier to skin a dog than to make faux fur.
But it isn’t just the fact that humans are killing man’s best friend; it is the way the slaughter is being carried out. America’s Dog and Cat Protection Act states, “The methods of housing, transporting and slaughtering dogs and cats for production are generally unregulated and inhumane.” Many could argue the same for North American livestock, but because Fido has a place at the foot of the bed he gets this special exclusion from being processed in such ways. But it’s more than that: Dogs work for us, they depend on us and many humans depend on dogs as their sole source of companionship. To turn around and stab them in the back (literally) is the ultimate betrayal.
A number of the dogs used for fur and meat in Asia are strays or even pets, and their human-induced friendly nature makes them easy targets for thieves. According to Humane Society International, “Investigators witnessed firsthand the brutal slaughter of domestic dogs and cats in China and other Asian nations. What we found shocked people. Many of these animals are raised in cold, unsanitary breeding compounds. Some are strays. Others are obviously pets who were most likely stolen.”
The Internet is littered with images and articles on the abuse of dogs overseas. The photos can cause tears and anger, but there is one especially abhorring video that should cause action, and it stars the unfortunate raccoon dog.
Raccoon dogs are not pets, but a wild species of canine living in Asia, and have luxurious coats and large litters of pups that make them perfect breeding stock for the fur trade. Sometimes sold under the false name of “Asian Raccoon,” this species was recently uncovered to be present in a number of prominent fashion lines, like P. Diddy’s Sean John and Jay-Z’s Rocawear.
According to animal welfare advocates, countries like China have little or no legislation prohibiting inhumane treatment, confinement or live skinning of animals. This is apparent in the videos easily accessible, but rarely viewed, on sites like YouTube. One such video shows just how brutal the last minutes of a raccoon dog’s life can be: It starts out bad, and ends so much worse.
The raccoon dog is flung to the ground in an attempt to render it unconscious. But it is still moving, so the butcher strikes it over the head. Gasping for breath and continuing to struggle, the creature is strung up and skinned. It still moves as its flesh is peeled from its being, and its eyelids are torn off in the process. Now, completely skinned alive with muscle and sinew exposed to the world, the raccoon dog is tossed into a pile of dead dogs. In a last ditch effort to live, the animal lifts its head, a bloody and grotesque version of the creature it was before, and looks at the camera.
The lengths the fur industry has gone to deceive the public about this cruel reality indicates their guilt.
From Britain’s extermination of wolves, to packs of dingoes eating babies, human and canine histories are gorily intertwined. Humans have betrayed dogs just as dogs have attacked people. But humans have conquered the world, and there is no need for these primitive, disgusting crimes of fashion.
According to reports, such as Fur Report 2005 by Care for the Wild International, fur farmers in China hold 1.5 million raccoon dogs captive at any one time. Canadians, consumers and government alike, should be taking steps to ensure they are not contributing to the demand of this brutal practice by writing to politicians, spreading the word and, of course, not buying fur.

NOTE: To learn more about this issue, please visit the following:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=HcjS5pNNt5o

http://youtube.com/watch?v=1mhFs-uLyWo&watch_response

Thanks.

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Plenty of Wish Wash

I had heard the hype—women finding their husbands, men discovering their soul mates—about online dating sites. So last summer, fed up with what I was finding in the real world, I registered on a dating website.
An acquaintance of mine swore by cyber love, boasting about the wonderful man she scooped out of the net. But then again, another acquaintance was disgusted by the barrage of freaks that filled her inbox, and sternly warned me against signing up. I tried to go into this with an open mind.
After coming up with a non-sexual-yet-not-too-nerdy screen name, (attempting to put off those who may only contact me for sex or, at the other end of the spectrum, Dungeons and Dragons games), I filled out a form and was presented with the blank square that was my About me section. There was also one that followed where you could describe my perfect date. I skipped that one. No one needs to know of my need to sacrifice a yearling goat on a first date in order to set the mood.
But I did need to write a profile bio. I played it safe, mentioning my studies and hobbies, and avoiding any negative wording or sexual reference—I wasn’t just looking for a quick bang, yet I wasn’t disillusioning myself either—I wasn’t going to find my soul mate.
I completed my profile and it went live. Now, I waited. What wackos awaited me in the depths of this electronic abyss? But it wasn’t wackos that I heard from—it was the illiterate.
“Nice pics so who yer summer goin.” “I like movies an holdin hands you like 2?” “I
I am attracted to you in wayz that r diff cause of yer bootiful eyez.”
I perused the male options on the site and found little in the way of good choices. Anyone majorly gorgeous came off as extremely egotistical, and many others seemed too bland.
Evidently, I learned, there are a lot of single men in Surrey. The site was also full of what many would consider to be chauches (www.urbandictionary.com defines a chauch as “Pretty boys who are beefy, vain, do stripper dances at clubs and think it’s hot, wear tight shirts. Also possibly tan, use hair products, go to the gym to be looked at, have frosted tipped hair.”) Now, beefy doesn’t sound so bad. But many of these guys were the chauch without the beef, which I guess one could call chince.
I decided to take the plunge and allow some of these cyber-suitors to contact me via MSN Messenger. There was no way I was going to just meet dudes straight off the internet. So I got to know them better, and realized I really wasn’t interested in dating anyone at all.
When it comes to dating, whether it is electronic, phone or in-person, a person needs to go into it with not only an open mind, but an open heart. There are a lot of fish in the sea, but if I am not into it, there isn’t one for me.

Bhutto One Giant Leap for Women

Many claimed Benazir Bhutto was the lesser of two evils. And regardless of her stance on issues or her party’s past dealings, Bhutto was well loved in Pakistan, as the world can tell from the fiery backlash occurring from her December assassination.
As news stations show streets full of mourners, it is amazing to see that it is mainly men who are the most distraught over her death. How come a woman politician garnered more respect in an Islamic republic than any woman can achieve in North America?
North America is awash with passive sexism. It is blatant our television programs and in our parliament. If a woman shows strength in the West, she is either a bitch or a lesbian. Or ambitious.
Take the treatment of Belinda Stronach. As a good-looking female in an old and ugly male-dominated role, she was scrutinized by the media and members of parliament on everything from her wardrobe to her personal relationships. When ex-party member and boyfriend Peter MacKay may or may not have called her a dog in Canada’s house of legislature, and former premier of Alberta Ralph Klein made a dirty reference about her in a speech, the instances were laughed off and treated as nothing more than jokes. But when Liberal leader Stephane Dion suggested Stephen Harper get some exercise, the Conservatives were in an uproar.
Helena Guergis, a junior minister for the Tories, said “real leaders ... do not go around making fun of other people's weight.” But what about the litany of personal disrespect the Conservatives threw at Stronach when she left their party?
Politics are not the only areas slated for chauvinism. A quick flip through international and local news reports show gender bias alive and well throughout North America. Most six p.m. broadcasters are men. But not just men, but old men, and usually overweight and unattractive. Besides Barbara Walters, it is rare to see a woman past fifty years old (without ten pounds of injected botox on her face) in the big seat.
Global BC offers a prime example of televised sexism. After faithfully remaining with the station for years, Deborra Hope was passed over for the 6 p.m. anchor position for newcomer Chris Gailus. And you won’t see a single sagging female face in the Global cast—but plenty of overweight, aging men.
Hillary Clinton is a lesbian. Meg Griffin is a loser. Britney Spears is a whore. We are still a long way off from seeing women in positions of real power in the West.
Rest in peace, Bhutto, for showing the world a woman can make a difference.

Tired Thoughts

Have you ever secretly empathisized with a tyrant?
Or envied a killer?

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Ode to Glory Winter

The trees shiver off their last leaves,

And shed all memory

Of warmth.

Time's Up

The time for accomplishments is almost over; soon it will be replaced by necessity.

Woman is the Nigger of the World

John Lennon and Yoko Ono

Woman is the nigger of the world
Yes she is...think about it
Woman is the nigger of the world
Think about it...do something about it

We make her paint her face and dance
If she wont be a slave, we say that she dont love us
If shes real, we say shes trying to be a man
While putting her down, we pretend that shes above us

Woman is the nigger of the world...yes she is
If you dont believe me, take a look at the one you're with
Woman is the slave of the slaves
Ah, yeah...better scream about it

We make her bear and raise our children
And then we leave her flat for being a fat old mother hen
We tell her home is the only place she should be
Then we complain that shes too unworldly to be our friend

Woman is the nigger of the world...yes she is
If you dont believe me, take a look at the one youre with
Woman is the slave to the slaves
Yeah...alright...hit it!

We insult her every day on tv
And wonder why she has no guts or confidence
When shes young we kill her will to be free
While telling her not to be so smart we put her down for being so dumb
Woman is the nigger of the world

Yes she is...if you dont believe me, take a look at the one youre with
Woman is the slave to the slaves
Yes she is...if you believe me, you better scream about it
We make her paint her face and dance

And The Devil Will Drag You Under

"The fact that the rats had been created and placed in the maze did not automatically make them inferior, just less powerful. But only at the moment--not absolutely less powerful."
-Jack L. Chalker, And The Devil Will Drag You Under

March for a Cause, not a Claus

Public events can unify residents of a community, which may give them a deeper respect for their neighbours. And creating fun events for children is always very important. But in an age of acute environmental awareness, needless parades seem archaic; the waste and greenhouse gases created give parades a dinosaur-sized carbon footprint.
Christmas parades, in particular, are the epitome of Western civilization’s gluttonous lifestyle, and it is time people rethought their expectations of entertainment. Parades laugh in the face of nature and poverty. Granted, food was collected at the recent Santa Clause Parade, but that seemed an afterthought to the real priority—advertisement.
Organize a parade for a hero, or a cause—not floats with Dora the Explorer. Parades are just another chance for corporations to promote their products. Christmas is the biggest consumer scam of all time, and events that promote it just exemplify greed.
While 300,000 people came out for the Rogers Christmas Parade on November 20, only a small fraction of that showed to the Vancouver Remembrance Day ceremonies on the 11th. Entertainment is the only thing worth rallying for in Canada, it seems.
Hundreds of Buddhist monks marched down Burma streets in September, risking their lives in a reach for democracy. In contrast, the West only unify when it’s time to see Santa on his greenhouse gas-spewing float.
Parades are either the ultimate show-off or the ultimate embarrassment to the Western countries. Roads are blocked, cars are detoured through longer routes and a huge amounts of garbage is created, not for a cause—but for Santa Clause.

Being Human is Still Glorious

Humans have been taking a lot of flack lately. We are blaming ourselves for soiling our own nest, polluting our only home—destroying the planet Earth. But humans are the ultimate example of nature corrupting Nature.
Humans are still a part of Nature, and Nature is the most glorious entity possible. Nature, in whichever way you view it, creates the most beautiful, incredible things, like waterfalls, flowers, eagles—and humans.
To turn against humans is to turn against Nature. All creatures deserve equal chance on this planet, but it does not mean that other creatures have to realize this fact. Predatory animals will hunt until their prey is decimated, without guilt—all for the sake of self-preservation. But in doing so, the predator does not realize that it is hunting itself into extinction. Nothing is immune to fault, and this is the fault of Nature, and a fate that humans have shared.
Evolution has granted us the means to destroy our creator—but who says that if lions ruled the world, they wouldn’t cause even more havoc? Our minds have developed faster than our bodies; we are superior minds with bestial hearts—these are things we cannot control.
It has been said that war is human stupidity at its best; but war is also humanity at its most primal. Animals have territory just as we have borders, except ours are marked with concrete walls instead of piss and smell. Even the most seemingly complacent of creatures will fight to its death to maintain its territory, just as millions of people have done over human history—so we conquer because we can, and we should be proud to have lasted this long.
Some god is kicking himself for giving us so many creative traits, because we have surpassed deity status—humans are now mortal gods. Have you ever seen a god portrayed with a Blackberry, or anything that seems remotely modern? No—because we possess what any god could not create, and our creativity and curiosity have granted this.
So, as we have destroyed beauty, we have also created it—a sort of beauty replacement. Even in primeval ages, sub-humans were depicting their kills in the most aesthetically pleasing way they could on the walls of their caves. As our current waste and wars pile up around the world, humans are still trying to express their creativity in ways that make up for the ugliness of our polluting habits.
Humans have evolved so much that they no longer have to be in the same vicinity to kill one another. We have tamed other creatures and made them our slaves. We have developed ways of communicating over vast distances without getting out of our luxurious homes. We are amazing.
Nature is a cruel place, and humans have obviously not escaped this reality. We may be mortal gods, but Nature is the one real law we must obey. We can try and overcome its ways, but in doing so we will only destroy ourselves. The world may be our oyster, and ours to destroy, but we as a part of nature will perish with our achievement.
Have we reached the pinnacle of human society? Do our rapid advancements correlate with the worsening storms, a sign of an impending split between nature and man, which will result in an ultimate battle that will destroy all life? No.
Humans as a race are only guilty of naivety. We didn’t realize how much impact we were having on our home, just as a pack of wolves devours the last elk in the forest. So that is a fault of Nature’s, not ours. We have survived by conquering the world, and that is the greatest achievement of all time.
Anti-human advocates promote their views by way of talk, but they still continue to reap the rewards of being human. Celebrating birthdays, being involved in relationships and even breathing are all activities that anti-humans should not participate in—if you are anti-human, you better kill yourself fast, because you are what you are against, and every moment you live is a hypocritical action. To hate humans is to hate yourself.
Every individual human may not deserve admiration, but as a race, humans deserve respect. We have only done what nature has allowed us, and when Nature has had enough of its creation, it will let us know—unless we destroy Nature first. Humanity may be a plague on the Earth, but it is a disease the Earth asked for.

Media, Death and Civilized Blood Sport

Death is a private matter. A person’s last moments are their most personal—time to say good-bye, to make amends and to savour the life flashing before dimming eyes. But modern media has made what should be reserved for family and loved ones a public event.
Then again, death speaks loudly. If people need to make a statement, or shock others to action, then showing the reality of human demise is the way to go. Watching someone die on TV or the Internet can be like looking into a possible future. People ask themselves: Could that be how it will end for me?
People watch simulated death all the time on movies and video games. They are being desensitized with every gory scene they view or every virtual bludgeon they give to Xbox opponents. But is this the way people prepare themselves for their own impending doom?
Throughout history blood sport has been hailed as the ultimate entertainment. Romans, Mayans and many other cultures show that people love to watch gladiators slice through a slave or see a crowd stone a criminal—people have been watching people die since people were people.
So, how come it now seems so wrong to publicly present a person’s last strangled breath? Wasn’t that prime entertainment back in the day? Death still lives on as entertainment in films such as Faces of Death and Traces of Death.
To stress an issue, to prove a point or to get some answers, broadcasting death is the way to go—it is the ultimate emphasis. One only needs to look at this past month to see how death can turn incidents into atrocities.
In Japan, there have been incidents of dolphin culling. But after seeing the video highlighted by Hayden Panettiere, with the ocean turning violently crimson with each wave and each mammalian life taken, people are now aware that it is an atrocity of dolphin slaughter taking place, not just an incident.
The same is true for the taser incident at the Vancouver International Airport. Before the video came out, the public thought of it as just another tasering incident. But the film shows otherwise, and the strangled last breaths of the dying man reveal even more.
People relate to death because it happens to everyone—death is human. But is viewing death humane?
Besides a few cases of extroverted suicides, living creatures don’t usually go somewhere public when they know they are about to die. A family pet will go lay in a corner, a terminal patient will attempt to go home—as common as it is, death is still a mysterious thing.
But some living things do not get the dignity of a secluded death. Robert Dziekanski, the Polish immigrant who was tasered YVR, did not get that luxury. Neither did Eugene Armstrong, an American whose decapitation was posted on the internet.
It is hard to choose between respect for the dead and knowledge for the living. In October of this year, a 405-year-old clam was dredged from the bottom of the sea, which ironically died while scientists were counting its rings to determine its age.
Death finds everyone—it just matters if there is a camera around when it does. And with cameras posted everywhere from the street to cell phones, there’s a good chance someone will record your last breath.

Miga-chu, I Choose You…As the 2010 Mascot

Everyone say “Nee how” to the official mascots of the Vancouver 2010 Olympic Games.
Almost immediately after their unveiling on the morning of November 27, Internet message boards flooded with mixed reactions to the three new characters. But by saying mixed, it is meant that the response was negative with a very light sprinkling of praise.
These new mascots look more like Asian cartoon characters than West Coast icons. The fact that they are not concrete animals, just imaginary creatures, reflects the ongoing theme of 2010's unrealistic goals and confused outlook. Sumi (an animal spirit) is a horrible rip-off of Haida culture; Quatchi (a sasquatch) looks like a cross between the Kokanee spokesfoot and Barney Gumble from the Simpsons.; and Miga (a sea bear) looks like the result of a panda bear and cat mating gone awry.
Two of the creatures, Sumi and Miga, can transform. Is the “transforming creatures” idea just a grab for more dough? (“Well, you’ve got the bear-form of Miga, but what about the whale-form? Gotta collect ‘em all!”) Or was it that VANOC just couldn’t make up their minds about which animal to exploit?
The selection for the official mascot can be difficult. The chosen creature has to be able to participate in all of the Olympic and Paralympic sports. It also must be appealing to children, as kids are the biggest market for the mascots in toys and apparel. This explains why a salmon was not the best candidate, as fish would only be able to participate in the Paralympic sports due to the fact they do not have two legs. Anything edible was also not a good choice, because whichever meat market the mascot reflected might take a financial hit since children would protest to eating “Sammy the Olympic Salmon” or “Venison the Olympic Fawn.”
A trip to the 2010’s mascot website offers a more thorough introduction to the three freaks of nature, and passing a cursor over their pictures reveals the distinct voices of each. Sumi sounds like he is excitedly discussing VANOC’s habit of legally pursuing small businesses in Vancouver (Sue me!!), Quatchi repeats his name in a voice vaguely reminiscent of Ludo from the movie Labyrinth and Miga is a blatant rip-off of Pikachu from Pokemon.
Internet polls suggested the “spirit bear” was a popular favourite amongst the public, along with the killer whale, harbour seal and raven.
The two previous Canadian Olympic mascots were Amik the Beaver (1976, Montreal), which looked like a turd on a stick, and the brother and sister bear team of Hidy and Howdy (1988, Calgary), who probably hindered the Spirit Bear’s chance at becoming the mascot of Vancouver.
The Olympics are a venue for sport, but they are also an excellent place to showcase national and international issues. VANOC had the chance to present a mascot that could make a strong statement, but they seem to have enough controversy on their plate. An Inukshuk holding a club and a dead seal would have been a good representation of Canadian life. Drawing from current events, “Timmy the Taser” could’ve been the new mascot to greet our foreign guests at the airport.
Other more valid representations of West Coast life include:

“Hastings the Hobo”
“Jimmy the Needle”
“Pokey the Pine Beetle”
“Ricky the Rice Wine”
“Peter MacKay the Dog”
“Emerson the Defective MP”
“Bobby the Bedbug”

Whatever people think about the choice, everyone can breathe a sigh of relief with the discovery that VANOC did not go the Power Rangers route that Beijing 2008 did—or did they? (Miga could be Jingjing the Panda’s sister.) But unlike Vancouver, Beijing did choose animals (fish, panda, antelope and swallow) that are edible—probably because trying to find an animal the Chinese don’t eat would prove far too challenging. They even added Haunhaun, a “child of fire,” for easy accessible cooking of the other mascots.
So, like them or hate them, get ready for another two years of Sumi, Quatchi and Miga bombardment. Don’t worry; they are only out to kill you—with love.

Stephen vs. Stephane

I have always had a healthy interest in politics—I listen to politicians in moderation and exercise my right to vote. In high school social studies, I delighted in composing cheesy jokes about party whips and large caucuses. I also admired Jean Chretien, not always for his stance on issues or the ethics of his party but for his all-out crazed toughness. He could crush a protestor’s face and take a pie in his own just as easily.
So when Chretien left and the Liberal torch was passed, I didn’t envy the party for having to replace him. Where could they find someone as tough as him? Certainly not wimpy Paul Martin.
Now Stephane Dion is the federal Liberal Party leader—and he seems to be the final nail in the Liberal coffin. The Liberals need a leader who can communicate with the people, especially now when their popularity has waned so much. Dion might actually be a great choice, but the English-speaking public has no idea because we can’t understand what the hell he is saying. Where Chretien made up for his lack of English fluency with strength and charisma, Dion comes across as a scared bleating lamb.
But, to give him some credit, Dion is to the English as Stephen Harper is to the Canadian French. After the Liberal Party elected Dion last year, I thought they had failed miserably with their choice of candidate. But then I attended a press conference held by our current prime minister, Harper. During this conference he announced funding for Fraser Valley dike rehabilitation, and then took (carefully selected) questions from reporters. A Quebecois reporter queried Harper: Harper had him repeat the question, then stumbled through his garbled French response, tripping over every word. He looked like an idiot.
So, one could argue that it is not he who speaks the best English but he who leads the country the best. But then one could retort with the fact that the English population outweighs the French by millions, so it is the Anglophones who overrule. I will just remind people to be patient when dealing with those with strong, muddled accents because they may actually have something significant to say—you’ll just need an interpreter.

Bear in Mind

It’s rare to find a forest now that doesn’t reside in the shadow of high rises. So it’s understandable, what with our encroachment on their habitat and food sources, that bears and other wildlife find our garbage scrumptious— you would too if you had nothing else to eat.
It’s actually amazing that such huge animals manage to stay hidden from sight most of the time—but when they do come out, how does a regular citizen make a decision that is in the best interest of the animals and the community?
Conservation officers remind us to “stay calm, never turn and run, face the animal and make it aware of your presence” when you come into contact with black bears, the most common bear in the Lower Mainland. But after you’ve survived a run-in, the choice between animal and surrounding humans can be tough. Calling a conservation officer may be a call to certain death for a bear, but it may save your next door human neighbour. Not only that, but an armed person may take things into his own hands.
Our local bears are getting ready to hunker down for their annual hibernation, so that means they have to stock up on food and fat—that means your discarded leftovers. Why can’t the bears get their own damn food? Well, because humans have destroyed their homes and tempted them with easy meals.
It’s an increasingly prevalent problem in the suburbs—and even in busier cities—so how does a citizen make the right choice when the answer is so complicated? Some of the bearsafe requests made by BC’s Ministry of Environment seem contrary to our current green thought processes— what is good for some creatures is bad for others. Conservation officers frown on outdoor composting and encourage homeowners to chop down any unattended fruit trees to make backyards less appealing.
Like most problems, prevention is the best course of action. An easy step in saving the furrier members of our towns is in the way we deal with garbage: Keep it in your garage or in bear-proof containers, and wait until the day of collection to put it out. Don’t let lazy people continue to kill bears—it’s easier to kill then relocate.

Bomb Me Baby One More Time

Ignorance is easy to maintain when students are sheltered from the world. It is not deliberate—if kids are never allowed the exposure, they might grow up thinking that puppies rule the world and there is no such thing as genocide. Ignorance is bliss— and I have been blessed with it for far too long.
The Canadian public school system failed me in a few ways, but mainly on its presentation of history. While I was celebrating my friend Katie’s birthday, Rwanda was drowning in a torrent of hate-driven slaughter. I ate cake and smiled while children my age had their limbs hacked from their torsos by blunt machetes—and I had no clue.
I wasn’t deliberately ignorant; it’s just that no one discussed this in school. I never knew about the Rwandan genocide until years later when I watched Hotel Rwanda, which made me feel like an unaware jerk. How could something so devastating occur in my lifetime without my knowledge?
No one really cares about Africa— you hear it all the time: “Those negros are killing themselves, it’s their own fault.” “Why don’t they just stop having sex? Then the population, hunger, and the AIDS problems would all be solved.” “They should rise up against their corrupt governments and take back the donations that have been stolen.”
History is repeating itself in Darfur. Millions of Africans are dying from various causes and the West doesn’t care. But maybe if we taught our children about the horrors of war and genocide when they are still young then a sense of caring would be instilled within them as they grew? Isn’t that the point of history class—to learn from the past to have a better future?
History classes in public schools all have a Canadian viewpoint, as they should, but some main and recent acts of history are left out—we weren’t even allowed to watch Schindler’s List in my high school. I appreciate Lois Riel and all, but a little less Red River Riot and more Dieppe may have helped boost patriotism within students, too.
Recently, I devoted a day to watching documentaries on You Tube about Rwanda. From there, I moved onto Bosnia and Cambodia. I’d heard scatterings of these stories on the news, but obviously not to the gory extent that I discovered on my own.
It’s not like my knowing about the carnage would change anything—one girl can’t stop a genocide— but learning about them has changed my viewpoint on other races, and given me compassion for the millions that have died during these slaughters or have sought refuge in our peaceful-by-comparison country. Just acknowledging the plight of others can make you a better person.

The Good, the Bad and the Disgustingly Ugly

There is some sick shit on the Internet.
You can look up anything and view it in text, photo or video form. And it needs to be seen. All of it. It needs to be brought to light and discussed, because, at the risk of sounding like Hedy Fry, atrocities are being committed every day, all over the world—and there is no other way to know about many of them other than the Internet.
Knowledge is power; but knowledge has to have balance, so that includes the dark side of life, too. Combating the bad things on this planet require learning about them first. There is hypocrisy to those who eat beef but refuse to watch cows being slaughtered, or racists that support the Nazis but never watched footage from concentration camps—you need the facts before you can make the statements, and consequently, the action.
Internet material needs to be examined closely, though, not just absorbed. Fact is so easily manipulated by technology that uproar can be created over the silliest of things, (ex Bonsai Kittens) which can become counterproductive.
When exploring the darker side of life via the web, it’s easy to get tangled up in it. Farce is so realistic now that an open mind may let in hoax after hoax—but that should not prevent a person from witnessing truths.
It is not morbid to request reality; it will feel wrong, it can feel sick, but seeing where your food comes from should be mandatory for all humans. Vegetarians can watch fruit harvests, and meat-eaters can witness chickens being boiled alive.
Seeing the truth about something, whether it is a human-rights violation or a freaky sexual fetish, can inspire, comfort or scare a person. Everything in life needs to be examined—the good, the bad and the disgustingly ugly.
Dogs and cats are being brutally skinned alive in Asia, their fur passed off as faux and sold as trim on popular coats in Canada. Innocent people are being dismembered in countries for participating in the most benign of activities. Disfiguring diseases can strike even the most ¸
Shock can spur people to action, whether it’s a letter, article or a volunteer aid trip to Africa—there are things that need to be seen in this world, voices that were silenced before they got an audience.Check out the ghosts of the past, easily accessible with the click of a mouse.

Not All That They Seem....

Sometimes they come on after the news on weekends, their highly contrasted eyes large and bright against their dark skin. They seem unaffected by the flies crawling over their faces, and their malnourished bellies seem to protrude from the television screen and bump against your heart—all the while a voice tells you that you can help, you can make a difference in these children’s lives.
The voice says that for the price of a daily coffee you can feed a child in Africa. He says that if you give so much money a month, you can sponsor a child. Your money will go towards feeding, clothing and housing the poor and hungry orphans of AIDS or the disabled children of conflict.
But how the hell can a sponsor be so sure?
Aid organizations that have a religion in their name blatantly shout out to the followers of that faith to send money, but simultaneously dissuade people from other beliefs from wanting to help. How does a sponsor know if her money is going to feed a child rice or the body of Christ?
Although it is always important to give people hope—especially the young—giving faith before food is a waste of money; but it’s easier to force others to their knees when they are starving.
But it is not only religiously associated organizations that deter potential donations—animal aid societies flip-flop on their positions so much that it is hard to know if your money is going to help or hurt creatures you want to save.
Recently, Greenpeace, an international environmental organization, flipped their stance on the killing of kangaroos in Australia. In a report released to the media they stated the consumption of kangaroos could cut down on the greenhouse gases and land clearing directly related to rearing conventional livestock.
This new “eat roos for the climate” attitude is contrary to the 1986 film Greenpeace released called Goodbye to Joey where they criticized the slaughter of the Aussie marsupials.
This Greenpeace report has obviously caused dismay in animal lovers and those that who enjoy small drumsticks. Nowhere is this more apparent than on the website for Sea Shepherd, an organization created out of Greenpeace rebellion. Founder and president of Sea Shepherd, Paul Watson, left Greenpeace after he used physically forceful methods to stop the killing of baby seals.
Since Watson has prior animosity with Greenpeace, it makes sense that Sea Shepherd would jump at the chance to point out Greenpeace’s sudden hypocrisy.
Sea Shepherd portrays themselves as an action-oriented organization that sails around the world fighting evil in the form of unlawful whaling boats and any other illegal offenders; their ships have been known to ram fishing vessels and the crew has been filmed fighting seal hunters. If you love the sea and would like to make a difference, Sea Shepherd seems to be the “real deal”; donating to or volunteering with them sounds like the way to go.
But even Sea Shepherd causes questions to arise when it comes to assisstance; if you want to volunteer on of their “all-vegan” crews, you need to fill out a form—and become a “member” by paying a fee of $100. Paying to even be considered as a volunteer for a dangerous voyage where you will be giving up time, energy and possibly your clean criminal record seems a little much.
But as far as hypocritical tactics and iffy donation results go, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) have raised more controversy than all the Jesus-prompted help organizations combined. PETA’s advertising campaigns have compared livestock operations to the Holocaust and displayed nude celebrities endorsing anti-fur; the society has released undercover investigations and even video games to promote their cause.
Then in 2005, two PETA employees were charged with animal cruelty after it was discovered they were euthanizing adoptable pets and throwing the carcasses in dumpsters. Co-founder of PETA, Ingrid Newkirk, has made several statements that have caused companies, fellow animal-rights groups and the public to be highly offended.
So, as just one person, how do you make a difference once you’ve decided you want to? Who do you trust with your well-intentioned, hard earned donations?
The organizations mentioned above have done incredible things for their causes; but some of their actions cause potential donators to wonder what they might be contributing to. The Canada Revenue Agency is a good resource when deciding what charity to go with, but there is never a guarantee that your money or time is going to the exact person, animal or cause that you intended. Charity is an unconditional force—it should not consider whether a person converts his or her faith before getting food, an animal is cute before getting shelter, or a disease is marketable before being researched.

The Appeal of Dr. House

Dr. Gregory House is considered unconventional.
Besides the fact that he is addicted to painkillers and sometimes gets his patients drunk, the moody doctor does whatever it takes to get to the bottom of a patient’s problem; the dramatic TV show House revolves around his need to solve mysterious ailments. The show is a hit, but I reckon it’s not just because viewers enjoy watching the disabled doctor harass his subordinates—it’s a deeper illustration of the state of Western healthcare.
Those watching House get to indulge themselves in a medical fantasy where doctors will do anything to find the cause of their illness—not just treat their symptoms.
Western medicine has long been accused of bandaging surface problems and not healing the whole self. Whether it is an issue of money or a lack of patience, the quick fi x is the way to go for doctors on our continent. It doesn’t matter if you fully believe in the folkpracticing ways of Eastern and Chinese traditional medicine—you have to admit that focusing on the broader picture in terms of your whole body and your health instead of a specific warning sign seems only logical.
And if you are unlucky enough to be in the 18 percent of Canadians that do not have a general practitioner, then you know full well the sad state of walk-in clinics. Although clinics admittedly exist to relieve emergency room wait times, and not to continually treat full-time patients, much of the population relies on this fast-food version of healthcare because of a lack of family doctors. But seeing a different doctor every visit not only adds inconsistencies to your treatment, it can also invite medical mistakes since patient records may be scattered throughout various clinics.
But, recently, a study was published in Archives of Internal Medicine that noted the unproductive, and sometimes uncomfortable, nature of physician check up chitchat—so even those with regular GPs do not escape doctor related difficulties.
So, how come a drug-addicted, rude man has become the epitome of dashing medical professional?
Because, although his efforts may seem irregular, a doctor who puts more thought into how he is going to cure his patients rather than what he is going to say to them is what we need more of— patients want to know honest answers from their doctors, not what the doctors had for lunch. Perhaps, if every doctor were as much of a detective as Dr. House is, we’d all be in better shape.

A Response to My Article

Letter to the Editor

Criticize Celebs, But Don’t Stoop to the Shock-Jock Level
FROM READER

Pussy? Whore? Spearhole? The article “Worshipping False Idols with False Eyelashes” [October 11 issue] falls short of its promise of cultural criticism, and instead rests on the premise created by the very culture it is trying to criticize: when all else fails, say (or do) something crass. Such enthusiastically mean writing is hypocritical in that it embraces the cruel shock-jock mentality even while it derides the culture that created it. Hatred of specifi c superstars isn’t a viable solution to commercialism. In fact, it’s the other side of the same coin; the very act of arguing about whether or not Britney Spears is a whore, a degenerate, or an unfi t mother is crass consumerism no matter what your conclusions are.
The article contains valuable insights into consumer culture, but it is fl anked on both ends by more unfortunate hatred to fuel the fire, and it is my opinion that the author needs to take one step back and gain some rhetorical perspective. There are already too many Perez Hiltons in the world of celebrity writing.

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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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.

Shut up.

Some people are too stupid to realize that they are too stupid for philosophy.

Vaccinated with lies?

Over the past few months, I, like many women, have been inundated with TV commercials discussing the dangers of contracting the Human Papilloma Virus (HPV). Not only is HPV a sexually transmitted virus, which no one ever wants, but the ads also tell me that HPV causes cervical cancer. As a woman under 26, I should be vaccinated against this increasingly common virus, because, according to the jolly women in the commercials, most people who have it are not aware they are infected.
Initially, I thought this was a great idea. Anything that defends me against cancer is a good thing, right? But then I read a MacLean’s article titled “Our Girls Aren’t Guinea Pigs,” which discussed the dangers of the new Gardasil HPV vaccines, and it caused me to take a step back and review the situation.
In the article, complications, and even deaths, from the vaccine were outlined, and I was amazed with how I had been so blindly influenced by the media. The Gardasil vaccine is clearly not perfect, to say the least, and its testing has been limited. Long-term effects and benefits are not guaranteed…so why was I so eager to roll up my sleeve? Clearly, I am not immune to advertisement-induced brainwashing. But how come this topic affected me so much when smoking, Cheetohs and Ford commercials had failed to influence my spending habits? It was because I felt threatened.
These ads made it seem that if I did not get vaccinated, I would get cancer, and slapping the big C word on this product is a great sales tactic. And I was so worried about cancer that I didn’t even think of the vaccine as a product; but that is exactly what it is. Someone must pay for it, and a company will benefit—and at the moment, Gardasil has a monopoly on Canada’s HPV vaccine market. Threaten and scare the young women into consuming—keep them in fear so that they don’t ask questions, that they don’t wonder what is being injected into their young bodies.
So, when Gardasil tote bags and other propaganda were handed out in the concourse in the first week of classes, I had to wonder who authorized such an obvious marketing ploy. I thought it a strange coincidence that on Tuesday I was reading the MacLean’s article bashing the needles out of the vaccine, and on Wednesday I was holding a doorknob hanger that read, “Do not disturb! Unless you want to talk about Gardasil.”
This product is for “girls and young women aged 9 to 26 years of age.” I am in no way suggesting that women not protect themselves from cancer and STDs, but before putting anything in your body (or your daughter’s), remember to ask the necessary questions to ensure you don’t leave the doctor sicker than when you got there. And also remember that good ole condoms will protect you from more than HPV (when used properly).
So maybe next year the college will hand out something useful rather than tote bags with advertising that tiptoes around its true intent. Condoms at least don’t pretend to be something they are not; they are straight to the point and honest in their presentation, possibly making some people uncomfortable. But Gardasil hides behind its packages and slogans when safe sex is really the message everyone needs to address.

What it’s like to get your first lap dance

(from the Other Press, Sept 2007.)

It was shaping up to be a classy night. Invited by a friend to watch his girlfriend strip, I stood in the bar admiring the scenery. Girls in fancy underwear stalked men all around me; I could hear snippets of the sexy spiels that they used to entice patrons to pay them for a lap dance.
They had expert sales pitches, and reminded me of when I used to hawk cell phones for a living. I had hated coercing my clients into purchasing items that they might not need; it felt as though I was selling my soul. So, it was unfathomable to me as to how these women could flash their flesh for a few bucks; but I wasn’t about to mention that now.
After being there for an hour, a girl with a particularly ample bottom approached my friend. After the exchange of whispered words and money, I was told to follow her. I was confused, but I don’t usually argue with half-naked women.
She led me into a curtained room, and I sat on a bench. I realized that I was about to get my first lap dance. As curious as I was about what was about to happen, I couldn’t shake the awkwardness out of my voice when I tried to make conversation while she spread a towel over my legs.
Her actions were definitely rehearsed, but not mechanical. As she danced and undressed before me, she held my gaze with her vacant eyes; I had to look elsewhere to avoid getting lost in them. Once nude, she moved onto acts that I had not been expecting in a lap dance; but as I said before, I don’t argue with naked women.
I am not sure how lap dances usually end, but mine ended very abruptly. I left the room with mixed feelings of need and confusion colliding in my brain. My flushed cheeks announced to the bar what I had just been a part of, but no one seemed to notice.
I mulled over the situation as I nursed a beer; that lap dancer had just made one hundred dollars in six minutes.
I wondered who, out of the two of us, was the stupid one: the girl who made lots of money by simply showing off her naked body, or me, the student whose income may never compare. I wondered who, in regards to a stripper/patron relationship, had the power, and who was being exploited.
But realizing that no one needed philosophy in a titty bar, I finished my beer and kept my mouth shut.

Back Up for a Sec!

Well!
I have been unable to write in the blog for a while now because of some glitch! It seems to be fixed now, unfortunately for you!

Back to school!

Alright, so I guess (if anyone should care) there will be more action on this blog again as I am back to school, and will be adding articles, reports, stories and such to share with all my no fans.

Thanks if you care!!

I'm a girl!

Hope?

I have been quite ill, and I apologize to my no readers for not keeping this updated. I am in selfish-sickness mode, and have been destroying everything in my path.

Angel?

Water

I fill my life up with pictures because I have forgotten all the words.

Bring It On

Rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength.
-Eric Hoffer

Dead Cow

Pup

Lay down on the Lawn

...because you are a blade of grass that only grows to be trodden on.