Friday, September 16, 2005

A Day At The Racist

"But God does love racists," he said.

"God loves everyone," the other guy replied.

"Yeah," he said, "but he loves white people more. Look at us palefaces. Always outnumbered, always outgunned. But it's been over a thousand years now, and we still don't have to make our beds in the morning."

The other guy rolled his eyes, and vaguely waved his hand at the burgundy bus seats. "Yeah, and we get to ride in style."

"Really?" I chimed in. "The bus is the place to be? The cool kids are tired of the Mercedes?"

"Mercedes!" said the other guy."I'm rolling on twenty-four inch rims here, man."

Reading: I realize the title of my post is, at best, ungrammatical. That's not because I don't know grammar. It's because I hate language. You know what language does, aside from letting itself be awkwardly personified (and it only allows that because it's bored of twirling those swizzle sticks they put in cheap martinis, as if a three-coloured straw in any way made up for watered-down alcohol and fractured conversation with the opposite sex)? Language lets itself get seen in the company of bad books, like you with those tacky friends of yours I won't stop loudly disliking on sight. God, your friends are snobs! With all the bad books junking up the libraries, it's no wonder English is losing ground faster than my Great Dane-owning neighbour. His lawn could look so much better if he got rid of the god spelled backwards, you know? And English isn't losing ground? Well, I'm not about to let English lose a half-assed metaphor either, so I'm going to pretend that it IS losing, ok? If you ever read what I read, you would be convinced, as I was convinced, that we should burn the English language at the stake. Did you read the one about Isaac Newton and the Murders In The Rue Mint? One of the SIPs (Statistically Improbable Phrases) listed for this book is "cunny parts". Right. What? One Fanny Hill per language is enough, author guy. Two is plagiarism. Nobody likes used porn. Also, our ancestors never had sex. The author does not seem to realize this, and insists on sticking sex in even where it won't go. Also, having Isaac Newton lard his speeches with every quotation filed under "Newton, Isaac" in Bartlett's is the lamest cheapest substitute for actual research or original thought ever dreamed up since I first thought of it. And even I rejected doing that (but only after I found out other people read Bartlett's, too, and not just Kirsten Dunst in Eternal Sunshine). This book is a poor man's Sherlock Holmes, without Sherlock Holmes. It's a poor man's Fanny Hill, but mostly without the fanny. Whatever you do, do not read Dark Matter: The Private Life Of Sir Isaac Newton: A Novel + Philip Kerr

Listening: I notice that three out of my last four posts have listed somebody from the whole endless paper-man-chain that is Broken Social Scene. So when I came across a new BSS song on Said The Gramaphone, I bit the bullet, pulled out the glue-gun and pasted the link. Here it is. It's good. I'm fighting it, but yeah, it's good. Come on, people! What happened to Canrock? Where's The Tea Party, Our Lady Peace, Moist, The Crash Test Dummies, The Tragically Hip, Sam Roberts? Where's the generic roar of mid-line bass and mid-tempo drums and middling lyrics sung by the talentless hacks of yesterday (Crash Test Dummies excepted). Nickelback can't do it alone, people. I feel like we're losing control of our culture, here. I'm going to go watch a Canadian Heritage Moment, maybe the one about the female student learning surgery with the men, ok? Not that she's hot or anything. Really, she's not. You go listen to "Ibi Dreams Of Pavement (A Better Half)" + Broken Social Scene

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