It’s not a wonder that I struggle to get so little done in so much time, but not only do I find the time to watch my daily dose of garbage television but I also find the time to reminisce on ways in which I wasted time as a youth.  It’s a multi-level approach to the wastage of time in which I now find the time to write about it.  They say repetition breeds habit and routine, so here we go.

Even better, check out the arabic version. Don’t forget to sing along.

Oh my God, I can’t take it, it’s so amazing!!

Yeah, that's right, the swine flu's cute little curly tail can shoot waves of fire out of it.... BEWARE!!!

So for some inane reason, Matty and I decided to set up the television once again.

And yes, we are now stuck in front of it as the sun shines outside and as children are laughing and playing in the street, we are cowering on our couch experiencing the dire consequences and terrific trauma that await us with the oncoming swine flu.

To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure if I would have heard about this so-called “swine flu” if I hadn’t turned on the news this afternoon.

In its so typical way, the news once again is instilling fear and paranoia in the minds of the masses.

Apparently pandemics come in waves, and we are experiencing the first wave of this one.  The stern faced anchor on the television so graciously tells us that the third wave of the swine flu should be coming to Vancouver just in time for the 2010 olympics.

Maybe I’ll look back at this a couple years down the road when the swine flu has fully thinned the masses, and the world has become a realistic portrayal of Outbreak or Resident Evil. But for Christ’s sake, does everything on the news have to be so God-damned exaggerated and thematic??

Me thinks it’s time to put the television back in the closet where it belongs.

It's super rad that I have the full Adobe suite on my computer and yet still utilize all the power of Window's Paint

And thus ends another season of the Real World on Mtv, and for all the glory of the show, I have to say I’m really disappointed this season. What I have come to rely on being a solid dose of drunken-debaucherous-sexy-rage-injected-good-time has successfully failed to produce.

The show that, last year produced the phrase “Let’s not get ghetto,” has failed miserably this season.

And you can’t blame the producers or Mtv, the blame goes directly to the bland cast members.  I had really high hopes this season too, there was a tranny, a gay guy, a Mormon moron, and an underwear model.  I thought at least there’d be the typical hookup or drunken foolery, but this group of do-gooders’ most exciting moments centered around the breaking of a coffee table, and putting a rat into one of the girl’s beds.

God, so lame.  For all 8 of them (god! there was even an extra one of you this year),  you’d think there’d at least be an alcoholic or sex addict amongst you.

What has the human race come to?  Where have all the racist drug addicts, and nympho homos gone to?

I love you Lohan, your bad-streak this decade has brought me so much tabloid joy, I really should be thanking you.  But Lohan, this piece of advertorial garbage, though it has brought me much joy, has brought it at your expense.

Pointy fingers, gun hands, skinny legs, sit down, stand up, look forward.

Kiss face, kiss noise, smack (did you seriously say smack?  Sweetie, no).  Fornarina.

The world might eat you alive for this one.

Karma really is a bitch.

After writing a little piece a couple of months ago about a fellow student in one of my classes reaking of mothballs, the gods have decided to impart their judgement and it isn’t kind.  In fact, it’s suffocating.

You see I live 2 floors above a rather “trashy” little family.

Stinky Stanky Mothball Me. I guess flies wouldn't be attracted to the smell of moth ball fumes, but it's more a demonstration of my artistic abilities. Stare in awe.

They leave their laundry in the machines for days, literally.  They litter the lawn with their children’s toys, claiming ownership over an apparently communal space.  And they yell and scream at their children and each other at all times of the day and night.  But this last action of theirs is beyond forgivable, and fucking ridiculous.

After seeing a cockroach in their apartment, they have decided to put mothballs into the heat vents.  The same vents that run through the entire house, and that all of us share.  Awesome.  So now, my little home at the top of the stairs reaks of mothballs, reaks.

The air is thick with the stuff, so much that it’s been giving Meghan and I headaches.  And now in math class, I’m no longer haunted by the smell of mothballs following me, I am the one bringing the haunt.

The front row of Math 1118 at Langara is now completely saturated by the odor of an impromptu mothball posse.

Now when I get out of the swimming pool my towel smells, my retardedly expensive jackets smells, and my bed smells: all of it moth balls.  I’ve even convinced myself twice now that people have moved seats on the bus because of the way I smell.

And to top it all off, apparently this little family two floors down is unreachable.  Great.

If there’s one thing that I’m not, it’s a visual artist.  I can’t draw and I struggle to paint unless it involves little more than pouring gobs of acrylics and just spreading it around a palette as though I’m icing a cake.  It’s not my sense of color that’s the struggle, but rather the conveyance of anything life-like or even reminiscent of  some thing.  Anything.  It’s the problem of getting the visuals of my mind to translate to the canvas.

Sure, in saying that, I set myself up.  I have absolutely no authority to say the things that I’m about to.  And some might wonder if I should.  Is it fair to throw stones at a media campaign whose only intention is the betterment of society?  Probably not, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer.

And all in all, this shit is really so bad, that it’s pretty awesome.

Exhibit A:

what-it-takes.org's capaign for awareness?

I first noticed this poster on Davie Street a couple of weeks ago, and since then have seen 2 other varieties in various locations around town.  I was so dumbfounded by the thing that I had to stop for a moment and take it all in.

First off, obviously enough, it’s blatant.  Obviously.  What a better way to sell gay men something then have it regarding sex and nudity.  But it’s not the blatant suggestions of sexual intercourse and bondage that bothers me, it’s just about everything else.  Perhaps it was the bizarre proportions of everything in the picture, or maybe the fact that Tarzan looks more like Kenny G than an apparently attractive hero.

Was this some organization’s attempt at re-creating the stimulation that house-wives feel when they pick up a Harlequin Romance at the grocery store?

What really got me about this poster was more in the subtle details: I had to actually ask myself if the monkey in the background was trying to free the fellow on the tree, or if he in fact was the one doing the bondage.  What does the panther have to do with anything?  It’s almost like the artist is saying to us, “I can draw a panther!”  “Look at my monkey, he’s pretty.”

And why does he have only one shoe? and… are you serious?  Do those sequoias really have testicles???  You’ve got to be kidding me.

So maybe they’ve done what they set out to do.  Perhaps What-It-Takes.org‘s intention was to capture the imaginations, and attentions of us “high risk” individuals who wander the west-end.  And, well, it worked.  And I can’t say I’d turn away the opportunity to frolic around some mythical garden of Eden with a handsome fellow, or wait in a tree for Tarzan to swing in at-the-ready, but really??

It just goes too far.

It’s not like they don’t have something important to say.  Honestly check it out.  The message is vital to our community and the world.  For myself though, the message is too fucked up.

I’m sick of having sex thrown in my face.

Maybe I’m alone on this, but the most stimulating thing to me still, is the intrigue and mystery in the long looks across the room before you’ve met someone?  And am I the only one left that loves the biting tension before you have sex with someone?

Apparently.  Sheesh.

And with that, I leave you with this.  Don’t even get me started on this one:

Exhibit B:

While reading yesterday’s Metro at breakfast this morning, I not only realized that I am perpetually one step behind the times, but also a very interesting tidbits about my lesbian counterparts.  Apparently lesbians are more prone to cancer than heterosexuals, hmm.

At first glace, I took it to just be another meaningless piece of journalistic blubber, but then I got to thinking.

With all the articles written about the dangers of coffee , eggs, or red wine, that only switch to profess the very opposite news the next day, it’s becomes harder and harder to find the true meaning of things in the news.

The article states that lesbians are more likely to have a higher body mass index and are less likely to use the medical system, thus less likely to get a mammogram, or pap, or what have you.  I immediately thought to myself: “Where do you get these stats?  This is ridiculous.”

But then it occurred to me, and I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of it previous:

Who hasn’t in their lifetime met an overweight man-hating lesbian who hates doctors?

And suddenly it all made sense.