Waste, American-Style

Chris Jordan knows a little bit about waste and decadence.

Seems like everywhere the poor guy looks, he sees the effects of our causal, flippant throw-away society, as well as our inability to sense the true scale of our collective footprint. In his 'Running the Numbers' series of images, painstakingly assembled from large quantities of smaller images, he hopes to set the scale and perhaps finally aggrandize our perception of the issues of our consumptive demeanor. We consume almost everything in vast and staggering volumes. From the artist, a point:

"Statistics can feel abstract and anesthetizing, making it difficult to connect with and make meaning of 3.6 million SUV sales in one year, for example, or 2.3 million Americans in prison, or 426,000 cell phones retired every day."

Humanity suffers from a catastrophic near-sightedness combined with a deific sense of self-importance, the results of which clog our waterways, render our air unfit and have hastened a holocaust of epic proportions toward endemic, and environmentally important, species. Perhaps, by showing the statistics the way they really should be seen, visual, tangible, one man can truly begin to make a difference by setting a perspective shift in motion.

Running the Numbers
An American Self-Portrait

More Dreck, Bollywood Edition. Tights, Camera... Aspirin!

Well, in addendum to my previous post about the glamourously horrendous and miraculously profitable Bollywood industry, I submit the following. Incredulous comments to follow.

...

I mean, what the fleshy pink hell was that?!!? Oddly enough, you cannot look away. I dare you. Go, ahead, try. Even if you vomit, you will most likely end up doing so on your keyboard, as YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO LOOK AWAY. I wonder what their powers are? Perhaps he can bend steel, but not as well as he can mangle a note. I think her power is merely 'Arse Wiggling' and 'Warbling'. That is the biggest 'S' I have ever seen on any iteration of Superman... and those legs! The man looks like a blue popsicle (OR 'ice lolly' as they say in the colonies), those gams look like they've been stripped of all flesh and left reedy and skeletal. Dig those orthopedic shoes, Supe's gotta be comfortable with all that standing akimbo in the face of danger, ya know.

If given the opportunity to have my sole 15 minutes of celluloid fame, and the only two choices allowed were between having to effect the above routine, costumes and all, or fellating a goat on a bed of nails, covered in honey and hungry ants with three shaven chimps beating me with split bamboo rods in the midst of a hurricane in a razor blade factory, i'd most likely choose the goat. Less humiliating, and they'd let me kiss the bloody goat.

She has a nice arse, though. That's meant as a compliment. Gotta love the ladies. And their arses.

Worst Dreck Ever, The Celluloid Edition

I take it back. 'mad Love' was not the "worst ever" pile of craptacular celluloid nonsense. The Drew Barrymore dreck-fest may be worthy of the pungent pantheon that the following clips command, but it merely holds the sweaty jock straps and sits on the bench as the following Heavyweights thunder and pound ample chest for the masses.

Why am I not suprised to find Bollywood fare in and amongst? That particular industry is a scourge on celluloid and nerve endings everywhere, and needs to be stopped, no, destroyed with a fury currently unbeknownst to man. Then we can all 'almost-kiss' and break out into high-pitched song and pseudo-synchronized dance to celebrate. To quote the venerable Hicks from the near-Shakespearean 'Aliens'(1986), "Best to nuke it from orbit, only way to be sure."

Indeed.

True, Fascinating and Useless Entertainment Facts and Trivia.

Rob Zombie, the director and musician with a goulish bent, responsible for some hair-raisingly brutal and twisted aural and visual treats, apparently began his entertainment career as a production assistant on Pee-Wee's Playhouse.

Anyone who has seen the children's show in question will probably not find this news to be all that shocking.

Rob's remake of the John Carpenter cult classic, HALLOWEEN, will be in theatres this August.

Kelly Clarkson! Kelly F**king Clarkson!

Kelly Clarkson has a new album or something, maybe it's a diet video, or some pilates thing coming out soon. While I find her music puerile and vomit-inducingly bad, filled with banal, prepubescent navel-gazing idiocies, I have found that one kernel of goodness. Within the video below lies a gem of a realization.

She actually admits, for the world to hear, that her music is indeed SHITE. well, call it paraphrasing, but when an 'artist' freely and openly admits that nobody likes her caterwauling, and even her friends and handlers openly despise her ouvre, then I think the term 'shit' is aptly and rightly appropriate. Thus, pay attention to the front end of the following interview:

Kelly Clarkson excited over upcoming summer tour

Well, I may not be a musical genius like Yo-Yo Ma, or David Lee Roth, but I think that when a musician actually admits to her utter crappiness, it's time to hang up the hair extensions and take a final bow.

Got that, Ashlee?

The Quotable Chicken

"When I was kid, I was told i had something called a future."

Do parents still tell such horrible, horrible lies?

A Mother's Day.

So, Mother's day come and gone. Great story on the TEE-VEE about how the initial concept of mother's day became perverted, toned town and commercialized. Just as wee baby Jesus' (not Morales) birthday was not initially intended as an end-of-the-year toy dump for the toy industry and reason to get shitfacedly drunken in the midst of total strangers, the original North American Mother's day was a solemn and heart-wrenchingly beautiful gesture.

In 1870, Julia Ward Howe wrote the Mother's day proclamation, a 'treaty' which called for those enbroiled in the harsh and bloody battles of the American Civil War, to lay down their weapons and work towards peace. Of course, this was all to be done in the spirit and sympathy towards the American mother, who were losing their sons in what seemed to be an increasingly futile series of campaigns. The concept is as apt today as it was then, with the endless and devastating march of our shattered sons and daughters to the dark, wretched pall of a human body bag, blindly lifted high upon the wings of an iron pigeon bound for home... But only for an instant, then dropped, quietly, hidden from view, into the near forgotten oblivion of an unjust grave, with only a mother and family to lament. The government dogs, nails soiled and scraped from digging these hasty graves, run foaming and greedy for newer and fresher bones. There is no pain like a parent that outlives a child.

Instead, now, we go for an overpriced brunch and buy her limp flowers from the convenience store. Or we make a phone call. Send discount candy. Crappy cards.

Look at you mother again. And, for the first time... Look at her as if for the last time. Life is delicate, and fleeting... For all of us. Don't let the card companies cheapen it.

Well, How Cool is This!?

I mean, Michael Myers! C'mon! Halloween! Stabby! Scary! Knife-y!

I am actually looking forward to this. I love Halloween, kids. More than Christmas, Santa claus is a fat git. Candy, and costumes. Bloody hell.

Eco-Cite: Finally, Zero-Impact Living.

Well, I'll be. My hometown, one which I never plan to return to, has put itself on the map, and this time, not for the elevated murder/suicide rate nor it's teenage pregancy problems.

I could go on about this project, but the site and blog do a better job than I could ever hope to do. Give them a peek.

With a delightful combination of thermal heating and solar panel technology, the hopes are that the building will be able to generate and maintain it's energy needs without having to be completely dependant on an external grid. During the day, it would essentially feed the grid, and, at night, or in periods of higher need, it would then withdraw, hoping to maintain a zero balance. Cool idea, helped in part by the inclusion of energy-efficient appliances and whatnot. The existing grid then becomes a two-way account, collecting, storing and dispensing.

I'll be damned. I went on about it.

We're Not Satisfied Until You're Not Satisfied

Are my posts not fulfilling, sort of like those sugar-free muffins that have no dates or raisins in them? I take great pride in the fact that I ramble on incoherently. Even the banner above looks haphazard, an infantile mishmash of junk, with a screeching chimp thrown in, because all the world loves a chimp. I could have drawn it, I can actually draw quite well... but I did not, I just did a half-assed Google search. I even misspelled 'Chimp' (chmp, if you must know), further evidence of my laziness.

Anyhow, go here, buy a trinket... get me something while you're there. I'd like an ill-fitting T-shirt, perhaps, or one of those rubber grommets that keep your pencils from rolling off the desk. Do they sell those?

Despair.com

Tony Blair is Stepping Down

Pardon me, but does anyone finish what they start these days? Tony 'Fuckface' Blair announced his terms and dates for stepping down, right in the middle of a bloody Iraqi quagmire. Bush is losing a lapdog, yes, but i imagine that shaven chimp will be seeing the dirty edge of a curb soon as well.

Who cleans up the bloody mess? Even Hitler saw his junk to the very end. Bloody crumpet-stuffed pussy. ...Makes me miss Reagan, Thatch 'the iron snatch' and Mulroney. They may have been tyrants, but at least they had some balls knocking about down south.

Tail between your legs, Blair.

Shittin' Where We Be Eatin'

Bad case of the humans

We might be evil, destructive and filthy, but, dang! ...Are we fun or what?!

OR WHAT!!!?

David Banner? No, Chimpzilla Banner! What you say?!

Look at that new banner WITH YOUR EYES! It's sassy.

Hey, ho, whoa... Whaz-zis?!

Fer Chrissakes. Can't get my new banner the right size. Everybody stop what you are doing and help. This is more important.

Funky, Funky.

Keepon Dancing to Spoon

I find pleasure in the simplest things. Like this robot. And masturbation.

Correction: 'Correction:"Jesus" Claims'.

Ah, who'm I kidding?

...I really meant Jesus, son of that God dude, yesterday. Well, AND Jesus 'sand-eater' Morales, I rock his shit like no tomorrow. The author regrets the further confusion.

Ah, the Modern Child...

What the hell happened to hello kitty, care bears and spankings? Used to be, I'd get beaten for THINKING this shit. Now, we think it's cute to slap it on our kids' chests. And we wonder why they dress like whores when they turn twelve? Beh! Bah!

I liked it better when kids cringed in fear. FEAR!

"Mom, can I pierce my ears?"

"WHAT?! YOU LITTLE TRAMP! GET OUT, WHORE! HUSSY! WE DISOWN YOU!"

Ah, the 'good old days'.

Correction:"Jesus" Claims.

By "bigger than Jesus", I meant Physically, and by "Jesus", I meant Jesus Morales, the kid who lives three blocks down and eats sand when his mother isn't looking. The author regrets the error.

I'm Bigger Than That 'Jesus' guy!

Does Jesus have a movie named after him? No? I can't hear you. I really can't.

What kind of wacko talks at their computer anyhow?

Lower Case 'e'.

I'm not sure what everyone is on about. Certainly the environment takes back seat to the fact that there is a new Spider-man (note proper hyphenation) film and old so-and-so has shaved her head. Certainly.

Come on, the 'environment' is outdoors, people...! when's the last time you went 'out of doors'? Walking to your car? Did you get injured doing so? No? Well, then, not your worry! Who are these people?

Forbidden Sandwich Recipe, Beyond Compare.

Recipe.

This blog is a fountain of knowledge. And I am hung like a swollen rhino. Be careful with this recipe, it is delicious enough to kill.

File under, 'death by condiments'.

also, Lookit!!!! These shoes are from the future, but here, now! How is it so?! I don't know!

My Dog Squeaks.

Spring is Calling?

Some guy at my company went for a smoke on Friday afternoon and wound up driving back home to Vancouver, never to return. He didn't even give notice, just hopped into his buggy and bolted. A dot on the horizon. Just drove away.

Talk about living the dream. Too bad it's gonna screw up his team, here. Balls like watermelons.

Bronson Chip Update

The Bronson chip, sadly, did not survive the weekend. It has been summarily eaten. That is all.

Lofty, Schmofty.

Hey, Monday morning! Bliss! Work!

Following tradition, well, new tradition at least, I will provide a brief and uninspiring window (intrusion) into my exploits. Sorry, quality is extra.

I have been packing for a move. I will be leaving the vast confines of my cavernous loft for the comfort of an apartment with amenities such as ‘rooms’. Loft living for some is bliss, for me, less so. Not a day went by where the rafters did not beckon my neck, so profound was the isolation. I’d relish the sound of retiree hacking phlegm at one in the morning as the signs of life in my concrete prison were nil.

Yes, it was pretty enough, a spacious area with a nice island on which to cook (which I didn’t) and a large veranda/deck on which to entertain (which I don’t), all stucco and brick and pretentiously placed railroad ties and ‘charming’ little windows which I could never cover due to their ‘eccentricity’.

But, not for me. The isolation is such that I crawl out from said rock every morning and slink home late every night, just to crawl into bed and close my eyes at the vastness. The place needs a couple or some such, and it rues my presence, quite nearly mocking me in its echoing vastness, making my furniture look insignificant, and my attempts at cozy-ing it up nearly futile (sigh, those red shower curtains, they looked fine at Home Depot)…

So, I will take flight to the comfort of rooms and neighbors who do not roll their eyes at my cloying attempt at cajoling them into tea, and instead sleep each night in the comfort of an abode which abides by my particular mental and social requirements.

Oh, I realized all too late I need to purchase another six-pack of underpants. Why always late Sunday do I realize this?

Labels?

What's this 'labels' horseshit? Shouldn't they be invisible? Bad.

The Bronson Chip Conundrum

SEE? Another post... so soon!

I have ten toes! TEN! TOES!

I have a potato chip which, if you turn it just so, has the unmistakeable profile of a certain Charles Bronson. I am saddened that it is not a holy icon, as Charles Bronson's stock has dipped of late, probably due to his being irreversably dead.

More!

I have pledged, for now perhaps, to write here as often as possible.
This means, volumetrically, the quantity will rise. If you are of a certain mindset, then, this is good news. However, as in all things, quantity will generally outstrip quality, and the overall standards will most likely collapse into near-laughability.

Oddly, instead of sleepless nights, I find that I slumber quite solemnly.

After all, we live in a world where we have ‘luxury’ jeans and ‘quality’ fast food. If they are allowed the leeway to fool themselves and others, the same may be extended to my person as well.

So, fart jokes are in, cerebral humor is out by the seat of its brain-pan. What? Debate the issues? No, useless and uninformed opines are now paramount here. Respectful retorts are now rightfully replaced with insulting, terse tirades, even in the face of careful and determined thought. No longer need you sit through another dull pontification on the merits of self-respect and self-awareness, I am slipping off the ascot and slipping on the hot pants.

Penis and Vagina... RUN!

My ex-girlfriend is getting married to some ass-pilot who used to purport to be my 'pal'. I hope their Frigging genatalia fall off.

Now, I'm not bitter. I just want what everyone else wants for them. Just so long as everyone else wants them to be locked in a room full of ravenous blood-bees.

COME AND GET IT, BIZNITCH!

Should I continue this blog? Show my face, and allow it to be punched publicly? Since nobody is looking right now, maybe I can post all kinds of crap, without repercussions?

The trees in BC are dying, the news told me so, so I will make it my goal to personally kick the shit out of those pine beetles. Then, i'm going to personally filter the rivers and lakes with my own kidneys and get the pollution out. Then, I'm going to hoof every policy wonk in positions of power in the hairy beanbag.

And that's just a start. I 've bought new shirts for the affair. Mountain-pine boring beetle killing shirts.