I knew it

I knew there was a reason I woke up in a pisser on a Saturday morning, besides that fucking dream about being Milou and having to find a treasure-chest in a booby trapped castle while Tintin hung around outside giving me completely useless advice. Man, I can't even giggle over writing 'booby' today. Today is the day the laughter died. What did we do that Richard Pryor had to die? Fuck, man. Fuck. This is one naughty world.

Blown away

Started psychoanalysis last night. It was odd to talk about myself so much, but not too threatening. I'm relaxed with Carl Jung's ideas. They provide a practical, concrete framework for all the philosophy and classical writing I studied, and you would not believe how fun it is to trace archetypes through the dream you had about Eminem doing Mad Scientist magic tricks in a dormitory of your old university. We talked alot about anger, which is odd - synchronic, if I may - since my head is about to EXPLODE this evening with the anger I'm feeling towards some of the ad-bot simpletons I have to deal with.

But the real psychically important event last night was watching Kenneth Branagh's Henry V and the St. Crispin's day speech that lets you know language is Shakespeare's loving bitch:

What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Oh, the goosebumps. Isn't it something that back in the day the great military leaders also had to be great orators? You had to be able to convince men that they wanted to throw themselves into a deadly situation; prepare them to slaughter another creature that looked like them; you had to take away their fear, suspend their sympathy, and fill them with energy. Imagine! It probably helped that they had a better sense of eternity and a friendlier relationship with death than the Occidental world does now, but all the same. I read somewhere that Julius Caesar's legendarily inspiring rallying speeches were filthily obscene. Naughty Italians.

Speaking of inspirational, has anyone made a movie about this guy yet?

You're lucky you got your looks

I love Italy; I love Italians; I love myself. Natch. But they are so fucking lame sometimes. In case you're silly enough to not subscribe to the New York Times, the linked article finishes with the line 'And the Italians should reconsider their approach. . . That would require an extreme act of political bravery. So don't bet on its happening anytime soon.' Holy shit. There's a wee encapsulation of their whole lameness.*

I don't want to get too deeply into Italian lameness today because I still feel the need to focus my nationalistic contempt on France. But I will say that for Canada, in the context of the approaching election, Italy is a topical cautionary tale. Things here are generally good, yes. The issues being argued in this election don't have cataclysmic implications, no. And our electoral system is more representative and accountable than that of the United States, yes. Those are hardly reasons to get complacent and start ignoring our political process like a bunch of Italians. PAY ATTENTION, BITCHES! Or you'll end with the governance the inattentive deserve - a sequence of instable minority governments whose parties have sold their ideology to the highest bidder and which are sometimes headed by the Berlusconi-esque.

Feel them. Feel the goosebumps, motherfucker.

An exhaustive description of Italian lameness can be found in this week's Economist, which contains a damning survey of the country's economic and political situation.



*That article fails to mention a peice of shocking hypocrisy: the Museo Egizio di Torino is the second or third best egyptology collection in the world, depending on whether you're talking to a Brit or an Italian. The collection was 'built' and 'recovered' during the north African colonial era. . . but I guess national interests forbid such mentions. Any G-7 country starting that sort of war of words would be a pot or kettle calling some other pot or kettle black.

Fancy seeing you here

Had a breakfast workshop with hundreds of ad-bots, one of whom I'd been on a few dates with and hadn't called back. Thankfully I live in a big city so dumb 'chats' like this morning's only happen once in awhile. In Piemonte it was bloody constant, so I went to Paris, and we know how that turned out.

So, I'm one of those, I've realized. Is it wrong? Possibly. I don't call anymore either, so I don't recall how no call-back feels. I guess it depends on whether you'd rather assume 'this person doesn't think they owe me an explanation' or hear 'I'm not into you and I don't have the energy to pretend'.

Anyways, it would be nice to be into someone; I used to be from time to time. It isn't so much an involved relationship I miss as having the guts to take a real fucking header for someone - to make an impassioned decision and say, 'yes, I love this person'. Or at least 'yes, I would pull out one of my own teeth to get my hands on him'. That's balls, man. That's palle. That's hot. When did I get so cold?

Geh

Feel ill today. Will take off at lunch probably. This made me feel a little sicker to my stomach. Man, what people will do to other species. Take the miracle of God's creation and turn it into ugly contests. Ugh.

Well . . .

I suppose the day had to come. From a civil liberties point of view, I cry, 'full steam ahead!' From a physical point of view, I cry, 'the only good sex with a prostitute is free sex with a prostitute!' And from a moral point of view, I cry.

Fine black bitches

The title of this post is what somebody searched to find this site. The 'dating assholes' thing I can understand, what with all the abstract discussion of romance garbage, but 'fine black bitches'?

Got a draggle-on birthday present this morning from Marks and Spencers. What does it say about me that I miss Marks and Spencers so much? But merciful fuck, it isn't fair, the gingersnaps alone should have kept their Canadian business afloat. That should be about the last birthday present for the year besides a mystery package whose existence I've been warned of driving in from the West Coast. Mysssssssssssssss-tery. Must be Bigfoot.