Saturday, March 26, 2005

America, Land of Bombs & Money

"Easter is the victory of light over darkness. In this season of renewal, we remember that hope leads us closer to truth, and that in the end, even death itself will be defeated. That is the promise of Easter morning."
U.S. President George W. Bush, National radio address on Saturday, March 26th. (CNN)

Yes, Pres. Bush. Death will be defeated by praying to Jesus. Perhaps the thousands of marines in Iraq can say hail marys as their unarmoured humvees get shot at by stray AK-47 and RPG fire.

When 16-year old Jeff Weise decided to shoot up his school, he was taking the path of violence and destruction that most of us would abhor. He should have joined the U.S. Army. That way, he could have killed as many "insurgents" as he wanted without risking a murder charge.

"A senior (U.S.) Army legal official acknowledged that the Iraqi colonel had at one point been lifted to his feet by a baton held to his throat, and that that action had caused a throat injury that contributed to his death.

The Army accounting said the Special Forces Command had determined that the use of force had been lawful 'in response to repeated aggression and misconduct by the detainee.'

Despite recommendations by Army investigators, commanders have decided not to prosecute 17 American soldiers implicated in the deaths of three prisoners in Iraq and Afghanistan in 2003 and 2004, according to a new accounting released Friday by the Army."

"Pentagon Will Not Try 17 GI's Implicated in Prisoners' Deaths" (NYT)

Killing is wrong any way you look at it. When you're the most powerful nation on the earth, you have a moral duty to limit the spread of violence and the distribution of arms.

Instead, America is the biggest purveyor of weapons on the globe. Just days ago, they announced the sale of F-16 multi-purpose jet fighters to Pakistan, no doubt due to Pakistan's half-hearted attempts at catching Bin Laden, America's Emmanuel Goldstein. Never mind the fact that India has protested that this will only escalate tensions in the region.

If there is a point to all of this, America's establishment will recoil in horror when one of its own sons decides to pick up a rifle and begin killing his classmates, but they think it's just fine to spread violence elsewhere in the world by selling kill-machines and bombs to other nations. Don't they see the relation between having weapons and using them?

U.S., do us all a favour. Sign on to Kyoto, sign the Landmines ban, join the International Criminal Court, and stop thinking that you're some sort of empire. Your downhill slide is already apparent to many independent observers, anyhow. While you're at it, start teaching Mandarin or Japanese in your classrooms. They'll own you before the century is through.

Oh, and Happy Easter!

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Hacking Up a Lung & Dissonants Gig

I've been busy as of late trying to retrieve the wreckage of Concordia Flight 2005 from the crash scene of my school year. I fucked around a lot and now I'm mathematically doubtful of passing several of my courses. It would be nice to be a part of the religious herd at this point so that I would have somebody to pray to. Being an agnostic, I've been secretly praying to Enn Rautsepp, the director (?) of Concordia's Journalism program.

Today, I have to go and cover some exposition on chocolate at McGill University. It begins in 43 minutes and my bacon isn't done frying on the stove. I predict that I will arrive late, start scribbling down any notes I can, and then dart towards the free samples of chocolate. I'm salivating just thinking of ripping through a sweet little piece of cocoa extract right now.

Later this week, I have some copy stories due for Radio class (deadline: Friday night) and a myriad pile of other work that has accumulated in the past few months. Rautsepp preserve me!


In other news, the Dissonants will be playing a gig at Reggie's Pub tomorrow (Thursday night). They want to punk you into a frenzy. Doors open at 7 PM, cover is a paltry $2, and there will be four terrific bands to stroke your musical muscles. Come one, come all!
Thu - 03.24 Launie Anderssohn, The Dissonants, The Rothschilds, Coriander @ Reggie's Pub ($2) (7pm), 1455 De Maisonneuve (in Concordia's Hall Building!).

Friday, March 18, 2005

"Wilding" by JB

I think that I've progressed, comparing this text to "All of You". I dropped the forced rhyming and just went with my gut.

This is the most important instant of my life.
I am completely aware
of the dangers inherent in uttering such a thing
You could crush me like a beetle
My legs would twitch on
but I'd be dead, nonetheless

I'm holding out my hand
it's yours for the taking
If you lock me outside
I will have to curl up in a snowbank
I'm a vagabond even if I have a home.
I still piss in alleyways and eat table scraps

Give me what you can
I'll wait until there is peace in Israel
Like patient waves that reach for mountains
but only make it as far as the beach
My love has no expiry date
It will age like red wine

Ironically enough, I am indeed twitching but I'm hoping I'll get scooped off the street before any more sedans pass over me. I'm not broken. Lather, rinse, repeat. I'm not broken.

"All of You" by JB

Wrote this one a while back but never bothered to do anything with it. Poetry means something to me again because it's all I have left. I can't sleep, I barely eat; even alcohol has lost its woozy charm. I need to rely on words to get me through this turbulence, these nightmares I dream while I'm awake. Point is, this poem once inspired me to keep going way back when, so now I wanted to share it with you all.

I'd appreciate some criticism or commentary. It's a tad bit rough, so go easy on me, eh? Might even work as lyrics, I guess. [Ed. Note: Stick to something you're good at, like sleeping, or fooling people into thinking that you're some sort of bewildered idiot-savant. You're an actor, a stumbling, self-obsessed little fuck who thinks that because he has access to a keyboard and a couple of 4-dollar words, all of the sudden he's some sort of poet. Jeremy Brendan, you've always been a fraud & now your inflicting all of this miserable prose on the world. Shame. Shaaaame.]

"All of You"
I am alive for
this minute
for art and the
worlds in it
for love and the
for friends and readers of
English Lit
for truth and arguing with
the cynics
for people who like
being misfits
for the unknown hero lying to
be tragic
for the causality that is based
on magic

I love humanity
& vanity
in small doses
for lovers who twist
like red roses
for brown hair
and delicate poses
for winter
and red noses
I am alive and I thrive
because what's in me
is all of you

Don't listen to my editor. He's just hateful because I always get the last word.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

First Annual "Spot JB Drunk" Contest

I am about to go and pawn some of my personal effects to fund the first annual "Spot JB Drunk" Contest. Yes, I am going out to drink like my liver is made of titanium, folks. It's 3:18 PM so the day is young.

The contest has two parts:
  • Spot JB:
  • Participants must track down Jeremy Brendan and taunt him/buy him drinks/explain to him the mysteries of life and why it seems that women are puzzles made of broken glass, beautiful but capable of inflicting such intense pain.
  • Stamina:
  • Once they have found JB, participants must go drink for drink with JB until somebody either passes out or gets sick. At that point, the contest is over and we all begin the hunt for drugs.

Everyone is welcome to attend! Bring your fat, swollen wallets and a sense of humour, because JB doesn't have either of those today. [Ed. Note: To give you all a hint, JB's usual haunts are Cock 'n Bull Pub, Brutopia, and Reggie's, although there is a strike at Concordia today so Reggie's is not a potential hangout.]

What contest would be complete without a prize? If you spot JB, you win at least one anecdote relating Hindu mythology with a musical instrument or maybe a corny joke. Also, JB can help you find whatever you need, ie. opium, ether, etc. If you can keep up with JB's drinking, you win his gratitude and the unadulterated respect of your peers (the drunken gang at whichever bar you happen to be at).

Looking forward to seeing you all out there! Cheers and vive la peine, l'amour est mort!