Interesting Facts About Dictators: The First In A Series

Kim Jung Il, taken from http://www.rotten.com

For some reason, Kim Jong Il believes he will be replaced by a triplet, and none of his children were triplets. So, like King Herod before him, Kim is covering his bets. He has ordered all triplets born in North Korea be rounded up and raised in state orphanages, where the government can keep an especially close eye on them. We are not making this up. According to a March 2003 story in the Herald Sun:
All triplets in North Korea are being forcibly removed from parents after their birth and dumped in bleak orphanages. The policy is carried out on the orders of Stalinist dictator Kim Jong-il, who has an irrational belief that a triplet could one day topple his regime.

The Human Race Is Scum

On Golden Gate suicide jumpers in San Francisco.

A carnival mood preceded the 500th suicide, in 1973, as newspapers ran countdowns, TV crews staked out the bridge and bars took bets. As the 1,000th neared in 1995, a disc jockey offered a case of Snapple to the victim's family, but the California Highway Patrol stopped counting at 997.

A Random Thought

Sexual freedom's just another way of saying nothing left to lose.

And that fulfills my preacher quota.

Drunk Party Stories

Teenage parties are boring for me, and I expect, most people. The drinking is why most people go. People don't need alcohol to interact, and if they do, society needs to change.

One girl I lust after (she's an "actress", but not in the pornographic sense) related this lovely little tale, while inebriated.

"Well, this one time I was in Mexico, and I went up to a bar, and I got two [high powered drinks]. Then, I was fine, but when I got down from my barstool, I was so drunk, and then [initiates stumbling at this point] and it was the best."

This was the story. This was her story.

That was not a story. I related this comparison to another inebriated friend. To tell that story would be like telling a story that I went up to a wall and smashed my head against the wall for an hour, then tell everyone how many stitches I needed and what being passed out was like.

To which, my friend rebutted: "C'mon, man, we're at a party, we're having fun."

In conclusion - Don't drink.

P.S. I had a shot. Now I have a headache.

There Are No Gnostic Farmers

A conversation.

A farmer is ploughing in a field. A Gnostic, walking by, laughs.

Farmer: What are you laughing at?

Gnostic: Well, it's just...it's an illusion interacting with an illusion, causing you real pain...which may or may not be an illusion.

Farmer: Fuck you talking about, city-boy?

Gnostic: Have you heard of Gnosticism, my friend?

Farmer: Nawst-iss-issm? Can't say I have. If you're talking about Nos, my boy's got one o' them stickers...

Gnostic: No, no, no. How do you know that that shovel is real?

Farmer: I dunno. Cause I can feel it. And because so can you.

Gnostic: Well, has it ever occured to you that may not be so?

Farmer: Not really.

Gnostic: Ah, to be stuck in ignorance, caged, like the poor fools in the cave...well, listen. Could it not be that that shovel in your hand is not a true shovel, but merely an image of a shovel? That the earth you are working with is simply another, grander illusion? That the greater truth is simply out of reach, and that you can only reach it with your mind...whose existence, surely, is the only thing we can ever be assured of.

Farmer: Makes some kinda sense, I guess. So what'd I gotta do?

Gnostic: Contemplate the mysteries of the universe, and hopefully find the answer.

Farmer: So what'd I do for a job, and food and stuff?

Gnostic: Well, hopefully, you won't feel the need for these material...or should I say, IMMATERIAL comforts. If not, just get a job teaching English and/or Philosophy.

Farmer: Well, what do I do on my way? To eat? Even if my feeling hungry's just an illusion.

Gnostic: Well...I guess...join a monastery of some sort?

Farmer: Nah, don't go for religion much. All right, this got me thinking...which is the right thing to do, like you said. Now supposing that all the farmers, everywhere, they all quit farming and becoming nawstics, like you said. And people die of hunger, even though it's just an illusion.

Gnostic: Well...

Farmer: You don't know, do you, son.

Gnostic: I guess I don't.

Farmer: Well, since'n I guess all your nawstississim is based on knowing things, and I know what I gotta do, and what I gotta to do get it, which is get food, and plough the field to get the food, and since all you know is that you gotta think and maybe you'll get the answer to whatever it is you been thinking about, I guess my way of thinking is soo-peer-ee-or. So you best get the hell of my private property.

Gnostic: Ignorant slave.

The gnostic walks off. He pauses. Comes back.

Gnostic: Wait, I just thought of something.

Farmer hits Gnostic with a shovel.

Farmer: Hey, Joon-yer! We got another one!

Gnostic: Again, Pa.

Farmer: Hell yeah, boy! Now c'mon! Get the woodchipper!

End.

A Cliche About Michael Moore...

Again, I could be an idiot, and this site is about Nothing Important, but a musing idea came up about Mike...

"Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread."

Nothing New To Report, Cap'n

My life is boring. I spend too much time playing Chrono Trigger (a super nintendo RPG) and going to a movie is becoming epic. I want to see, "The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou" , but whenever the time comes up, I can never muster the energy, and I always put it off.

There's some very funny sex stories (although clearly from the same guys who write Penthouse) on Something Awful, a personal favourite website of mine.

Click here for Penthouse's April Fool's issues letter column.

Also, if you want to look smart, read this and drop it in a conversation somewhere!

Click here for hot Circumcellion action.

Has The Terminator Taught Us Nothing?!

Click here.

A Fucked Up Ad

Click here.

Canadian Culture

I have this theory I just developed seconds ago.

Canadians who are trying to promote Canadian culture are trying too hard.

Instead of just leaving Canadian culture grow naturally - even if its just American culture, but more liberal - they instead leech upon Canadian artists.

If it's Canadian and related to Canada, they pounce on it, sucking it up, trying to present it like a crack junkie looking for its next fix. But in a more abstract sense. I will demonstrate.

Junkie: "Oh man, I don't got crack, I ain't high, I gotta get some crack..."
Canadian Cultural promoter: "Oh man, Canada don't got a definable culture, we ain't self-actualized, we gotta get some definable culture..."

So any artist that seems the least bit Canadian - and only Canadian - then they pounce on it, showing how great our culture is. How it couldn't have been made anywhere else but Canada. But if it's made in Canada - even though it could've been written elsewhere - it's part of our culture. People gravitate toward ideas they like, and fuck cultural identity. Their cultural identity is ideas they like, and so the fuck what if it isn't strictly Canadian?

If the Nazis, the Temperance movement, and the McCarthy era have shown us one thing, it's that you can't interfere with culture, ideas, and people's thoughts without something bad happening, be it brutal repression, the rise of organized crime, and Che Guevara t-shirts. It grows on its own. Tough break for all those racists who complain about blacks polluting the culture.

I realize this has as many holes as Swiss cheese, but this site is Nothing Important. Man, I'm running that joke into the ground. I apologize.

Narutaru and Evil

"Narutaru." It seems like an innocent word, an innocent show. Not much to it - simple. The theme song is light, breezy, featuring harmonicas playing and coloured in by markers, featuring simply drawn adolescent girls marching along, with a comical over sized version of one of the main girls in this ensemble show "destroying" a city. Ha ha ha, something light. Something childish. A prominent feature of the theme song was a little cute starfish guy with oversized eyes, smiling.

You see, ocassionally, my anime club will show anime programs obviously aimed at a younger, even female audience. I took the theme song for a foreshadowing of its kiddy nature.

The theme song ends with a proclamation that this is a "Kid's Station" tv show.

Ladies and gentleman, I don't know what kind of "kids" this "station" could possibly relate to, unless they are the children of serial killers.

Welcome to Japan, boys and girls.

All right, thinking that this is a kids show, I was initially shocked to deal with the two characters discussing the pointlessness of existence. I thought, "Wow, these are dealing with pretty mature themes here for a kids show - but it's a Kids Station TV show, so it's all right."

The next scene wasn't that heavy. Just the girls having a nice meal at the friends house. Ha ha, nothing important.

Then, some bully girls take one of the girls away. I forgot her name, we'll call her X. Now, X was then pinned down by some other girls. Still thinking this is an innocent show, I think, "Well, maybe they'll slap her, or make fun of her, or something else. Hey, it's a kid's show, right?"

Then, I thought to myself, "What are they doing with that test tube?"

And then Satan told me. "Oh dear God, no."

It pains me to write this, but offscreen, the characters gang-raped X with a test tube.

Some blessed part of me denied this - "Maybe they're doing something...anything else!"

Then they said, "Oh, you're getting so wet, X..."

This was not a kid's show. I shuddered, trying desperately to turn my head away. I decided to escape this, and so I went to my bathroom. See previous post for how that went.

So, in this kid's show - two adolescent girls kill their parents, one girl almost kills her friend, (the starfish finishes the job) and a girl, after giving off the creepiest pseudo-incestual vibe since Luke and Leia, is killed after puking up maggots.

If you measure every theme song ever made or that ever will be made, this one has got to be the most inappropriate ever designed.

Don't watch this. It's evil.

I Feel For Janitors Now...

All right, this get's pretty vulgar, so don't look if you don't want to be grossed out.

It's about poopie, and where it doesn't belong.

Now, being a nerd, I attend a monthly anime night. During the course of the night, I felt the urge to go number 2.

It would quickly become, "The Shit Apocalypse."

I go to the bathroom nearest to where the anime showing was taking place.

In the first stall, a piece of fecal matter so large it could literally be classified as a "log" was there.
It wouldn't flush. It was an automatic one.

And that, my friends, is why I don't believe in automatic cyber-enhanced laser-guided flushing.

The second stall had shit on the seat. Apparently, someone's aim was lacking, or perhaps he had lifted himself a fraction of a second early.

Getting desparate at this point, I searched for the next nearest bathroom.

I walked to the end of the hallway where the anime showing took place.

At that bathroom, on the first stall, no relief was to be found.

There was shit on the ground.

Somebody had missed the toilet intentionally or unintentionally.

You know, I wish I could be more eloquent about this, make up some clever, devastating pun about this. But on the other hand, that statement by itself is shocking enough to horrify most of you into laughter.

I had a similar experience watching children's television lesbian gang rape - but more on that later.

The second stall, was finally free of feces.

However, the toilet seat itself was dirty as hell, covered with dirt, grime, and what I was sure were many kinds of easily transferable diseases, like an invading army of bacteria, ready to make a beachhead of my butt cheeks.

So, with the ultra-thin cheapo toilet paper protecting my ass from the myriad infectious diseases and possible cultures developing on that toilet seat, blessed relief was mine.

I got it in the bowl, by the way.

Somebody had left the newspaper behind from the first stall, which could be read from my stall.
For the sake of a good story, I honestly hope someone had the foresight to catch up on their current events but not enough knowledge to poop in the bowl.

But in any case.

I noticed that my shoelace was on the ground. This provided an impetus for me to get rid of the damned thing, as it had already shed its outer shell like a snake.

Now, keep in mind throughout this story, this isn't a dirty bar, or a third-world country, or whatever. This is a respected, notable university. Which has shit on the bathroom floor.

You know, I laugh at people who calls Western society "civilized." We teach this at a young age. It's not that difficult a concept. When you have to poop, you do it in the bowl, and then you flush.

Those who flush are civilized; those who don't, aren't.

I hope this is as funny as it sounds in my mind, considering that it's 2:48 a.m. and I'm tired.

For my next blog: Why the Japanese are f---ed up some more!

Go Away

I want you to do a favour for me, all none of you.

On the top right corner of this website, there is a button called "Next blog."

Click on it, and go to somebody else's website.

But wait! There's more.

I want you to leave a comment on some random stranger's website.

It feels good to know that somebody's listening, even if you're nobody.

Except if it's one of those credit card scam websites that are just advertisements - skip those.

But if it's real, leave a message.

Adios.

I find Mr. Monkey to be terrible.
Ich finde Herr Monkey furchtbar.

Re: Praying For Chester Brown

Hallelujah.

How Many Pages I Have Written

Assuming an average of 300 words per page at size 12 type font, I have written over 100 pages on Nothing Important.

Scary.

Here's a better blog.

It's conservative. Sorry.

New Vietnam, anyone?

Heavy Moralizing Ahead!

When I first moved to Toronto, I noticed all the homeless people, begging.

Now, not so much. Now, I notice the people who give something to the homeless people, begging.

On Today's Events

I saw the universe without its make-up on. A grey, colourless, cold day – the kind of day we’ll be seeing a lot more often after the rock we’re on dies. No revelations, no magic – the kind of day that makes those all the more important. But not quite, because even when the universe shows itself, we miss it sometimes.

I felt like I didn’t do something of tantamount importance.

So of course I’m going to write down whatever thought comes to mind.

The prof, who hasn’t spoken to me since what I shall call “The Hitler Incident”, tells me that it must be uncomfortable, using the computer on this seat.

I have used this seat for a long time.

“The narrative of the tsunami” – My prof used the tsunami that killed 150 000 people as a way to compare post-modern and modern literature. Modern literature was more focused on the overall story, as the initial media reports made it out to be. Post-modern literature was more focused on the individual stories, as current media reports are.

She did not criticize herself, or have qualms about using a tragic natural event to make her point about fiction.

Later on, she critiqued CNN (She didn't enjoy watching it, being a Feminist). She critiqued CNN for saying about the tsunami, “Sorry for bringing you this troubling news, but we hope you enjoyed it.”

As in, the coverage. So it's wrong to use coverage of a tragic event to make an abstract point for your own ends, but it's wrong to apologize for having to bring someone tragic news and then springing off that to use your own point?

We talked about this frenchman who defined Postmodernism, last name goes by-a Lyotard. Tard said that there’s no original idea. But I like to think of Hong Kong action movies. There are clichés in Hong Kong action movies used to death. But it’s a new to us.

“Different things are infiltrating the culture” was her word. It was about anti-Feminist ideas, or something.

You know, I can easily imagine a Klansmen using that phrasing. Funny, isn't it? Most liberals and intellectuals (and I hate to use that term in the Bill O'Reilly sense of the world) express an openness of culture and a kind of moral pluralism, yet express xenophobia when those things don't appeal to THEIR morality, which they see as morality.

The sad thing about culture is that it truly is open. And most have sold out to the bland.

The greatest threat to a refined culture is apathy.

But hey, we're free, right?Doesn't mean that human society'd pick the smarter, more refined culture.

But that's life, baby. So go out and eat at McDonald's.

Ignore Paris Hilton

Everybody hates her. That what makes her so popular - she's everything we despise. She is spoiled, stupid, and a whore.

But she's like a Hollywood movie monster - the more we hate her, the stronger she becomes.

Damn her!

So, how do we get rid of this beast?

Ignore her. Don't put her on fashion magazines, or give her a show.
Everybody has their 15 minutes of fame, and by damn, we have to make sure Hilton doesn't extend her time.

At max, her fame'll last until she's 40, ugly, and riddled with gonorrhea and herpes. At max. So, it's not permanent. Hurray.

I feel sick for even talking about her. I'm ending this right now.

Ignore the she-bitch!

P.S. She's hot, I admit. But there's lotsa hot chicks.

If I Can Be So Eloquent...

Before we begin, I would just like to say that, on a purely intellectual level, I hate myself for publishing this article. Whenever an author/comedy makes a "rant", they are allowed to say whatever they want, and get all ca-razy, when their points could have just as easily been made in a well-thought out way. But on a purely emotional level, and as a catharatic release, this article makes me feel good.

That said, on to my rant.

Recently, I got an announcement for a seminar about the relationship between journalists and the police. As a studying journalist myself, I have a thought about this.

Fuck the police.

We believe, and strive for two very different things. The police should ultimatley strive for justice. Journalists strive for truth. The police fail when they beat up a black suspect for being black and try to quell (or should that be cull?) a peaceful demonstration with rubber bullets. We fail when we talk about Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt.

These are two very different things. Ultimately, we both fail. The police beating up someone is 50-50 grey. Maybe he's evil, maybe he's not. But saying, "The police beat up someone" is always right.

We are in a permanently antagonistic relationship. We want different things, and journalists should get what they want.

We watch the watchmen. We give them accountability. If they aren't accountable, then they are bullies.

They don't get to watch us. We aren't accountable to them; they are accountable to us.

The Truth (capitalized) is what makes us accountable. If we aren't telling the truth, finding the truth people hide, then someone should say something.

Another journalist. The public. Monkeys. Someone.

Adios.

For All Aspiring Authors...

Guy wrote a crapload of plays, books, yada yada for his whole life.

Then Stephen King heard it, said that it was good, now he's being published.

Keep in mind, he may or may not be talented.

Click here.

Conformed Rebellion

Picture this.

Three young punks, walking side by side in stride.
They all have Taxi Driver-esque Mohawks.
I'd imagine they all consider themselves "unique" and an "individual."

Group individualism. Conformed rebellion.

Hah.

Merry Christmas, Japan!

How a 27-year-old Japanese plans to celebrate Christmas:

"I'm planning to spend all of Christmas night with my real boyfriend. Before that, though, in the morning I'm meeting a guy I really love, who gives me lots of presents, and then give him some 'thank you sex' in return for him giving me some Chanel items only available in Tokyo. In the afternoon, I'm going to go to a peep club with my sex friend and I just know he's going to do something especially erotic just for me," she says. "It's the first time I had sex with three different guys on the same day (well, AT LEAST three different guys), so I've been going to the gym to build up some strength."

4 more hot!!! XXXmas action, go here.

How The Date Went

For those of you who actually wondered how the date went, it went down like this:

We went to an Italian restaurant. We talked. I had steak; she, pizza. There were some awkward moments, but at the end of the night, I thought that generally the date went as well as could be expected.

I was wrong.

It is, by all accounts, dead in the water.

Now, she is not responding to my e-mails, she hasn't signed onto MSN Messenger (the forum which spawned our "love"), she hasn't attempted to contact me, we've had a six-week absence (although Christmas caused that) and the police found her body floating down Lake Ontario yesterday.

Mon amour, elle n'est pas.
My love, she is not.

P.S. I apologize if my ninth-grade French failed.

Pray That Brown Heeds My Cry

Dear readers/viewers/Internet goers:

I want you all to do something to me. I want you to pray that Chester Brown, an independent cartoonist who created Louis Riel, will accept my call for a profile.

Because, for my Journalism class, I need to get somebody to profile. And I can't think of anyone except him.

I wrote an e-mail to a publicist that heads his comic company, Drawn and Quarterly.

I hope she responds in an affirmative.

To help ensure this, pray. If you happen to be Chester Brown, I have some things to say.

If you enjoy my blog, grant me that interview or I will stop writing.
If you hate my blog, grant me that interview or I will continue writing.
If you have never heard of my blog, then I will do nothing.

I bought your book.

For the rest of you who aren't Chester Brown (the one in Toronto who draws comic books) pray for me, that I may get this interview.

- William Stodalka, journalism student

Dear God:

Heed their prayers.

- William Stodalka, regular Church going Catholic

I love God.
我愛上帝。

A Woman At Church

The fashion world would either weep or rejoice at this woman. I know nothing of fashion, so I cannot comment.

She wore a white and black cheetah-style trenchcoat, with pink collars.

It was fuzzy.

With this, she wore a weird pseudo-scarf, and black leather pants.

Rocky III is Racist

It's not quite "Birth of a Nation" racist, but it has a lot of undertones.

Now, as the movie begins, Rocky has achieved the American Dream. He has gone from being poor and uneducated to being the heavyweight champ of the world. But he gets "soft", thinking that he can take Clubber Lang; that the black man poses no threats.

Clubber Lang insults and provokes Rocky. Rocky never reacts, until Clubber Lang starts hitting on his white wife and insulting Rocky's maleness.

I liked Clubber Lang. He was cool, funny, smart. He was an independent black man, bringing himself up from his own boots. He has the mandinka, the talk, he comes from Chicago. He is every black stereotype ever. But hey, he's Mr. T, and T is cool. T is a guilty pleasure - he's almost harkening back to the Amos 'n' Andy minstrel days. He's a wacky strong black man who talks funny. But I like him, because I like to think I'm laughing with him rather than at him.

But keep in mind I am a whitey cracker, who cannot be trusted. I am, after all, trying to keep the black man down.

T/Lang abandoned his old white trainer. I'd abandon Burgess Meredith after having to listen to his voice constantly. It's fun for ninety minutes, but can you imagine having to listen to that all day? Burgess represents the old ways of thinking, the classic ways of thinking. Similarly, America used to think that blacks were property. Burgess, the old man, distrusts and fears Lang. Similarly...well, I hope you see where I'm going with this. Anyway.

Clubber Lang defeats Rocky and Rocky is left without the title, which he has dreamed about for so long. To repeat: the angry, independent black man destroys a fulfilled American dream.

Then, Apollo Creed comes along. He will help Rocky and serve Rocky by teaching him how to fight. Creed is the "good" black man. Creed helps Rocky get back to his jungle roots, gaining the "eye of the tiger."

Rocky, with training from the "good" black man, fights in American Flag shorts, representing America, as Superman's "S" represents his Superness. Rocky beats down what the movie has established as "the bad black man." Order is restored. End.

Adrian! We did it, Adrian!
Adrian! Wir machen es, Adrian!

An Interesting Link

With a name like Killen, you know he's got to be innocent of murder.
This is the link.
Not this.
Or this.
And especially not this.

A Night On The Town

So I didn't do much tonight.

I went to a comic book store. I saw what could easily be perceived as a pedophile. Balding, thin black mustache, bad jacket, hunched over slightly, seedy voice.

I thought to myself, "Jeez, me in 25 years."

Then I went to Suspect Video. I got Shaolin Soccer and Arsenic and Old Lace. A 40s Capra comedy with Cary Grant and the other a martial arts-comedy from Hong Kong.

I went on the train. I had to leave at St. George station. Apparently, there was a medical emergency, and everybody had to get off.

I got off, and decided not to take the bus, opting to re-create Stephen Daedalus in James Joyce, Ulysses. But I got to where I was going. Quite easily.

People watching was fun. But you couldn't describe it, if you wanted to. You can describe person watching. But not people watching.

Lovers saying goodbye. A young 20s ish homeless woman, begging for change. Two of them, in fact.

The stories we don't tell, because they happen all around us. Why bother describing what everyone sees?

In the comic book store, to fulfill my pseudo-intellectual-hipster-cool-guy pretension, I checked out Robert Crumb comics. Now, for the way the comics media hypes the guy, you'd think he was brilliant. However, from what I saw, he mostly relied on shock value for humour. Granted, if the popular media got wind in the 60s, every comic would be burned. Every one. Even Archie and Veronica. Just for Crumb. Burned on the pyre, possibly at a stake.

Who gives a fuck about comics?

The first article in Zap Comics featured a description of an African girl, similar to the black face characters found in Amos 'n' Andy. And a white guy doing her from behind.

Or sodomozing her. Crumb wasn't specific.

There is a difference, children. But I won't explain it to you. This site is about Nothing Important. Don't read it any more.

Leave. Go around and explore.

By the way, the term "shock value" is a lie, an oxymoron, like "jumbo shrimp."

A shock has to be justified. Something that is shocking is not valuable in itself. To me, seeing a white man do a black girl from behind is pointless. If Crumb was making a point about the subjugation of black women by white patriarchical society/some other bullshit art-school-English-essay reason, then it would be justified. If Crumb was trying to be funny, he would be justified.

Alas, it was not. Even with the caption.

P.S. Boogers boogers farts farts titties titties shit sex shit sex fuck fuck.
P.P.S. See? Pointless.
P.P.P.S. The irony is not the point, by the way.

A Terrifying Thought Just Occured To Me

Without porn and pissing, my penis would be somewhat useless.

This must change.

God bless the relative anonymity the Internet provides.

My Break and My Life Now

My Christmas was uneventful. I did not update, for all none of you who care.

To celebrate my Capitalist indulgences, I will tell you about what I received on the most commercialized day in the year. I received money, a full Transmetropolitan set, and America: The Book.

I have yet to spend the money.

And what is the antonym of Capitalism indulgence? That's right - Communist work!

Specifically, the kind that I will have to do for my newest History class.

How do I know this?

The Communist Manifesto is on the professor's reading list.

Actually, those who actually believe in strict Socialism, and not the pseudo-man-of-the-people Socialism as espoused by MoveOn.org and Michael Moore (a millionaire himself). Kind of quaint, actually. It's funny - Communism was started by intellectuals, gained public acceptance, then went back to universities.

That's Communism for you.

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

And that's it. I must to class. Adios.

Cultural Differences

Again, that's going to be the first of many generalizations of this article.

Recently, manga has overtaken regular American comics.

A lot of popular artists are African-Americans - hip-hop, rap, etc.

If this seems like it could also be the beginning for a Klan rally, stick with me.

There's two reasons as to why there is, I believe.

They have more fun and they have fun because they're less serious about stringent morality in fiction and being perceived as serious.

There is a popular show my brother watches - Gundam Seed. The theme songs - five in total - are ludicrous. They combine the power ballads of the 80s with the current pseudo-techno-pop.

If they were showed to a mainstream American audience, the American audience would be creeped out. But to the nerd community, they rock out.

There is also rappers rapping about how goddamn rich they are. They are evidencing a sense of fun and joy in material things. They either don't realize that this could easily be interpreted as being shallow, (but again, I'm not a Klansmen, so I won't give credence to this argument). Or, they realize that this is stupid to rap about, and they don't care.

I apologize for sounding like a Klansmen.

It's like Bugs Bunny vs. Itchy and Scratchy. In Bugs Bunny cartoons, he is always given a motivation for playing tricks. His livelihood, his home, his life, his cable subscription - these are always threatened, and so, he plays tricks to either gain justice or vengeance (mostly, the two ideas are interchangeable.) This is the American style of thinking.

In Itchy and Scratchy, no motivation is offered. Itchy hates Scratchy simply because. The natural motivation - that Scratchy is a cat and therefore Itchy the mouse's natural enemy - is only hinted at in the vaguest sense. But Itchy is the agressor. But we don't care for Scratchy. We are ironically detached. But we laugh just as hard at Itchy as at Bugs Bunny. This is the Japanese sense of the word.

I have just come to realize that this entire blog is quickly turning into a cultural discussion of Japan. For all none of you reading this, I apologize.

In American media the creator gives a wink when the going gets funny. "Don't worry, folks - all part of the show. Don't worry about being confused - we know it's weird, we know it's not what you are used to seeing. But we think you'll like it anyway."

This isn't as present in Japanese media. The creators don't acknowledge weirdness and irony - which makes it weirder, which can add to making a story more fascinating, which makes it more watchable.

Again, it's late, and I'm mostly typing out of my arse here, so I apologize.

I also apologize for the coming leap of logic.

It's our concept of pleasure. For this we have Puritans, Catholics, and other Christians who thought that denying ourself pleasures and making ourselves martyrs would make us better people. The greatest thing our guy did was die. So we celebrate our faith through denial and atonement - the eternal apology.

This Christianity never really caught on with blacks and the Japanese. We have the stereotypical Black Baptist choir, celebrating their faith. They did not experience the cultural mindset that said "joy is bad, because we're sinners" mindset that pervaded European thought since forever. Likewise, the Japanese never really caught on to Christianity in the large sense that we did.

I apologize for assuming that Black Baptists represent all black Christians.

Because of this, our cheap literature - the action movies, pop music, the cheap novels - is infused with different means of pleasure. White people are infused with the mindset that "Pure joy is a sin." That's why our bad guys are presented as fun guys.

This mindset isn't present in other cultures. And the 20th century broke away from the mindset that "Pure joy is sin" we are drawn to other modes of culture that embrace this mindset, and present pure joy as simply pure joy.

I apologize for all the stereotypes and for being artsy-fartsy.