In January, David Bowie passed away, and I was heartbroken.
In the aftermath of his passing, while talking to a friend about how I'd managed to see him play on his last tour before he had to stop touring, I promised myself I’d see more live music, rather than take for granted the idea that, if I missed a show, there’d always be another opportunity. Due to this policy, over the course of this past year I saw…
Joe Jackson, in support of a shockingly good Late-Career album, Fast Forward. I'm pretty sure were the youngest people in the crowd, which surprised me a little, Joe Jackson is a spectacular songwriter and a blast to see live. People my age and younger are missing out.
Mother Mother, at the Coke Stage at Stampede. Exact opposite experience, we were absolutely the oldest people in the crowd. At some point between then and now, Mother Mother went from playing the Coke Stage to selling out the Jubilee, I'm not sure what all happened in the interim, but good for them on what was apparently a very good year.
Peter Gabriel and Sting, with a huge thanks to Sarah. I assumed I wasn't going to be able to, and I'd have regretted it had that been the case, it was an incredible show. Peter Gabriel had always been a hero of mine, the man's a genius, and Sting was a blast as well...
The Tragically Hip. Most of us caught the Hip this year, I guess. At least, it feels that way. I cried, Gord cried, we all cried. It was a beautiful, connective experience that left me feeling very Canadian.
Duran Duran/Nils Rogers. Fun show, and I have NEVER seen so many women in their mid-late 40s absolutely killing it dancing as I did while watching Duran Duran play. A generation of women was sexually awakened in 1982 by Simon LeBon on Much Music, and they have still got it in them to fangirl out. Godspeed, women in your mid-late 40s, you are an inspiration to us all.
Echo & the Bunnymen. I will never in my life be able to thank Sue sufficiently for this show, or for the ten days that followed it. My trip to the UK was one of the most moving, connective experiences of my life, and I woke up my first day home feeling more serene than I have in a long while. This show wasn't the whole reason why, but connecting with my inner '80s anglophile high-school goth kid was certainly a major part of it. Plus, Ian McCulloch remains an awesome rock star to this day, which I always do appreciate...
The Dandy Warhols. I was going to see these guys in Calgary, instead I went to Edmonton to see them with Jen. She had to pull out last minute due to hilarious ID related hijinx, but I still got to hang out with her, I still saw the show (just didn't do both simultaneously) and it was still an absolute blast.
Our Lady Peace/I Mother Earth, and Chelsea gets credit for this one, I wouldn't have thought to go to this show had she not taken me, and I'm very glad I did. OLP, it turns out, kill it live, and having seen them deepened my appreciation of a classic Canadian '90s band that I otherwise hadn't given enough credit.
Elvis Costello and wow, this was a bucket list show for me. Elvis is one of a handful of artists that I legitimately could listen to nonstop for 24 hours off my current music collection and never hear the same song twice, and seeing him play has been a thing I've wanted but not been able to do since I was eight. Eight? That can't be right, when did Blood and Chocolate come out? Yeah, eight, i guess! The show was minimalist and incredibly intimate, just the man, five guitars and a borrowed grand piano he switched between, a lifetime of stories, and one of the best catalogues in rock, and I could not have been happier with the experience. Getting what you've always wanted and finding it exactly as good as you hoped is a rare thing, and one that should be appreciated when it comes.
…I have my opinions about 2016 and the number of artists of personal importance that passed over its course, but I have to admit I did see some amazing shows. I stand by the decision I made at the beginning of the year, and hope to continue this trend going forward.
Catch your heroes while you can, is what i'm saying. Your opportunities to do so aren’t endless…
Friday, December 30, 2016
Sunday, December 11, 2016
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.
At least, we tell ourselves it’s for ice cream, as we scream our lungs out at the unknowing, uncaring, impassive sky, voices filled with existencial dread, desperately and ultimately fruitlessly seeking something, anything, out there that might distract us from the looming fact that we’ve grown increasingly dissociated from one another, from ourselves, and from the world we’ve built...
We cannot face that this is why we scream. So we don’t.
“Yes,” we say, “yes, it’s simply ice cream for which we scream.”
Simply ice cream.
Ice cream is good…
Friday, October 14, 2016
I did spot a Murder Clown, once…
It was a few weeks ago, maybe a month, and I hadn't heard much about people dressed as scary clowns in the news yet, so I didn't know it was a thing that was happening around the world, it was just a clown to me, simply this and nothing more.
Simply a demonic-looking clown, in early September, walking down 17th avenue in the middle of the night, holding a machete and drenched in what appeared to be human blood. Nothing to see there, nothing to worry yourself overmuch about…
And what’s odd is: I didn’t worry myself overmuch about it. It was early for Halloween, to be sure, but I’m all for starting Halloween early, the Christmas people are starting November 1st nowadays, why shouldn’t those of us who like a scare claim a second month? We’re worth it, and the holiday of my people is every bit as valid as theirs!
By “My People” I mean “Aging Goth Kids,” that was clear, yeah?
So yes, I did see a Murder Clown, and rather than recoiling I smiled, nodded, and exchanged a quick high-five before continuing on my way home, filing it alongside all the other ways 17th avenue can be a messed-up place to go after dark on weekends.
Only a month later, reading a think-piece asking “What does it all mean?” Did I realize it might be anything noteworthy, sociologically speaking. At the time it was simply two dudes who are a little too into Halloween connecting with one another, the way that humans do, over their shared love of a thing, distressing though that thing might be to some, then coming away feeling a little closer and more connected to the world in which they live, having learned that that world is a wider, weirder place than they give it credit for being in their day-to-day lives…
Because, at the end of the day, that’s exactly what it was.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
I want to be inside you.
Surgically, I mean.
There’s nothing in this world more intimate than to be wrist deep in the organs of another human being, to feel the warmth of their blood on your hands as you caress their innards, really dig into the viscera, grow to truly understand who they are, on the inside.
This is a shallow world we live in, and we so often get lost in the superficial, never thinking to probe deeper into the people with whom we’ve chosen to spend our time, never going beyond the surface layer.
I don’t want to fall into this trap with you.
I want to see who you are, inside. I believe, truly believe, that you’re worth knowing, worth exploring, in a deeper, more meaningful way. You deserve to be understood, deserve someone who’s willing to put in the effort, and I want to be that person.
So let’s get out of here, shall we? Let’s go back to my place, tie you down, crack open your chest and see what you’ve got going on in there…
And no, obviously we won’t be putting you under, we won’t be using anesthetic of any kind.
You will be awake for every moment of this; perfectly conscious and perfectly aware of everything that’s happening to you.
I’d never engage in anything this intimate and personal with someone who wasn’t completely present in the moment while it was going on.
To cut you open while you were unconscious would be a gross violation of your agency as a human being, above and beyond the simple fact that I would never want to deprive you of what will no doubt be a unique and incredibly intense experience.
You’ll be awake when I make the first incision. That’s non-negotiable. I could do no less.
The very thought of it disgusts me.
I’m not a monster, after all…
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
By Christopher Munroe
I don’t believe in “Mind over matter.”
I mean, the mind matters, of course it does, but matter literally is matter.
Matter’s a real thing, it exists in space and time, independent of observation, and it perseveres even in the absence of a mind to know it.
And no, I can’t prove that.
I can’t prove any part of it.
Everything I can know, obviously, is filtered to me through my mind, and coloured by that fact.
Still, though I can’t prove it, I believe.
I believe in matter.
And in the end, to me, my faith is all that…
Friday, August 19, 2016
It occurred to me, at one point, to hire a mime for my funeral.
I’d heard it suggested on one podcast or other, and something about the notion appealed to me. Not a traditional street mime, mind you, that would be wildly inappropriate for a funeral, but rather something more solemn, a silent performer in black suit and mummer’s mask, representing me at the event so that my mourners could, should they wish, say to him what they had not thought in life to say to me…
I entertained this notion exactly long enough to Google the phrase “Mummer’s Mask” and not one moment longer.
On a related note, do not Google the phrase “Mummer’s Mask.”
Mummer’s masks, it turns out, are fucking horrifying.
I have no idea what was wrong with medieval Europe, but for reals, I would never in a million years inflict upon my friends and loved ones, in their time of grieving me, the horrifying spectacle that is a silent figure in Mummer’s mask, standing in the midst of what’s meant to be a solemn occasion.
I mean, the mime would no doubt be solemn, but in such a mask he couldn’t help but fail to adequately convey the tone of the event.
And so, upon reflection, I decided not to hire one for my funeral.
That does not, however, mean I didn’t hire a mime…
He follows me around, now, that I might refer people to him when I don’t want to deal with them.
Moments too awkward to handle, exes, old arguments, painful family events, or just whatever petty nonsense I happen to think is beneath me, I now refer to my mime in Mummer’s mask, confident that if they’re scared off by the freakish apparition I’ve contracted to follow in my stead then whatever they may have had to say couldn’t have been that important to them in the first place.
It’s saved me a great deal of time, my mime in Mummer’s mask, and a great deal of social anxiety as well, allowing me to focus my energies on what’s genuinely important to me, rather than the pointless minutia of my day-to-day drudgery. In fact, overall he’s been a tremendous boon to me, and I must admit, looking back, that I wish I’d thought to hire him years ago…
And if you happen not to think that this is an appropriate way for me to deal with social awkwardness in my day-to-day life: Tell it to the Mummer...
Sunday, August 14, 2016
By Christopher Munroe
They were star-crossed; but no matter what tragedy the world threw at them their love persevered.
When he asked for her hand she wept, when he saw her in her gown he did, for he knew in that moment that no force in heaven or earth could tear them asunder.
Then the sun went nova.
Both were slain, as was every other thing on the planet. The sterile, charred world hurtled through space, tomb and testament to a simple lesion that’s just as true today as it was back then.
Don’t cross the stars.
Stars, once crossed, will ruin you...
Thursday, August 11, 2016
It happened almost too quickly to keep track of. A flash of white, and black, and green, a harrowing laugh that tore at my very sanity, and a crash as the wall exploded outward, showering the street below with debris, the sudden rush of night air into the room chilling my body even as that momentary glimpse of whatever hellish thing from the beyond this mortal realm we’d freed chilled my soul.
And then it was gone.
I ran to the gaping hole it had left in the wall, heedless of my nudity, to watch as what appeared to be some sort of giant sand-worm tore off through the night, rushing down the street and away from my building, the figure on its back still laughing maniacally as it rode the enormous beast out and away, into the city, to wreak whatever havoc it had planned upon an unsuspecting world, unbound, unchained, unstoppable. I had done this, we had done this. We’d done it unwittingly, to be sure, but we’d done it nonetheless, and whatever might happen next was on our heads, a horror we’d unleashed and that we’d have to live with the consequences of for however long we might have left.
I knew this, and this knowledge was the most frightening part of all.
Turning back from the wreckage, I saw her, covers pulled tight around her naked, trembling form, eyes wide with shock, face still gleaming with sweat, mouth opening and closing as though she were trying and failing to say something, to put words to what had happened, out of nowhere, to the two of us, cutting short what had until that moment been a delightful play date for the both of us.
“I stand corrected,” I told her with a nervous laugh, after a moment’s pause, trying my best to make light of what we’d witnessed, “Beetlejuice is not a good safeword…”
Sunday, August 7, 2016
By Christopher Munroe
I keep an old jar in my bedroom.
It’s the sort of thing you’d assume was antique if you found it in a rustic farmhouse, but which you realize seeing it in my downtown apartment is almost certainly a replica.
It’s actually antique. One-hundred-thirty years old, in fact…
I keep it by my bed so as to grab it, first thing when I wake up.
I whisper my hopes and dreams into that jar.
And then I seal it, tight, locking them away.
And that way they won’t trouble me during my day, while I’m off working my day job…
Friday, August 5, 2016
The kids were named Grayson, Wolf and Hunter, which has no bearing on the story but I’m mentioning anyway due to how utterly badass that is.
I mean, seriously. Gray, Wolf and Hunter? I’d definitely watch that. I’m picturing a significantly more violent reimagining of the Hardy Boys, though if you have a pitch for a legal drama I’d be open to it.
They were having whole live lobsters in spite of the fact that not one of them was over the age of ten, because it was Wolf’s birthday, and their parents had at some point decided that on your birthday you are allowed to ball, even if you’re only turning seven. And, in spite of the fact that they pretty obviously weren’t going to finish their dinners, they decided that they would also have salads to start.
Which is fine. The dinners come with salads and there’s no reason I ought to care whether any particular guest, awesomely named birthday boy or not, finishes their meal.
I left three salads on the table for them, and came back five minutes later to collect two of them back, mostly uneaten. Grayson, it turned out, had grown deeply invested in the whole salad experience, discovering before his lobster even came a love of thousand-island salad dressing that was clearly going to be the high point of his over-expensive meal.
Which, fortunately for me, his family chose to find hilarious, otherwise some of their irritation with his ordering lobster and then getting bogged down in salad dressing might adversely affect my tip…
But they were a good-natured family overall, asking simply that I leave the salad there for him, that he might pick it over until his meal came. Which, again, was no trouble for me, why on earth would it be?
“That’s absolutely fine,” I told him, “doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’ll bring you an extra thing of thousand-island when your food comes, so you can dip your fries in it…”
And that’s where Grayson’s mother gave me a look like I had just ripped the roof off the restaurant, revealing a magical world behind the one she knew that she’d never previously thought to wonder might exist.
She had somehow made it to her thirties without ever realizing that just because a sauce was labeled “Salad” Dressing, there was nothing stopping her putting it on things other than salad. She was a grown woman, with three children of her own, beholden to none, and in that moment, there in the middle of the restaurant in which I worked, she was finally realizing that she could put any fucking sauce on any fucking thing she wanted to.
And this realization was, going forward, pretty clearly going to change a lot of things for her, in terms of meals and general sauce-usage and, I hope, as a more univeralizable lesson regarding not taking things at face value and living life on her own terms. Not the takeaway she was expecting from her son’s birthday dinner at a popular family chain seafood restaurant, to be sure, but an important lesson nonetheless, and one that she intended from all appearances to take to heart…
And that’s the best thing that happened at my day job, that day. I reminded a woman that she could dip her fries in thousand-island dressing, if she wanted to. I reminded her that she could dip anything in any sauce, if the spirit so moved her. I reminded her that part of being an adult is deciding what being an adult entails. And, even now, looking back on the night, I’m weirdly proud to have been the one to do so.
Because really, that’s why I started waiting tables in the first place.
To change lives.
Also: I tried it myself later, dip fries in thousand-island dressing. It’s as delicious as you think…
Sunday, July 31, 2016
By Christopher Munroe
Merciful Zod, before whom we kneel:
We thank you this day for your moderation, in sparing planet Houston from your wrath.
We thank you, too, your indulgence of we upon this world, though surely we are but insects to one so mighty as yourself.
And, most of all, we give thanks for our lives that you, in your wisdom, have allowed us to keep.
And, should we be able, we shall help you find the son of Jor-el, that you might enact the revenge you’ve so long awaited.
In the name of the Ursa, the Non, and Zod almighty, amen.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
The tickets had been a gift at the last minute, and due to a scheduling issue I wasn’t able to arrive until the concert had already began, but that was fine. I’d thought I was going to have to miss the show entirely, and was certainly appropriately grateful for the opportunity to see Sting and Peter Gabriel in concert.
They didn’t play sets, as such, choosing instead to alternate songs between them so as not to interrupt the flow of the performance, and I can personally attest to the fact that the performance did flow. By the time Sting got around to “Message in a Bottle,” the whole crowd was singing along, calling back to him as he called out to us, joining with him in full voice as the song neared it’s climax…
“Sending out an S.O.S.”
“Sending out an S.O.S.”
“Sending out an S.O.S.”
“Sending out an S.O.S…”
And that, I think, was when I finally understood the appeal of fascism.
Because it really DOES feel good to stand, surrounded by twenty thousand other people, most of whom you’ve never met, most of whom you’ll never meet, and know that, in that one moment at least, you are all of one mind.
It feels good to cry out, together, a simple sentiment shared by thousands of your fellows, knowing that everyone present is invested in that moment of unity every bit as deeply as you are.
It feels good to share your passion, and to unleash that passion free from judgment or consequence.
It feels good to free yourself of the burden of yourself, and in doing so to lose yourself to the will of the group. To nullify all sense of personal identity as payment for the opportunity to become a part of something terrifyingly huge, and utterly uncontrollable.
There’s freedom in that feeling. And power…
So yeah, I “get” fascism now.
Which is good.
It’s good to know.
It’s important to know that I’m as susceptible to that sort of thing, given the right circumstance, as anyone else.
If for no other reason than so as to avoid it…
Sunday, July 24, 2016
The End of the World
By Christopher Munroe
They say that, from a certain point of view, every end is a new beginning.
I assume this is intended for people who’ve been dumped, as it does NOT apply to the end of the world.
It came from beyond the clouds, a being beyond any earthling’s comprehension, and we knew instinctively there was no way to defend ourselves, no hope for humanity...
Well, we who weren’t driven mad did, anyway.
Myself, I tried to be philosophical about it.
We’ve all gotta go sometime.
I drank up the wine, eyes on the horizon, and waited for the end…
Friday, July 22, 2016
We, each and every one of us, simultaneously are and are not simply the sum of our parts…
We are limitless potential, capable of things no rational mind could ever conceivably predict, limited only by our ambition and our imagination.
And yet it is, at the end of the day, frequently that very ambition and imagination that fail us, that hold us back, that limit us, that keep us from expressing the potential each and every one of us contains. Our self-doubt, our worry, our fear, each in turn prevents us from taking risks, leading us time and again to safe choices, stopping us ever being more than what we are.
We are capable of so much, but the vast majority of us will convince ourselves that we’re not, and in doing so we’ll prove ourselves right.
In this way we are limitless yet crippled by our limitations, perfect yet profoundly flawed, nothing more than the sum of our parts yet so much more.
Simultaneously tied to the earth and aching to soar.
Until we try.
Until we try and, in trying, can observe all that we’re truly capable of, if we’re just willing to take that leap of faith.
Until we’re willing to trust ourselves enough to let ourselves out of the boxes we’ve constructed for ourselves.
In this way we are, all of us, every one, everywhere, Schrodinger’s humans…
Sunday, July 17, 2016
The Endless Ones
By Christopher Munroe
The Endless Ones slumber beneath the city
Unthinkably huge, eternally old and horrifying beyond all imagination, simply to view them is to go mad from revelations no mortal man was ever meant to know. Surely upon waking they could destroy us, one and all, obliterating our city and all who dwell within it without so much as a thought.
For such is their power, their horrible majesty, that we are but gnats upon their surface.
Fortunately for us, here on the surface, their sleep is, like they themselves are, endless.
So yeah, we’re good. We ought to all be fine…
Thursday, July 14, 2016
My neighborhood is full of Pokemon.
I can tell because my neighborhood is full of people wandering aimlessly up and down the streets, and through the dog park across from the building in which I live, phones in hand, eyes fixed unwaveringly upon them, looking for Pokemon.
And while I’m not completely familiar of the mechanics of the game, were my neighborhood free of Pokemon I presume there’d be fewer Pokemon hunters hunting Pokemon in the area. I gather that’s how the whole thing works.
Is hunters right? Catchers? Trainers? Or are training and hunting Pokemon unrelated to one another?
It probably doesn’t matter.
I’m trying my best my best to not find the whole thing hilarious, but it’s tough not to, especially as for the past week it’s been raining pretty heavily.
So I watch them from my balcony, looking like drowned rats, soaking wet, wiping rainwater off the screens of their phones, shoulders hunched over, shivering in the cold and the wet, bloody-mindedly determined in their quest to find more Pokemon.
Such is their commitment to catching them all, or at least to catching more of them than the online rivals I presume exist for them…
As I said, I’m not completely familiar with the mechanics of the game.
Which is fine.
That’s their business. They’ve chosen a hobby that works for them and it obviously brings them joy, even if it’s a sort of joy that seems weird and frankly hilarious to me. They don’t need my permission to have a good time, and their definition of what constitutes a good time is, at the end of the day, the only one that really matters.
Not everything has to be about me…
So, yes, my neighborhood is full of Pokemon.
You know, if you’re looking for Pokemon.
Sunday, July 10, 2016
By Christopher Munroe
I’ll fly as close to the sun as I fucking please.
My wings are made of sturdier stuff than those of Icarus, and I am a man of vision, scope and ambition. I shan’t be scared off by tales of lesser men and their failings.
For I am not those lesser men.
I’ll fly to the very sun, pluck it from its perch in the heavens and bring it with me back to Earth, that I might present it to you as a token of my love.
I defy God itself to stop me!
I’ll see you upon my return…
Thursday, July 7, 2016
The blue ceramic plates go in the oven.
I can’t stress this enough. They go in the oven, they’re designed for that purpose, and as such they hold heat incredibly well, so that by the time the food gets to your table it is literally still steaming.
Your food is still hot, because the blue ceramic plate in which it’s cooked is still hot. Like, very hot. Hot enough to take the skin off if you touch it with your bare hand.
So don’t touch it with your bare hand.
Alternately: Touch it with your bare hand, I’m not boss of you, I’m a waiter, and this restaurant and I are both covered legally, now, because I have warned you in front of witnesses.
The blue ceramic plates are hot. Do with this information what you will.
For example, the other day I delivered stuffed mushrooms to a table of four, not to profile or resort to sexist stereotypes but it won’t surprise you to know they were all dudes, and upon the mushrooms’ arrival all four men immediately grabbed the blue ceramic plate with their bare hands.
First one to pull his hand away in pain had to pick up the tab for the meal.
Because he was “a pussy.”
And as I watched it happen, my first thought was; “And that, in a nutshell, is what people mean when they talk about “Toxic Masculinity.” Thanks for the example!”
And my second thought was; “That’s kind of hilarious, and I should totally do this with my friends next time we eat out!”
Because understanding something doesn’t make me above that thing, and self-awareness is overrated as far as actually preventing self-destructive behavior goes…
Thursday, June 30, 2016
I’ve been reading a lot, lately, about the Winchester Mystery house.
According to legend, the widow and heir to the Winchester fortune, Sarah Winchester, believed that she shared her home with the spirit of everyone ever killed by a Winchester rifle, and was compelled by this belief to continually add to her home. Rooms, wings, fireplaces, stairways, basements, elevators, beyond meaningful utility, beyond sanity, without rhyme, reason or any thought as to what purpose the finished building might serve her.
Because she did not intend that the building ever be finished, and so she had no conception of “finished” as far as the building went. Rather she worked to continually confound the spirits of the dead, hoping that they would become more and more lost as her home became more and more labyrinthine, hoping that they would never find their way through the maze she was continually constructing, to where she lived, like the Minotaur of old, at that maze’s centre.
In essence, she believed that if construction ever stopped, even for a moment, the ghosts would get her.
She was quite mad, obviously.
And yet, as I read, I couldn’t help but think about how much damn roadwork goes on here in Calgary.
Because it does at times seem as though the city’s constantly working on some major construction project or other and, while Mayor Nenshi doesn’t seem mad, the maddest among us never do.
Or, if he’s sane, perhaps he knows something the rest of us don’t, with regard to the occult.
I can’t off the top of my head think of anything that might have drawn the spirits of the dead to our town, but I suspect that were they here, among us, the roadwork outside my work right now would certainly confound them.
So perhaps there’s more rhyme and reason to the endless construction than I give my hometown credit for…
Although, if so, this would, in light of the fact that I’m not directly involved in planning or executing the construction myself, lead to a rather uncomfortable question.
Am I living in the house? Or am I simply one of its ghosts?
Friday, June 24, 2016
...I recorded my Friday Flash this week, by popular request. I hope that you enjoy it! Sex Marxists! Dissolving the basis for social cohesion, erasing boundaries, thinking happily of the day retroprimitives are not in charge of dandelions. Young people are being sold, youth experimented upon like rats, they will be impoverished. The character of the damned is permanently fixed in rebellion. Sex Marxists! Locked in a danger vortex, the materialistic media exposing this most socialist regime. Two ungoverned passions intersected with deadly consequence in despair over millions wasted. The stupidly wicked lower earth dwellers scream volumes, tearing decent people apart over placating sexual perversity. Imagine the vulnerable youth listeners hearing. Sex Marxists! Those ingrown ingrates who prefer traitors to patriots, throwing a shovel full of dirt in the face of Jesus. Self-identified godless materialists, retroprimitive luddites with razor-suction knives, deny all cause and effect relationships despite intimidation and coercion. Someone put a cold cloth on the fevered brow of rampant socialist utopians, for my people have committed a double evil: Crimes against superior mobility. How socialist is the break-up? How long can we survive? This is not a safe world to be in. Sex Marxists! History books will record the unbounded aspirational hopes, generations of students schooled in infinite mischief continue to grow and prosper, driven by the forces that seek to suppress. If you want full potential in life, dynamic prosperity and smooth and noiseless functioning, it is our behavior which is the basis of our earned respect or loss of it. If we have not the virtue to sustain freedom, surely we shall not have the patience to endure servitude. Fight the ethical black hole. Sex Marxists! Malware bug in the Tower of Babel! The idolatry adults show to the young, a common technique of cultural Marxism, fill our youth’s heads, putting the vulnerable at risk to blow their mind and spirits, clearly pressured by demonic impetus to know weighty questions like where civilization came from. It should be made evident that this kind of servile, obsessive-compulsive bootlicking makes no sense. Extreme stupidity dominates, it is the biggest stick the greedy, animalistic pack killers wield. They have acceded to moral stupidity on the city’s slide to Babylon, a cesspool of corruption, and the envious continue to stagnate and wither away, reducing the returns from productive effort. And here, this charade should stop. Time to move on, to progress. Social conflict will be generated, sending disturbing signals of non-compliance. The powerful extension of personal agency feed minds oblivious to cultural Marxism a well-deserved warning to anyone who dares to challenge the powerful shapers of naïve perceptors of reality. Graft a tail on the man who thinks he is a dog. Balkanize fifth avenue. In the land of retroprimitives, it is morally superior to consume. It is our patriotic duty to mourn, daily. There are many regrets in hell, but never repentance. Sex Marxists.
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Everyone agreed it was evil, but evil was kind of their brand by that point.
They were already applying nothing by way of background checks as part of their hiring practices, the pay they offered was, once you worked out the math and expenses, well below minimum wage for their drivers, and while we’d bitched about surge pricing we hadn’t actually stopped using the companies services, sorry, the app’s services, they’d made it very clear that they were an app rather than a corporation, and as such were not bound by labor laws or regulation the same way a corporation was.
So yes, they already provided a service where, for prices that spiked randomly through the day, a driver who earned less than the legal minimum wage would drive you to were you wanted to go, probably, and for all you know would murder you once you arrived there, with legal steps taken to distance them from any consequence of the results of their policies. They were evil, they were an evil company, sorry, an evil app, and we’d at some point just kind of accepted that.
In our defense, cabs are also horrible, so our standard with regard to this sort of thing had already been abysmally low.
Nonetheless, corporate malfeasance level evil is a completely different thing from actually sending suicide bombers out to blow up trains in an attempt to drum up business by disrupting public transit.
And we were shocked, at first, that they would do this. First because privately held companies had not, to that point, resorted to acts of actual terrorism, at least ones that were public knowledge, and second, because how did they even find people willing to blow themselves up and kill hundreds of innocent bystanders on behalf of an app-based rideshare program?
I mean, on behalf of a religion, or a political ideology, is one thing, it’s horrible but I at least get it, but on behalf of an app-based rideshare program? I found it, frankly, bizarre. And also horrifying, as at the time I took the train to work each day.
Watching bodies being pulled out of the wreckage, after that first attack, I was in shock, watching slack-jawed as cameras panned over bloody debris and pundits speculated as to who might have been behind this brutal, senseless attack.
We assumed it was a terrorist organization, because it was an organized act of terrorism, and that’s who generally tends to commit those. But before long, rumors started spreading….
And, when their CEO finally went in front of the cameras and explained that no, his company was not behind the bombing, because he didn’t own a company, he only owned an app that allowed suicide bombers to find their way to public transit hubs in exchange for significantly less than the legal minimum wage, I was furious. We all were. There were very clear laws against both this sort of shady business practice and murder, and I couldn’t even begin to process the fact that he thought so little of the people who worked for him, and also the people who’s remains were being pulled out of the wreckage he’d caused, sorry, facilitated.
We were all angry, every one of us, and we demanded that our leaders do something about this, arrest him, arrest the whole board of directors who’d signed off on this whole horrifying campaign, do SOMETHING to keep us safe. And our leaders did what they could, or at minimum claimed they were doing so.
Because, by keeping the attack at arms length, legally there was nothing to connect the company that owned the rights to the app to the actual terrorist attacks, they were two legally distinct entities, and the authorities’ hands were, from that point of view, tied.
I have zero doubt the sheer weight of campaign donations thrown around the previous election cycle had had something to do with the relative lack of response as well, but I don’t want to sound like a conspiracy theorist…
“Well,” we told one another, “I’m at very least never going to use their service again.”
And, as we said it, we meant it genuinely. Though for most of us it was only a few weeks ‘til we were using their app (the rideshare one, not the suicide bomber one) once more.
I mean, what else could we do?
We have places to go, after all.
And it’s not as though we could take public transit, I mean people suicide bomb trains, public transit is very dangerous.
And really, sometimes a little creative destruction is just what an industry needs…
Sunday, June 12, 2016
By Christopher Munroe
A single ferret, in the big city, trying to have it all.
Living, working, occasionally disemboweling other small rodents, life was hard, but she knew that as long as she remained virtuous she WOULD, in the end, learn how to balance work and her tempestuous love life.
As produced by David E. Kelly.
Long story short, the show was NOT good, and only made eight episodes before being cancelled. Frankly, it’s failure’s no surprise. What surprises is that it was greenlit in the first place. Who on this planet thought it MIGHT work?
Somebody at NBC is filled with regret….
Thursday, June 9, 2016
If anything, I was surprised that it took as long as it did for the gun control people to decide they were going picket NRA meetings whilst packing heat.
I mean, if a legal right is truly protected, it’s protected for the people who think it’s bugshit insane just as much as it is for the people who support it, so there’s never been anything actually stopping anti-gun protestors arriving where the National Rifle Association was hosting its big annual convention with AK47s slung over their shoulders and signs reading “Why am I allowed to do this?” or “Surely this can’t possibly make any of you feel any safer!”
The news networks had a lot of fun with the story, it’s a fun story to cover, and the anchors bordered on gleeful as they reported the heavily armed people protesting the fact that they were allowed to be quite so heavily armed. Watching from home, even I had to admit that the whole thing was at minimum faintly amusing.
I kept watching the coverage, at the very least, for most of the afternoon, giggling offhandedly to myself at the irony of the juxtaposition.
Until the NRA people came out to remind the protestors that they, too, had brought guns.
Nobody’s entirely sure who fired the first shot...
Anyway, dozens were killed and steps are being taken as we speak to make sure that similar tragedies are, in the future, prevented happening ever again.
The steps, I have no doubt, will include even more guns for even more people.
That ought to work…
Sunday, June 5, 2016
By Christopher Munroe
It’s said that your earliest memory’s the one that matters most. It’s the one that shapes you, going forward, turns you into the person you eventually become. It’s the memory you can’t escape, because it’s the one that, more than any other, IS you.
That’s why they’re called “Formative Years.”
For me, it’s my aunt, in the early eighties, dressed as though she were Boy George, singing Blondie to me in the crib.
One way, or another…
I’m going to find you…
I’m going to get’cha, get’cha, get’cha, get’cha….
And that is, essentially, everything you need to know about me.