Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Racism isn't just colour

Often we associate racism with colour of skin, physical comparison, facial features and the like. In the realm of insidious which I mentioned in my previous entry, I give you my childhood.

I was living on the South-Shore of Montréal in the late seventies and early eighties. It was the advent of the Parti-Québécois coming to power. The province had just gone through some dark times with Martial Law being imposed by Rt. Hon. Pierre-Trudeau. I was too young to remember the Pierre-Laporte incident, nor the soldiers manning the streets of Montreal, especially the East-End. I was 5 years old at the time. Shortly afterwards, my dad got an expatriate assignment in England.

When we returned in late 1974, the Prime Minister of Québec was Pierre-Bourassa (Parti Libérale du Québec). We were faced with the first of what would be a litany of discriminatory Bills issued by the Province in the next decade. Bill-22 it was called. It specified that no Québec resident could attend an English school, unless he or she was already enrolled, or could prove anglophone ancestry. It also specified that no new immigrant to the province could attend english school. There were provisions for English immigrants but I do not know of the specifics. Italian immigrants, for instance, had to enroll in french schools...period. That's how I understood it at the time.

Through luck and manoeuvering, I was able to continue my education in an english language school upon returning from England. My parents deemed this a necessity at the time so as to consolidate my newfound english language. My mother is of scottish descent which decreed that I am allowed to send my kids to english school in Québec if I so choose. French-only families are shit out of luck.

The government of the day was trying to retain french heritage through legislation. I won't debate as to the validity, indeed the success, of doing so, but there you have it.

Comes 1976, and the Parti-Québécois takes power. The dissatisfaction of the French towards their English overlords is finally being addressed in full. Or at least so claim the fanatics. As if the violence and manifestations of 1970 weren't enough, the province is driven deeper into scission. The party in power claims to be not anti-anglo, indeed simply... wait for it... pro-french. Sounds familiar don't it?

How close did we come to civil war? No one knows for sure. Everyone's experience of the time is so wildly different and tainted by beliefs that no one can give a straight answer today. Myself included. The fanatics were in all corners crying abuse and denouncing english domination. Maybe they had a point? I suppose. The moderates, that is, everyone else, did not see a need for violent, outrage and outbreak.

My own experience of the time was heavily tainted, of course. I was still on the high of Great-Britain and the wonderful things I had seen and learned there. However, I'll never really forget in my heart, that I kept getting nailed from both sides:

The assaults were verbal, when with my anglophone friends, I was the "Hostie de tête carré", square-head or bloke/block, until I replied in french. And then sometimes, during the crux of the problem, I was also the "fucking frog", until a swift "fuck-off already I'm anglo" solved that particular problem. The solution was relatively easy in this sense that I could reply in kind. Didn't make it any less hurtful, it just meant I could get even a little faster. The South Shore was at the time about a 60-40 split of anglo & franco, respectively. Immigrants were mostly on the island of Montreal proper, and later in Laval to the north.

As time went on some mild shit started happening. Houses would get egged or appled in my neighborhood, which was mostly anglo. Every other week it seems, we'd hear of a fight at André-Laurendeau/Macdonald-Cartier. One incident involved a chain saw one the one side and ball-peen hammers on the other. This one made national news if I remember correctly

Now there's a beauty for ya: André-Laurendeau was the french public regional high-school and Macdonald-Cartier was the english public regional high-school. These were two buildings not a 100 yards from each other separated by a 4 foot high chain-link fence. As if the chain extended all the way to the bus stop and right down the middle of the bus itself. Yeah, great way to produce a melting-pot of nitro and glycerine.

My dad decided to run for a low level school rep in our district and my friend's father was actually running for commisioner of the school board. These were some of the Parti-Libérale candidates running for the English School board. My dad was a realtive unknown and newcomer to the scene, so nothing happened to us...

But my buddy's father, on the other hand, was a well known liberal and an anglo to top it off.
His wife almost didn't make it!

Less than a week before the election, the police show up at my buddy's place. I quickly learn that his mother's car had been filled with gasoline, no, not in the tank, all over both front seats and floor. It was quite deliberate, although to this day we are unsure as to whether the intent was to intimidate or to kill. My buddy's mom was a chain smoker, an easy enough fact to determine. By the sheer grace of the gods, she had not lit up as she normally would upon leaving the house. If she'd opened the car with cigarette in hand, the damned thing would have gone up like a roman candle.

Now comes election day: one situation I particularly appreciated during the election process was that forces working for the PQ would do their best to intercept english speaking voters before they got to their poll and guide them towards empty polls where their ballot would be deposited in uncontrolled, and therefore uncounted, boxes. You are getting a mental picture yet? Then, they call in their friends from out of county to come and vote for the PQ rep, in a properly manned poll, in the anglo's name!

Massive complaints were lodged with the election bureau, which were sumarily ignored. After all, who would really care? It was only a school-board election. I can only imagine what happens at the provincial levels.

Unfortunately (of maybe fortunately) Denis Lazure was the elected PQ deputy in Chambly. This guy was a heavyweight with the PQ and they had major ressources, campaign drivers, etc, so losing the election was not going to be in the cards. Indeed the PQ did win the school board elections so my buddy's dad retired from school board politics. No more fuel for the fire, pun intended.

Anyway, this was my Québec growing up. Hatred running rampant, a little bit of violence mixed in for sport. Two things I do regret dearly, the fanatics stole our flag and our national holiday. When I see the flag nowadays, to me it's a symbol of fanatical-pro-franco-pride, it didn't used to be. The St-Jean-Baptiste was a beautiful, rustic holiday, now it is the rallying cry of the franco-fanatic, not Patron-Saint of all The Quebecois, as it once was. Slowly it is being taken back however, as the kids today have no knowledge of the bastardized 1980's meaning.

The PQ, wound people up so tight that they indeed manage to break the anglo stranglehold on the province, that's assuming there was one. The great exodus towards Toronto occured in those very years. The Montreal Star (newspaper) shut down as anglophones were leaving left, right and centre. You could count the number of people leaving through Montreal Star's subscription cancelations. The jewel of north american travel was supposed to be Montréal, a beautiful and cosmopolitain town, shiny Mirabel in the making (airport). We all know what happened to that.

There is a positive side to racism, and I say this with the consideration it deserves, had it not been for the rampant language racism that occured during those years, Toronto would not be the world-class metropolis that it is today.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Racism is basic

Speaking and debating of race has been done to death, and then some. So I'm not trying to make any point with this entry. But I do have observations, which I feel I cannot pass up.

Racism has two very different meanings which cross over each other. One having to do with prejudice and the other with belief. That is an explosive combination at the BEST of times, and race isn't the only place this combination can be found. Religion, politics, typical work environment, my in-laws, the list goes on. I'll stick to racism this time around.

I've often said: "just becaused it's prejudice, doesn't mean it's not true". I still hold to this statement, in the sense that some of my own experiences with certain individuals of a self-appointed subgroup has conceived an unfortunatly negative notion in my own mind. In fact, it chagrins me greatly to say that insurance companies are the best, worst?, at actually putting a number, a monetary value, upon various individual groups. This is called actuarial analysis. The fact that these calculations work is proof positive that some prejudice is true, worse still, it is measurable!

What's even more funny is that, by this very vehicle, insurance companies victimize everyone indiscriminately: So those of you who have never felt the sting of racism against you, need only look as far as your insurance premium to get a very small taste. Doesn't feel very good does it?

In any event, prejudice is then an empirical, albeit negative, vehicle by which one can predict with varying degrees of certainty the actions of an individual which fits the given parameters of the prejudice in question. This is not a new concept per se. It is used, for instance, in the stock market where analysts will decree that a company is going to do well, or not, without knowing shit about what the company does, nor how. Need I say more?

Prejudice by this definition is oh-so very clearly fallible. The problems really kick in full gear when prejudice is taken as holy writ, as opposed to an empircal guess. This is where belief kicks in. I have found that some of the most dangerous people on earth are the ones which cannot tell the difference between their beliefs and facts.

An aparté: I just about pissed myself laughing when I read the Reuters article about how Rt. Hon. Paul Martin understood the Quebecer, in appointing the new Governor General. Firstly, it is my considered opinion that politicians don't actually know fuck-all about a given consituency, and furthermore, the media is worse. Note however, that the typical high-level politician is average to good at manipulating the consituency in question, and it's media. Anyway, A large segment of Quebecers have a racist streak a mile-wide towards, you guessed it, Haïtians. Don't get me wrong, Ms. Jean is well respected, even loved, by these same Quebecers, just as long as she, or her kind, don't move in next door! That's a statement and a half isn't it? My prejudice vis-à-vis my fellow Quebecer proves me 90% right, 18 times out of 20. At least she speaks french...

And thusly we come to the crux of the matter.

In years past, I honestly thought that racism (discrimination) was simply a matter of misunderstanding, or ignorance, through lack of exposure. I realize now that racism, in most of it's forms may actually be a basic and evil human element, and not anything so ethereal as prejudice run amok.

Certainly a lot of our racism has been passed down from our forefathers, yet one cannot to lay blame entirely on previous generations. One can, however, lay blame squarely on those that perpetrate the infamy, and worse, those that use it as a form of expediency. We can attest that people with lack of morals are of this ilk. But is it really lack of morals, or is it rather too much morals on speed? Some of the greatest racist epithets were commited by men of presumably higher moral standards. These examples of most unfortunate role-models bear an incredible influence on us all.

So what does it mean to us on the ground floor? It means that we all live this inescapable influence within our lives. Like Socrates, Plato et al. have given us modern western philosophy and scientific method, we are guided, just as strongly by the race imperative. It boggles the mind as to how insidious and entrenched racism is.

If we chuck all political correctness out the window, to even claim that one is not racist is a fallacy. We are all racist, such is the way our society is made. And there are no bystanders. What's worse, Political Correctness is actually making things worse, it's really hiding the problem as opposed to fixing it. If it avoids some pain and suffering however, it at least has that value.

I wish I had a decent answer for all this. Making our own little efforts in our daily lives just isn't cutting it! Either we need a Dr. Luther-King on a world stage, to effect a real and basic change or we might as well kiss our asses goodbye.

Maybe we should become prejudiced against racists, AH-HA!!! ... umm, nevermind, that leads back to kissing our asses goodbye.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Vikings and misspeak

Today I went to see my shrink. He'd been off on vacation for the better part of the summer, so it was a nice reunion.

As usual, I try to let myself go and think of nothing as I'm driving over. This is a quiet time where I make a conscious effort to empty my brain and my heart. As I turn upon the street beside his office to park, or sometimes as I'm riding up the elevator, a thought or a feeling wells up from the void I've created. This is, invariably, what I talk about during my session.

Sometimes I am lucky and the feelings are clear. Sometimes I am not so lucky and the feelings are shrouded, mysterious and completely out of focus. When I'm in this state, I must work very hard during my hour with my shrink to make some sense of the turmoil. It's akin to a shot in the dark. Sometimes you work hard and nothing comes, but today I hit something.

Hacking through my confusion, I remember an event of my past. I was 7, maybe 8 years old, I was in school in England, grade 2 if I remember correctly, possibly grade 3. We had a Viking project to do which entailed cutting up a cereal box in the shape of a Viking ship and building little shields with the leftover cardboard and some aluminium foil. A nice little project, and if I do say so, the Brits are brilliant at recycling such materials into school projects.

I had a few friends one of which was Jackie, a lovely and sweet girl. She also build her own little viking ship in her class. She ran into a little trouble with her ship, nevertheless it came out very nice indeed. Either she told me this or I heard it from someone, another friend maybe, that she'd had this trouble.

I must specify that I was pure french Canadian, and didn't know all that much english at this point in time. I was with a couple of my classmates and saw Jackie's ship. I had a good story to relate, I point out her ship and told my friends "this one is stewpid". I remember, clear as daylight on a 10-foot snowbank, my intent was to say: "this one is interesting". I know this word today, I did not then.

But it was all too late. My ignorance had already set me up: the teacher that I liked most of all, the one who granted me extra attention when I had first come to this school, the one who I feared the least, the one who taught me about trousers, shirts, pullovers, socks and shoes on a drawing of myself... took me aside. She was angry. I had made her angry. I was already wishing I'd kept my fucking mouth shut. But it was too late.

I was wisked off to the spread of boats in my own class, and am compeled to point out my own. "This one is stewpid" she said in what I assumed to be the same tone as I had used.

Needless to say, I was shattered. Not because my ship may or may not actually have been stupid, not even because I'd been taken down a peg. Indeed I was shattered because I'd garnered the wrath of my favourite teacher, to say nothing of having said ill of my friend's project. Misunderstanding, ignorance on my part, plain and simple.

I don't think Jackie ever found out. If she did, she never said anything and we remained friends afterwards. From that point on, however, I have no recollection of my favourite teacher... at all.

It's not really anyone's fault. My teacher was giving me a lesson in civility and manners. Maybe she should have continued my language education instead? Who's to know. I was uneducated and bore not a shred of ill-will, nor towards my friend, nor her project, nor towards my teacher, as it was really a misunderstanding.

I don't think this was a defining moment in my history. But it was important enough for me to remember today, decades later, for no obvious reason. Or maybe there is: I need to forgive my teacher, she did what she thought was best, she's not to blame. But maybe more importantly, I need to forgive myself. A silly mistake I could not possibly have known nor avoided.

Note of Author: I knew not a single word of english before I went to England. By the time I left, a year and a half later, I had a wicked-cool British (Manchester) accent and was for all intents and purposes bilingual, actually to a point whereas I was starting to lose my french.

Friday, August 26, 2005

They know your twin

Upon getting my passport yesterday the nice public functionary, duly sworn in I'm sure, verified my credentials. This being another form of Almighty government, in this case the federal, they wanted to ascertain for themselves that I was who I claimed. A reasonable procedure since, obviously, the other government and for that matter the clergy-types cannot be trusted.

After a few minutes of quiet deliberation on the nice lady's part, she asks deadpan: "Do you have a twin?"

"Do I what?" I asked, expecting a lot of questions but certainly not that one.

"Do you have a twin?" she reiterates in the same tone.

"No, I do not" I answer in my most convinced bewilderment, then I add "my mother suffered 7 martyrs giving birth to me. If there had been another one, trust me, I would have heard about it."

So she goes on about her business, well my business really, but she's doing her job, and quite professionally at that.

A twin? Really? Nah... After all, I was there but I really was not all that conscious of what was going on. There might have been a veritable bevy of me and I would not know for sure. His name is apparently Philip, he is 5'10", brown hair and brown eyes and was born on the same date and in Montréal.

Damned! He could be my twin, but then I tell the nice lady, "brown hair and eyes isn't exactly a rarity where I was born." She just smiles and nods her head in agreement. At this moment, I wonder if her hair colour is her own. If not, it's a damned good tint job.

Back to my twin. My government, well not so much my govnernment as the second one I have to put up with, has seen fit to assume that there may be two of me. Given my wonderful existential feelings of yesterday, I'm even more elated because everything is doubled!

But it's enough to sow seeds of doubt. Maybe my mother lied to me all these years? What if she didn't have enough money to keep us both and gave what's-his-face up for adoption? What if there was a mixup at the hospital? What if he's got a tweenage wife? The list goes on.

The Almighty might declare all this as fact. Again religion comes into play, faith if you will: do I believe the woman I know and love as my mother, or do I believe the Almighty government, that I have a twin. If the government delcares that I do indeed have a twin, I am well and truly screwed. There is nothing I can do about it, I have to accept it as fact, and to quote myself from yesterday "It's an absolute certainty which mere mortal cannot comprehend, nor combat. "

I am that mere mortal.

The ramifications to my life are endless: Do I contact him? Do I want a twin? What will happen with the relationship with my mother? That lying bitch. Does my father know? Poor unworthy sod. Do either of them care? I knew it! Does Philip even know that I exist? Bastard that he is. Does he want a twin? When do we meet up? Where? Will his tweenage wife be there? Will I be lusting after her? The list goes on.

Then the nice lady tells me: "Nope not a twin. His mother's maiden name is different."

Jesus-H-Christ, Lady! Couldn't you have told me this in the first place? - I think quietly to myself.

Let's not tell my mom about the "lying bitch" part, OK?

I declare that I do not have a twin.
I never had one, nor do I want one.

Note of Author: "7 martyrs" is actually a french expression, simply means to suffer excrutiating pain. The conversation was in french, and so was all the cussing in my head.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Government and religion

To diminish the risk of sounding obsessed, I'll come back to the tweenagers later.

I'm getting my new passport today: how's that for a subtle change of subject! I had to send for a birth certificate, to confirm that I was born, and that on the day of my birth I had this long sorry-assed name. My government, well not so much MY government but rather the government I have to put up with, has decided a few years ago that my long-standing-official-asked-everywhere certificate of baptism was no longer valid nor in good standing.

Obviously the first remark is that since I didn't have a name until I was baptised, how can the government issue a certificat of birth in my name! The wonders of modern bureaucracy. I did get the certificate, and it is indeed in my name. I am so very happy that my government, well not so much my - you get the picture- , recognizes that I exist. It fills me with a sense of being!

I kid you not.

When you are officially recognized as being, by an entity way bigger than yourself over which you have no control, there is a certain smugness to it. You think to yourself: "I'm here! No matter what anyone says, I'm HERE!", because in reality once my government, well not so much - I must stop that- , recognizes that I AM, no one can debate the point. It's an absolute certainty which mere mortal cannot comprehend, nor combat. It's almost religion.

In fact it really is religion. Why did my government, - well - , decide all of a sudden that flock-managers in the clergy were no longer trusworthy individuals? It became obvious that the clergy will answer to a higher power, but not necessarily to the government as the highest power. For whatever reason, suppose there is a tug-of-war in the flock-manager's heart between God and the Almighty. Which do you suppose will win out? My chips are on God.

So the government finds intself in a situation of second-string which is, of course, totally unacceptable. The clergy is no longer trustworthy as representative of official government documentation. Enter the sworn-in public functionary. This person obviously has only one highest power and that would be the Almighty, and not so much God, and by the same token is delcared to be beyond reproach, or at least more beyonder than our clergy-type.

I don't know for sure, but I'd be willing to place a small wager that functionaries have to put their hand on a bible to be sworn in as official government reps! When I worked on election census a few years back, I had to swear on the bible that I would accomplish my tasks, blah, blah, blah. Little did the Almighty government realize that I was really gonna swear if I didn't collect my paycheck. It's all an act of conscience, and they hope that the bible will intimidate you enough to fess-up if need be.

Like I'm really more afraid of the bible than the government? The bible may smite me where I stand, big f-ing deal! The government can truly make my life a living hell. Which of these two is worse?

But now my government, - need I say it?- , recognizes that I exist! I have an official document that says so. In religion parlance, I've been admitted into heaven. I can now go on about my life and get even more proof that I exist from yet another highest power. I'm thinking of taking this up as a rewarding career.

What could be more rewarding than a higher power acknowledging your existance? Hell, I didn't get nearly as much acknowledgment that I was worthy when I did time at Nortel!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Smile for sex

Is the typical male, of say... 40, consistently lusting after teenage girls?

The politically correct answer is of course: "why NO! Never! I am married.
I'm a church-going man! I don't even look at other women, much less under
aged girls!"

Yeah, and the bullshit detector not only raises the alarm, but actually
fails outright due to overload.

The issue is a complex one, frought with morality and interpretation. I
won't get into either as I'll reserve these for another blog.

Here I am, a 40 year old male of the species, admitting that I have a keen
eye for the well endowed tweenage woman.

"OH MY GOD! He actually SAID IT!!!"

Do I lust after these pretty tweenagers? Of course!
Cf. 3a Merriam-Webster definition: lust

"OH MY GOD! He actually SAID IT!!!"

Furthermore my tastes are somewhat esoteric, yet another blog entry. When
asked to describe my perfect woman I have a very definite preference for the
25-45 year old woman.

"OH MY G... Waitaminit, that ain't tweens no more."

So if my personal preference is indeed 25 to 45, what gives with the tweens?
Youthful beauty? Illusion of perfection? Lack of experience? Easy target?
Innocence? Devoid of body-image baggage?

Uh oh, I am not going to be popular now. What of this latter question? It's
a bitch and a half at best. For eons women, and men of course, have taken
issue with their body. There wouldn't be a massive market for this if it
weren't a legitimate concern. Makeup, designer clothes, plastic surgery,
acrylic nails, the list goes on. Heck, this hasn't been up for debate since
the 1920s.

Maybe men are atuned to this in their women: the more comfortable a woman is
in her body, the sexier she seems to us. Take ballet dancers for instance,
even when not dancing they move with a grace borne of centuries of this art.
If all else is equal, the ballerina will seem sexier than her non-dancing
counterpart. This is not imagination, it is however empirical.

We then take this aspect one step further. Instead of years of self-work,
the tweenager reveals herself, for all intents and purposes as body-perfect.
She looks good and knows it to her core. Society has not worked it's evil on
her yet. She flaunts what she has, often quite shockingly so. Through her
innocence her comfort level with her body has not yet waned. This is the
visible. Futhermore, it is insanely attractive!

The downshot is rather nasty, those that have been tainted by society,
either through peer pressure or parents, have this comfort stolen from them.
They must then rebuild their body image from that point. For the very few
fortunate, this banditry never occurs, even later in life.

Is this attractivness pathological? Or is it a statement that we are
instinctively drawn towards that which has not yet been corrupted?

Ask the tweenager, what of this 40 year old man? The reponse will likely be
just as instinctive: "eeewwwww, gross, he's OLD!". No not old, sweetheart,
broke. Victim of the same self-induced theft that you will suffer yourself
in a few years.

Tweenagers are examples, a template if you will, to be studied carefully and
appreciated as such. One cannot recover a youthful body nor innocence
thereof, but we know we can work with what we have, using the tweenager's
carefree conviction as a guide. I'll say it again, they know what they want
and what they like. Ask the tweenager: "why do you like these shoes?" or
"why do you want this makeup?" The answer will assuredly be: "I don't know,
I just like them. Makes me look good."

And right they are too, not because of the choice itself, but because of the
conviction within each choice. It is carefree and unimpeded: "I don't know;
it looks good; he's old"... it's uncorrupted and it's bloody well

So we smile at them and we will keep smiling. Not in the hopes of getting
laid, heaven forbid, but in the hope that we'll turn from dejected, broke
and old to... "cool".

Definition: tween, in recent years, a vernacular term to describe the age
group that encompasses teenagers and twentysomethings.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Pretty female teenagers are people too

I feel the need to tackle the pretty young woman question first. Small wonder one might say, I am after all a 40 year old man. And yes I have seen "American Beauty". She wasn't all that beautiful as far as I'm concerned, but what the hell.

It strikes me odd that Lester (played by Kevin Spacey) would stop his amorous advances upon learning of the young woman's virginity. The oddity is not so much because of his sudden morality attack, which is understandable by all things Christian (and maybe others), no rather it's a piss poor representation of reality. I believe that he would have gone ahead with it in real life, futhermore, at it would have been at her urging.

It has been my observation that young ladies of this age know what they want, whether they understand it or not. It has also been observed by other people that young woman in the 14 to 20 years range manage, by simply being pretty, to obtain whatever it is they want. If their youthful beauty remains for the years to come, they can keep pulling this off until about 30, sometimes a little longer. This is the essence of why I refer to these girls as women.

Case in point, an older lady behind the counter at Tim Horton's has this sour look on her face, dare I say a scowl even. The gentleman relating this example asks for some cream, "we're all out" scorns the battle axe. Mere moments later a bouncy young thing trundles up, indeed asks for the same as our hero. The nice lady behind the counter is now all smiles and giggles and has cream aplenty.

Thus observed my friend, and I quote: "what the f--k?"

Two notes can be made here, either the newly arrived young lady is the owner's daughter, or the battle axe is a lesbian. I somehow doubt either of these scenarios. Although possible, if this were only an isolated incident... it is not.

On a daily basis we submit to the charms and whims of these young women. Is it a meager attempt to secure a desire? The above example would seem to contradict this hypothesis. We'll do this almost unconsciously, even if we'll never see these young individuals again. Do we simply wish to be kind to our fellow humans? Again the above example shoots this down.

What is it that makes us putty in their hands? I know some men who would debate this vehemently, maybe on facade of political correctness. This being said, if they are truly honest with themselves, they'll agree: we are putty. No other segment of the population has this all around far reaching effect. Sure, Keanu Reeves or Celine Dion by simple presence will cause some of us to be beside ourselves, but these will be exceptions, I say this tongue in cheek of course.

You still don't believe me? Try this:
You walk into a McDonalds, or A&W whatever, and the pretty young thing behind the counter has a neutral expression on her face. Assuming you aren't in a foul mood, do you smile? (You know you do, admit it.)

Now check it out, the girl behind the counter is a dog, I mean she really isn't pretty, and she has the same neutral expression. Assuming you aren't in a foul mood, do you smile? (Bullshit! You know you don't! You adopt exactly the same expression.)

Rest assured, from NOW on you will smile next time you go, no matter who is behind the counter.

Conditionning? Damned straight! My question is, why the hell did we condition ourselves to come on to the pretty girl in the first place? Another blog maybe.

Through some years or experience, some of us will adopt a behaviour pattern that is equally considerate of men & women in general, some of us will rise above the surface and draw up smiling no matter what. Such is the chance that we will give strangers.

To wit, as is to be expected, the dynamics change radically when we get to know each of these young women. In some cases, we'll see them more and more as people, as opposed to objects of desire, in other cases not. In most cases the desire to woo, or to submit to her whim, will wane with frequency, as the human dimension takes on more importance vs. the physical attributes.

Ultimately the human dimension wins out... one should simply get to know them.

Rhetorical Questions?

Today's puzzlement...

What's up with doing a job at any price? Is it really any price? Is it any job?
What is laziness? Is it lack of motivation, refusal to move, apathy, some form of depression, what?
What is a dream? Should dreams remain as dreams, or should they be systematically pursued and attained?
Is the "ideal" the road we travel towards our dreams, or is it the success of obtaining the dream?
What is success? 2 cars, a house, 1.62 kids? A million dollars? A comfortable retirement? A boat in the Caribbean?
Have I taken my pills today? Why do I take them?
Why do we have pills today, whereas in the olden day, everything was solved with alcohol and a good smack upside the head?

How is political correctness an answer to anything? Or rather, is it an answer to a question no one asked?
Why is an enraged "mother" the single most dangerous social entity? What gives her power? Why do we give her power?
If the enraged mother is dangerous, then the attractive 16 year old woman is the most potent social entity... So what is the deal with 16 y.o. women? Why are they so damned attractive to both men and women?
Why do I refer to a 16 year old female as a woman?

Why does rationality go straight out the window when life/death is involved, yet, the single most important thing in the society in which I live is money, and not life?
The world is driven by 3 things: POWER, SEX, MONEY.
Why is love not part of this equation?

I intend to bare some thoughts on the above. Something to look forward to n'est-ce pas? Maybe not so rhetorical after all.

Monday, August 22, 2005

First entry

This entry will probably not live here very long. Simply, it is a device to start this log.

Upon meeting with a truly good friend of mine yesterday, he suggested I take to writing a blog. Since he will be away for many a moon, I suppose opening this log is in his honour. Whatever I write into it however, is not an honour for anyone, I should think.

On second thought, maybe I will leave this entry here, if only to overcome the "blank page" effect. We'll see how this goes.