Nice Pic o' the Day

George Edmund Street's Royal Courts of Justice in The Strand, London, 1882.

H.L. Mencken Quote of the Day

An idealist is one who, on noticing that a rose smells better than a cabbage, concludes that it will also make better soup.

[Note: I don't agree with this completely, but it's a nice turn all the same.]

No! Dear God, No!

Recently, I posted on a blog on the t-shirt I saw a person wear, saying "I Am Not A Rapper." I posted this on my blog because I am an important writer.

I thought I'd post it on the site, since site is now image friendly.


However, to my shock, this was only part 1 of the shirt. The back of the shirt was:

So I was wrong. Make of this shirt what you will.

Must Get Back To Studying

I've done so little of it today. I must study.

Even though I know it already, I must study. Such is the way of life.

I've done nothing, and I woke up early. How odd. How zen.

In the meantime, here is a photo of my personal hero, Doctor Hunter S. Thompson. I have a t-shirt featuring his symbol.

If Guys Ran Weddings...

Now, here's what I'm thinking would happen.

Basically, it'd just be a sheet of paper, available at any government or church building, depending on how far we wanted to take it. Both parties would sign it, with the text above saying, "You can fuck her good and proper," or something to that effect. You'd be able to get a smoothie afterwards, or you'd be signed up in some kind of lottery.

After that, you'd go home, undress, and "cross the major threshold," and that would be it.

Or you could do it online, with a piece of government I.D.

Here's how the propsal would go:

Guy: "Hey, baby, wanna get married?"
Gal: "Sure, okay."
Guy: "Okay, cool, we'll do it on the way home, then pick up some Slurpees and cross the major threshold."

And that would be it.

Lyndon B. Johnson Quote of the Day

If one morning I walked on top of the water across the Potomac River, the headline that afternoon would read: "President Can't Swim."
Lyndon B. Johnson

Sayings On Shirts

Having strictly text on your shirts is anathema. You shouldn't do it.

At least, that's what I think. Their are some exceptions, and today was one of them.

People just generally aren't that witty, or relevant, or shocking when they make their shirts. It's generally just stupid. I was on the unfortunate end of one of these shirts, given to me by an aunt or uncle for Christmas. In plain black text, it says, "I have decided to put myself in charge."

Now, this is a bad text-only shirt. First off, what does it mean? Where is th econtext? If you know me, I'm a laid-back kind of guy. Or timid, depending on your point of view. Second, in charge of what? Where's the context? I mean, it makes me look stupid, to be honest - it shows that I am so lackluster, so spineless, that to even suggest that I take charge of a situation is ludicrous. Third, the text is too small, merely covering up . Now, this is meant for a casual passerby on the street. They simply won't have time if they're passing me by to read that.

The best t-shirt should read like the best bumper sticker. And unfortunately, bumper stickers reached their humour apex with "Shit happens." They simply do not work in any way, shape, or regard.

That being said, their are exceptions, like the shirt I saw today.

While walking to get comics, I saw a young black male wearing a t-shirt with a distinctive text saying, "I'm not a rapper."

Bam! Now that's a shirt! It's got a context - the confrontation and attempted destruction of the myth of the black male who is automatically a rapper or entertainer or free-styler or MC or whatever. It's simple - four words. You can't go over five words, and five syllables would be good. Thirdly, it was big, taking up nearlyl the whole shirt, clearly visible, simple. Fourthly, it establishes what I presume to be his character (I never talked to the guy.) It establishes that he cares deeply about race relations, that he knows what affects them, and he's willing to make a statement on them. Or that he thought the shirt was cool. Fourthly, it was brightly lit, with a nice yellow. It was what text shirts should be.

That is all.

My New Euphemism For Sex

Guy 1: So, you crossed the major threshold with that skank?
Guy 2: Hell no. So many dudes have crossed her major threshold, she might be as well as Border Agent.
Guy 1: Damn.

Fuck Time Management

I have this recurring dream. Mind you, it isn't the same thing, but it usually follows this theme - I realize I'm late for a plane ride, and I'm rushing to pack up and get to the airport. I never do.

Now, I'm taking this as a sign that this is my subconscious telling me that I'm wasting my time, that I need to get moving, do something important, live every day as your last, etc, etc.

But now I realize what's been eating up my time. Work at home.

Seriously, today is my study day. I ate, studied, went to the roof deck for five minutes to think and chill out, ate some more, studied, studied, studied, watched some internet movies, then studied, studied, studied.

And it felt like 2 hours.

But I need to do homework. So maybe now I'm thinking that wasn't what the dream was about. It's not about the rush to get to the airport, but the fact that the flight isn't there. So maybe I need to study less.

Right after finals, of course. I need to get good grades.

This Goes For Everyone, Male or Female...

If you wear berets, and you are not taking part in an active military campaign, you are totally lame.

Anime Is For Nerds

Anime used to be cool, because no one watched anime. Now, everyone watches anime. It went passe right around when Dragon Ball Z became popular.

And it's not like there's really cool anime out there, the harder stuff, the nerdy stuff that no one watches, because that stuff is meant for kids, or girls, or whatever the fuck.

Plus, most of its unfunny. So I'm making a stand - all anime is gay. Except maybe FLCL. And even that's a big maybe.

But the rest of it totally sucks.

Yes, I am feeling articulate, witty, and well-versed tonight. Tomorrow: why I like boobies.

Toronto Is A Good Place To Live

I'm on Yonge Street, longest street in the world. Goes all the way through Toronto up to its suburbs.

I'd just bought a CD wallet (I'm burning my 16 gigs of songs onto CDs to free up space.) The sun was setting.

On the other side of the street were three pimpmobiles, low-rided out. The one on the right has its back wheels up, front wheels down. Middle one, both are down. One on the left, back wheel is down, front wheel is up. It's for a promotional idea - I don't know why. And Zanta was dancing around.

Zanta's the name of this mentally imbalanced friendly guy that lives downtown. It's April, and he's shirtless, in boots, and a red Santa stocking cap.

It's a friendly scene, and I'm glad I'm living here.

The Return of Nothing Important

I've decided to change it back to Nothing Important.

Because it's easier. So there.

No More Pi is no more. Pi is a number.

Emotional Holocaust

Let's all go back to the beginning, and do a biopsy on this. It was high school. I never kissed a girl, dated only once, and that girl ended up asking me to raise her child.

But I had some friendships. Like this one with Siofra. [Thanks, Random Name Generator.] She was nice to me, she didn't tease me. She listened.

I felt like when I was around her, I was funnier, a better person. I wanted to be a better person, and I felt like I could be. I mean, a lot of times I do things to get a reaction out of people. But with her, I felt like I actually got a reaction. That she listened.

And I liked so many things about her. How she was smart, ambitious, rambunctious, loud but not partyish, confident. I liked how she didn't drink, that she didn't party like so many other people. She was classy, and I was a puppy dog to her. And yes, I'm using that metaphor to denounce me.

Is puppy love real? When does it end, if that's what it was? If it lasts years, then is it just psychotic?

She'd probably say yes.

We started talking on MSN. I felt something. I felt better after talking with her, giddy, dancing with myself, like a loser, like a bum. It was only online.

We kept on talking, and I just felt more and more for this girl. I wanted to show her, because the conversations always ended so quickly.

So, of course I had to tell her. I used the word "cherish." It seemed to me that it would proclaim something. It wouldn't be telling her I loved her - it was close enough, I felt. I didn't want to scare her off. It was a bit of writing that I'd been working on. I'd got it on, just as she left.

The next time she was on, I asked her about it. How she reacted. She didn't. And I felt so shocked I made the worst decision I ever could have made. I typed in the following words.

"But, I basically said I love you."

She told me I didn't, that it was an infatuation. We argued. She was about to tell me everything horrible I ever was, but I ended the conversation.

Close to three years later, I'm writing about it. We are not going to date, we are not going to talk, the romantic dreams are dead. It's this zombie in my heart. It gains no nourishment from this, it simply wants to consume, out of instinct. I want to talk to her, be her friend.

You know, just to completely keep any armchair satirists on their guard, I realize this is all emo crap. People go through bigger problems than mine. I know. Now, if we can please get back to my emo bitching? If you don't want that, try googling something else. This is me bitch time now.

If she's out there reading this, I know I've got it all wrong. I'm not a very smart person. You were always the smartest one out there. You had a clear head about it.

You could have just said no, and left me in my fantasy world. But you didn't. This wasn't cruel - this was you bringing me out into the real world, away from the fantasy.

And I can't go back to that moment to know if I really do love you, or if I'm just watching a tape that I've edited in my mind, trying to make myself seem like the unrequited love hero.

This post has been edited, by my subconscious, trying to justify itself. This writing has been edited. All that I've written has been edited by me before I type. I could be bullshitting myself again.

But I'm writing this post, so maybe I can figure out the question you left me. Did I love you, or did not I? And when I answer that, I can stop trying to figure out, and try and find someone.

Is love determined by length? By emotion? By knowledge of someone else? I'm trying to figure it out.

I told you, Siofra about this blog. I think I've been writing it for you. This is how I'm trying to talk to you.

I don't know if I'm in love with you or emo unrequited romance. But I do want to talk to you.

I started this blog after this conversation. I'd heard about it, it seemed nice. But I don't know why I kept on doing this for two years. I think it was because of you, because I told you about this blog, because you said you liked it, in the morsels of conversation.

This will be my last post on this blog, just so you know. I'll probably switch it over to No More Pi for the meanderings. Benoit, if you want Nothing Important To Say, it's all yours. But I'm done.
It seems more appropriate.

This entire blog is the last sentence I always wanted to have with you in that last conversation.

It's over.