STRANGER
Written for Taya, February 2003
Careful breezes
Ease the burning in my blood
A change in seasons
Turns this blizzard to a flood
And every time I try
To bury my doubt alive
Resurfacing
I'm climbing up too high
(Chorus 1)
This is the feeling that shakes me
This is the meaning that makes me whole again
Deconstruction
Shake the structure of this hope
A loss of function
Leave me dangling from my rope
And every time I try
To kiss this pain goodbye
Rebuilt in me
I'm building this too high
Repeat Chorus 1
(Chorus 2)
You are the anger that drives me
My life is the stranger that grinds me down again
Dreaming so dangerously
Teetering perilously
Hold on... hold on...
And every time I dive
You're keeping me alive
Rebuilding me
From the apple of my eye, these seeds I harvest
Planted on a foundation of trust
The fruits of my labour have soured
The father within me devoured
I'm climbing higher by the hour
And over me you still tower
And every time I die
I bury the past alive
Resurfacing
Resurfacing in me...
February 27, 2004
SPIDERHOLES
Written February 2004
One of the latest in the Willie anthology. Quite obviously, this song is inspired by the capture of Saddam Hussein. And, while I'm not pleading for mercy on his behalf, I thought it'd be interesting to write a song that was lyrically from what I imagined as his point of view, no doubt tired, scared, and weak from months of hiding. The photos of Saddam after his capture didn't really show me a merciless monster; more like a weary old man with sad, dying eyes, knowing full well that his days have been numbered. That made me think about what the reaction would be if, in his most vulnerable moment, he saw the error of his ways, and made a teary-eyed apology for all of his misdoings. Naturally, I guessed, people would still call for his head. But, even still, I have to wonder who among us would be able to forgive a man so menacing and threatening if he were to raise the white flag, as it were.
After even more thinking, I came to the conclusion that it doesn't fucking matter what happens to Saddam. There's always a new menace waiting in the wings. We can put Saddam Hussein to death for his crimes against humanity, but it won't keep these crimes from happening again.
******
I'm fucking tired
Don't want to run no more
What am I hiding for?
Don't I know the war is over?
Hello out there
Don't shoot, I'm coming out
My time is running out
And I want to live for just a little while
The hands of time, they can't be shook
And I can't give back the things I took
So I surrender
I give in to your power
Here in my weakest hour
Looks like you caught me cowering
There's no forgiveness in your eyes
I need to atone for all of my lies
I don't expect your sympathy here
At least, I don't expect it to be sincere
When you're as hated as I
Nobody cries
I'm fucking sorry
But that's not good enough
You'll gladly call my bluff
Be it truth or fable
Hello out there
We're off the air
And you wouldn't care
But the war is over now
And when they shoot me, it's just the death of a menace
A sigh of relief, breathing life to the campaign
When you see me, I'm just another dead menace
A martyr to keep you safe from the terror reign
Until the cycle begins again...
The war is never over...
Written February 2004
One of the latest in the Willie anthology. Quite obviously, this song is inspired by the capture of Saddam Hussein. And, while I'm not pleading for mercy on his behalf, I thought it'd be interesting to write a song that was lyrically from what I imagined as his point of view, no doubt tired, scared, and weak from months of hiding. The photos of Saddam after his capture didn't really show me a merciless monster; more like a weary old man with sad, dying eyes, knowing full well that his days have been numbered. That made me think about what the reaction would be if, in his most vulnerable moment, he saw the error of his ways, and made a teary-eyed apology for all of his misdoings. Naturally, I guessed, people would still call for his head. But, even still, I have to wonder who among us would be able to forgive a man so menacing and threatening if he were to raise the white flag, as it were.
After even more thinking, I came to the conclusion that it doesn't fucking matter what happens to Saddam. There's always a new menace waiting in the wings. We can put Saddam Hussein to death for his crimes against humanity, but it won't keep these crimes from happening again.
******
I'm fucking tired
Don't want to run no more
What am I hiding for?
Don't I know the war is over?
Hello out there
Don't shoot, I'm coming out
My time is running out
And I want to live for just a little while
The hands of time, they can't be shook
And I can't give back the things I took
So I surrender
I give in to your power
Here in my weakest hour
Looks like you caught me cowering
There's no forgiveness in your eyes
I need to atone for all of my lies
I don't expect your sympathy here
At least, I don't expect it to be sincere
When you're as hated as I
Nobody cries
I'm fucking sorry
But that's not good enough
You'll gladly call my bluff
Be it truth or fable
Hello out there
We're off the air
And you wouldn't care
But the war is over now
And when they shoot me, it's just the death of a menace
A sigh of relief, breathing life to the campaign
When you see me, I'm just another dead menace
A martyr to keep you safe from the terror reign
Until the cycle begins again...
The war is never over...
SHITHAMMER
Written December 2003
As some will attest, inspiration strikes in the strangest moments. In the case of "Shithammer", it struck twice. For starters, I confess to being a total geek, to the extent where I play 'Magic: The Gathering' with friends. I won't bore you with a lesson, but suffice to say there's a certain Magic card we've dubbed the Shithammer. Basically, I thought to myself that Shithammer would make a great title for a song.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks before Christmas. I was driving back from a visit to Woodstock, coming back through Fredericton via Highway 8, passing through Marysville. I saw a sign that I think mentioned some sort of beautification project sponsored by the federal government. A line was born in my head, and it had nowhere to go but out. Of all the songs I've written in my life, this one stands as the only one to ever be written (mentally AND physically) while driving. I don't condone the act of writing while driving, but I didn't really want to stop driving OR writing. Regardless, looking back, it's funny how a simple little sign can birth what I think is a pretty scathing social commentary. Enjoy.
Underneath the silvery shimmer of your federal beautification
There's rust spots poking through the pretense
It's leading me to think that maybe I should bury myself in blankets
These raindrops smack of putrid promises...
And please don't say anything more (4x)
You told me it was coming up roses, but the stench proves you a liar
No glory; integrity is a pipe dream
You hammered me with bullshit, but now we've set the bags on fire
So sorry, but you're burning unless you stomp it clean now
And please don't say anything more (4x)
Stepping with your swagger in the execution style
In a game of inches, you've been looking for a mile
Push the button, pull the trigger 'til the nation's hanging loose
Leave the population swinging on a bureaucratic noose
I'm calling you a fucker, since you want to turn the screws
Take your head out of your ass for a different point of view
And maybe when the cities burn, and order is refused
You'll realize that we've all turned out just like you
And please don't say anything more (4x)
Written December 2003
As some will attest, inspiration strikes in the strangest moments. In the case of "Shithammer", it struck twice. For starters, I confess to being a total geek, to the extent where I play 'Magic: The Gathering' with friends. I won't bore you with a lesson, but suffice to say there's a certain Magic card we've dubbed the Shithammer. Basically, I thought to myself that Shithammer would make a great title for a song.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks before Christmas. I was driving back from a visit to Woodstock, coming back through Fredericton via Highway 8, passing through Marysville. I saw a sign that I think mentioned some sort of beautification project sponsored by the federal government. A line was born in my head, and it had nowhere to go but out. Of all the songs I've written in my life, this one stands as the only one to ever be written (mentally AND physically) while driving. I don't condone the act of writing while driving, but I didn't really want to stop driving OR writing. Regardless, looking back, it's funny how a simple little sign can birth what I think is a pretty scathing social commentary. Enjoy.
Underneath the silvery shimmer of your federal beautification
There's rust spots poking through the pretense
It's leading me to think that maybe I should bury myself in blankets
These raindrops smack of putrid promises...
And please don't say anything more (4x)
You told me it was coming up roses, but the stench proves you a liar
No glory; integrity is a pipe dream
You hammered me with bullshit, but now we've set the bags on fire
So sorry, but you're burning unless you stomp it clean now
And please don't say anything more (4x)
Stepping with your swagger in the execution style
In a game of inches, you've been looking for a mile
Push the button, pull the trigger 'til the nation's hanging loose
Leave the population swinging on a bureaucratic noose
I'm calling you a fucker, since you want to turn the screws
Take your head out of your ass for a different point of view
And maybe when the cities burn, and order is refused
You'll realize that we've all turned out just like you
And please don't say anything more (4x)
NOUGAT
Written January 2004
I try to shy away from cheesy love songs so, of course, this one's kind of a cheesy love song (although the music in my head when I read the lyrics over is actually pretty heavy). But, more importantly, it's about knowing something feels right, and wanting to hold onto it. The title, of course, refers to the sweet middle contained within certain tasty chocolate bars. Now, when I eat a chocolate bar, I'm a little whacked out in that I'll nibble all the chocolate off the outside, saving the nougat for last. Not to say it's the best part of the bar, but i's kind of the goal I work for. Weird, huh? Anyway, if you want the Coles Notes of what this song is all about, I'd say it's about that moment when you realize that you've found something (or someone) who is just... right. And, for me, that's not so far removed from tediously nibbling all that chocolate away, and finally being rewarded with the nougat inside.
This isn't over by a long shot
We've got the makings of a classic here
Let's sit back and see what happens
I'm kind of partial to your atmosphere
I like it here
(Chorus)
I don't want to go without you
You've got your purpose
And you serve it well
So I don't want to go around you
I want to see what's under your shell
I think you've quite the tale to tell
May the afterlife be post-coital bliss
I always smile after the screaming
I'll suck the agony from your poisoned kiss
Just please don't wake me if I'm dreaming
You're gleaming
Repeat chorus
And you stole your voice from an angel
I'd follow your song to the gates of hell...
(Bridge)
Shine your light on me, oh, blind me with its grace
I don't need to see, just let my fingers reach your face
Bring your life to me, oh, kill me with its breath
'Cause we're nose to nose, and heaven knows if hell is all that's left
Don't hold back now
Show me everything...
I've got the feeling this is something worth starting
I get the feeling this is gonna work out in the end
I want to sing your praises forever
I want to scream it so loud, everyone remembers...
Written January 2004
I try to shy away from cheesy love songs so, of course, this one's kind of a cheesy love song (although the music in my head when I read the lyrics over is actually pretty heavy). But, more importantly, it's about knowing something feels right, and wanting to hold onto it. The title, of course, refers to the sweet middle contained within certain tasty chocolate bars. Now, when I eat a chocolate bar, I'm a little whacked out in that I'll nibble all the chocolate off the outside, saving the nougat for last. Not to say it's the best part of the bar, but i's kind of the goal I work for. Weird, huh? Anyway, if you want the Coles Notes of what this song is all about, I'd say it's about that moment when you realize that you've found something (or someone) who is just... right. And, for me, that's not so far removed from tediously nibbling all that chocolate away, and finally being rewarded with the nougat inside.
This isn't over by a long shot
We've got the makings of a classic here
Let's sit back and see what happens
I'm kind of partial to your atmosphere
I like it here
(Chorus)
I don't want to go without you
You've got your purpose
And you serve it well
So I don't want to go around you
I want to see what's under your shell
I think you've quite the tale to tell
May the afterlife be post-coital bliss
I always smile after the screaming
I'll suck the agony from your poisoned kiss
Just please don't wake me if I'm dreaming
You're gleaming
Repeat chorus
And you stole your voice from an angel
I'd follow your song to the gates of hell...
(Bridge)
Shine your light on me, oh, blind me with its grace
I don't need to see, just let my fingers reach your face
Bring your life to me, oh, kill me with its breath
'Cause we're nose to nose, and heaven knows if hell is all that's left
Don't hold back now
Show me everything...
I've got the feeling this is something worth starting
I get the feeling this is gonna work out in the end
I want to sing your praises forever
I want to scream it so loud, everyone remembers...
February 26, 2004
It's No Adult Film Star, But It'll Do
Well, I've now completed one week of my new job. For those of you who missed it, I am now a QAR (Quality Assurance Representative) for ICT here in the 'chi. I must say, it's MUCH more nerve pleasing than my last go 'round, which quite literally almost gave me a nervous breakdown. This job is something I think I can do for a lot longer than three weeks, if they don't lay me off by then. Apparently, at the west side location (I'm on the south side), 40 people have been laid off this week. Let's hope that's where it stops, because I'll be damned if I'm flippin' burgers up in this motherfucker.
Anyway, that's the good news. The bad news is, because of the schedule layout, I have to work every second Saturday. Not so bad, really, but did they have to make me work on both Saturdays when Gnosh and Obsidian Reign are playing shows together? I was really looking forward to that shit, too.
Speaking of stuff I'm going to miss, my daughter Taya's sixth (!) birthday is on Friday. For those who don't know, seeing my children involves a 3-1/2 hour drive, which isn't happening when I'm working 4:30pm-1am.
Regardless, it's completely staggering when I think about the fact that not only do I have children, but my little baby girl is almost six years old. To those of you who are fortunate to hold your children every day, I say savour these moments, for they leave us far too soon.
So, even though I know she won't read this, I send out the happiest of birthday wishes to Taya. I love you, and hope I can visit you really soon.
Um... sorry 'bout the downer. I try to keep a smile on my face, but this time of year kind of runs me through the wringer. Hopefully by the time next week rolls around, I'll have a brand new PV to offer. Let's hope.
Until next time, be safe. And, call someone you love.
THREAT LIKE ME
Written October 2003
I wrote this happy little ditty around the time my unemployment cheques were on the verge of expiring, I was working little to no hours for my part-time job, and I thought I was losing my grip on sanity. More than anything, it's an anthem to attest to the fact that, no matter what kind of bullshit you go through in life, the only important thing is that you do, indeed, go THROUGH it. A simple little acoustic number that I actually recorded, and I think it turned out okay. Maybe it'll end up on my forever delayed debut album.
You know what you're doing
All stoned and triumphant, and vividly conscious
But it's better than losing
Lately, I'm losing much more than I wanted
You smile, and I'll stay for a while
Until the bottles are emptied, and our judgment's defiled
You say, "It doesn't get better than this"
But if it was so good, then I wouldn't have bandaged wrists
(Chorus)
Oh, so many ways to go
Many a threat to be seen
But, of all of the dangers I know
I've never known a threat like me
I've got me a thimble
It holds all my dreams without spilling a drop
When you feel you're in limbo
You can't hope to climb, because the fall never stops
You sigh, a few hours go by
Until faith's just a memory we confuse with a lie
You say, "How did we ever come to this?"
But if I knew the answers, I could've loosened my fists
Chorus
Well, I've now completed one week of my new job. For those of you who missed it, I am now a QAR (Quality Assurance Representative) for ICT here in the 'chi. I must say, it's MUCH more nerve pleasing than my last go 'round, which quite literally almost gave me a nervous breakdown. This job is something I think I can do for a lot longer than three weeks, if they don't lay me off by then. Apparently, at the west side location (I'm on the south side), 40 people have been laid off this week. Let's hope that's where it stops, because I'll be damned if I'm flippin' burgers up in this motherfucker.
Anyway, that's the good news. The bad news is, because of the schedule layout, I have to work every second Saturday. Not so bad, really, but did they have to make me work on both Saturdays when Gnosh and Obsidian Reign are playing shows together? I was really looking forward to that shit, too.
Speaking of stuff I'm going to miss, my daughter Taya's sixth (!) birthday is on Friday. For those who don't know, seeing my children involves a 3-1/2 hour drive, which isn't happening when I'm working 4:30pm-1am.
Regardless, it's completely staggering when I think about the fact that not only do I have children, but my little baby girl is almost six years old. To those of you who are fortunate to hold your children every day, I say savour these moments, for they leave us far too soon.
So, even though I know she won't read this, I send out the happiest of birthday wishes to Taya. I love you, and hope I can visit you really soon.
Um... sorry 'bout the downer. I try to keep a smile on my face, but this time of year kind of runs me through the wringer. Hopefully by the time next week rolls around, I'll have a brand new PV to offer. Let's hope.
Until next time, be safe. And, call someone you love.
THREAT LIKE ME
Written October 2003
I wrote this happy little ditty around the time my unemployment cheques were on the verge of expiring, I was working little to no hours for my part-time job, and I thought I was losing my grip on sanity. More than anything, it's an anthem to attest to the fact that, no matter what kind of bullshit you go through in life, the only important thing is that you do, indeed, go THROUGH it. A simple little acoustic number that I actually recorded, and I think it turned out okay. Maybe it'll end up on my forever delayed debut album.
You know what you're doing
All stoned and triumphant, and vividly conscious
But it's better than losing
Lately, I'm losing much more than I wanted
You smile, and I'll stay for a while
Until the bottles are emptied, and our judgment's defiled
You say, "It doesn't get better than this"
But if it was so good, then I wouldn't have bandaged wrists
(Chorus)
Oh, so many ways to go
Many a threat to be seen
But, of all of the dangers I know
I've never known a threat like me
I've got me a thimble
It holds all my dreams without spilling a drop
When you feel you're in limbo
You can't hope to climb, because the fall never stops
You sigh, a few hours go by
Until faith's just a memory we confuse with a lie
You say, "How did we ever come to this?"
But if I knew the answers, I could've loosened my fists
Chorus
February 18, 2004
ALL 38 PISSING VINEGARS NOW POSTED
Due to concerns raised by a petition of concerned Pissheads (aka I was planning on doing this anyway, but wanted it to seem REALLY important), I have copied all of my previous PVs and re-posted them on this blog. It makes for a brutally difficult task trying to find a specific one at this point, but we'll work on that some other time. For now, you can officially enjoy all 38 PVs (including one I posted at GWN the other day), and all future installments of the series, right here at {radio voice}shawnwilliston.blogspot.com{/radio voice}
Due to concerns raised by a petition of concerned Pissheads (aka I was planning on doing this anyway, but wanted it to seem REALLY important), I have copied all of my previous PVs and re-posted them on this blog. It makes for a brutally difficult task trying to find a specific one at this point, but we'll work on that some other time. For now, you can officially enjoy all 38 PVs (including one I posted at GWN the other day), and all future installments of the series, right here at {radio voice}shawnwilliston.blogspot.com{/radio voice}
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 38: And The Award For Best Cock Eating Fuck Goes To...
Written February 12, 2004 - Originally posted at Great White Noise.com
Okay, here's the sitaution...
I think that, though they were never that much better to begin with, awards shows in general have degenerated into a public, glamorized round of head for the big corporations. I mean, at one time they kind of almost meant something, but now?!... Look at the Grammys, once the highest accolade an artist could ever aspire to achieve. But now, they're a joke, just like the rest. I'm sorry, but I can't find an ounce of respect for an awards show that gives hardware to Evanescence and Christina Aguilera. There are thousands of truly great artists out there who will never taste any measure of success because the uninspired, unoriginal nu-metal soundalike stylings of Evanescence is lauded as the best in new talent, the example of what all artists starting out should strive for. If taking music that was popular five years ago, rehashing it, and selling it under the false guise of originality just because you changed one component of the formula (in Evanescence's case, the groundbreaking revelation that the singer's a CHICK) is the wave of the future, remind me to never make a fucking record.
Hell, the fact that Fountains of Wayne was nominated in the same category proves that the suits are clueless wankers who ask their grandchildren who's hot before offering up their nominees. I mean, sweet fucking Christ, Fountains of Wayne have released at least three albums, and have been active as a major label group for at least seven years... and now, suddenly, they're a "new" group, just because it took this long to get one of their songs played on the radio. Mind you, the association members essentially allowing preteens to do the work for them does have its benefits. At least Jethro Tull hasn't won anything since the infamous "heavy metal" farce. Although, some twelve years later, does anyone else find it ironic that the same band we thought was robbed by Jethro Tull is the same band we thought robbed virtually everyone else on the nominee list this year?
Anyway, if there's a point in all of this, it's that I refuse to take any awards show too seriously. It's not the be all, end all for artists. Just because you win a nice, shiny trophy, doesn't mean you won't be upsizing my fries this time next year. There are only two purposes these shows serve anymore... 1) To gather a slew of celebs together for a night of drunken debauchery that will no doubt land some of them a load of cheap publicity after they embarass themselves after too many Cognacs (unless your name is Colin Farrell, in which case we're all immune to your tomfoolery)... and 2) To keep Joan Rivers working.
So, in closing, there's no need to watch the Junos this year. Nickelback will win a shitload of awards despite their horribly nauseating unoriginality; Swollen Members will win a shitload of awards despite the fact that their latest album is so incredibly bad, not even a Todd MacFarlane cover could get the fucking thing out of the record stores; Barenaked Ladies will win a shitload of awards despite the first single on their latest album being about postcards of fucking chimpanzees (I know NO ONE who will admit to liking that piece of dogshit song); Shania Twain will win a shitload of awards despite not even being nominated (I'm sure they'll invent a new one just for her); Our Lady Peace will show up, just to remind you that every day, in every way, they're getting closer to becoming Nickelback; Three Days Grace will win Best New Artist because they're touring with Nickelback; and a host of really talented Canadian artists (i.e. The Weakerthans, New Pornographers, Moneen and The Salads)... WON'T... GET... SHIT.
Oh, and some washed up hack that none of us have heard of will get a lifetime achievement award because one of his/her songs was once featured in an episode of "Jake and the Fatman".
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Written February 12, 2004 - Originally posted at Great White Noise.com
Okay, here's the sitaution...
I think that, though they were never that much better to begin with, awards shows in general have degenerated into a public, glamorized round of head for the big corporations. I mean, at one time they kind of almost meant something, but now?!... Look at the Grammys, once the highest accolade an artist could ever aspire to achieve. But now, they're a joke, just like the rest. I'm sorry, but I can't find an ounce of respect for an awards show that gives hardware to Evanescence and Christina Aguilera. There are thousands of truly great artists out there who will never taste any measure of success because the uninspired, unoriginal nu-metal soundalike stylings of Evanescence is lauded as the best in new talent, the example of what all artists starting out should strive for. If taking music that was popular five years ago, rehashing it, and selling it under the false guise of originality just because you changed one component of the formula (in Evanescence's case, the groundbreaking revelation that the singer's a CHICK) is the wave of the future, remind me to never make a fucking record.
Hell, the fact that Fountains of Wayne was nominated in the same category proves that the suits are clueless wankers who ask their grandchildren who's hot before offering up their nominees. I mean, sweet fucking Christ, Fountains of Wayne have released at least three albums, and have been active as a major label group for at least seven years... and now, suddenly, they're a "new" group, just because it took this long to get one of their songs played on the radio. Mind you, the association members essentially allowing preteens to do the work for them does have its benefits. At least Jethro Tull hasn't won anything since the infamous "heavy metal" farce. Although, some twelve years later, does anyone else find it ironic that the same band we thought was robbed by Jethro Tull is the same band we thought robbed virtually everyone else on the nominee list this year?
Anyway, if there's a point in all of this, it's that I refuse to take any awards show too seriously. It's not the be all, end all for artists. Just because you win a nice, shiny trophy, doesn't mean you won't be upsizing my fries this time next year. There are only two purposes these shows serve anymore... 1) To gather a slew of celebs together for a night of drunken debauchery that will no doubt land some of them a load of cheap publicity after they embarass themselves after too many Cognacs (unless your name is Colin Farrell, in which case we're all immune to your tomfoolery)... and 2) To keep Joan Rivers working.
So, in closing, there's no need to watch the Junos this year. Nickelback will win a shitload of awards despite their horribly nauseating unoriginality; Swollen Members will win a shitload of awards despite the fact that their latest album is so incredibly bad, not even a Todd MacFarlane cover could get the fucking thing out of the record stores; Barenaked Ladies will win a shitload of awards despite the first single on their latest album being about postcards of fucking chimpanzees (I know NO ONE who will admit to liking that piece of dogshit song); Shania Twain will win a shitload of awards despite not even being nominated (I'm sure they'll invent a new one just for her); Our Lady Peace will show up, just to remind you that every day, in every way, they're getting closer to becoming Nickelback; Three Days Grace will win Best New Artist because they're touring with Nickelback; and a host of really talented Canadian artists (i.e. The Weakerthans, New Pornographers, Moneen and The Salads)... WON'T... GET... SHIT.
Oh, and some washed up hack that none of us have heard of will get a lifetime achievement award because one of his/her songs was once featured in an episode of "Jake and the Fatman".
Here endeth the ePISSle.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 37: Powerless
Written September 6, 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
Upon looking at my guestbook recently, I realized that some of you actually dug on past installments of Random Hostility (millions, apparently, though this site has garnered not even 6700 hits as of this writing). Regardless, it’s my opinion that if one person voices an opinion on a subject, it surely warrants an entire PV. With that in mind, I present an entire PV on one subject. Enjoy!
So, here’s the Coles notes… last weekend, Carrie & I moved two floors down in the apartment building we live in, settling into what is arguably the best apartment in the complex (certainly better than the attic). Seriously, it’s fucking great, and I’d suggest for you all to come and visit sometime.
Anyway, the fatal flaw turned out to be the fact that we didn’t call NB Power to get our hook up at the right time. See, apparently, we’re the first instance in history of people moving on a Saturday. Because of this, no one was available to flip the switch until, we were told, Tuesday. Bullshit! Why the fuck is it so impossible for someone to flip a God damn switch (they can do the fucking thing over the phone now, or so I hear) and give us our power? Well, apparently, it’s quite a burden, so much so that they’ve instituted a policy wherein you must call at least 24 hours in advance to hook up your power.
Okay, so we thought of it as a camping trip, and made the most out of what light we had in the daytime, unpacking as much as we could, and moving the frozen food to Carrie’s parents’ place. Fast forward to Sunday evening, when our landlord finally decides to let us know that we could use his extension cord and tap into the hallway power. I guess we had to give him 24 hours notice too. Anyway, we were still in the dark, but at least we could watch TV (ultra super bonus: the cable hadn’t yet been disconnected, so we didn’t have to miss an episode of Six Feet Under… it’s fantastic, catch it Sundays at 11PM AT on Showcase).
Before we knew it, it was Tuesday and, after a long weekend that seemed like a week, we’d finally have power. So, Carrie calls to set it up, only to be informed that the power couldn’t be hooked up. Why, you ask? Well, apparently, our measly $87 power payment was ONE DAY LATE, so nothing could be done until we were square. Now, due to circumstances I’ll no doubt outline in a future PV, I didn’t receive my unemployment payment until Friday, and due to the long weekend, Carrie wasn’t getting hers until Wednesday. So, in order to get our power hooked up, we had to borrow $87 from Carrie’s mom and pay the fucking bill first. We do just that, and we’re moments away from getting our power back.
What, you didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you? When we called NB Power back after paying the bill, they informed us that we’d have our power hooked up on Wednesday, due to the twenty-four hour notice they require (I thought we gave notice on Saturday when we told them we had no fucking power). Disappointed and somewhat angry, we took on the “whatever” attitude, and that was that. The next day, expecting our power to be on in all its glory, we wake to none. Carrie calls again, and is informed that they COULD hook the power up that day, but that it would cost an additional $50 because (get this) there hasn’t been enough notice given, and it therefore qualifies as an “emergency hookup”. At wit’s end, Carrie orders the fucking emergency hookup, and on Wednesday afternoon we have power after FOUR DAYS in the dark.
Now, when I look back on the situation, I realize that this is what we get when one of our most essential of all needs is monopolized. If there were a competitor vying for our energy dollars, do you really think there would be such thing as an “emergency fee”? How about this 24 hours notice bullshit? Hell, I bet if there were competition in this province, they’d be racing their trucks over at the first sign of you moving into a place. Shit, they’d be all over you like goth chicks at a funeral.
I’m not saying that we absolutely need a second choice for power around here. What I AM saying is that NB Power should probably get their shit together, and stop pissing people off in case we DO get a second choice in the future. You know, I think back to that really fucking bad ice storm we had a few years ago, and I remember how NB Power linesmen were commended for their hard work in restoring power to the thousands of homes affected in the province. I kind of think that the adulation got to their heads, because they’ve been coasting ever since. A rate hike here, a new fee there, we’ll get to your power when we feel like it… maybe we need another disaster to whip these fuckers into shape. How much does it cost to get a hurricane to put New Brunswick on its itinerary, anyway?
At the end of the day, though, I have to wonder. What if we had decided to move in January instead of September? What if we had to spend the four coldest days of the winter in the dark because of an inane set of fucking technicalities? That thought is truly enough to make you feel utterly and completely powerless.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
P.S. This actually did start out as Book Six of Random Hostility, but my anger got so focused and thorough for NB Power, it certainly ended up warranting its own PV. Maybe next time, Dok.
Written September 6, 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
Upon looking at my guestbook recently, I realized that some of you actually dug on past installments of Random Hostility (millions, apparently, though this site has garnered not even 6700 hits as of this writing). Regardless, it’s my opinion that if one person voices an opinion on a subject, it surely warrants an entire PV. With that in mind, I present an entire PV on one subject. Enjoy!
So, here’s the Coles notes… last weekend, Carrie & I moved two floors down in the apartment building we live in, settling into what is arguably the best apartment in the complex (certainly better than the attic). Seriously, it’s fucking great, and I’d suggest for you all to come and visit sometime.
Anyway, the fatal flaw turned out to be the fact that we didn’t call NB Power to get our hook up at the right time. See, apparently, we’re the first instance in history of people moving on a Saturday. Because of this, no one was available to flip the switch until, we were told, Tuesday. Bullshit! Why the fuck is it so impossible for someone to flip a God damn switch (they can do the fucking thing over the phone now, or so I hear) and give us our power? Well, apparently, it’s quite a burden, so much so that they’ve instituted a policy wherein you must call at least 24 hours in advance to hook up your power.
Okay, so we thought of it as a camping trip, and made the most out of what light we had in the daytime, unpacking as much as we could, and moving the frozen food to Carrie’s parents’ place. Fast forward to Sunday evening, when our landlord finally decides to let us know that we could use his extension cord and tap into the hallway power. I guess we had to give him 24 hours notice too. Anyway, we were still in the dark, but at least we could watch TV (ultra super bonus: the cable hadn’t yet been disconnected, so we didn’t have to miss an episode of Six Feet Under… it’s fantastic, catch it Sundays at 11PM AT on Showcase).
Before we knew it, it was Tuesday and, after a long weekend that seemed like a week, we’d finally have power. So, Carrie calls to set it up, only to be informed that the power couldn’t be hooked up. Why, you ask? Well, apparently, our measly $87 power payment was ONE DAY LATE, so nothing could be done until we were square. Now, due to circumstances I’ll no doubt outline in a future PV, I didn’t receive my unemployment payment until Friday, and due to the long weekend, Carrie wasn’t getting hers until Wednesday. So, in order to get our power hooked up, we had to borrow $87 from Carrie’s mom and pay the fucking bill first. We do just that, and we’re moments away from getting our power back.
What, you didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you? When we called NB Power back after paying the bill, they informed us that we’d have our power hooked up on Wednesday, due to the twenty-four hour notice they require (I thought we gave notice on Saturday when we told them we had no fucking power). Disappointed and somewhat angry, we took on the “whatever” attitude, and that was that. The next day, expecting our power to be on in all its glory, we wake to none. Carrie calls again, and is informed that they COULD hook the power up that day, but that it would cost an additional $50 because (get this) there hasn’t been enough notice given, and it therefore qualifies as an “emergency hookup”. At wit’s end, Carrie orders the fucking emergency hookup, and on Wednesday afternoon we have power after FOUR DAYS in the dark.
Now, when I look back on the situation, I realize that this is what we get when one of our most essential of all needs is monopolized. If there were a competitor vying for our energy dollars, do you really think there would be such thing as an “emergency fee”? How about this 24 hours notice bullshit? Hell, I bet if there were competition in this province, they’d be racing their trucks over at the first sign of you moving into a place. Shit, they’d be all over you like goth chicks at a funeral.
I’m not saying that we absolutely need a second choice for power around here. What I AM saying is that NB Power should probably get their shit together, and stop pissing people off in case we DO get a second choice in the future. You know, I think back to that really fucking bad ice storm we had a few years ago, and I remember how NB Power linesmen were commended for their hard work in restoring power to the thousands of homes affected in the province. I kind of think that the adulation got to their heads, because they’ve been coasting ever since. A rate hike here, a new fee there, we’ll get to your power when we feel like it… maybe we need another disaster to whip these fuckers into shape. How much does it cost to get a hurricane to put New Brunswick on its itinerary, anyway?
At the end of the day, though, I have to wonder. What if we had decided to move in January instead of September? What if we had to spend the four coldest days of the winter in the dark because of an inane set of fucking technicalities? That thought is truly enough to make you feel utterly and completely powerless.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
P.S. This actually did start out as Book Six of Random Hostility, but my anger got so focused and thorough for NB Power, it certainly ended up warranting its own PV. Maybe next time, Dok.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 36: Sobeys - Ready To Unnerve
Written September 6, 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
Convenience. It’s what many a business prides itself on. And, when that business just happens to be a major corporation, a little thing like convenience goes a long way in establishing a trusting relationship with people like you and me, the average consumer. In addition, one would think that this convenience factor would go over a whole lot bigger when the corporation in question specializes in providing us average consumers with some of our most basic needs. One would think, indeed.
Now, as you all know, there’s nothing I take greater pride in than shitting all over a major business. Take Scotiabank, for instance. The rivalry between me and the unofficial Bank of Satan has been well documented, and I kind of look back on our epic battle in much the same way a prize fighter looks back on the match that made his career. So, when a major corporation pisses me off, you know that you’ll be the first to find out about it.
So, here’s how it went down. Tonight, I chilled at home for a while, doing my usual net whoring routine, visiting all the regular websites. My fiancee was working until just after 1 am, and the fridge and cupboards were practically empty. Now, common sense would dictate that, when one is just about out of food, one would go to the supermarket and stock up. With that in mind, Carrie and I set out for the only grocery store that was open at two in the morning, that being the local Sobeys. Ah, the convenience of it! A grocery store that prides itself on the fact that it’s open 24 hours a day! Surely, this store knows all about serving the customer’s needs. After all, isn’t their slogan “ready to serve”?
Apparently, this is some sort of sick corporate joke. But, I’m not laughing.
The first sign of trouble was the one that read, “Please use the parcel pick-up entrance between midnight and 7 am”. No big deal, though. Sure, we had to practically walk to the other end of the store, then walk all the way back to the other end to get a cart, but hell… that’s just logical. So, we walk into the store, and the one clerk on duty is talking to one of the stock boys. Not uncommon, it must get a little boring in there all night, so it’s nice to have someone to talk to. However, the first word I hear when I enter this den of convenience… is “shit”. Honest mistake, to be sure, but let’s get one thing straight. When I go to a fucking store, I don’t fucking like hearing your fucking potty mouth, motherfucker.
I let it slide, though. After all, it could have happened to anyone. And besides, we’re not there to cause trouble, just pick up some groceries. I guess I must have missed the memo that said getting groceries after midnight WAS trouble.
Allow me to elaborate. See, I realize that not everyone does their shopping at two in the morning. I also realize that, as a 24 hour operation, the stocks have to be shelved sometime. But, for the love of some old woman, what I experienced at Sobeys was nothing short of a gauntlet. The entire store was strewn with boxes, cases and flats. But, that’s not the worst part. The fucking things were scattered all over the God damn aisles, making it impossible to navigate with a cart in many areas. On a few occasions, we literally had to turn around and go back up the aisle we had just come down in order to get to the next aisle, which would normally be a simple matter of turning the cart around the corner. And yet, with all of the obstacles placed in our way, the stock Nazis still did their best to make me feel like I was in THEIR way, when they passed me with yet another palette, no doubt destined for the middle of a fucking aisle.
In fact, the clutter was such an epidemic that there were several items on our list that we couldn’t buy. Not because they were all out, but because there were gigantic stacks of boxes directly in front of what it was that we were looking for.
My point is, stock boys have to do their job. But, do they really have to take ALL of the boxes and palettes and scatter them throughout the store BEFORE actually putting the fucking stuff on the shelves? Is it really too much to ask to take this shit one step at a time? And don’t even get me started about the clerk, who miraculously disappeared when we were actually ready to pay for our fucking groceries.
So, what started out as a quick fifteen minute trip for groceries turned into a forty-five minute tour de farce of ineptitude, disservice and (most importantly) inconvenience. Quite shocking, coming from a chain of stores that is supposedly so ready to serve. Well, it’s my serve, biatch. I’m serving notice to you fuckheads that corporate assholes, even if they are living in our own backyard, are still assholes.
And with that, Sobeys, our battle begins. But, unlike my tussle with the Scotiabank, our battle shall be most brief. Because, my good sirs, this battle, though just beginning, has already drawn to a close… oh, I’m sorry. Was that a little too cryptic for you, Sobeys? Let me spell it out for you… S-U-P-E-R… got that? Good… V-A-L-U. Hell, look at it this way. Even if they don’t know how to spell value, at least they have half a clue of what service really means.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Written September 6, 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
Convenience. It’s what many a business prides itself on. And, when that business just happens to be a major corporation, a little thing like convenience goes a long way in establishing a trusting relationship with people like you and me, the average consumer. In addition, one would think that this convenience factor would go over a whole lot bigger when the corporation in question specializes in providing us average consumers with some of our most basic needs. One would think, indeed.
Now, as you all know, there’s nothing I take greater pride in than shitting all over a major business. Take Scotiabank, for instance. The rivalry between me and the unofficial Bank of Satan has been well documented, and I kind of look back on our epic battle in much the same way a prize fighter looks back on the match that made his career. So, when a major corporation pisses me off, you know that you’ll be the first to find out about it.
So, here’s how it went down. Tonight, I chilled at home for a while, doing my usual net whoring routine, visiting all the regular websites. My fiancee was working until just after 1 am, and the fridge and cupboards were practically empty. Now, common sense would dictate that, when one is just about out of food, one would go to the supermarket and stock up. With that in mind, Carrie and I set out for the only grocery store that was open at two in the morning, that being the local Sobeys. Ah, the convenience of it! A grocery store that prides itself on the fact that it’s open 24 hours a day! Surely, this store knows all about serving the customer’s needs. After all, isn’t their slogan “ready to serve”?
Apparently, this is some sort of sick corporate joke. But, I’m not laughing.
The first sign of trouble was the one that read, “Please use the parcel pick-up entrance between midnight and 7 am”. No big deal, though. Sure, we had to practically walk to the other end of the store, then walk all the way back to the other end to get a cart, but hell… that’s just logical. So, we walk into the store, and the one clerk on duty is talking to one of the stock boys. Not uncommon, it must get a little boring in there all night, so it’s nice to have someone to talk to. However, the first word I hear when I enter this den of convenience… is “shit”. Honest mistake, to be sure, but let’s get one thing straight. When I go to a fucking store, I don’t fucking like hearing your fucking potty mouth, motherfucker.
I let it slide, though. After all, it could have happened to anyone. And besides, we’re not there to cause trouble, just pick up some groceries. I guess I must have missed the memo that said getting groceries after midnight WAS trouble.
Allow me to elaborate. See, I realize that not everyone does their shopping at two in the morning. I also realize that, as a 24 hour operation, the stocks have to be shelved sometime. But, for the love of some old woman, what I experienced at Sobeys was nothing short of a gauntlet. The entire store was strewn with boxes, cases and flats. But, that’s not the worst part. The fucking things were scattered all over the God damn aisles, making it impossible to navigate with a cart in many areas. On a few occasions, we literally had to turn around and go back up the aisle we had just come down in order to get to the next aisle, which would normally be a simple matter of turning the cart around the corner. And yet, with all of the obstacles placed in our way, the stock Nazis still did their best to make me feel like I was in THEIR way, when they passed me with yet another palette, no doubt destined for the middle of a fucking aisle.
In fact, the clutter was such an epidemic that there were several items on our list that we couldn’t buy. Not because they were all out, but because there were gigantic stacks of boxes directly in front of what it was that we were looking for.
My point is, stock boys have to do their job. But, do they really have to take ALL of the boxes and palettes and scatter them throughout the store BEFORE actually putting the fucking stuff on the shelves? Is it really too much to ask to take this shit one step at a time? And don’t even get me started about the clerk, who miraculously disappeared when we were actually ready to pay for our fucking groceries.
So, what started out as a quick fifteen minute trip for groceries turned into a forty-five minute tour de farce of ineptitude, disservice and (most importantly) inconvenience. Quite shocking, coming from a chain of stores that is supposedly so ready to serve. Well, it’s my serve, biatch. I’m serving notice to you fuckheads that corporate assholes, even if they are living in our own backyard, are still assholes.
And with that, Sobeys, our battle begins. But, unlike my tussle with the Scotiabank, our battle shall be most brief. Because, my good sirs, this battle, though just beginning, has already drawn to a close… oh, I’m sorry. Was that a little too cryptic for you, Sobeys? Let me spell it out for you… S-U-P-E-R… got that? Good… V-A-L-U. Hell, look at it this way. Even if they don’t know how to spell value, at least they have half a clue of what service really means.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 35: Kill Bill?! Kill Miramax!
Written August 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
I love the films of Quentin Tarantino. Sure, I’m not the only one, but I like to think of myself as one of his biggest fans. Ever since I first laid eyes on “Reservoir Dogs”, I knew I was onto something special, a feeling that proved itself more than justified with 1994’s brilliant “Pulp Fiction” (a movie I never think twice to call the greatest of all time). Even “Jackie Brown”, though somewhat sluggish, is a movie I found thoroughly entertaining. So, it’s been about six years since we’ve been graced with the presence of a new Tarantino flick at the local cineplex, and I’ve been periodically frothing at the mouth with the prospect of the fourth Quentin film, “Kill Bill”. For those unaware of the movie’s presence, it’s basically Uma Thurman on a bloody mission of vengeance against her ex-husband, who tried to have her killed. She wakes up from a four-year coma, wields a ninja sword, and starts cutting motherfuckers up (apparently, in graphic, gory fashion too). It’s an homage to the ninja flicks of the seventies, and sure to display the typical Tarantino flare as well. Needless to say, I’m stoked.
However, my level of excitement for this movie has dropped dramatically recently. It’s not that I no longer desire to see it, because I do (dear Lord, I do). But, upon visiting the official movie site a couple of weeks ago, I was shocked and disgusted by what I saw, and it wasn’t a bloody scene from the movie.
From all the reports I’ve read, it seems apparent that Tarantino and Miramax are going to try something rather bold with “Kill Bill”. You see, Tarantino’s final cut of the film is about three hours long. And, though three hours can be a bit of a long stretch for some people, nobody seemed to mind sitting through “Titanic” but me. Regardless, the deal is that Miramax has decided to split “Kill Bill” in two, releasing the first part in October, and the second in January.
I’ll give you a minute to read that last sentence over a few times. Let it sink in.
Now that you’ve started to grasp the severity of the situation, I ask you… why should I, or anybody else for that matter, have to spend $18 to see one fucking movie? Let alone the fact that you have to wait three fucking months to see how it ends! It’s a bullshit money-making tactic, and I have a sinking feeling about it (and, by sinking feeling, I don’t refer to “Titanic” in any way, especially the way in which it made such a disgustingly huge amount of money). I fear that this plan is going to backfire, and that Quentin Tarantino is going to lose a hell of a lot of fans over it. I mean, Christ’s nipples on a crucifix! It’s one thing to extend the waiting time rabid fucks like me have had to endure, but to charge us double the admission price? Hell, it almost makes me want to wait for the DVD for spite! But no… I just know in my cholesterol-clogged heart of hearts that I’ll be making the two trips to the theatre for this. And that’s the source of the anger.
See, Tarantino knows he’s got a shitload of loyal fans, who’d give anything to see this fucking movie. A lot of people could give two shits that “Kill Bill” is being released in two parts. Commonly, the argument is, “they’re doing it with the Matrix movies”. Well, back the fucking truck up, Sparky. For one, “Kill Bill” was NEVER intended to be released in two parts during filming, whereas the last two installments of the “Matrix” trilogy were meant to be separated from the get go. For two, the contracts which the “Matrix” actors signed were for two movies, whereas the “Kill Bill” actors signed on for only one. I’m left to believe that all of the actors in “Kill Bill” will have to have their contracts redrawn and, furthermore, they should probably be getting paid double what they were offered. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I’ll bet it doesn’t make a lick of sense to the grab-ass cocks at Miramax.
There’s another reason this is a dangerous venture for Quentin. Now, there is a slight spoiler with regards to the movie’s suggested structure in this paragraph, so if you’re of the type that doesn’t want to hear shit about how the two parts reflect on each other, skip ahead… I won’t get mad. Anyway, though I haven’t read the script, I guess it’s been online for quite a while now. That said, it’s pretty much common knowledge to those who have read it how it will all play out. And, if you believe the hype, the two parts break down like this. The first half contains the vast majority of the fight scenes and bloodshed, while the second half goes deeper into the characters and the plot lines. So, in essence, the first part to be released will turn the cranks of those thirsty for violence, while the second part will cater more to those who love Tarantino’s story telling. Now, if you love both equally, there’s not much of a problem here. But, let’s look at it this way. The people who attend the screening of the first part will probably be made up of these two distinct groups of people. We’ll call Group A the bloodthirsty fuckers, and Group B the story-loving fuckers. There is, for sake of argument, a Group C, which consists of fuckers like me, who like all that shit. Anyway, if the film holds true to what folks are saying, I can see Groups A & B being sorely disappointed somewhere along the way. Let’s say that 90% of Group A see the first half, and leave the theatre rabidly craving the second part, where surely all the violence will come to a head in a gruesome, deadly crescendo. Furthermore, let’s say that 50% of Group B walks out of the first part, extremely disappointed that Tarantino’s story telling got thrown out the window in favor of a slice and dice ninja flick. The rest manage to sit through the film, but are overall dismayed at the lack of plot. Fast forward to January, when Part 2 is released. Group C is up for it automatically, though I think many will be turned off by the whole double admission issue. Regardless, we’re left with 90% of Group A, and 0% of Group B. Now, surely, some members of Group A will stay home, and some members of Group B will show up hoping for improvement, but I’d guess they’ll even themselves out. So, when part 2 is shown, with its plot lines, character development, and reduction in violence, how do you think Group A will react? Hell, three months ago, they saw a ton of badass shit, and now they’re being treated to a story. I’m willing to bet that a lot of them will be feeling as ripped off by Part 2 as so many members of Group B felt after Part 1. Are you starting to see the dilemma now?
Of course, that was just a theory, and all theories can be disproved. Regardless, I have a bad feeling about the whole thing in general. I’d like to think that Tarantino will come out of this intact, but it doesn’t look very promising in light of all of this potential alienation.
Now, I do have an idea, which the studio will shut down immediately, but it’s worth a shot. Let’s say that, when Part 1 is released, movie goers are asked to hang on to their ticket stubs. And, in January, if you show up with your stub from Part 1, you get to see Part 2 free. What the fuck am I thinking, right? A free movie? How dare I suggest such a thing? Well, I think it’s only fair as a just reward to those who were expecting to see one movie, not two halves of one three months apart. This way, at least we might get some of those story-loving fuckers into the theatre when storytime arrives. The theatres won’t lose out too much due to their $14 bags of popcorn and $65 colas, and at least it keeps them from showing a flick to a near-empty house.
In closing, and while I’m kind of on the subject, I’ve got a message for the local movie house in Miramichi. Here’s the deal, you piss-drunk cocks; nobody wants to see “Uptown Girls” or “The Medallion”. Yet, you got those over “Freddy vs. Jason” and “Once Upon A Time In Mexico”. What the fuck are you retards thinking? Now, instead of getting $20 a pop from myself and some of my friends, we’ll be watching a pirated (oops… did I say pirated? I meant to say ILLEGALLY DOWNLOADED) version of “Freddy vs. Jason”. By the way, if you fat cats at the studios want to know my fool-proof plan for stopping internet movie piracy, it’s called “Stop Making Dogshit, Fluffball, Fucking Mind-Boggling Retarded Summer Blockbusters That Lower The Customer’s I.Q. By 30 Points”. Look into it, hacks, then send me a cheque when the box office returns go through the fucking roof.
Aw fuck, here I thought I was finished ranting, and I just mistakenly opened up another can of worms. To the theatre in Miramichi, I implore you to bite the fucking bullet and start showing some ‘R’ rated movies. See, I just figured out the whole “Freddy vs. Jason” thing. It’s rated ‘R’, and it’s released in summer. So, regardless of the fact that, at the time I’m typing this, it’s the number one movie in North America, theatres around here haven’t picked it up yet, probably because they can’t let teens into the theatre to see it without an adult. Now that I think of it, it’s always fucking been this way. When “Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back” came out a couple years ago, I had to drive to Moncton to see it, because the theatre in Miramichi didn’t get it for the first month of its release. Only after all the buzz died down did they get it, and even then it was only shown for one week. I can think of another example; “Traffic”, which was rated ‘R’, indeed showed up at the theatre in Miramichi… two weeks before its release on DVD! Another one… “Snatch”, an excellent fucking movie, was held back for about two months before it showed up here; when Carrie and I went to see it, we were two of eight people in the theatre. Again, the buzz had died down.
I think that, perhaps, the theatre in Miramichi… you know, I haven’t mentioned the brand name, but I don’t know why… I’ll rephrase… motherfucking, cocksucking Empire Theatres Studio 5 in Miramichi (that’s more like it) has some kind of agenda against ‘R’ rated movies… in fact, the only time I can remember an ‘R’ rated movie being shown at Studio 5 for more than a week, AND showing up the day of its release was “Scary Movie 2”. Hmm… scary, indeed. Maybe they’re under so much pressure from the geriatric, bible-beating fucks in this city that they’re afraid to push anyone’s limits. The priorities always seem to lie on PG-13 fluff like fucking “Asstown Girls”, and “Ass Raider 2”, and “2 Ass 2 Furious”. And fucking romantic comedies… the minute a romantic comedy is available, Studio 5’s showing the fucking thing.
Whatever, it’s all good, some people like that drivel. All I’m saying is that, maybe it’s time to wise up and realize that you won’t be shut down for attracting 250 people to an ‘R’ rated flick. Some people like THAT drivel, too. And, if you were truly a top notch provider of entertainment, you’d be able to entertain me sometimes too.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Written August 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
I love the films of Quentin Tarantino. Sure, I’m not the only one, but I like to think of myself as one of his biggest fans. Ever since I first laid eyes on “Reservoir Dogs”, I knew I was onto something special, a feeling that proved itself more than justified with 1994’s brilliant “Pulp Fiction” (a movie I never think twice to call the greatest of all time). Even “Jackie Brown”, though somewhat sluggish, is a movie I found thoroughly entertaining. So, it’s been about six years since we’ve been graced with the presence of a new Tarantino flick at the local cineplex, and I’ve been periodically frothing at the mouth with the prospect of the fourth Quentin film, “Kill Bill”. For those unaware of the movie’s presence, it’s basically Uma Thurman on a bloody mission of vengeance against her ex-husband, who tried to have her killed. She wakes up from a four-year coma, wields a ninja sword, and starts cutting motherfuckers up (apparently, in graphic, gory fashion too). It’s an homage to the ninja flicks of the seventies, and sure to display the typical Tarantino flare as well. Needless to say, I’m stoked.
However, my level of excitement for this movie has dropped dramatically recently. It’s not that I no longer desire to see it, because I do (dear Lord, I do). But, upon visiting the official movie site a couple of weeks ago, I was shocked and disgusted by what I saw, and it wasn’t a bloody scene from the movie.
From all the reports I’ve read, it seems apparent that Tarantino and Miramax are going to try something rather bold with “Kill Bill”. You see, Tarantino’s final cut of the film is about three hours long. And, though three hours can be a bit of a long stretch for some people, nobody seemed to mind sitting through “Titanic” but me. Regardless, the deal is that Miramax has decided to split “Kill Bill” in two, releasing the first part in October, and the second in January.
I’ll give you a minute to read that last sentence over a few times. Let it sink in.
Now that you’ve started to grasp the severity of the situation, I ask you… why should I, or anybody else for that matter, have to spend $18 to see one fucking movie? Let alone the fact that you have to wait three fucking months to see how it ends! It’s a bullshit money-making tactic, and I have a sinking feeling about it (and, by sinking feeling, I don’t refer to “Titanic” in any way, especially the way in which it made such a disgustingly huge amount of money). I fear that this plan is going to backfire, and that Quentin Tarantino is going to lose a hell of a lot of fans over it. I mean, Christ’s nipples on a crucifix! It’s one thing to extend the waiting time rabid fucks like me have had to endure, but to charge us double the admission price? Hell, it almost makes me want to wait for the DVD for spite! But no… I just know in my cholesterol-clogged heart of hearts that I’ll be making the two trips to the theatre for this. And that’s the source of the anger.
See, Tarantino knows he’s got a shitload of loyal fans, who’d give anything to see this fucking movie. A lot of people could give two shits that “Kill Bill” is being released in two parts. Commonly, the argument is, “they’re doing it with the Matrix movies”. Well, back the fucking truck up, Sparky. For one, “Kill Bill” was NEVER intended to be released in two parts during filming, whereas the last two installments of the “Matrix” trilogy were meant to be separated from the get go. For two, the contracts which the “Matrix” actors signed were for two movies, whereas the “Kill Bill” actors signed on for only one. I’m left to believe that all of the actors in “Kill Bill” will have to have their contracts redrawn and, furthermore, they should probably be getting paid double what they were offered. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I’ll bet it doesn’t make a lick of sense to the grab-ass cocks at Miramax.
There’s another reason this is a dangerous venture for Quentin. Now, there is a slight spoiler with regards to the movie’s suggested structure in this paragraph, so if you’re of the type that doesn’t want to hear shit about how the two parts reflect on each other, skip ahead… I won’t get mad. Anyway, though I haven’t read the script, I guess it’s been online for quite a while now. That said, it’s pretty much common knowledge to those who have read it how it will all play out. And, if you believe the hype, the two parts break down like this. The first half contains the vast majority of the fight scenes and bloodshed, while the second half goes deeper into the characters and the plot lines. So, in essence, the first part to be released will turn the cranks of those thirsty for violence, while the second part will cater more to those who love Tarantino’s story telling. Now, if you love both equally, there’s not much of a problem here. But, let’s look at it this way. The people who attend the screening of the first part will probably be made up of these two distinct groups of people. We’ll call Group A the bloodthirsty fuckers, and Group B the story-loving fuckers. There is, for sake of argument, a Group C, which consists of fuckers like me, who like all that shit. Anyway, if the film holds true to what folks are saying, I can see Groups A & B being sorely disappointed somewhere along the way. Let’s say that 90% of Group A see the first half, and leave the theatre rabidly craving the second part, where surely all the violence will come to a head in a gruesome, deadly crescendo. Furthermore, let’s say that 50% of Group B walks out of the first part, extremely disappointed that Tarantino’s story telling got thrown out the window in favor of a slice and dice ninja flick. The rest manage to sit through the film, but are overall dismayed at the lack of plot. Fast forward to January, when Part 2 is released. Group C is up for it automatically, though I think many will be turned off by the whole double admission issue. Regardless, we’re left with 90% of Group A, and 0% of Group B. Now, surely, some members of Group A will stay home, and some members of Group B will show up hoping for improvement, but I’d guess they’ll even themselves out. So, when part 2 is shown, with its plot lines, character development, and reduction in violence, how do you think Group A will react? Hell, three months ago, they saw a ton of badass shit, and now they’re being treated to a story. I’m willing to bet that a lot of them will be feeling as ripped off by Part 2 as so many members of Group B felt after Part 1. Are you starting to see the dilemma now?
Of course, that was just a theory, and all theories can be disproved. Regardless, I have a bad feeling about the whole thing in general. I’d like to think that Tarantino will come out of this intact, but it doesn’t look very promising in light of all of this potential alienation.
Now, I do have an idea, which the studio will shut down immediately, but it’s worth a shot. Let’s say that, when Part 1 is released, movie goers are asked to hang on to their ticket stubs. And, in January, if you show up with your stub from Part 1, you get to see Part 2 free. What the fuck am I thinking, right? A free movie? How dare I suggest such a thing? Well, I think it’s only fair as a just reward to those who were expecting to see one movie, not two halves of one three months apart. This way, at least we might get some of those story-loving fuckers into the theatre when storytime arrives. The theatres won’t lose out too much due to their $14 bags of popcorn and $65 colas, and at least it keeps them from showing a flick to a near-empty house.
In closing, and while I’m kind of on the subject, I’ve got a message for the local movie house in Miramichi. Here’s the deal, you piss-drunk cocks; nobody wants to see “Uptown Girls” or “The Medallion”. Yet, you got those over “Freddy vs. Jason” and “Once Upon A Time In Mexico”. What the fuck are you retards thinking? Now, instead of getting $20 a pop from myself and some of my friends, we’ll be watching a pirated (oops… did I say pirated? I meant to say ILLEGALLY DOWNLOADED) version of “Freddy vs. Jason”. By the way, if you fat cats at the studios want to know my fool-proof plan for stopping internet movie piracy, it’s called “Stop Making Dogshit, Fluffball, Fucking Mind-Boggling Retarded Summer Blockbusters That Lower The Customer’s I.Q. By 30 Points”. Look into it, hacks, then send me a cheque when the box office returns go through the fucking roof.
Aw fuck, here I thought I was finished ranting, and I just mistakenly opened up another can of worms. To the theatre in Miramichi, I implore you to bite the fucking bullet and start showing some ‘R’ rated movies. See, I just figured out the whole “Freddy vs. Jason” thing. It’s rated ‘R’, and it’s released in summer. So, regardless of the fact that, at the time I’m typing this, it’s the number one movie in North America, theatres around here haven’t picked it up yet, probably because they can’t let teens into the theatre to see it without an adult. Now that I think of it, it’s always fucking been this way. When “Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back” came out a couple years ago, I had to drive to Moncton to see it, because the theatre in Miramichi didn’t get it for the first month of its release. Only after all the buzz died down did they get it, and even then it was only shown for one week. I can think of another example; “Traffic”, which was rated ‘R’, indeed showed up at the theatre in Miramichi… two weeks before its release on DVD! Another one… “Snatch”, an excellent fucking movie, was held back for about two months before it showed up here; when Carrie and I went to see it, we were two of eight people in the theatre. Again, the buzz had died down.
I think that, perhaps, the theatre in Miramichi… you know, I haven’t mentioned the brand name, but I don’t know why… I’ll rephrase… motherfucking, cocksucking Empire Theatres Studio 5 in Miramichi (that’s more like it) has some kind of agenda against ‘R’ rated movies… in fact, the only time I can remember an ‘R’ rated movie being shown at Studio 5 for more than a week, AND showing up the day of its release was “Scary Movie 2”. Hmm… scary, indeed. Maybe they’re under so much pressure from the geriatric, bible-beating fucks in this city that they’re afraid to push anyone’s limits. The priorities always seem to lie on PG-13 fluff like fucking “Asstown Girls”, and “Ass Raider 2”, and “2 Ass 2 Furious”. And fucking romantic comedies… the minute a romantic comedy is available, Studio 5’s showing the fucking thing.
Whatever, it’s all good, some people like that drivel. All I’m saying is that, maybe it’s time to wise up and realize that you won’t be shut down for attracting 250 people to an ‘R’ rated flick. Some people like THAT drivel, too. And, if you were truly a top notch provider of entertainment, you’d be able to entertain me sometimes too.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 34: The Pinched Nerve That Became A Social Commentary
Written August 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
Nobody likes to be hurt. And by hurt, of course, I refer to all pain in general, be it physical, emotional, or otherwise. Pain is synonymous with discomfort, and everyone strives to be comfortable in all facets of life. To be uncomfortable is to suffer, and the only people I’ve ever encountered in my 27-plus years who enjoy discomfort are the sexual deviants I see on “Kink” Friday nights on Showcase… and I really don’t think I have to elaborate too much on that topic.
At any rate, for the purposes of this article, we’ll focus on physical pain. More specifically, my physical pain. As I write this, I have a pinched nerve in my neck that’s been driving me crazy for over 24 hours now. So, then, I ask you (as most of you are, in my opinion, normal people), what would you do in my situation? Play through the pain, as it were, and hope it goes away on its own? Gorge yourself on pain medication to forget the nagging injury that’s been plaguing you? Or, go to the hospital to get to the source? Now, maybe I’m a complete nut case, but I went for option three at around 3:30 last night, upon the realization that the pain was severe enough to keep me from my slumber. Am I so wrong?
Apparently so. You see, somewhere along the line, our health care system has been raped and pillaged, especially in poorer provinces such as New Brunswick. It seems that, between cutbacks, strike threats and the ever-popular “brain drain” to richer sectors, the so-called health care “professionals” that remain in New Brunswick have turned into spiteful, vindictive assholes who are eternally pissed off that they can’t be making the big bucks down south, or out west.
So, here’s how it all breaks down. Around noon yesterday, shortly after waking up, I realize this pain in my neck. I must have slept on a bad angle or something the previous night, I think to myself. Whatever the case, little kinks have developed here and there over the course of my years, and they’ve always worked themselves out, so I decided to ride the wave, as it were. However, once the pain became so bad I couldn’t sleep, I changed my tone. Maybe my injury is more serious. After all, it hasn’t ever been this severe, or lasted so long, before. So, using my best judgment, I decide to get it checked, to err on the side of caution, and hopefully receive some sort of closure as to the actual severity of my situation.
Arriving at the local hospital, I notice the typical darkened, catatonic setting that’s indicative of most hospitals late night / early morning. I enter the building, walk up to the desk, and am promptly brought into triage, so that the night nurse can hear my tale of woe. The normal papers are filled out, a tag is placed around my wrist, and I’m told to have a seat in the waiting room, and that someone will be with me shortly.
Now, I realize that hospitals operate with a somewhat shortened staff at the best of times, let alone in the middle of the night. But, when I’m the only person in the waiting room, I wouldn’t think it would take a half hour to get me a fucking doctor. Regardless, this is the way it was, and I waited as patiently as I could for someone to come. Finally, at about 4:15am, a doctor calls my name. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
Or are we? This is exactly how my visit broke down from the moment my name was called…
Nurse (gesturing to the adjacent examination room): Right in there, Mr. Williston.
I walk into the room, where the doctor who called me is waiting. He gestures for me to have a seat on the table. I do so. From there, the doctor approaches, and stands to my right (ironically enough, I had told the triage nurse that it hurt a lot more when I turn my head to the right).
Doc: So, you’ve got neck pain?
Me: Yes, it feels like it might be a pinched nerve. I would have waited until tomorrow to come here, but the pain is so bad I can’t sleep.
Doc: Show me where it hurts.
I reach behind my head, and outline with my fingers the area affected. The doc nods, and looks to his clipboard, then starts scribbling while rattling off the following apathetic tirade:
Doc: yeah, it’s probably a pinched nerve… Tylenol… Advil… showers… ice… chiropractor… accupuncture… maybe all of the above.
Then, he lifts his head, actually looks me in the eye, and says…
Doc: How about that?
I was stunned. That’s it? 15 hours of excruciating pain, followed by a half hour wait, to come into this room and have you say THIS? In all, the whole thing took about 45 seconds, and they’re finished with me, without even so much as a few probing (no pun intended) questions or an X-ray? Talk about insulting. I’m in fucking pain, and all this jerkoff can think of is getting me out of his sight as quickly as possible. How the fuck is he supposed to know what’s wrong with me? Christ, he didn’t even lay a finger on me. I’m no doctor, yet apparently I portray myself as a good enough judge of my condition that he’s taking my fucking word for it! I don’t KNOW what’s causing the pain, which is why I went to the fucking hospital in the first place! For all I know, a piece of vertebrae broke off and lodged itself between my spine and my shoulder. But I’ll never find out, because the health care “professionals” won’t check it out.
At any rate, I was shocked and in disbelief, too much so to question why I was being treated (or lack thereof) this way. I walked out of the office, looked at my fiancee and said, “This has been a colossal waste of fucking time”. We exited the premises, and drove home, in more pain than I was when I arrived. Because the doctor on call had literally added insult to injury.
About half way home, it hit me. It all became clear. I mean, here I was, a 27-year old man in Miramichi, coming to the hospital in the middle of the night and complaining of pain. The feeling of insult grew, and brought some primal hate with it. After a long string of cuss words, I related my theory to Carrie. And now, I relate it to you. See, I put myself in the doctor’s shoes, being summoned to check on a young man with a goatee who hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, who is complaining about a sore neck. I would assume (and probably safely so) that the doctor in question wrote me off as a case of a pill junkie looking for a prescription. After all, my eyes were red from lack of sleep. At least, that’s what I told them. Of course, that explanation would make sense, so it can’t be true. Yes, I must be addicted to Demorral, or Tylenol 3, and my stash must have run out, so obviously I’ve concocted this whole neck pain thing to score some drugs. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? I even timed it so that I’d show up when no one else was around! Good lord, it’s a good thing they thwarted my evil plan!
There’s just one thing… I’m not a junkie, I’m not looking for a fix, and I told them the truth (which is probably something they never expected from a punk like me).
The levity of the situation has angered me deeply, because I strongly feel this far-fetched (?) conspiracy theory is more than just a hunch. In fact, just last week we were having a conversation. The young woman, fiancee of a friend of mine, was telling us that she is an asthmatic. She went on to say that, on one occasion, she went to the hospital after having a severe asthma attack. Upon getting to the examination room, still having trouble breathing, the doctor asked her if she was on drugs. When she told him that she wasn’t, he responded with something along the lines of, “Well, you must be on drugs, or you wouldn’t be here”. What kind of brain-dead hack says shit like this? The kind who is too busy thinking about the guy he graduated with who’s now raking in $200,000 a year in Florida to worry about his own fucking job.
The point is, I’m getting really sick and tired of young people being treated like an unwanted minority around here. And, when I go to the hospital with a pinched nerve in my neck and get pigeonholed as a drug addict, it makes me think long and hard about leaving this geriatric paradise of a fucking shithole in favour of any place that will treat me like the human being I am. Meanwhile, the drunkards and rednecks at city hall cry, “children are the future”, pissing and moaning about the fact that all of the kids are striving to get the hell out of Miramichi.
A couple of weeks ago Allison Lynch, the valedictorian one of the local high schools wrote an article in the paper, which summed up the feelings of Miramichi’s youth quite nicely. I wish I could post the article here, because it was well written, to the point, and a sure eye-opener for the aged and wealthy apathetics in this place. Regardless, the young lady had proclaimed loud and proud that she was leaving Miramichi, and more than happy to do so. In response, she got letters of praise from many Miramichi residents. But, she also got blasted with hate mail, dubbed as “immature” and “arrogant”, and told by at least one reader never to come back, that she wasn’t wanted. That’s the response that stuck with me. Lynch, obviously of a high intellect, stated her opinions as she has every right to. She told it as she saw it, and I personally hold her courage and her refusal to compromise with the highest respect. The point is, these are exactly the kind of people Miramichi needs to grow and thrive as a community. And yet, these are the kind of people who are being pushed away by the busload, and told that they aren’t wanted here. What, is Miramichi already a utopia? Well, I guess it is, if your idea of utopia is a hillbilly fishing town with a skyrocketing crime rate, aging population and nowhere for the youth to go besides burger joints and call centres.
All I’m trying to say is that this city has garnered a bad reputation, what with Allan Legere, the stink of the mill, high unemployment rate and the pitifully high alcoholism rate. To look at a young girl (or anyone for that matter) who, if kept around, could inflict a significant change for the better, and tell her that she’s not wanted, is a be-all, end-all of sorts for this village. And, in a way, I applaud the person who stood up and told her never to come back. Because you had the balls to say what the majority of residents, and those in office, are thinking.
It’s painful to see it all happening, but I realize that it’s all true. Any attempts at a youth centre have failed, because so many restrictions have been placed on them. In a way, it seems as though these facilities, built for the purpose of giving all youth a place to go, have become exclusive facilities to a select group of kids. If you're underprivileged and young in Miramichi, there’s nothing left to do but drink and take drugs, and this sickens me. Vandals are running rampant in this city (it happens on a weekly basis outside my apartment). Alcohol and drug use by teens is at an all time high. The town square on the city’s west side, once a place of relaxation and beauty, is rapidly degenerating to a cesspool of drug dealers, vandals and low lives. And, across the city, people are saying, “how did it ever come to this?” Well, gee, it might have something to do with the lack of available activities. I clearly remember, while growing up in Blackville (a small village 30 minutes east of Miramichi, with a mere fraction of the population), having a world of entertainment options. We had an arcade (with a skating rink in the winter), plenty of places to swim in clean water, several “hang out” locations, and a beautiful park was being built. This was ten to fifteen years ago. Has that much changed in such a short amount of time? I guess so. Or, maybe I was just a better kid. Sure, I got into my fair share of trouble, but I never recalled knowing anyone while growing up whose favorite activity on a Saturday night was to smash cinder blocks on the street, and hope that motorists damage their cars by running over the debris.
This is what it’s come to. And, through it all, I’m left with a striking thought. I miss them dearly a lot of the time, but I’m really glad that I’m no longer with my ex, and that my children don’t have to grow up in Miramichi. I’ve seen too many pregnant 15-year olds, teenage junkies and violent youths in the past couple of years to advise any parent to raise their kids in a city like this. And, though there are some people in Miramcihi who are committed to the right causes, their voices are drowned out by the drunken roars of the majority. And, looking at the big picture, I know that my little girl stands a far better chance at becoming the next Allison Lynch, and much less chance of becoming a pregnant, violent junkie if she’s not here.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Written August 2003
Okay, here’s the situation…
Nobody likes to be hurt. And by hurt, of course, I refer to all pain in general, be it physical, emotional, or otherwise. Pain is synonymous with discomfort, and everyone strives to be comfortable in all facets of life. To be uncomfortable is to suffer, and the only people I’ve ever encountered in my 27-plus years who enjoy discomfort are the sexual deviants I see on “Kink” Friday nights on Showcase… and I really don’t think I have to elaborate too much on that topic.
At any rate, for the purposes of this article, we’ll focus on physical pain. More specifically, my physical pain. As I write this, I have a pinched nerve in my neck that’s been driving me crazy for over 24 hours now. So, then, I ask you (as most of you are, in my opinion, normal people), what would you do in my situation? Play through the pain, as it were, and hope it goes away on its own? Gorge yourself on pain medication to forget the nagging injury that’s been plaguing you? Or, go to the hospital to get to the source? Now, maybe I’m a complete nut case, but I went for option three at around 3:30 last night, upon the realization that the pain was severe enough to keep me from my slumber. Am I so wrong?
Apparently so. You see, somewhere along the line, our health care system has been raped and pillaged, especially in poorer provinces such as New Brunswick. It seems that, between cutbacks, strike threats and the ever-popular “brain drain” to richer sectors, the so-called health care “professionals” that remain in New Brunswick have turned into spiteful, vindictive assholes who are eternally pissed off that they can’t be making the big bucks down south, or out west.
So, here’s how it all breaks down. Around noon yesterday, shortly after waking up, I realize this pain in my neck. I must have slept on a bad angle or something the previous night, I think to myself. Whatever the case, little kinks have developed here and there over the course of my years, and they’ve always worked themselves out, so I decided to ride the wave, as it were. However, once the pain became so bad I couldn’t sleep, I changed my tone. Maybe my injury is more serious. After all, it hasn’t ever been this severe, or lasted so long, before. So, using my best judgment, I decide to get it checked, to err on the side of caution, and hopefully receive some sort of closure as to the actual severity of my situation.
Arriving at the local hospital, I notice the typical darkened, catatonic setting that’s indicative of most hospitals late night / early morning. I enter the building, walk up to the desk, and am promptly brought into triage, so that the night nurse can hear my tale of woe. The normal papers are filled out, a tag is placed around my wrist, and I’m told to have a seat in the waiting room, and that someone will be with me shortly.
Now, I realize that hospitals operate with a somewhat shortened staff at the best of times, let alone in the middle of the night. But, when I’m the only person in the waiting room, I wouldn’t think it would take a half hour to get me a fucking doctor. Regardless, this is the way it was, and I waited as patiently as I could for someone to come. Finally, at about 4:15am, a doctor calls my name. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
Or are we? This is exactly how my visit broke down from the moment my name was called…
Nurse (gesturing to the adjacent examination room): Right in there, Mr. Williston.
I walk into the room, where the doctor who called me is waiting. He gestures for me to have a seat on the table. I do so. From there, the doctor approaches, and stands to my right (ironically enough, I had told the triage nurse that it hurt a lot more when I turn my head to the right).
Doc: So, you’ve got neck pain?
Me: Yes, it feels like it might be a pinched nerve. I would have waited until tomorrow to come here, but the pain is so bad I can’t sleep.
Doc: Show me where it hurts.
I reach behind my head, and outline with my fingers the area affected. The doc nods, and looks to his clipboard, then starts scribbling while rattling off the following apathetic tirade:
Doc: yeah, it’s probably a pinched nerve… Tylenol… Advil… showers… ice… chiropractor… accupuncture… maybe all of the above.
Then, he lifts his head, actually looks me in the eye, and says…
Doc: How about that?
I was stunned. That’s it? 15 hours of excruciating pain, followed by a half hour wait, to come into this room and have you say THIS? In all, the whole thing took about 45 seconds, and they’re finished with me, without even so much as a few probing (no pun intended) questions or an X-ray? Talk about insulting. I’m in fucking pain, and all this jerkoff can think of is getting me out of his sight as quickly as possible. How the fuck is he supposed to know what’s wrong with me? Christ, he didn’t even lay a finger on me. I’m no doctor, yet apparently I portray myself as a good enough judge of my condition that he’s taking my fucking word for it! I don’t KNOW what’s causing the pain, which is why I went to the fucking hospital in the first place! For all I know, a piece of vertebrae broke off and lodged itself between my spine and my shoulder. But I’ll never find out, because the health care “professionals” won’t check it out.
At any rate, I was shocked and in disbelief, too much so to question why I was being treated (or lack thereof) this way. I walked out of the office, looked at my fiancee and said, “This has been a colossal waste of fucking time”. We exited the premises, and drove home, in more pain than I was when I arrived. Because the doctor on call had literally added insult to injury.
About half way home, it hit me. It all became clear. I mean, here I was, a 27-year old man in Miramichi, coming to the hospital in the middle of the night and complaining of pain. The feeling of insult grew, and brought some primal hate with it. After a long string of cuss words, I related my theory to Carrie. And now, I relate it to you. See, I put myself in the doctor’s shoes, being summoned to check on a young man with a goatee who hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, who is complaining about a sore neck. I would assume (and probably safely so) that the doctor in question wrote me off as a case of a pill junkie looking for a prescription. After all, my eyes were red from lack of sleep. At least, that’s what I told them. Of course, that explanation would make sense, so it can’t be true. Yes, I must be addicted to Demorral, or Tylenol 3, and my stash must have run out, so obviously I’ve concocted this whole neck pain thing to score some drugs. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? I even timed it so that I’d show up when no one else was around! Good lord, it’s a good thing they thwarted my evil plan!
There’s just one thing… I’m not a junkie, I’m not looking for a fix, and I told them the truth (which is probably something they never expected from a punk like me).
The levity of the situation has angered me deeply, because I strongly feel this far-fetched (?) conspiracy theory is more than just a hunch. In fact, just last week we were having a conversation. The young woman, fiancee of a friend of mine, was telling us that she is an asthmatic. She went on to say that, on one occasion, she went to the hospital after having a severe asthma attack. Upon getting to the examination room, still having trouble breathing, the doctor asked her if she was on drugs. When she told him that she wasn’t, he responded with something along the lines of, “Well, you must be on drugs, or you wouldn’t be here”. What kind of brain-dead hack says shit like this? The kind who is too busy thinking about the guy he graduated with who’s now raking in $200,000 a year in Florida to worry about his own fucking job.
The point is, I’m getting really sick and tired of young people being treated like an unwanted minority around here. And, when I go to the hospital with a pinched nerve in my neck and get pigeonholed as a drug addict, it makes me think long and hard about leaving this geriatric paradise of a fucking shithole in favour of any place that will treat me like the human being I am. Meanwhile, the drunkards and rednecks at city hall cry, “children are the future”, pissing and moaning about the fact that all of the kids are striving to get the hell out of Miramichi.
A couple of weeks ago Allison Lynch, the valedictorian one of the local high schools wrote an article in the paper, which summed up the feelings of Miramichi’s youth quite nicely. I wish I could post the article here, because it was well written, to the point, and a sure eye-opener for the aged and wealthy apathetics in this place. Regardless, the young lady had proclaimed loud and proud that she was leaving Miramichi, and more than happy to do so. In response, she got letters of praise from many Miramichi residents. But, she also got blasted with hate mail, dubbed as “immature” and “arrogant”, and told by at least one reader never to come back, that she wasn’t wanted. That’s the response that stuck with me. Lynch, obviously of a high intellect, stated her opinions as she has every right to. She told it as she saw it, and I personally hold her courage and her refusal to compromise with the highest respect. The point is, these are exactly the kind of people Miramichi needs to grow and thrive as a community. And yet, these are the kind of people who are being pushed away by the busload, and told that they aren’t wanted here. What, is Miramichi already a utopia? Well, I guess it is, if your idea of utopia is a hillbilly fishing town with a skyrocketing crime rate, aging population and nowhere for the youth to go besides burger joints and call centres.
All I’m trying to say is that this city has garnered a bad reputation, what with Allan Legere, the stink of the mill, high unemployment rate and the pitifully high alcoholism rate. To look at a young girl (or anyone for that matter) who, if kept around, could inflict a significant change for the better, and tell her that she’s not wanted, is a be-all, end-all of sorts for this village. And, in a way, I applaud the person who stood up and told her never to come back. Because you had the balls to say what the majority of residents, and those in office, are thinking.
It’s painful to see it all happening, but I realize that it’s all true. Any attempts at a youth centre have failed, because so many restrictions have been placed on them. In a way, it seems as though these facilities, built for the purpose of giving all youth a place to go, have become exclusive facilities to a select group of kids. If you're underprivileged and young in Miramichi, there’s nothing left to do but drink and take drugs, and this sickens me. Vandals are running rampant in this city (it happens on a weekly basis outside my apartment). Alcohol and drug use by teens is at an all time high. The town square on the city’s west side, once a place of relaxation and beauty, is rapidly degenerating to a cesspool of drug dealers, vandals and low lives. And, across the city, people are saying, “how did it ever come to this?” Well, gee, it might have something to do with the lack of available activities. I clearly remember, while growing up in Blackville (a small village 30 minutes east of Miramichi, with a mere fraction of the population), having a world of entertainment options. We had an arcade (with a skating rink in the winter), plenty of places to swim in clean water, several “hang out” locations, and a beautiful park was being built. This was ten to fifteen years ago. Has that much changed in such a short amount of time? I guess so. Or, maybe I was just a better kid. Sure, I got into my fair share of trouble, but I never recalled knowing anyone while growing up whose favorite activity on a Saturday night was to smash cinder blocks on the street, and hope that motorists damage their cars by running over the debris.
This is what it’s come to. And, through it all, I’m left with a striking thought. I miss them dearly a lot of the time, but I’m really glad that I’m no longer with my ex, and that my children don’t have to grow up in Miramichi. I’ve seen too many pregnant 15-year olds, teenage junkies and violent youths in the past couple of years to advise any parent to raise their kids in a city like this. And, though there are some people in Miramcihi who are committed to the right causes, their voices are drowned out by the drunken roars of the majority. And, looking at the big picture, I know that my little girl stands a far better chance at becoming the next Allison Lynch, and much less chance of becoming a pregnant, violent junkie if she’s not here.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 33: Sound Off!
Originally posted on Great White Noise.com February 8, 2003 - Originally posted on PV site September 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
As anyone who knows me half well can attest, I am a great lover of music. I need not barrage the uninitiated with my history with music, nor do I feel compelled to bore those in the know with the same. Suffice to say that when it comes to rock music, I can more than hold my own, and plenty of people can vouch for that fact. That's why it pisses me off to my crunchy-and-abrasive-yet-strangely-melodic core when I encounter people who claim to be music's soul mate, yet clearly haven't even gotten to second base.
Now, I'm not normally one to pass judgment after reading one or two posts, but this Rick guy is a pretty easy exception as far as I can tell.
However, rather than simply launch a profanity-laced tirade in your general direction for the sake of typing cuss words, allow me to show some good old New Brunswick Hospitality, wherein I shall take a few of your points and offer my counterpoints. It should be duly noted that I am probably going to use some cuss words, but they're really more of a service to my core base of readers and less of a series of cheap shots at your expense. Furthermore, I will apologize to those whom I may offend by way of this post, and do not intend personal harm on anyone, but merely to state the case for myself, and New Brunswick music supporters in general...
Okay, then! First to the gallows...
"Everyone down here is really an amature, walking around pretending to be a rock star. You guys better hope you all have good day jobs, cause none of you are ever going to be able to make a living in the music biz!!"
I'm sorry, but this sounds like a third-rate insult perpetrated by a pimply, scrawny, chronically masturbating 14-year-old douchebag. For starters, if you're going to call someone an amateur, it's probably a good idea to know how to, in fact, spell the word. Furthermore, I personally take great offence to everyone in our local scene being herded into a singular category. If you ever get a spare hour or two away from the Sears catalogue lingerie section, you'll surely find that the members and genres of the scene in New Brunswick are actually quite diverse and, often, original. As for the sadly underthought comment on none of them ever going to be able to make it... if you read the thread you stuck your nose into, you'd know that Fredericton's Since August has a distribution deal through (NB based) Loggerhead Records, a division of... ahem... Universal Music (last I checked, Universal was a major label).
Whew... we're only getting started. Next:
"They only good shows in the East are the ones by Ontario bands coming through on there way to a real gig!!"
Sigh... this is just plain, flat out fucking ignorance. Do you mean to tell us that Ontario is the only province in this great country of ours that has good bands? A word to the wise, jackass: virtually EVERY Canadian band that tours will play dates in New Brunswick! We have also had our fair share of American bands through over the years as well. Admittedly, most of the huge bands won't go east of Montreal, but that's simply due to the smaller population in Atlantic Canada. For virtually any band with more than a couple truckloads of staging, lighting, etc., taking their show to the Atlantic provinces simply isn't financially viable. Let's put it this way: if you had four grocery stores on your block, would you be willing to drive out of town for the same products? Stupid question, right? Well, you gave us a stupid comment. Next:
"No, I'm not going to give names. I don't want to piss them off. Besides, some of them might know who I am. "
Okay... I believe that was your response to someone who asked you to name some Toronto bands you refer to as "coming through on there (by the way, Einstein, it's spelled their) way to a real gig". I might have missed something, but I don't believe anybody was asking you to identify which local bands displeased you so much. But hey! Even if we were curious to learn which NB bands suck so badly, why should you be so afraid to tell us? If you believe so strongly in the poorly formed words that spill out of your mouth like froth from a rabid whore, there's no reason not to say them loudly and proudly. Your above statement only shows me that you're not much above a cowardly, immature shit disturber. What's the matter? Are you scared that an angry mob of local musicians will hunt you down and anally rape you with a mop (janitors... sheesh) until your pancreas is lemony fresh? Rest easy, bucko... New Brunswickers aren't generally like that. We leave the business of being assholes to Ontario. In fact, any time a brutal assault or murder takes place in New Brunswick, the guilty party is usually someone who moved down from... gasp! Ontario. (Now, any blithering fuckwad with half a brain cell and a readable pulse can see that what I've just said isn't true; I said that to give you some sort of idea on how you've pigeonholed the musicians of New Brunswick. Sucks, doesn't it?)
And sweet fucking Christ, you'll probably be back again, with some new outlandish insult! Just do us a favor, Rick... think before you speak. It's a piece of advice as old as Dick Clark's toupee, but it's pretty Goddamn relevant in my eyes.
Oh, and by the way, on behalf of all of New Brunswick's hard working and talented musicians... we're sorry. Yes... sorry. We're sorry we're not based within a stone's throw of a handful of major labels' national HQ. We're sorry our bands don't sound more like Robin' Fucking Hack and the Intergalactic Shitheads, or whatever kind of uninspired dogshit is all the rage in the good ol' T Dot these days. We're sorry our bands don't have preppy assfucks in penguin suits to funnel money to advertising campaigns aimed at convincing brain-dead, Gap-wearing, urban centre dwelling teenage zombies that said dogshit is Golden Grahams. And, most of all... we're sorry that, despite making scores of music lovers here in New Brunswick happy by creating original, engaging music... one pimply, scrawny, chronically masturbating 14-year-old douchebag from Ontario doesn't like what he hears.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Originally posted on Great White Noise.com February 8, 2003 - Originally posted on PV site September 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
As anyone who knows me half well can attest, I am a great lover of music. I need not barrage the uninitiated with my history with music, nor do I feel compelled to bore those in the know with the same. Suffice to say that when it comes to rock music, I can more than hold my own, and plenty of people can vouch for that fact. That's why it pisses me off to my crunchy-and-abrasive-yet-strangely-melodic core when I encounter people who claim to be music's soul mate, yet clearly haven't even gotten to second base.
Now, I'm not normally one to pass judgment after reading one or two posts, but this Rick guy is a pretty easy exception as far as I can tell.
However, rather than simply launch a profanity-laced tirade in your general direction for the sake of typing cuss words, allow me to show some good old New Brunswick Hospitality, wherein I shall take a few of your points and offer my counterpoints. It should be duly noted that I am probably going to use some cuss words, but they're really more of a service to my core base of readers and less of a series of cheap shots at your expense. Furthermore, I will apologize to those whom I may offend by way of this post, and do not intend personal harm on anyone, but merely to state the case for myself, and New Brunswick music supporters in general...
Okay, then! First to the gallows...
"Everyone down here is really an amature, walking around pretending to be a rock star. You guys better hope you all have good day jobs, cause none of you are ever going to be able to make a living in the music biz!!"
I'm sorry, but this sounds like a third-rate insult perpetrated by a pimply, scrawny, chronically masturbating 14-year-old douchebag. For starters, if you're going to call someone an amateur, it's probably a good idea to know how to, in fact, spell the word. Furthermore, I personally take great offence to everyone in our local scene being herded into a singular category. If you ever get a spare hour or two away from the Sears catalogue lingerie section, you'll surely find that the members and genres of the scene in New Brunswick are actually quite diverse and, often, original. As for the sadly underthought comment on none of them ever going to be able to make it... if you read the thread you stuck your nose into, you'd know that Fredericton's Since August has a distribution deal through (NB based) Loggerhead Records, a division of... ahem... Universal Music (last I checked, Universal was a major label).
Whew... we're only getting started. Next:
"They only good shows in the East are the ones by Ontario bands coming through on there way to a real gig!!"
Sigh... this is just plain, flat out fucking ignorance. Do you mean to tell us that Ontario is the only province in this great country of ours that has good bands? A word to the wise, jackass: virtually EVERY Canadian band that tours will play dates in New Brunswick! We have also had our fair share of American bands through over the years as well. Admittedly, most of the huge bands won't go east of Montreal, but that's simply due to the smaller population in Atlantic Canada. For virtually any band with more than a couple truckloads of staging, lighting, etc., taking their show to the Atlantic provinces simply isn't financially viable. Let's put it this way: if you had four grocery stores on your block, would you be willing to drive out of town for the same products? Stupid question, right? Well, you gave us a stupid comment. Next:
"No, I'm not going to give names. I don't want to piss them off. Besides, some of them might know who I am. "
Okay... I believe that was your response to someone who asked you to name some Toronto bands you refer to as "coming through on there (by the way, Einstein, it's spelled their) way to a real gig". I might have missed something, but I don't believe anybody was asking you to identify which local bands displeased you so much. But hey! Even if we were curious to learn which NB bands suck so badly, why should you be so afraid to tell us? If you believe so strongly in the poorly formed words that spill out of your mouth like froth from a rabid whore, there's no reason not to say them loudly and proudly. Your above statement only shows me that you're not much above a cowardly, immature shit disturber. What's the matter? Are you scared that an angry mob of local musicians will hunt you down and anally rape you with a mop (janitors... sheesh) until your pancreas is lemony fresh? Rest easy, bucko... New Brunswickers aren't generally like that. We leave the business of being assholes to Ontario. In fact, any time a brutal assault or murder takes place in New Brunswick, the guilty party is usually someone who moved down from... gasp! Ontario. (Now, any blithering fuckwad with half a brain cell and a readable pulse can see that what I've just said isn't true; I said that to give you some sort of idea on how you've pigeonholed the musicians of New Brunswick. Sucks, doesn't it?)
And sweet fucking Christ, you'll probably be back again, with some new outlandish insult! Just do us a favor, Rick... think before you speak. It's a piece of advice as old as Dick Clark's toupee, but it's pretty Goddamn relevant in my eyes.
Oh, and by the way, on behalf of all of New Brunswick's hard working and talented musicians... we're sorry. Yes... sorry. We're sorry we're not based within a stone's throw of a handful of major labels' national HQ. We're sorry our bands don't sound more like Robin' Fucking Hack and the Intergalactic Shitheads, or whatever kind of uninspired dogshit is all the rage in the good ol' T Dot these days. We're sorry our bands don't have preppy assfucks in penguin suits to funnel money to advertising campaigns aimed at convincing brain-dead, Gap-wearing, urban centre dwelling teenage zombies that said dogshit is Golden Grahams. And, most of all... we're sorry that, despite making scores of music lovers here in New Brunswick happy by creating original, engaging music... one pimply, scrawny, chronically masturbating 14-year-old douchebag from Ontario doesn't like what he hears.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 32: Don't Blow Smoke Up My Ass!
Written August 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
I have been a smoker for ten years. And not just of the mild, smoke a few when I'm drinking variety... I mean SMOKER. There have been days when I've smoked a pack and a half, without even the slightest presence of alcohol. I guess I'm what some would call a quote-unquote "hardcore smoker".
It's not that I've never tried to quit, because I have, on several occasions. Once, I went four days without a sniff of smoke, only to reach a proverbial fork in the road, where I had two choices: a) buy a pack of cigarettes, or b) choke a poor, defenseless motherfucker. I chose the safe route, and polished off my Tool Zippo for another busy summer.
Regardless of whatever babbling I may be dishing out, there is a point. You see, I'm one of those guys who gets a little irate if he goes too long without a cigarette. Mind you, if I can keep myself occupied with something that is interesting or excites me, I can push my cravings far enough into the back of my mind that I maintain my normal level of cool. But, there are a few things that trigger those cravings and amplify them to 11...
1) When I'm bored, with absolutely nothing to do, I want to smoke.
2) When I'm driving in my car, I want to smoke.
3) When I've just finished a good meal, I want to smoke.
and 4) When I'm told NOT to smoke, I want to smoke.
Number four is the ding-ding we've got a winner as far as this rant is concerned. And it's absolutely true. Whenever I see an anti-smoking commercial on TV, my first reaction is to have a cigarette. Shit, show me a blackened lung and I'll spark one up, because obviously someone's done a better job of blackening their lungs than I have, and I'll be damned if I'll let some nameless putz gain notoriety and fame in MY fucking presence.
With all of these things in mind, I'm coming around to the meat of the matter... these Goddamn stupid fucking anti-smoking bylaws that have sprung up around the country like a cancer (pun was sure-as-shit-from-a-cat intended).
First off, want to make it very clear that I have no animosity for non-smokers. You've made your life choice, and I applaud you for it. Hell, if I'd chosen the same path, I'd be feeling much better today. So, no, I'm not here to riff on those whose lungs shine with a healthy pink glow. I'm here to riff on the fascist-like thugs who put these laws into place, under pressure from a few unfortunate fucks with a light cough.
See, here's how I see the chain of events to these laws getting put into place.
Step 1: Man X opens his drinking/dancing establishment, Bar X. At the same time, Man Y opens his drinking/dancing/NON SMOKING establishment, Bar Y. Everything's cool.
Step 2: Patron A and Patron B want to drink and dance. Patron A is a smoker, while Patron B is not. However, upon reaching Bar Y, it's revealed that it's nearly empty. Goddamn, everyone is at Bar X!
Step 3: Man Y begins to get angry over his lack of business. He sets out to find people like Patron B who, despite hating the smell of smoke, won't go to Bar Y since nobody ever goes there.
Step 4: After Man Y is forced to close Bar Y due to lack of interest, he devises an evil plan, gathering up hundreds of signatures from people like Patron B, supporting anti-smoking bylaws.
Step 5: Seeing it as "scoring points with the voters", the powers that be bring the proposal into the Land of Law. Thousands of smokers voice their disgust, but at least Man Y and Patron B are happy.
Okay, I blew it a little out of proportion. All I'm really trying to say is that, while there are a lot of non-smokers out there, who the fuck decided to give them all the power? I'm sick and Goddamn tired of feeling like a criminal every time I light a cigarette! It's not like I'm killing everyone with my one cigarette. and hold your arguments that second-hand smoke is deadly, and second-hand smoke is this and that... the fact of the matter is this... if a person doesn't like smoke, they shouldn't stick around! What, is that some sort of radical thinking? How dare I tell someone to leave, it's a free country... EXACTLY.
As a smoker in Canada, I can no longer smoke while I enjoy my coffee at the local Tim Horton's; I have to go outside. As a smoker in Canada, I can no longer take a break from shopping to sit on a bench and have a cigarette; I have to go outside. As a smoker in Canada, I can no longer take my lit cigarette into the conveniene store where my buy my fucking cigarettes; I have to go outside. And this is only Miramichi, where the bars are yet to be targeted! If I were in Fredericton, I guarantee you I would have given in to violence by now. Hell, even on my recent visits to Fredericton, I've noticed a few people giving me dirty looks while I was SMOKING OUTSIDE!
Quite simply put... as a smoker in Canada, the only place that I can smoke without getting condescending looks from passers-by, or someone telling me to "put that out", is in my own home. And that, my friends, pisses me off royally.
See, a lot of these anti-smoking activists are drunk with power, now that they've gotten taxis, airplanes, government buildings, malls, stores, and bars. Now, they want more. A part of me thinks that they won't be satisfied until the manufacturers stop producing cigarettes. Period. Because, shit, they're still not happy! And why the fuck shouldn't they be? They can now go virtually anywhere without the inconvenience of smelling smoke. Isn't that fucking enough? What the hell is next? Should I bolt the door and hide under the bed, expecting a visit from the police when the first small puff of smoke escapes under the door and goes out into your world? Denis Leary said something similar to that ten years ago, and it seemed kind of ludicrous. Not so here in 2003. It's pretty fucking close to reality, if you ask me.
The point is... if you don't want to smoke, or be in the presence of smoke, that's perfecly okay, and you've got every right to breathe fresh(er) air. But, when I want to have a smoke, where can I go? Outside? And watch people I don't even know turn their noses up at me? All I'm saying is "give us a section", or "let us at least have a nice closed-in area outside, where we can still hear the band". Where the fuck did MY rights go?
This should sum it up pretty nicely... a friend of mine who works at a call center (and a smoker) was relating this to me the other day. Last summer, at his place of work, a lot of non-smokers began to complain, because the building's smoking area was in the front of the building, and they had to walk through a few wafts of smoke on their way to work. The solution? Build a deck out back, and hide all the smokers there like a bad secret. This was done, and all was okay... until this summer. According to my friend, the non-smokers are complaining again. You're thinking, "what could they possibly have to complain about now?" Well, as it turns out, NOW the non-smokers want a section of the smokers' deck, so they can enjoy their lunch outside without being inconvenienced by smoke". I say BULLSHIT! These fucking people have a huge, air-conditioned dining room in the building where they can stuff their faces. But, let's say for the sake of argument that the non-smokers get their way. Do you think they'd go for the idea of reserving a part of their cool, sheltered dining room so smokers can enjoy a cigarette without the inconvenience of having to go outside? Unfuckinglikely.
In closing, I appeal to non-smokers. I do respect that you want to live, it's not too much to ask. But, believe me, you've taken more than enough away from us. Call it a day, for fuck's sakes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I left a cigarette burning in the crawlspace.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Written August 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
I have been a smoker for ten years. And not just of the mild, smoke a few when I'm drinking variety... I mean SMOKER. There have been days when I've smoked a pack and a half, without even the slightest presence of alcohol. I guess I'm what some would call a quote-unquote "hardcore smoker".
It's not that I've never tried to quit, because I have, on several occasions. Once, I went four days without a sniff of smoke, only to reach a proverbial fork in the road, where I had two choices: a) buy a pack of cigarettes, or b) choke a poor, defenseless motherfucker. I chose the safe route, and polished off my Tool Zippo for another busy summer.
Regardless of whatever babbling I may be dishing out, there is a point. You see, I'm one of those guys who gets a little irate if he goes too long without a cigarette. Mind you, if I can keep myself occupied with something that is interesting or excites me, I can push my cravings far enough into the back of my mind that I maintain my normal level of cool. But, there are a few things that trigger those cravings and amplify them to 11...
1) When I'm bored, with absolutely nothing to do, I want to smoke.
2) When I'm driving in my car, I want to smoke.
3) When I've just finished a good meal, I want to smoke.
and 4) When I'm told NOT to smoke, I want to smoke.
Number four is the ding-ding we've got a winner as far as this rant is concerned. And it's absolutely true. Whenever I see an anti-smoking commercial on TV, my first reaction is to have a cigarette. Shit, show me a blackened lung and I'll spark one up, because obviously someone's done a better job of blackening their lungs than I have, and I'll be damned if I'll let some nameless putz gain notoriety and fame in MY fucking presence.
With all of these things in mind, I'm coming around to the meat of the matter... these Goddamn stupid fucking anti-smoking bylaws that have sprung up around the country like a cancer (pun was sure-as-shit-from-a-cat intended).
First off, want to make it very clear that I have no animosity for non-smokers. You've made your life choice, and I applaud you for it. Hell, if I'd chosen the same path, I'd be feeling much better today. So, no, I'm not here to riff on those whose lungs shine with a healthy pink glow. I'm here to riff on the fascist-like thugs who put these laws into place, under pressure from a few unfortunate fucks with a light cough.
See, here's how I see the chain of events to these laws getting put into place.
Step 1: Man X opens his drinking/dancing establishment, Bar X. At the same time, Man Y opens his drinking/dancing/NON SMOKING establishment, Bar Y. Everything's cool.
Step 2: Patron A and Patron B want to drink and dance. Patron A is a smoker, while Patron B is not. However, upon reaching Bar Y, it's revealed that it's nearly empty. Goddamn, everyone is at Bar X!
Step 3: Man Y begins to get angry over his lack of business. He sets out to find people like Patron B who, despite hating the smell of smoke, won't go to Bar Y since nobody ever goes there.
Step 4: After Man Y is forced to close Bar Y due to lack of interest, he devises an evil plan, gathering up hundreds of signatures from people like Patron B, supporting anti-smoking bylaws.
Step 5: Seeing it as "scoring points with the voters", the powers that be bring the proposal into the Land of Law. Thousands of smokers voice their disgust, but at least Man Y and Patron B are happy.
Okay, I blew it a little out of proportion. All I'm really trying to say is that, while there are a lot of non-smokers out there, who the fuck decided to give them all the power? I'm sick and Goddamn tired of feeling like a criminal every time I light a cigarette! It's not like I'm killing everyone with my one cigarette. and hold your arguments that second-hand smoke is deadly, and second-hand smoke is this and that... the fact of the matter is this... if a person doesn't like smoke, they shouldn't stick around! What, is that some sort of radical thinking? How dare I tell someone to leave, it's a free country... EXACTLY.
As a smoker in Canada, I can no longer smoke while I enjoy my coffee at the local Tim Horton's; I have to go outside. As a smoker in Canada, I can no longer take a break from shopping to sit on a bench and have a cigarette; I have to go outside. As a smoker in Canada, I can no longer take my lit cigarette into the conveniene store where my buy my fucking cigarettes; I have to go outside. And this is only Miramichi, where the bars are yet to be targeted! If I were in Fredericton, I guarantee you I would have given in to violence by now. Hell, even on my recent visits to Fredericton, I've noticed a few people giving me dirty looks while I was SMOKING OUTSIDE!
Quite simply put... as a smoker in Canada, the only place that I can smoke without getting condescending looks from passers-by, or someone telling me to "put that out", is in my own home. And that, my friends, pisses me off royally.
See, a lot of these anti-smoking activists are drunk with power, now that they've gotten taxis, airplanes, government buildings, malls, stores, and bars. Now, they want more. A part of me thinks that they won't be satisfied until the manufacturers stop producing cigarettes. Period. Because, shit, they're still not happy! And why the fuck shouldn't they be? They can now go virtually anywhere without the inconvenience of smelling smoke. Isn't that fucking enough? What the hell is next? Should I bolt the door and hide under the bed, expecting a visit from the police when the first small puff of smoke escapes under the door and goes out into your world? Denis Leary said something similar to that ten years ago, and it seemed kind of ludicrous. Not so here in 2003. It's pretty fucking close to reality, if you ask me.
The point is... if you don't want to smoke, or be in the presence of smoke, that's perfecly okay, and you've got every right to breathe fresh(er) air. But, when I want to have a smoke, where can I go? Outside? And watch people I don't even know turn their noses up at me? All I'm saying is "give us a section", or "let us at least have a nice closed-in area outside, where we can still hear the band". Where the fuck did MY rights go?
This should sum it up pretty nicely... a friend of mine who works at a call center (and a smoker) was relating this to me the other day. Last summer, at his place of work, a lot of non-smokers began to complain, because the building's smoking area was in the front of the building, and they had to walk through a few wafts of smoke on their way to work. The solution? Build a deck out back, and hide all the smokers there like a bad secret. This was done, and all was okay... until this summer. According to my friend, the non-smokers are complaining again. You're thinking, "what could they possibly have to complain about now?" Well, as it turns out, NOW the non-smokers want a section of the smokers' deck, so they can enjoy their lunch outside without being inconvenienced by smoke". I say BULLSHIT! These fucking people have a huge, air-conditioned dining room in the building where they can stuff their faces. But, let's say for the sake of argument that the non-smokers get their way. Do you think they'd go for the idea of reserving a part of their cool, sheltered dining room so smokers can enjoy a cigarette without the inconvenience of having to go outside? Unfuckinglikely.
In closing, I appeal to non-smokers. I do respect that you want to live, it's not too much to ask. But, believe me, you've taken more than enough away from us. Call it a day, for fuck's sakes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I left a cigarette burning in the crawlspace.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 31: A Temporary Diversion From Comedy
Written March 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
I'm afraid. Completely and utterly afraid.
You see, recently my daughter celebrated her fifth birthday. I was fortunate enough to be able to see her on her birthday, as I don't get to see her very often. My two-year old son was there, of course, as well. As I watched my children playing with their toys and living their carefree existences, the fear started to creep in. This week, two friends of mine welcomed their first child into the world. Again, an inexplicable feeling of fear was detected, bubbling under my calm, easy-going surface. But today, the fear has taken over after reading the latest issue of Adbusters. The theme of the issue is "Are You In Denial?", and it deals with the fact that the majority of our population has been efficiently convinced my popular mainstream authorities and vindictive governments that everything is A-OK. However, a variety of interesting facts presented in the magazine paint an entirely different picture. For example:
* In regard to the growing gap between rich and poor: "In the... 1990s, massive amounts of wealth were transferred from the poor and middle classes to the richest. By one estimate, the financial wealth of the top one percent exceeds the combined household financial wealth of the bottom 95 percent". This is a fact that isn't exactly uncommon knowledge, but couple it with President Bush's new "economic stimulus plan", which basically makes it even easier for the rich to get richer, while forcing cutbacks in many social programs so heavily needed by the poor. This is a problem that is only getting worse. And, chances are, if you're not rich now, you never will be under an economic structure such as this.
It also became painfully clear while leafing through the magazine just how commercialized our lives have become. One letter to the editor reads, "My school has a uniform. It's not distributed by the school at the beginning of the year, nor is it even condoned by the administration. Nevertheless, there are unspoken rules that must be followed. Abercrombie tops, Gap jeans, North Face fleeces, and for the girls, a Tiffany's necklace to complete the ensemble..." Again, this person isn't saying anything we don't know, but to see it plainly spelled out in black and white gives it a much deeper effect. The magazine is full of doom and gloom, but it's also filled to its very brim... with truth.
And, this is why I'm scared. I no longer like the world I'm forced to live in. I have realized that I am a slave, and that it is nearly impossible to break free from my Burger King chains and duMaurier shackles. I have been groomed by corporations to follow their every whim, no matter how detremental it may be to my personal well-being. But, more than anything, I fear for the lives of our children. Not only will they be faced with the crushing pressures of consumerism propaganda and corporate dictatorship, but they are growing up in a world that is teetering on the brink of a horrible war, one that may very well invoke a holocaust so grand and so terrible as to not judge its victims by race, age, or financial background. I would love to tell my children that everything in the world is all sugar and spice, but it's not. It's also greenhouse gas emissions, deteriorating ecologies, nerve gas, burning oil fields, anthrax, brand name necessity, weapons of mass destruction, and a host of other threats. But the biggest threat of all is denial.
I will no longer deny that I am a thread in the wick, attached to the ticking time bomb of corporate sponsored self-destruction. I will not sit idly by as everything I love closes in around me, weilding daggers and dollar signs. I will fight. For those who would like to join me, I implore you to further educate yourself on the mammoth struggle we are faced with. I have provided a link to the Adbusters web site at the bottom of this post, and I urge you to check it out, and learn more about what you can do to help. Because, even after our generation has been rendered extinct in the wake of our own mistakes, our children will remain. And, personally, I'd rather like to leave them in a world where hope is more than just an idle dream.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Written March 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
I'm afraid. Completely and utterly afraid.
You see, recently my daughter celebrated her fifth birthday. I was fortunate enough to be able to see her on her birthday, as I don't get to see her very often. My two-year old son was there, of course, as well. As I watched my children playing with their toys and living their carefree existences, the fear started to creep in. This week, two friends of mine welcomed their first child into the world. Again, an inexplicable feeling of fear was detected, bubbling under my calm, easy-going surface. But today, the fear has taken over after reading the latest issue of Adbusters. The theme of the issue is "Are You In Denial?", and it deals with the fact that the majority of our population has been efficiently convinced my popular mainstream authorities and vindictive governments that everything is A-OK. However, a variety of interesting facts presented in the magazine paint an entirely different picture. For example:
* In regard to the growing gap between rich and poor: "In the... 1990s, massive amounts of wealth were transferred from the poor and middle classes to the richest. By one estimate, the financial wealth of the top one percent exceeds the combined household financial wealth of the bottom 95 percent". This is a fact that isn't exactly uncommon knowledge, but couple it with President Bush's new "economic stimulus plan", which basically makes it even easier for the rich to get richer, while forcing cutbacks in many social programs so heavily needed by the poor. This is a problem that is only getting worse. And, chances are, if you're not rich now, you never will be under an economic structure such as this.
It also became painfully clear while leafing through the magazine just how commercialized our lives have become. One letter to the editor reads, "My school has a uniform. It's not distributed by the school at the beginning of the year, nor is it even condoned by the administration. Nevertheless, there are unspoken rules that must be followed. Abercrombie tops, Gap jeans, North Face fleeces, and for the girls, a Tiffany's necklace to complete the ensemble..." Again, this person isn't saying anything we don't know, but to see it plainly spelled out in black and white gives it a much deeper effect. The magazine is full of doom and gloom, but it's also filled to its very brim... with truth.
And, this is why I'm scared. I no longer like the world I'm forced to live in. I have realized that I am a slave, and that it is nearly impossible to break free from my Burger King chains and duMaurier shackles. I have been groomed by corporations to follow their every whim, no matter how detremental it may be to my personal well-being. But, more than anything, I fear for the lives of our children. Not only will they be faced with the crushing pressures of consumerism propaganda and corporate dictatorship, but they are growing up in a world that is teetering on the brink of a horrible war, one that may very well invoke a holocaust so grand and so terrible as to not judge its victims by race, age, or financial background. I would love to tell my children that everything in the world is all sugar and spice, but it's not. It's also greenhouse gas emissions, deteriorating ecologies, nerve gas, burning oil fields, anthrax, brand name necessity, weapons of mass destruction, and a host of other threats. But the biggest threat of all is denial.
I will no longer deny that I am a thread in the wick, attached to the ticking time bomb of corporate sponsored self-destruction. I will not sit idly by as everything I love closes in around me, weilding daggers and dollar signs. I will fight. For those who would like to join me, I implore you to further educate yourself on the mammoth struggle we are faced with. I have provided a link to the Adbusters web site at the bottom of this post, and I urge you to check it out, and learn more about what you can do to help. Because, even after our generation has been rendered extinct in the wake of our own mistakes, our children will remain. And, personally, I'd rather like to leave them in a world where hope is more than just an idle dream.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 30: Random Hostility, Book Five
Written February 20, 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
It's been a good Goddamn long time since I graced this webspace with some new shit, and there sure is a lot of catching up to do.
So, where to start? So much has changed in the last five months, and I want to talk about everything. Sadly, there isn't enough space on the web to vent ALL of my frustrations, so let's single some of the more important ones out in yet another edition of Random Hostility.
1. My Fucking Job (or, lack thereof)
Since being dismissed from my duties as a radio announcer / music director, I've noticed a steady increase of negative comments about the local radio station, which flipped to FM about a month ago. It seems that a lot of people are dissatisfied with the way things are being handled there. Now, while I love hearing people tell me how stupid those corporate assfucks were to let me go, I think I take even greater enjoyment out of the tongue-lashing the current staff is getting from people I meet out on the street. This may seem egotistical of me, but it seems to me like many people saw me as the glue that held that place together, and now that I'm gone the castle is crumbling. Well... good! I'm not normally the type of guy to burn bridges, but hand me a match and some fucking kerosene, because this fucker's goin' up! Would you want to work for a company that won't even acknowledge you when you do something that has a positive effect on your business, but won't hesitate for a second to act upon the meaningless bitching and moaning of the boss' wife? Now, I don't have evidence to support my claim, but let's just say I suspect more than a little politics played into my dismissal. Hey, maybe they read past Pissing Vinegars and saw that not only was I unhappy with the direction of the company, but that I also had a fully functional brain. Because, as we all know, the mind is the most dangerous weapon of all.
At any rate, the state of The River is not good, from what I've been hearing. In fact, I've only heard ONE positive comment about them since they went to FM, that being that "the music isn't too bad". Guess who laid THAT foundation? I won't name any names, but let's just say he's typing this right now.
On a similar topic I have found that, surprisingly enough, it's pretty Goddamn hard to find a job in New Brunswick! We've got countless old people sitting around in council meetings bitching about the fact that all their grandkids are leaving, and they're oblivious to the reason why. There ARE no fucking jobs for young people in this province! Unless you want to sling greasy food on a grill or hack down half the forest with a chainsaw, you're pretty much shit out of luck. That is, unless, you're not too good to be constantly demeaned in a call centre. I applied for a position at a call centre in October. My job would consist of handling inquiries from Americans whose credit card accounts have been cancelled. What the fuck is more grating and belittling than spending all day listening to pissed off Americans spout from the mouth about their money problems? At any rate, what it came down to is the fact that I was flat broke and needed something... ANYTHING... to make ends meet. So I had the interview, and was informed that I had earned a position, and that a course would be starting in November, and that they'd give me a call with more information soon. As of this writing... you guessed it... still no phone call.
2. EI: It's A Good Life, If You Don't Die Of Starvation Waiting For Your First Payment
So, when I was dismissed from my fucking job, I was given a rather handsome severance package (you know, for a radio guy). And I decided that I'd probably never have the chance again to spend a little cash gratuitously, so I made a few short trips, bought myself a few nice things, etc., etc. Well, by the middle of October, the cash cow had been long turned into burgers and milk, and devoured by the wolves as a tasty treat. So now, all I had to do was wait for my EI benefits to kick in. But alas, there was a problem. See, when you get a severance package, they factor that in when figuring out your benefits. So, they calculated how long they thought that money SHOULD have lasted me, THEN tacked on their standard waiting period. When all was said and done, I was told that I would be eligible for benefits, probably, by late November. Finally, one gorgeous late autumn day, I got a phone call from Human Resources, asking a couple of final questions before giving me a phone number to start filing my claimant's reports, and informing me that I should be receiving a payment the following week. That was around mid-November, and I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly things had been sorted out for me. The following week, I did indeed receive an envelope from HRDC, but there was no payment. Instead, the letter informed me, I was not eligible for benefits until December 22. Now, here I was flat broke, with Christmas presents to buy. Not fun. So, I scraped through on loans from friends and the Bank of Mom (lowest interest rates in the nation AND free roast beef!). On the week ending December 21, I called in my claimant's report. I had claimed the past four weeks, so surely I would be getting some cash, right? Wrong. No money came, so I called to find out what the flaming fuck was going on. Much to my chagrin, I was told that my waiting period didn't end on December 22... it STARTED on December 22.
Eventually, I did start receiving benefits. My first cheque came on January 21. So, looking back, I really don't know how the hell I even survived. Sure, I was earning $50 a week calling bingo, but I'm a smoker and a driver, so $50 lasts me about two days if I'm lucky. It's really hard to believe, but I was very close to completely broke for a full three months. Needless to say, it was a shitty Christmas for the most part. But now, things are finally turning around. As long as I can get a job by this November, I think things are going to be just fine.
3. ...Or Are They?
So, through all of my financial burdens, I have emerged victorious. After getting my first EI cheque, I made arrangements to take out a loan at the Credit Union, where I consolidated the majority of my debts, including my car loan (yes, kids, the dirty rat bastards at Scotiabank will never be the subject of a PV again, because I've severed ties with the cumdumpsters). Included in this was the amount which I owed for child support. So, upon receiving the OK for the loan, I was shocked to find that there was an extra $1000 included with the loan. I would later find out that this was to cover the overdraft on my account, plus a healthy chunk of cash for insurance, since I don't have a fucking job. However, seeing that extra money there made me think I was rich, which is never a good thing for me to be thinking. I bought a few things for myself as a celebration of the fact that I had money for the first time in months. However, suddenly, I checked my account to find out that I had much less money than I had thought. As it turns out, the folks at the Credit Union had turned off my overdraft, but not before I had spent most of it. Talk about your holy shit moments; now I was suddenly short on my child support. So, I went to the court house to make whatever payment I could. Here's where shit gets complicated. Back in the day, my ex was on income assistance. During that time period, I was having some financial difficulties of my own, and got behind in my support payments. Eventually, we worked out a system where a certain amount of the owing amount would be garnished from my wages, in addition to my regular payment. It was perfect, bacuse the payments automatically came out, out of sight and out of mind. However, of course, then I lost my fucking job. No wages for me, no garnishing for them. Of course, after my little severance package spending spree, I wasn't earning any new money, so I obviously couldn't continue making payments on anything. Regardless, just before I lost my fucking job, my ex went off social assistance. So the way it breaks down is that the money I owed from before she went off assistance is payable to the Minister of Finance, and the money I owed from after she went off assistance is payable to her. Okay? Okay.
Okay, so fast forward to February 13, when I made my trip to the court house to make a child support payment. Here's how it all broke down... I owed $960 to the Minister Of Finance, and $428 to my ex. At the time, I had about $1000 in my account, so I offered to pay the $960 owing to the Minister Of Finance. Imagine my shock and surprise when the person behind the counter told me it would be better to instead pay the $428 owing to my ex, even though the previous debt, in addition to being more than twice that amount, was much more past due. Thinking ahead, I offered to pay the $428 owing to my ex, plus the next payment of $138, for a total of $566. They took the money without a hitch, and I was on my way, knowing that sooner or later I would have to make some sort of arrangement to pay the other $960. Little did I know how soon sooner would be.
That weekend, I had the great joy of finally moving back into an apartment with my girlfriend Carrie, after over two months living with my parents. Things were looking up in the biggest way. I even took it upon myself to propose to Carrie (obviously, she said yes... I mean, come on, who wouldn't want to marry me?). Everything was fantastic. Until last night. I got a phone call from my mom, and apparently on Monday (the 17th), the county sherriff, or who the fuck ever, came to my parents' place looking for me. And, apparently, I have to go to court in March to face some sort of charges relating to the non-payment of (get this) $960 to the Minister Of Finance. So, the question begs to be asked... if this $960 was such a big deal to get their paws on, why didn't they accept it when I offered it to them four days earlier? The answer may lie in the fact that the court papers that are waiting for me at my parents' house are dated February 7. So, another question... If these people had six-day old court papers on me, why the fuck didn't they inform me of this when I was standing in their fucking office with my bank card in my hand? Methinks perhaps someone at Family Services would rather see me state my case for the judge rather than get my fucking life back on track.
Oh, but rest assured, dear readers, they won't take me down. I have my receipt with me at all times, and I can't wait to ask the judge the same questions I've posed for you just now. And maybe in the future Family Services employees will think twice about the bullshit that comes out of their mouths while they're signing said receipt.
So, that's about where we stand. There is plenty more to talk about, and I will get to everything in due time. What... you didn't think I was going to blow five months of pent-up aggression on one fucking column, did you? I've got to hang on to some of this material for the next time I get writer's block.
Anyway, I'll close by saying that it's great to be back, and that I'll do my best to give you insatiable freaks an adequate dose of Vinegar in your diet for a long time to come.
Written February 20, 2003
Okay, here's the situation...
It's been a good Goddamn long time since I graced this webspace with some new shit, and there sure is a lot of catching up to do.
So, where to start? So much has changed in the last five months, and I want to talk about everything. Sadly, there isn't enough space on the web to vent ALL of my frustrations, so let's single some of the more important ones out in yet another edition of Random Hostility.
1. My Fucking Job (or, lack thereof)
Since being dismissed from my duties as a radio announcer / music director, I've noticed a steady increase of negative comments about the local radio station, which flipped to FM about a month ago. It seems that a lot of people are dissatisfied with the way things are being handled there. Now, while I love hearing people tell me how stupid those corporate assfucks were to let me go, I think I take even greater enjoyment out of the tongue-lashing the current staff is getting from people I meet out on the street. This may seem egotistical of me, but it seems to me like many people saw me as the glue that held that place together, and now that I'm gone the castle is crumbling. Well... good! I'm not normally the type of guy to burn bridges, but hand me a match and some fucking kerosene, because this fucker's goin' up! Would you want to work for a company that won't even acknowledge you when you do something that has a positive effect on your business, but won't hesitate for a second to act upon the meaningless bitching and moaning of the boss' wife? Now, I don't have evidence to support my claim, but let's just say I suspect more than a little politics played into my dismissal. Hey, maybe they read past Pissing Vinegars and saw that not only was I unhappy with the direction of the company, but that I also had a fully functional brain. Because, as we all know, the mind is the most dangerous weapon of all.
At any rate, the state of The River is not good, from what I've been hearing. In fact, I've only heard ONE positive comment about them since they went to FM, that being that "the music isn't too bad". Guess who laid THAT foundation? I won't name any names, but let's just say he's typing this right now.
On a similar topic I have found that, surprisingly enough, it's pretty Goddamn hard to find a job in New Brunswick! We've got countless old people sitting around in council meetings bitching about the fact that all their grandkids are leaving, and they're oblivious to the reason why. There ARE no fucking jobs for young people in this province! Unless you want to sling greasy food on a grill or hack down half the forest with a chainsaw, you're pretty much shit out of luck. That is, unless, you're not too good to be constantly demeaned in a call centre. I applied for a position at a call centre in October. My job would consist of handling inquiries from Americans whose credit card accounts have been cancelled. What the fuck is more grating and belittling than spending all day listening to pissed off Americans spout from the mouth about their money problems? At any rate, what it came down to is the fact that I was flat broke and needed something... ANYTHING... to make ends meet. So I had the interview, and was informed that I had earned a position, and that a course would be starting in November, and that they'd give me a call with more information soon. As of this writing... you guessed it... still no phone call.
2. EI: It's A Good Life, If You Don't Die Of Starvation Waiting For Your First Payment
So, when I was dismissed from my fucking job, I was given a rather handsome severance package (you know, for a radio guy). And I decided that I'd probably never have the chance again to spend a little cash gratuitously, so I made a few short trips, bought myself a few nice things, etc., etc. Well, by the middle of October, the cash cow had been long turned into burgers and milk, and devoured by the wolves as a tasty treat. So now, all I had to do was wait for my EI benefits to kick in. But alas, there was a problem. See, when you get a severance package, they factor that in when figuring out your benefits. So, they calculated how long they thought that money SHOULD have lasted me, THEN tacked on their standard waiting period. When all was said and done, I was told that I would be eligible for benefits, probably, by late November. Finally, one gorgeous late autumn day, I got a phone call from Human Resources, asking a couple of final questions before giving me a phone number to start filing my claimant's reports, and informing me that I should be receiving a payment the following week. That was around mid-November, and I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly things had been sorted out for me. The following week, I did indeed receive an envelope from HRDC, but there was no payment. Instead, the letter informed me, I was not eligible for benefits until December 22. Now, here I was flat broke, with Christmas presents to buy. Not fun. So, I scraped through on loans from friends and the Bank of Mom (lowest interest rates in the nation AND free roast beef!). On the week ending December 21, I called in my claimant's report. I had claimed the past four weeks, so surely I would be getting some cash, right? Wrong. No money came, so I called to find out what the flaming fuck was going on. Much to my chagrin, I was told that my waiting period didn't end on December 22... it STARTED on December 22.
Eventually, I did start receiving benefits. My first cheque came on January 21. So, looking back, I really don't know how the hell I even survived. Sure, I was earning $50 a week calling bingo, but I'm a smoker and a driver, so $50 lasts me about two days if I'm lucky. It's really hard to believe, but I was very close to completely broke for a full three months. Needless to say, it was a shitty Christmas for the most part. But now, things are finally turning around. As long as I can get a job by this November, I think things are going to be just fine.
3. ...Or Are They?
So, through all of my financial burdens, I have emerged victorious. After getting my first EI cheque, I made arrangements to take out a loan at the Credit Union, where I consolidated the majority of my debts, including my car loan (yes, kids, the dirty rat bastards at Scotiabank will never be the subject of a PV again, because I've severed ties with the cumdumpsters). Included in this was the amount which I owed for child support. So, upon receiving the OK for the loan, I was shocked to find that there was an extra $1000 included with the loan. I would later find out that this was to cover the overdraft on my account, plus a healthy chunk of cash for insurance, since I don't have a fucking job. However, seeing that extra money there made me think I was rich, which is never a good thing for me to be thinking. I bought a few things for myself as a celebration of the fact that I had money for the first time in months. However, suddenly, I checked my account to find out that I had much less money than I had thought. As it turns out, the folks at the Credit Union had turned off my overdraft, but not before I had spent most of it. Talk about your holy shit moments; now I was suddenly short on my child support. So, I went to the court house to make whatever payment I could. Here's where shit gets complicated. Back in the day, my ex was on income assistance. During that time period, I was having some financial difficulties of my own, and got behind in my support payments. Eventually, we worked out a system where a certain amount of the owing amount would be garnished from my wages, in addition to my regular payment. It was perfect, bacuse the payments automatically came out, out of sight and out of mind. However, of course, then I lost my fucking job. No wages for me, no garnishing for them. Of course, after my little severance package spending spree, I wasn't earning any new money, so I obviously couldn't continue making payments on anything. Regardless, just before I lost my fucking job, my ex went off social assistance. So the way it breaks down is that the money I owed from before she went off assistance is payable to the Minister of Finance, and the money I owed from after she went off assistance is payable to her. Okay? Okay.
Okay, so fast forward to February 13, when I made my trip to the court house to make a child support payment. Here's how it all broke down... I owed $960 to the Minister Of Finance, and $428 to my ex. At the time, I had about $1000 in my account, so I offered to pay the $960 owing to the Minister Of Finance. Imagine my shock and surprise when the person behind the counter told me it would be better to instead pay the $428 owing to my ex, even though the previous debt, in addition to being more than twice that amount, was much more past due. Thinking ahead, I offered to pay the $428 owing to my ex, plus the next payment of $138, for a total of $566. They took the money without a hitch, and I was on my way, knowing that sooner or later I would have to make some sort of arrangement to pay the other $960. Little did I know how soon sooner would be.
That weekend, I had the great joy of finally moving back into an apartment with my girlfriend Carrie, after over two months living with my parents. Things were looking up in the biggest way. I even took it upon myself to propose to Carrie (obviously, she said yes... I mean, come on, who wouldn't want to marry me?). Everything was fantastic. Until last night. I got a phone call from my mom, and apparently on Monday (the 17th), the county sherriff, or who the fuck ever, came to my parents' place looking for me. And, apparently, I have to go to court in March to face some sort of charges relating to the non-payment of (get this) $960 to the Minister Of Finance. So, the question begs to be asked... if this $960 was such a big deal to get their paws on, why didn't they accept it when I offered it to them four days earlier? The answer may lie in the fact that the court papers that are waiting for me at my parents' house are dated February 7. So, another question... If these people had six-day old court papers on me, why the fuck didn't they inform me of this when I was standing in their fucking office with my bank card in my hand? Methinks perhaps someone at Family Services would rather see me state my case for the judge rather than get my fucking life back on track.
Oh, but rest assured, dear readers, they won't take me down. I have my receipt with me at all times, and I can't wait to ask the judge the same questions I've posed for you just now. And maybe in the future Family Services employees will think twice about the bullshit that comes out of their mouths while they're signing said receipt.
So, that's about where we stand. There is plenty more to talk about, and I will get to everything in due time. What... you didn't think I was going to blow five months of pent-up aggression on one fucking column, did you? I've got to hang on to some of this material for the next time I get writer's block.
Anyway, I'll close by saying that it's great to be back, and that I'll do my best to give you insatiable freaks an adequate dose of Vinegar in your diet for a long time to come.
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 29: Random Hostility, Book Four
Written August 2002
Okay, here's the situation...
Before I say anything else, allow me to say... sorry. Damn, it's been almost two months since I had a new PV, and believe me, you don't have to tell me I've been treating you like shit, I already know. Well, in a half-assed effort to eke out forgiveness and silence the death threats, I bring you...
RANDOM HOSTILITY: BOOK FOUR
1. Kung Pow: Enter The Suck
I'm very glad I didn't waste my time, energy, or free movie passes to see this shitfest in the theatre. At the end of this... THING... all I was out was two bucks and 80 minutes of my life that I'll never get back. Now, seeing as how Kung Pow was the brainchild of Ace Ventura 2's director, I figured on at least a few chuckles. But, in retrospect, I think there was only one, and I'm pretty sure that was out of pity. And yes, I know the premise of the movie, with its old footage with Assfuck inserted into it, and CGI, and blah blah blah... and it wouldn't have been so bad if the actors in the original footage weren't better actors than our star. Hell, even the fucking cow showed better emotional expression. In a world without Zoolander, Kung Pow: Enter The Suck is the worst movie of 2001, and that is certainly NOT a good thing. Fuck you, Kung Pow guy whose name isn't even worth the thirty seconds on imdb.com. Fuck you in your musty ass with a splintery, acid-dipped kendo stick.
2. Contrary To Popular Belief, I Don't Run The Radio Station
Come on, Miramichi, leave me the fuck alone! Everywhere I go, everybody is just dying to talk to me. But, the thing is, no one wants to know how I'M doing. They just want to bitch and complain to me about everything they don't like about the radio station I work at. "Get that new guy off the air, he sounds like he's chewing a box of rocks!" Or, "Tell that Goddamn news guy of yours he's reading the news, not running a marathon!" Or, "When the fuck are you people getting rid of the church shows?" Or, "When you people go FM, are you gonna start playing some decent music?" Or, "Who's that man you got there? You know the one on the radio?" Or, "Hey buddy, can you change a twenty?" Or, "Why aren't you on the radio this week?" You get the picture. Well, I wish I could post my website address on phone poles and get all of those hapless fucking assreamers to check out the next statement... I'M NOT IN CHARGE OF A FUCKING THING. CRYING TO ME WILL CHANGE NOTHING. NO, I WILL NOT TELL (insert announcer's name here) THAT YOU THINK HE/SHE'S A DISGRACE TO HUMANITY. I WILL NOT PLAY RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE FOR YOU, BUT I REALLY WOULD IF I ACTUALLY HAD THE POWER TO DECIDE WHAT I PLAY, WHICH I DON'T, SO YOU'RE SHIT OUT OF LUCK. NO, THE CHURCH SERVICES AREN'T GOING ANYWHERE, AND IT'S ALL BECAUSE YOU FUCKING PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT THEM. MAYBE IF YOU ALL SHUNNED RELIGION INSTEAD OF SCREAMING ABOUT IT, WE'D GET SOMEWHERE. THAT'S RIGHT, THE ONLY REASON WE CARRY CHURCH SERVICES ON SUNDAY MORNINGS IS BECAUSE WE KNOW YOU DON'T LIKE IT. AS FOR 'BACK TO THE BIBLE'? SAME REASON... EVER HEAR THE PHRASE 'IGNORE IT AND IT WILL GO AWAY'? WELL... WHO AM I KIDDING, THAT WON'T WORK EITHER. WE PLAY THAT SHIT BECAUSE THEY PAY US TO, AND THE DAY MY BOSS DOESN'T ACCEPT MONEY WILL BE THE DAY WE ALL GET RAISES. WHILE WE'RE ON THE SUBJECT, THE REASON IT SEEMS LIKE WE DON'T CARE WHEN WE'RE TALKING ON THE RADIO IS... YOU READY FOR THIS?... WE DON'T FUCKING CARE! MAYBE IF WE WERE MAKING ENOUGH MONEY TO COMFORTABLY SURVIVE ON OUR OWN WITHOUT HAVING TO TAKE SECOND AND THIRD JOBS, WE'D BE A LITTLE HAPPIER WORKING OUR FUCKING ASSES OFF. UNTIL THAT DAY COMES, I'M GOING TO BE CRANKY AND YOU'RE GOING TO FUCKING LIKE IT. NO, I CAN'T CHANGE A TWENTY. WHY? I DON'T HAVE THAT MUCH, FUCKHEAD.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
3. Ever Get A Looped mp3? Read This & Weep
So there you are, logged into your favorite music download service, looking for that hot new ______________ song. After a few minutes of searching, there it is, in all its glory, 320 bitrate and everything! Lucky, lucky you! You click to download, and walk away, happy as can be. A while later, you come back, eager to hear that wonderful song. But when you click, all you find is a couple lines of the chorus, looped over and over and over and over and over. Fucking shitsuckers! How could anyone be so mean? That's fucking cruel! Why, I oughtta...
If that's an accurate description of an experience you've had, listen up. I've found the culprit. And, though you never suspected them when it first happened to you, it all makes perfect sense when I say it was... the record companies!
It's very much true. The major record companies, ever the ones to embrace new technologies to make everyone's musical experience an enjoyable one, have actually hired people to pull these little pranks. And, while it's not surprising to learn of, what is kind of shocking about it is the fact that these record companies are willingly releasing poor copies of their artists' music on the internet. And, someone who doesn't know any better won't figure out that this is a bad copy at all, instead opting to not go through with the plan to download one of the new Filter songs, then buy the album, because that first song sucked so much ass! When the fuck are these beaurocratic buttfuckers going to realize that if they want to increase revenue, there are smarter ways to go about it than flooding music download sites with crappy interpretations of otherwise decent songs? Besides, the joke is on them anyway. Most of the music download sites are developing technology as we speak that will rid their databases of looped mp3's. Who's laughing now, you corporate cocksmokers?
4. It Wouldn't Be A PV Without The Bank
On this occasion, I'm happy to report that my little situation with the bank demons has turned in my favour. Though it meant forking over a fair amount of cash, the demons have been appeased. I have cancelled the practice of having them fuck up my payments twice a month, and now I am physically going to the bank with my payments. It's a little anticlimactic, sure, but twice a month I get to go to the bank and tell them loud and clear that their sophisticated computer network isn't as smart as me. Besides, I've been drawing little tiny naked bums on the bills, just so they know who's boss. Oh, that and the promise that if I get one more fucking phone call from a brain-dead crony at the collection agency, they get the F-bomb and a visit from my lawyer. Checkmate, motherfucker!
5. I'm Getting Too Old For This Shit
I have been on vacation this week, though my body doesn't know it. To say the last six days have been busy would be a gross understatement. Here's my short list of what's been going on during my vacation...
Friday, August 2: Left at noon to go to Woodstock and see the youngins (they're doing good, thanks for asking). After the kids, went to see Randy & Tracy (by the way, congrats you two). Drank Holsten for the first and last time (one word: VILE), watched some toons, and went to sleep.
Saturday, August 3: Had lunch in Centreville (poutine with hamburger in it: why the fuck didn't somebody think of this sooner?), another visit with the chillins, then another three hour drive back to the Chi. After about an hour of rest, hightailed it to Bathurst for camping with the lady. More drinking, this time on the beach, before turning in.
Sunday, August 4: Came back to the Chi in the morning, vegged for a couple hours, then packing the tent up again and moving on to Bay du Vin to meet up with Earl at Summer Survival. For those who don't know, Summer Survival is a party in a rink with live music and a shitload of alcohol. By midnight, there were 2,300 people crammed in there. Needless to say, more drinking (three days in a row... something I haven't done in a LONG time). Back to Earl's parents' place at about 3am to turn in (this also marks probably the first time ever that I've slept in a tent two nights in a row).
Monday, August 5: Back to the Chi in early afternoon for some much needed chill time. Early evening, went to see 'Signs' (good flick, see it tonight). Back to the pad, watched rasslin', got to sleep in an actual bed.
Tuesday, August 6: Got up much too late, did some writing, then had barely enough time to get ready before myself & Carrie hit the road again, this time for the Fundy coast. Ate at Arby's in Moncton (always nice), and got to Hopewell Cape at around 8:30. Wanted to see the Hopewell rocks, but the fucking place closed at 8pm. So, we wandered around a little bit. Found a covered bridge, and checked that out. There was actually horseshit on the bridge. Also, a bunch of teenager scribblings. I didn't have a Sharpie, so i pissed on the bridge. Went to a nearby campground, and got to camp in the pouring rain. Fun, but not very good for sleep.
Wednesday, August 7: Just like the Skid Row song, I woke up to the sound of pouring rain. Checked my watch; it was 4am. After an hour of trying to get back to sleep without success, I suggested we just pack up and head to Riverview for some McDonald's. So we did. I was operating on about 3 1/2 hours of sleep, but was still excited about seeing the Hopewell rocks. But first, to kill some time before the place opened at 8am. So, to Riverview, some breakfast, Tim Horton's for coffee, sitting in the parking lot wondering what the fuck we were doing here, deciding to just be happy with it, yadda yadda yadda. Went to a place called Crooked Creek Lookout Park just before 8:00. Not much to it but a fantastic view. More teenage scribblings. Luckily, I had to piss. Anyway, got to Hopewell rocks site just a shade after 8am. Did the complete tour, including walking on the ocean floor, around and through the flower pot rocks. Did you know one of them is shaped like a huge fucking dick? I wanted Carrie to do a provocative pose with it, but she declined. Boo. Anyway, a bunch of rocks, a bunch of walking trails, and a little rain later, and we were done with that place (especially after paying nearly $4 for a couple of fucking Pepsis). From Hopewell Cape, drove up to Cape Enrage. Awesome view, hope the pics turn out. From there, through Fundy National Park, and finally back to the Chi at around 3pm. Had a little bit of rest before going to Carrie's parents' house for a while, then to meet up with some folks at the Opera House. They have a new DJ who isn't half bad. Still doesn't hold a candle to me when I was there though. Anyway, capped the night off by getting my groove on for a few minutes, before coming back to the pad and passing the fuck out at around 1am.
Today: I'm doing this, and calling bingo. That's about it, and I think I deserve it.
Anyway, I'll call it quits now. I'm pretty booked for the rest of today, what with all the cigarettes to smoke and TV to watch. Later...
Written August 2002
Okay, here's the situation...
Before I say anything else, allow me to say... sorry. Damn, it's been almost two months since I had a new PV, and believe me, you don't have to tell me I've been treating you like shit, I already know. Well, in a half-assed effort to eke out forgiveness and silence the death threats, I bring you...
RANDOM HOSTILITY: BOOK FOUR
1. Kung Pow: Enter The Suck
I'm very glad I didn't waste my time, energy, or free movie passes to see this shitfest in the theatre. At the end of this... THING... all I was out was two bucks and 80 minutes of my life that I'll never get back. Now, seeing as how Kung Pow was the brainchild of Ace Ventura 2's director, I figured on at least a few chuckles. But, in retrospect, I think there was only one, and I'm pretty sure that was out of pity. And yes, I know the premise of the movie, with its old footage with Assfuck inserted into it, and CGI, and blah blah blah... and it wouldn't have been so bad if the actors in the original footage weren't better actors than our star. Hell, even the fucking cow showed better emotional expression. In a world without Zoolander, Kung Pow: Enter The Suck is the worst movie of 2001, and that is certainly NOT a good thing. Fuck you, Kung Pow guy whose name isn't even worth the thirty seconds on imdb.com. Fuck you in your musty ass with a splintery, acid-dipped kendo stick.
2. Contrary To Popular Belief, I Don't Run The Radio Station
Come on, Miramichi, leave me the fuck alone! Everywhere I go, everybody is just dying to talk to me. But, the thing is, no one wants to know how I'M doing. They just want to bitch and complain to me about everything they don't like about the radio station I work at. "Get that new guy off the air, he sounds like he's chewing a box of rocks!" Or, "Tell that Goddamn news guy of yours he's reading the news, not running a marathon!" Or, "When the fuck are you people getting rid of the church shows?" Or, "When you people go FM, are you gonna start playing some decent music?" Or, "Who's that man you got there? You know the one on the radio?" Or, "Hey buddy, can you change a twenty?" Or, "Why aren't you on the radio this week?" You get the picture. Well, I wish I could post my website address on phone poles and get all of those hapless fucking assreamers to check out the next statement... I'M NOT IN CHARGE OF A FUCKING THING. CRYING TO ME WILL CHANGE NOTHING. NO, I WILL NOT TELL (insert announcer's name here) THAT YOU THINK HE/SHE'S A DISGRACE TO HUMANITY. I WILL NOT PLAY RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE FOR YOU, BUT I REALLY WOULD IF I ACTUALLY HAD THE POWER TO DECIDE WHAT I PLAY, WHICH I DON'T, SO YOU'RE SHIT OUT OF LUCK. NO, THE CHURCH SERVICES AREN'T GOING ANYWHERE, AND IT'S ALL BECAUSE YOU FUCKING PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT THEM. MAYBE IF YOU ALL SHUNNED RELIGION INSTEAD OF SCREAMING ABOUT IT, WE'D GET SOMEWHERE. THAT'S RIGHT, THE ONLY REASON WE CARRY CHURCH SERVICES ON SUNDAY MORNINGS IS BECAUSE WE KNOW YOU DON'T LIKE IT. AS FOR 'BACK TO THE BIBLE'? SAME REASON... EVER HEAR THE PHRASE 'IGNORE IT AND IT WILL GO AWAY'? WELL... WHO AM I KIDDING, THAT WON'T WORK EITHER. WE PLAY THAT SHIT BECAUSE THEY PAY US TO, AND THE DAY MY BOSS DOESN'T ACCEPT MONEY WILL BE THE DAY WE ALL GET RAISES. WHILE WE'RE ON THE SUBJECT, THE REASON IT SEEMS LIKE WE DON'T CARE WHEN WE'RE TALKING ON THE RADIO IS... YOU READY FOR THIS?... WE DON'T FUCKING CARE! MAYBE IF WE WERE MAKING ENOUGH MONEY TO COMFORTABLY SURVIVE ON OUR OWN WITHOUT HAVING TO TAKE SECOND AND THIRD JOBS, WE'D BE A LITTLE HAPPIER WORKING OUR FUCKING ASSES OFF. UNTIL THAT DAY COMES, I'M GOING TO BE CRANKY AND YOU'RE GOING TO FUCKING LIKE IT. NO, I CAN'T CHANGE A TWENTY. WHY? I DON'T HAVE THAT MUCH, FUCKHEAD.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
3. Ever Get A Looped mp3? Read This & Weep
So there you are, logged into your favorite music download service, looking for that hot new ______________ song. After a few minutes of searching, there it is, in all its glory, 320 bitrate and everything! Lucky, lucky you! You click to download, and walk away, happy as can be. A while later, you come back, eager to hear that wonderful song. But when you click, all you find is a couple lines of the chorus, looped over and over and over and over and over. Fucking shitsuckers! How could anyone be so mean? That's fucking cruel! Why, I oughtta...
If that's an accurate description of an experience you've had, listen up. I've found the culprit. And, though you never suspected them when it first happened to you, it all makes perfect sense when I say it was... the record companies!
It's very much true. The major record companies, ever the ones to embrace new technologies to make everyone's musical experience an enjoyable one, have actually hired people to pull these little pranks. And, while it's not surprising to learn of, what is kind of shocking about it is the fact that these record companies are willingly releasing poor copies of their artists' music on the internet. And, someone who doesn't know any better won't figure out that this is a bad copy at all, instead opting to not go through with the plan to download one of the new Filter songs, then buy the album, because that first song sucked so much ass! When the fuck are these beaurocratic buttfuckers going to realize that if they want to increase revenue, there are smarter ways to go about it than flooding music download sites with crappy interpretations of otherwise decent songs? Besides, the joke is on them anyway. Most of the music download sites are developing technology as we speak that will rid their databases of looped mp3's. Who's laughing now, you corporate cocksmokers?
4. It Wouldn't Be A PV Without The Bank
On this occasion, I'm happy to report that my little situation with the bank demons has turned in my favour. Though it meant forking over a fair amount of cash, the demons have been appeased. I have cancelled the practice of having them fuck up my payments twice a month, and now I am physically going to the bank with my payments. It's a little anticlimactic, sure, but twice a month I get to go to the bank and tell them loud and clear that their sophisticated computer network isn't as smart as me. Besides, I've been drawing little tiny naked bums on the bills, just so they know who's boss. Oh, that and the promise that if I get one more fucking phone call from a brain-dead crony at the collection agency, they get the F-bomb and a visit from my lawyer. Checkmate, motherfucker!
5. I'm Getting Too Old For This Shit
I have been on vacation this week, though my body doesn't know it. To say the last six days have been busy would be a gross understatement. Here's my short list of what's been going on during my vacation...
Friday, August 2: Left at noon to go to Woodstock and see the youngins (they're doing good, thanks for asking). After the kids, went to see Randy & Tracy (by the way, congrats you two). Drank Holsten for the first and last time (one word: VILE), watched some toons, and went to sleep.
Saturday, August 3: Had lunch in Centreville (poutine with hamburger in it: why the fuck didn't somebody think of this sooner?), another visit with the chillins, then another three hour drive back to the Chi. After about an hour of rest, hightailed it to Bathurst for camping with the lady. More drinking, this time on the beach, before turning in.
Sunday, August 4: Came back to the Chi in the morning, vegged for a couple hours, then packing the tent up again and moving on to Bay du Vin to meet up with Earl at Summer Survival. For those who don't know, Summer Survival is a party in a rink with live music and a shitload of alcohol. By midnight, there were 2,300 people crammed in there. Needless to say, more drinking (three days in a row... something I haven't done in a LONG time). Back to Earl's parents' place at about 3am to turn in (this also marks probably the first time ever that I've slept in a tent two nights in a row).
Monday, August 5: Back to the Chi in early afternoon for some much needed chill time. Early evening, went to see 'Signs' (good flick, see it tonight). Back to the pad, watched rasslin', got to sleep in an actual bed.
Tuesday, August 6: Got up much too late, did some writing, then had barely enough time to get ready before myself & Carrie hit the road again, this time for the Fundy coast. Ate at Arby's in Moncton (always nice), and got to Hopewell Cape at around 8:30. Wanted to see the Hopewell rocks, but the fucking place closed at 8pm. So, we wandered around a little bit. Found a covered bridge, and checked that out. There was actually horseshit on the bridge. Also, a bunch of teenager scribblings. I didn't have a Sharpie, so i pissed on the bridge. Went to a nearby campground, and got to camp in the pouring rain. Fun, but not very good for sleep.
Wednesday, August 7: Just like the Skid Row song, I woke up to the sound of pouring rain. Checked my watch; it was 4am. After an hour of trying to get back to sleep without success, I suggested we just pack up and head to Riverview for some McDonald's. So we did. I was operating on about 3 1/2 hours of sleep, but was still excited about seeing the Hopewell rocks. But first, to kill some time before the place opened at 8am. So, to Riverview, some breakfast, Tim Horton's for coffee, sitting in the parking lot wondering what the fuck we were doing here, deciding to just be happy with it, yadda yadda yadda. Went to a place called Crooked Creek Lookout Park just before 8:00. Not much to it but a fantastic view. More teenage scribblings. Luckily, I had to piss. Anyway, got to Hopewell rocks site just a shade after 8am. Did the complete tour, including walking on the ocean floor, around and through the flower pot rocks. Did you know one of them is shaped like a huge fucking dick? I wanted Carrie to do a provocative pose with it, but she declined. Boo. Anyway, a bunch of rocks, a bunch of walking trails, and a little rain later, and we were done with that place (especially after paying nearly $4 for a couple of fucking Pepsis). From Hopewell Cape, drove up to Cape Enrage. Awesome view, hope the pics turn out. From there, through Fundy National Park, and finally back to the Chi at around 3pm. Had a little bit of rest before going to Carrie's parents' house for a while, then to meet up with some folks at the Opera House. They have a new DJ who isn't half bad. Still doesn't hold a candle to me when I was there though. Anyway, capped the night off by getting my groove on for a few minutes, before coming back to the pad and passing the fuck out at around 1am.
Today: I'm doing this, and calling bingo. That's about it, and I think I deserve it.
Anyway, I'll call it quits now. I'm pretty booked for the rest of today, what with all the cigarettes to smoke and TV to watch. Later...
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 28: Creed Controversy Put To Rest(?)
Written June 11, 2002
Okay, here's the situation...
I have finally struck a chord. After over a year of this website's existence I have, at long last, pissed someone off. Chris, thank you. You have given me the opportunity to share my thoughts as provoked by misunderstanding, and once and for all dispel any misconceptions people may have over where my opinions and beliefs are based. Sit back, kids, I feel some philosophical shit coming on.
Anyway, allow me to set it all up. Today (June 11) I introduced a new section called "A Day In The Life Of...", designed as a means to poke some fun and take some cheap shots at folks I don't particularly like. My first target was Creed vocalist Scott Stapp. We'll get to a lot more on him later. But first, more background as to what brought on this rant. Chris Doyle, a friend and colleague, read the article, and found it rather problematic. Without his permission (though I'm sure he wouldn't refuse if it meant getting some dandy conversation going), I'll present the post from his blog and offer my retorts at intermittent intervals...
Note to Willie: Stick with the PV's my friend, "A Day In The Life Of..." came off as spiteful and not funny at all.
I can concede the fact that you are entitled to your opinion, as everyone is. I most certainly do not agree with your "spiteful" assertion, and I will explain later. Whether or not something is funny is completely up to whoever reads it, and I know some folks may come out of reading the article thinking I'm some kind of homophobic assclown. However, most folks who know me know my opinions on homosexuality, and can figure out that what I'm aiming for with the article is for entertainment purposes only. Now, I wouldn't do this to just anyone. But in my eyes, people like Scott Stapp need to be bitchslapped every once in a while. Again, more on this later...
While I agree that Scott Stapp comes off as a glory hogging jerk (and can they please just do a performance video), Creed is a successful band that sell an amazing amount of CDs and has received mainstream success that most bands would give their left arm for.
No argument there. Creed is, indeed, exteremely successful. I would even go so far as to say they're the most popular rock band in the world today. However, that doesn't justify the behaviour we've seen them exhibit. Plus, I wouldn't think most bands would want the level of success that Creed has. In many cases, when a band reaches a pinnacle of such heights, they are very uncomfortable being there, with the spotlight on them 24/7. Sure, every band dreams of making it, but seldom really want to make it THAT far...
While you may see them as "Pearl Jam Light", I would go on to say that Creed have a larger fan base. That doesn't make them better than Pearl Jam... doesn't make them worse either. And I'm sure there will be a rebuttal, but the fact is Creed is a big name right now.
Here's where I started to get a little pissed. I'm referring to the misconception of spite and bitterness. Yes, I am bitter of Creed's success, and I won't buy their albums anymore to spite them, but Pearl Jam has very little to do with the bottom line. And, while I concede that Creed probably has a larger fan base NOW, how dedicated are they? I mean, there aren't many bands who can keep a strong fan base, especially when a band goes three albums into their career without any sort of significant artistic growth. Creed (and a whole lot of other bands) are like cheeseburgers... if you offer the same burger with the same toppings every day for lunch, eventually folks are going to want to try a different restaurant that offers different toppings. And, if we must drag my boys into it, very well. While Creed has a larger fan base at this moment, what fans Pearl Jam have left are rabidly dedicated. And I'll gladly lay a five on the fact that one decade from now, there will be more Pearl Jam fans than Creed fans. It's one thing to make an album you know fans will enjoy, and it's another completely to offer it up again and again. The only band I can think of that's followed that formula to success over a long period of time is AC/DC. Let's face it, Creed's got a lot of haters now, and the numbers are only growing. But I'm getting away from the points. More from Dok...
Maybe when a new Pearl Jam album comes out, that will change, but with this being a market seemingly driven by radio and (even more so) video play, and Pearl Jam's resistance to doing videos, and my doubts that there will be a major radio hit, I doubt it. Willie, enjoy (Pearl Jam's) music, but don't get bitter that Creed is bigger than they are and were.
This hurt me. Not because my boys were getting dissed, but because it was done with misinformation. ONE: Never doubt a radio hit for Pearl Jam. They turned a cover song that was originally supposed to be released only to their fan club members into their biggest radio hit ever. That song was "Last Kiss", and it didn't get on the radio because they sent it to radio. Programmers actually added the song in their own volition, actually seeking it out on the internet or dubbing their own copy (which wasn't easy to do, seeing as how when it broke on radio, it was available only as a vinyl 45, and as I mentioned, only to members of their fan club). Only after this happened was the single properly serviced to radio. Pearl Jam didn't ponder for a moment whether that was going to be a hit, but it was, and a big one, EVEN without a video. Which brings an interesting point: how many bands do you know of that can consistently sell a million copies of each record, even after not appearing in a video since 1992? TWO: The market may be driven by video play, but (and I'm saddened you didn't know this, considering your profession) 95% of hit songs are broken into the mainstream by radio stations. Think about it: every time a hot new artist comes along, they trace the roots back to some radio station in St. Louis, or Tampa, or wherever, that "broke the single". Besides, if the market were really so driven by video play, do you really think 'Weathered' would have sold so well in light of how incredibly shitty their videos have gotten lately? And THREE: I reiterate that the muse of the article was not bitterness or spite, I just feel that Scott Stapp is the kind of asshole deserving of getting the old thousand lashes Willie-style. The fact that Creed is selling better than Pearl Jam now holds no bearing on my dislike for Creed. I do, however, want to draw your attention to some math: Creed's first two albums have sold a combined 12 million copies in the U.S. (commonly referred to as the centre of popularity gauging when it comes to record sales). Pearl Jam's first two albums have sold a combined 18 million copies. I'll give you the fact that Creed is bigger than Pearl Jam ARE, but they most certainly aren'y bigger than Pearl Jam WERE. And, as I mentioned, Creed's popularity will wane when the next big rock band comes along. And I have a distinct feeling that Creed's fan base will be considerably more barren than Pearl Jam's. Of course, Creed can prove me wrong. All they have to do is make an original album. However, considering the limited creativity and artistic originality heard on their albums thus far, I doubt they can make that happen. And if you want to see the effects of this, here's a fun game you can play. Once a month, go to your nearest pawn shop. Count the number of Pearl Jam albums in stock. Then count the number of Creed albums. With each passing month, I guarantee you're going to see the number of Creed albums rise.
I came an awfully long way to make such a small point, but here are the be-all and end-all reasons why I hate Creed and, specifically, Scott Stapp.
I can understand some folks' view on music. A lot of people (Mr. Doyle included) require nothing more than entertainment from their music, whether it be in the form of a snappy beat, a great hook, or some nice vocals. And that's fine, I'm not looking to convert anyone here. But my tastes have grown over the years of being an avid music lover, and I need more. And not just on the CD, but from the people who made it. When it comes to the music itself, a snappy beat or great hook or nice vocals is okay, but if there's nothing supporting that beat or hook or vocal, the amount of enjoyment I get from it is limited. What I look for in a band is something to set them apart from everything else I hear. Let me use specifics here. I'm a pretty big Alice In Chains fan. They were fresh and original for their time. Their dark, moody melodies and Layne Staley's droning voice combined to form one of the most powerful musical epiphanies of the 90s. And they were popular, but with every popular band comes an army of clones. Now, I dig on Godsmack and everything, but my enjoyment of their music can never equal the enjoyment I got from AIC, quite simply because there isn't a lot of difference. Christ, when Godsmack released their first single, I actually thought it was Layne Staley's new band. Again, I like a lot of their stuff, but it's just too similar to make me love it. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but before long the line between imitation and plagurism gets blurred. It's the same situation with Creed. I'll be honest with you; there was a time when I enjoyed Creed. But after two albums of songs that all sound like outtakes from 'Ten', it got a little grating and, to be frank as a Pearl Jam fan, a bit insulting. And where Pearl Jam have spent the last ten plus years constantly reinventing themselves by introducing different elements to their music, Creed have been stuck in a rut of unoriginal (and ofttimes uninspired) songwriting.
Even more important to me, however, is how an artist conducts him/herself in the public eye. A prime example is Oasis. They may put out the album of the year, but I'll never buy it, nor do I ever want to hear it, because I hate the Gallagher brothers as people. In every interview I've read or heard, they've gone off on nearly every good band out there, passing them off as rubbish or horseshit, or whatever descriptive noun Liam found in the thesaurus this week. Not to mention the fact that they've always seemed like uneducated, pretentious, drugged-out assholes, no matter what the subject. Their reputation precedes them in my book, and I simply don't want to support anyone so undeserving of anything good. The same goes for Scott Stapp. I like an artist who stays down to earth after fame. An artist who will shake a fan's hand after a show instead of setting themself up on a pedestal and looking down on the masses, arms crossed, with a chin to the sky. If Scott Stapp had a different public persona, I wouldn't have a problem with the fucking guy. But when you get to a point where you find it more important to look good than to deliver the goods on stage, then you've lost my respect. Maybe I'm a purist at heart, but what the fuck happened to the days when music was what mattered, not image? Sure, everyone needs an image, but why groom it to the point you're perceived as perfect, and let it go so far that you believe it yourself? The smartest thing Scott Stapp could do rihgt now is stop walking around in videos trying to look cool and fighting off a legion of evil monsters with a sword while sporting angel wings. Be a fucking human being! Show me you've got a soul, for Christ's sake! Look me in the eye and tell me you're even a little like me, or any of the other millions of people who once bought your records. Even if you're lying, it wouldn't hurt to pretend you give a shit about what the average Joe and Jane is going through. Stop this holier-than-thou bullshit. Or, at the very least, if you're going to act like you're better than everyone else, let the music prove it for once. I don't give two shits what the sales figures say, and I want a reason to believe that the fact you're selling so many albums has less to do with how much you spent on marketing and more to do with the music that's on it. Show me less self-glorification and a little more artistic integrity. Prove me wrong. You can't, Scott. You know you can't.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Written June 11, 2002
Okay, here's the situation...
I have finally struck a chord. After over a year of this website's existence I have, at long last, pissed someone off. Chris, thank you. You have given me the opportunity to share my thoughts as provoked by misunderstanding, and once and for all dispel any misconceptions people may have over where my opinions and beliefs are based. Sit back, kids, I feel some philosophical shit coming on.
Anyway, allow me to set it all up. Today (June 11) I introduced a new section called "A Day In The Life Of...", designed as a means to poke some fun and take some cheap shots at folks I don't particularly like. My first target was Creed vocalist Scott Stapp. We'll get to a lot more on him later. But first, more background as to what brought on this rant. Chris Doyle, a friend and colleague, read the article, and found it rather problematic. Without his permission (though I'm sure he wouldn't refuse if it meant getting some dandy conversation going), I'll present the post from his blog and offer my retorts at intermittent intervals...
Note to Willie: Stick with the PV's my friend, "A Day In The Life Of..." came off as spiteful and not funny at all.
I can concede the fact that you are entitled to your opinion, as everyone is. I most certainly do not agree with your "spiteful" assertion, and I will explain later. Whether or not something is funny is completely up to whoever reads it, and I know some folks may come out of reading the article thinking I'm some kind of homophobic assclown. However, most folks who know me know my opinions on homosexuality, and can figure out that what I'm aiming for with the article is for entertainment purposes only. Now, I wouldn't do this to just anyone. But in my eyes, people like Scott Stapp need to be bitchslapped every once in a while. Again, more on this later...
While I agree that Scott Stapp comes off as a glory hogging jerk (and can they please just do a performance video), Creed is a successful band that sell an amazing amount of CDs and has received mainstream success that most bands would give their left arm for.
No argument there. Creed is, indeed, exteremely successful. I would even go so far as to say they're the most popular rock band in the world today. However, that doesn't justify the behaviour we've seen them exhibit. Plus, I wouldn't think most bands would want the level of success that Creed has. In many cases, when a band reaches a pinnacle of such heights, they are very uncomfortable being there, with the spotlight on them 24/7. Sure, every band dreams of making it, but seldom really want to make it THAT far...
While you may see them as "Pearl Jam Light", I would go on to say that Creed have a larger fan base. That doesn't make them better than Pearl Jam... doesn't make them worse either. And I'm sure there will be a rebuttal, but the fact is Creed is a big name right now.
Here's where I started to get a little pissed. I'm referring to the misconception of spite and bitterness. Yes, I am bitter of Creed's success, and I won't buy their albums anymore to spite them, but Pearl Jam has very little to do with the bottom line. And, while I concede that Creed probably has a larger fan base NOW, how dedicated are they? I mean, there aren't many bands who can keep a strong fan base, especially when a band goes three albums into their career without any sort of significant artistic growth. Creed (and a whole lot of other bands) are like cheeseburgers... if you offer the same burger with the same toppings every day for lunch, eventually folks are going to want to try a different restaurant that offers different toppings. And, if we must drag my boys into it, very well. While Creed has a larger fan base at this moment, what fans Pearl Jam have left are rabidly dedicated. And I'll gladly lay a five on the fact that one decade from now, there will be more Pearl Jam fans than Creed fans. It's one thing to make an album you know fans will enjoy, and it's another completely to offer it up again and again. The only band I can think of that's followed that formula to success over a long period of time is AC/DC. Let's face it, Creed's got a lot of haters now, and the numbers are only growing. But I'm getting away from the points. More from Dok...
Maybe when a new Pearl Jam album comes out, that will change, but with this being a market seemingly driven by radio and (even more so) video play, and Pearl Jam's resistance to doing videos, and my doubts that there will be a major radio hit, I doubt it. Willie, enjoy (Pearl Jam's) music, but don't get bitter that Creed is bigger than they are and were.
This hurt me. Not because my boys were getting dissed, but because it was done with misinformation. ONE: Never doubt a radio hit for Pearl Jam. They turned a cover song that was originally supposed to be released only to their fan club members into their biggest radio hit ever. That song was "Last Kiss", and it didn't get on the radio because they sent it to radio. Programmers actually added the song in their own volition, actually seeking it out on the internet or dubbing their own copy (which wasn't easy to do, seeing as how when it broke on radio, it was available only as a vinyl 45, and as I mentioned, only to members of their fan club). Only after this happened was the single properly serviced to radio. Pearl Jam didn't ponder for a moment whether that was going to be a hit, but it was, and a big one, EVEN without a video. Which brings an interesting point: how many bands do you know of that can consistently sell a million copies of each record, even after not appearing in a video since 1992? TWO: The market may be driven by video play, but (and I'm saddened you didn't know this, considering your profession) 95% of hit songs are broken into the mainstream by radio stations. Think about it: every time a hot new artist comes along, they trace the roots back to some radio station in St. Louis, or Tampa, or wherever, that "broke the single". Besides, if the market were really so driven by video play, do you really think 'Weathered' would have sold so well in light of how incredibly shitty their videos have gotten lately? And THREE: I reiterate that the muse of the article was not bitterness or spite, I just feel that Scott Stapp is the kind of asshole deserving of getting the old thousand lashes Willie-style. The fact that Creed is selling better than Pearl Jam now holds no bearing on my dislike for Creed. I do, however, want to draw your attention to some math: Creed's first two albums have sold a combined 12 million copies in the U.S. (commonly referred to as the centre of popularity gauging when it comes to record sales). Pearl Jam's first two albums have sold a combined 18 million copies. I'll give you the fact that Creed is bigger than Pearl Jam ARE, but they most certainly aren'y bigger than Pearl Jam WERE. And, as I mentioned, Creed's popularity will wane when the next big rock band comes along. And I have a distinct feeling that Creed's fan base will be considerably more barren than Pearl Jam's. Of course, Creed can prove me wrong. All they have to do is make an original album. However, considering the limited creativity and artistic originality heard on their albums thus far, I doubt they can make that happen. And if you want to see the effects of this, here's a fun game you can play. Once a month, go to your nearest pawn shop. Count the number of Pearl Jam albums in stock. Then count the number of Creed albums. With each passing month, I guarantee you're going to see the number of Creed albums rise.
I came an awfully long way to make such a small point, but here are the be-all and end-all reasons why I hate Creed and, specifically, Scott Stapp.
I can understand some folks' view on music. A lot of people (Mr. Doyle included) require nothing more than entertainment from their music, whether it be in the form of a snappy beat, a great hook, or some nice vocals. And that's fine, I'm not looking to convert anyone here. But my tastes have grown over the years of being an avid music lover, and I need more. And not just on the CD, but from the people who made it. When it comes to the music itself, a snappy beat or great hook or nice vocals is okay, but if there's nothing supporting that beat or hook or vocal, the amount of enjoyment I get from it is limited. What I look for in a band is something to set them apart from everything else I hear. Let me use specifics here. I'm a pretty big Alice In Chains fan. They were fresh and original for their time. Their dark, moody melodies and Layne Staley's droning voice combined to form one of the most powerful musical epiphanies of the 90s. And they were popular, but with every popular band comes an army of clones. Now, I dig on Godsmack and everything, but my enjoyment of their music can never equal the enjoyment I got from AIC, quite simply because there isn't a lot of difference. Christ, when Godsmack released their first single, I actually thought it was Layne Staley's new band. Again, I like a lot of their stuff, but it's just too similar to make me love it. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but before long the line between imitation and plagurism gets blurred. It's the same situation with Creed. I'll be honest with you; there was a time when I enjoyed Creed. But after two albums of songs that all sound like outtakes from 'Ten', it got a little grating and, to be frank as a Pearl Jam fan, a bit insulting. And where Pearl Jam have spent the last ten plus years constantly reinventing themselves by introducing different elements to their music, Creed have been stuck in a rut of unoriginal (and ofttimes uninspired) songwriting.
Even more important to me, however, is how an artist conducts him/herself in the public eye. A prime example is Oasis. They may put out the album of the year, but I'll never buy it, nor do I ever want to hear it, because I hate the Gallagher brothers as people. In every interview I've read or heard, they've gone off on nearly every good band out there, passing them off as rubbish or horseshit, or whatever descriptive noun Liam found in the thesaurus this week. Not to mention the fact that they've always seemed like uneducated, pretentious, drugged-out assholes, no matter what the subject. Their reputation precedes them in my book, and I simply don't want to support anyone so undeserving of anything good. The same goes for Scott Stapp. I like an artist who stays down to earth after fame. An artist who will shake a fan's hand after a show instead of setting themself up on a pedestal and looking down on the masses, arms crossed, with a chin to the sky. If Scott Stapp had a different public persona, I wouldn't have a problem with the fucking guy. But when you get to a point where you find it more important to look good than to deliver the goods on stage, then you've lost my respect. Maybe I'm a purist at heart, but what the fuck happened to the days when music was what mattered, not image? Sure, everyone needs an image, but why groom it to the point you're perceived as perfect, and let it go so far that you believe it yourself? The smartest thing Scott Stapp could do rihgt now is stop walking around in videos trying to look cool and fighting off a legion of evil monsters with a sword while sporting angel wings. Be a fucking human being! Show me you've got a soul, for Christ's sake! Look me in the eye and tell me you're even a little like me, or any of the other millions of people who once bought your records. Even if you're lying, it wouldn't hurt to pretend you give a shit about what the average Joe and Jane is going through. Stop this holier-than-thou bullshit. Or, at the very least, if you're going to act like you're better than everyone else, let the music prove it for once. I don't give two shits what the sales figures say, and I want a reason to believe that the fact you're selling so many albums has less to do with how much you spent on marketing and more to do with the music that's on it. Show me less self-glorification and a little more artistic integrity. Prove me wrong. You can't, Scott. You know you can't.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
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