Folly at a midnight movie

At the midnight showing of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas last night in Fredericton, embarrassment seemed inevitable. Obviously, like most others in attendance, I was a bit shy from interaction unlike my normal self and this played into my brief and slightly humourous downfall.

95.7 FM employs bastards. They organized this wonderful event and invited 10 people from the packed crowd to stand at the front like a firing squad execution to answer trivia questions about the film. I was the final contestant on the stage after much prodding from Horatio, Veda, et al.

However they asked each of us randomly after appearing to start chronologically from left to right. Imagine the stress of knowing the death blow is imminent but it could strike all around you first. This was the trivia - and mind altered - equivalent.

Question 1: Who directed the film?

Easy answer. Terry Gilliam. The contestant didn't know and was given a consolation prize.

Question 2: What hotel was the police convention at?

Little trickier. But I knew it was the Flamingo. Contestant numero dos also swung and missed and got sent packing.

The woman from 95.7 FM looked down the row at me and said "it's looking pretty good for you on the end now isn't it?"

Being the idiot that I am I decided to wade in this great fortune by smiling and giving her the thumbs up. Had I stood still, ignored her attention perhaps they would have continued along the beaten path. But no, instead I got cocky.

So the big bald bastard she works with got the idea, and it was clear in his eyes that his intentions were to eliminate me swiftly. He wanted to wipe the smug look off my face. It was as though he were thinking "oh so you think you know Fear and Loathing huh? You gonzo wannabe hack? Well you get question number 3 then since you think you're so good."

Question 3: What kind of dessert does Dr. Gonzo order at the diner?

Shit.

"Oh man," I said.

"Oh man," the bald bastard replied in a mocking tone.

After an asinine back and forth where I felt like a lobotomy patient being encouraged by equally stupid individuals, I said "pie."

"Yes, but what kind of pie?"

Fucker.

"Um, banana cream?"

"Oh so sorry," he said. He wasn't.

It was lemon pie...lemon. The smug Mr. Clean with tats handed me a card from Jumbo video promising a free rental with a paid rental. Great. An offer to save money if only I actively spend some first. That makes sense.

Question 4: Who wrote the book?

Somehow, the person on stage didn't know and received a resounding chorus of boos. She deserved it. It's not a bad thing to go see the movie in theatres if you have never heard of Thompson, that's fine. But why take part in a trivia contest about Fear and Loathing if you have no proper frame of reference to what the hell is going on? That person probably would have said lemon...

Semi-joking, I started complaining about the coupon Butterbean gave me when I said "yeah, and it's only good until...six days ago." They gave me an expired coupon.

"Why not just punch you in the stomach?" Isaac said.

I'll have my revenge on this one. The hosts from the radio station said next month they'd be showing Ghostbusters on March 20*. First of all, next month is February so there's that. Second, I know Ghostbusters like the back of my hand. I'm going to step up to the plate and show Stay Puft who to call when it comes to film trivia...

...lame? Yes. Somewhat pathetic? Sure. But hey, pride is a silly thing in general anyway.

*Horatio has updated me on the status of the next midnight movie. Apparently, they did intend to say February 20. It is next month and good old Faustus and I are going to be somewhere between Tennessee and Pennsylvania on our return trip. You've cornered me again world!

AQ REDUX: The boys of $ummer

<-- Me enjoying a Fenway Frank

Baseball is a huge part of my life. The following column was first published in the Aquinian in September 2007. I was supposed to write a pop culture column for the arts section but this is what my brain churned out. So instead of picking up where I left off, a sports wrench was thrown into the spokes of my arts column.

It had to be this way, it was in my head and it needed to be put on paper. So I did what anyone would do...I wrote it at work. My history of finding ways to kill time while working at a call center would fill a book -- a mostly uninteresting book, but a book nonetheless. That summer I had ordered MLB.TV, which allows you to watch every out of market baseball game live on the internet.

The call center scheduled me for a series of 5pm to 2am shifts. Around 10, all the authority figures left the asylum to the inmates. Probably because anyone of importance wouldn't agree to work such insane hours, but us mere peons grateful for their generosity of employment had no choice.

Being a nightowl as is, it wasn't a big deal to me especially since I had a corner cubicle where I could twist my monitor to face the wall. Facebook was blocked by the server but mlb.tv wasn't. So my late night shifts consisted of watching west coast teams like Oakland, LA, San Francisco, etc. Other than that I usually read at my desk once I realized I wasn't going to stay much longer. As long as the job was done -- and done right -- then what's the big deal?

Call centers and most menial jobs put the fear into the employees mostly because they'll hire anyone and anyone they hire is completely expendable. It's much more stressful an atmosphere than playing baseball for a living. Sure, the media scrutiny is insane but so is the payroll. So the amount you get paid should be somewhat relative to the interest the media pays to you, I guess. However, if the media didn't care about baseball, or sports in general, would the players make less? It's spiraled so far out of control now that my column probably seems a bit dated... judge for yourself.


The boys of $ummer
by Jason Wilson





















The crack of the bat; the pop of the mit; the smell of the grass blades kicked up in the air. The elements of baseball fill me with self-awareness and the uncanny realization it is summer.

Since I was young this game has represented a peace of mind that drifts to the outer reaches of consciousness for most of the year. Watching Joe Carter hit that fabled home run for the Toronto Blue Jays in the 1993 World Series -- TOUCH EM ALL JOE! -- remains one of the most pleasant memories of my childhood. Baseball represents more than a simple sport or a game. It represents joy, purity and innocence...or at least it used to.

"If you build it, he will come". Ray Kinsella heard these words whisper through the wind to his ear while walking through his corn field on his Iowa farm. An image of a baseball diamond appeared in the middle of the field. While Kinsella didn't know why, or who exactly was speaking, he needed to build it, he needed to follow the voice's advice.

When the field was built, the "ghost" of "Shoeless" Joe Jackson appeared in the field and was soon followed by others from baseball's yesteryear. Most notably along with Jackson were the other eight members from the 1919 Chicago Black Sox banned for life for cheating.

This is fantasy. Field of Dreams is not a testament of reality, but of what baseball has meant to North Americans for over a century. "Shoeless" Joe tells Kinsella when he first appears that he would have "played the game for food money" and even "for free" after hitting a few more balls for the first time since being banned for life. How many of today's (living) sports stars would do the same?

Somewhere along the line power and greed took hold of the sports world. Owners care more about winning than what the total is in their bank accounts. Most owners have come to the point where money is no object so they can afford the best players at whatever the cost. Free agency has put the ball in the players and agents courts to demand wages and the owners giddily pay whatever price is asked if they think a championship will soon follow.

More and more, players will hold out to demand better pay. It's painful to watch superstars like Alex Rodriguez play the game like it's a job. Yes he is getting paid the big bucks, but there is no joy in him on the field; he is all business. When Ken Griffey debuted with the Seattle Mariners in the late 80s, he was a kid and played with the verve of a boy his age. His smile represented everything baseball should. Since signing with Cincinnati (and a trade in 08 to the White Sox) before the 2000 season, his smile has faded as injuries have plagued him. The disappearance of joy is accompanied by the tainted purity of America's National pastime.

Steroids and big contracts have damaged the connection between the game and the die-hard fans. Sure, Barry Bonds has never tested positive for steroids, but his career is one of the most sscrutinized in the "steroid era" by those in the media and fans alike. Bonds breaking the home run record in 2007 should have been dramatic and celebrated. Instead it will forever be thought of hand in hand with speculation. Many label Bonds a cheater, having tainted a once-pure game -- I think Roger Clemens has done more to damage the game. Watching the allegations pile up, and the controversies mount, the innocence is gone.

There is no salary cap in baseball and there never will be. The player's association wouldn't allow it. They stand to make a killing, and why not? They retort that they travel so much and are away from their families over half the year and deserve those contracts. They have been consumed by their own celebrity and the fans and media are partially to blame along with the bottomless walleted owners. Would anyone in Major League Baseball play just to get by? The fun is lost. I love baseball, it means more to me than a sport should and yet it will potentially carry a cloud of corruption for all time.

Cue to four years ago. My dad and I sitting in the front row on the right field foul line in Fenway Park. A Fenway Frank in one hand and a beer in the other, sitting with my dad at Fenway experiencing my first Major League baseball game. A Canadian kid falling in love again with America's game seems almost blasphemous but to me it was joyful, pure and innocent. Hearing the crack of the bat, the pop of the mit and smelling the freshly cut grass brought back the magic of the game that to me at least represents the character of us.

Baseball, along with everything else now, is under a constant microscope calle the public eye. Sometimes we see beyond the looking glass into the harsh reality proving we are all human, even the baseball players we as children idolized. Even with this harsh reality it is comforting to know it can all disappear for an afternoon sitting in the stands chowing down on overpriced food and warm beer cherishing the game that has not changed much on the field in a hundred years.

On rare occasions, the magic is still there.

#174: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas (1998)
Written and Directed by Terry Gilliam
Based on the book by Hunter S. Thompson
Starring Johnny Depp, Benicio Del Toro, Christina Ricci, Gary Busey, Tobey Maguire, a trunk full of narcotics.

As a student journalist it's no surprise that I am a follower and fan of Hunter S. Thompson. His fame is almost stereotypical among twenty-somethings who have a vested interest in writing, especially journalism. He represents the ideals of both creativity and telling a true-to-life story. His work is also very self-indulgent by traditional journalistic standards but that's the point. Dr. Gonzo and his specific brand of writing (GONZO!) ignores tradition and no one has or ever will do it better.

Even if the good doctor hadn't blown his brain out with a shotgun, he wouldn't be the same guy or writer as he was in the past. In fact, his columns for Page 2 on ESPN -- while amusing -- didn't quite meet the standards of his old writing.

I don't want to be an elitist. I hate it when fans of a musician or a director or a writer arbitrarily dismiss new material. The line "I liked [insert artist name here] before he/she/they were famous" is the most arrogant and self-serving line that can be uttered, especially because it is rarely followed up with any concrete argument. I was never a fan of Sugar Ray, but I'll tell you one thing, the song Fly prevented them from ever being respectable. Every single they released from there on out was exactly the same light and fluffy style. Considering Sugar Ray started with songs like Mean Machine, this change makes sense when you don't like how they progressed. Back up your arguments.

Thompson's downfall in his writing isn't as easily pinpointed and I don't even really dislike his Hey Rube columns. I discovered Thompson after his glory years because I wasn't exactly alive when he was pounding back every drug known to man. Like Mr. Lahey was the liquor, Thompson was the drugs (oversimplified...well aware).

No, I'm not a historian of his legacy and I haven't read all his work but I recognize what he represents in the world of journalism and in a way he has hurt it as well as helped. He is a cartoon character as characterized in Gilliam's film. He was a drug-addled freak who could have paved the way for a new style of writing. Instead, anyone who tries to write a stream of consciousness style is dubbed a Hunter Thompson wannabe.

Especially in school.

STU has taught us the fundamentals of writing for a newspaper. From writing leads to nut-graphs to pyramid style, etc. we have learned it. One thing the school never encouraged and likely never will is breaking convention. Or if we tried to break convention our professors cringed or started to tell us to try to write the story by the formula we had been trained with. Creativity has very little place in the news medium, or so our professors would have us believe.

But what gets attention? What is praised? Take a look at This American Life from NPR. These stories are long format, one per hour-long episode in fact. Compare that with a network newscast where every story is around the standard length of two minutes or less and you have differences. Sure, most people have wavering attention spans but the more time you have to tell a story the more in depth you can go with it.

Hunter S. Thompson wasn't quite the print equivalent to This American Life but he wasn't a run of the mill reporter either. He broke boundaries, supposedly but how many journalists have applied his style?

Robin Esrock writes a column called Gonzo Travel for Brave New Traveler. It's pretty decent especially if you like reading about adventure. It's not quite the same and I think using the word gonzo in the title is a cheap contrivance to draw in Hunter Thompson enthusiasts. But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do to bring in readers, so I don't really hold that against him. (His website is called modern gonzo as well...so hey, he loves HST as well. Glad the legacy didn't go to waste)

Stream of consciousness journalism is definitely a valid form of reporting but it can't be called gonzo if it's going to exist in mainstream publications (which it likely won't anyway, so it may be silly to even throw this out there). The connotations with prolific drug use and the word gonzo prevents it from being taken seriously.

And whether you agree with recreational drug use or you abhor it, Hunter S. Thompson told some amazing stories and wrote with a tenacity and enthusiasm that isn't present in the world of journalism today. Now that is something we do need more of. Stop trying to fit the mould and write the way that feels right to you. It will only help the global journalistic community.

If anyone has a link to an archive of all his work that would be great. Also if you have examples of writers that do take the unconventional approach and do it well...let me know, I would greatly appreciate it.

* Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is playing in Fredericton, NB at Empire Theatres on Friday January 23 at midnight.
** I recommend the following: The Rum Diary, Great Shark Hunt, Screwjack and Hell's Angels.

AQ REDUX: Kid A changed my life

This is kind of a cheat on the whole AQ Redux idea and it's only the second posting of my history as an Aquinian columnist. I pitched the idea for my column, essentially a hodge-podge of pop-culture musings and rantings at the end of my second year at St. Thomas. We ran the one on image and coolness in the last issue of the year.

A week or so later I wrote the following piece on a whim but it couldn't really wait until the following semester to be printed. My editor, the wonderful Hiedi Irvine, helped me get in touch with Here magazine. I emailed the column to them along with my image column to give them an idea of my style. After weeks of waiting, I finally hear back with a message saying Here has enough columnists as is.

With great haste I shoot back a reply asking what they would be looking for as far as a freelancer would be concerned so I could figure out some story ideas. After an even longer wait, I finally get an email back re-iterating the fact that they don't want a columnist even though I specifically indicated that I was fine with doing straight up features. Their editor gave me a vague idea of what Here was looking for but I was so disgusted with how long it took to get a reply that I decided to work at a call center for the summer instead of write.

Anyway, for the first time ever, here is my column about Kid A by Radiohead. It's a bit self-serving, I'll admit that but hey it was a fun one to write.



Kid A changed my life
by Jason Wilson



Outside my apartment, I stood smoking a cigarette and thinking about life. More accurately I was thinking about my music collection and the limits within it. It consists of albums I have either heard too frequently and have become bored of or those that I tolerated once and have no interest in repeating.

For the first time ever -- at least since it was released -- I was compelled to listen to Radiohead's Kid A. This is not a record that is or has ever been in my possession. When it was released, people treated it as the second coming of rock music and this critical fellating it received turned me off. Why should I feel obligated to listen to (and love) an album because music critics have labeled it as the best of its kind?

Nearly seven years ago I avoided Kid A and tonight I needed to listen to it. NEEDED TO.

Luckily, I found a copu in a pile of my roommateès discs beside his stereo. Funny, I have never seen him play it.

My compulsive list-making has shielded me from many bands because I have pigeon-holed myself into my particular taste. I refused to like Radiohead -- except The Bends -- because they had been built up far too much. Radiohead seemed like a trendy choice in the late 90s spilling over to the new millenium and I never wanted to jump on that train. Now it seems safe to finally give in and objectively analyze the music.

On track three The National Anthem I realize that I am absorbed. It is a visceral experience. The tracks blend into one another unapologetically, telling a story. As the listener I have inserted myself into a Kubrickian reality where past, present and future have collided in a dreamy haze. I am not on drugs; at least not of the narcotic variety because this album -- and most good music -- is like a drug itself.

This, I realize, is why Kid A is important. It takes you on a journey. Without sounding too much like an elitist snob it needs to be said that this is a rare quality in popular music these days.

Singles drive the industry while the album offers little more than empty hooks surrounding them. An album does not need a storyline to be good, but some coherent idea of the content is welcome. The concept album is almost an archaic form of media (or is it?).

The tracks on Kid A flow together but do not imitate the rest of the record. Pop stars try to find a signature sound that sells and then create an entire album consisting of essentially one song on twelve tracks. It's a formula appealing to the lowest common denominator. Why make something that requires effort to appreciate when A Simple Plan makes "music" that is both easy to listen to and ignore?

Artists that transcend popularity from generation to generation like Bob Dylan also have a signature sound. The difference -- besides talent -- is artists like Dylan never stay in that comfort zone for very long and always push the boundaries of their art, or in other words they take risks (see: Neil Young, 1980s).

While I am not a fan of her sound, Pink portrays the image that she is not a mindless diva controlled by her producers. She seems to break the mould or at least tries to convince you she is an individual in control of her creative process. Whether this is a further ploy by the studios or an honest depiction of her is up for debate, but it is a much better image than the boy band era of the late 90s.

The music industry is safe; and by safe I also mean boring. MuchMusic and MTV no longer play uninterrupted music videos, at least not at great length. These stations employ robotic yes men and women with no personality to shill their wares. They tell people what is "cool" and what should be popular and every high-schooler in North America who wants to have a social life listens. How else can the popularity of Avril Lavigne** be explained?

People do not buy music for the music, but for the image that lies in the perception of peers. The only way to truly appreciate the music is to wait for the hype to die and then give it a go. Maybe waiting seven years to listen to Kid A is extreme, but it has provided the opportunity for the music to sink in.

The paradox this creates is by finally breaking down, it may be perceived that you were, in the long run affected by the hype machine. Maybe even more than anyone else who listened to it and discarded it within a month of the initial release. This is a valid argument.

Both angles are stubborn when all that really matters is the music, not the image. Ignoring or buying into it because of what the album represents socially amounts to nothing, and I learned this the hard way.

My Kubrickian fantasy of a dream-world where time overlaps continues through the second half of Kid A and I can't help but wonder what my thoughts would have been had I listened to it in 2000. The important thing is my record collection needs some diversity and my own copy of Kid A will soon make an appearance.


* It is still not in my collection but I do have my old roommate's copy of it, though I'm not sure if he's aware of it. I have however seen Radiohead in concert. This past summer with a few friends I travelled to Montreal for a beautiful show with the opening act Grizzly Bear.

** Walking through the Regent Mall a little while back, I think it was the end of summer just before school, I couldn't help but laugh at a poster in the store. There was this cautionary poster about staying in school. Of all people to be on the poster was Avril Lavigne.

I said to the clerk, "it's a bit ironic when a millionaire high school dropout is telling kids to stay in school."

The clerk kind of chuckled probably wishing the customers would all just go away quietly without sharing their inane observations. I remember those days well.

#175: Say Anything...

Say Anything... (1989)
Written and directed by Cameron Crowe
Starring John Cusack, Ione Skye, John Mahoney, Lili Taylor


John Cusack is the man. This is an indisputable fact. He is a legend in 80's culture and not only from Cameron Crowe's directorial debut either. Sure, his Lloyd Dobler singlehandedly made every woman under 30 swoon in 1989 -- and most men too, though most won't admit it. He continued through the 90s and while his awesomeness has somewhat cooled in the last couple years, don't be surprised if Cusack happened to rebound.

While he had already developed a reputation from films like Better Off Dead, The Sure Thing and Eight Men Out it was Say Anything that cemented his status as not only a hearthrob but something more than a one-dimensional character in a film. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him and whatever other cliche about lust and envy you can think of. Lloyd Dobler was a unique character.

Dobler represents the best and worst of us at all times. He's a hopeless romantic and he breaks convention -- kickboxing is his biggest ambition -- and yet he's a bit too much at times. Why he works so well is because he isn't perfect, he's trying to find his way just as we all are both romantically and in our own individual life's purpose. He's almost like Ferris Bueller only less cartoony and less Broderick.

I didn't grow up in the 1980's so my hyperbole about the Dobler effect stems mostly from contact with women in more recent years. It's a popular choice of a film among the circle of female friends I have obtained in solely platonic fashion over the years. Like Dobler, I have a vague idea of what I want to accomplish in life but I can't quite figure it out 100 per cent.

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that. "

Admirable, but what does that really say? Is it a stance against capitalism in general or is it just the infantile musings of an immature and naive man? My own opinion changes by the day. Some days I don't think pursuing any kind of career is in my best interest. Who wants to be bogged down to do one thing every day or every week for the rest of his or her days? Obviously there are few days where every day is exactly the same but the mundane nature of office work isn't my cup of tea. In a sea of bureaucratic jobs, this way of thinking limits one in terms of financial stability.

My friend CT says he has seen the light. He has done the anti-establishment thing for years. He grew the mohawk, spiked it in the air, wore torn clothes and wrapped a dog collar around his neck. He was what many would refer to as a freak, he broke the mold.

Now he wants to sell out. His words, not mine.

In his point of view, the life he's led hasn't been the most comfortable. Living from paycheck to paycheck and taking the jobs that will hire someone who would scare most everyone above the age of 40 not named Iggy Pop just got tiring.

He hasn't quite discovered where he wants to go, but he knows he doesn't want to be broke for the rest of his life and compromise seems to be his only choice. But at the same time his goal and my own is vague, just like Dobler's.

I don't need the biggest television possible and I don't need a fancy car. I don't need a big house or a house of any kind. All I need is a method to pay for food, pay off my student loan debt and have fun with my friends. That shouldn't be too much to ask.

Sadly, most jobs starting out of university don't exactly light up the old bank account. I'd be shocked if any journalist fresh out of university is making any more than $15/hour. That might seem like a lot, but it would be difficult to pay off debt, eat properly and still have a social life on those wages while paying rent. I don't know about most of you but living with my parents until I'm 30 is not an option.

So as a journalist I might be forced to either freelance or take an internship to work my way up in the writing world. I understand climbing the ladder but starving yourself to do that is unreasonable. You likely have to work a second job and even then it might not be enough.

No, money doesn't buy happiness but it's not quite the root of all evil either. Falling in love would be wonderful and so would having enough money to live happily ever after. To cap it all off is it all that selfish to want to like what I end up doing to make ends meet? Is that just too much of a pipe dream? I sure hope not.

I might have no choice but to sell out...problem is, like the affable Lloyd Dobler and my friend CT I have no idea who to sell out to.

AQ REDUX: Thirst is nothing, image is everything.

Going to St. Thomas University has been a mixed bag. Through a strike and some course requirements (fine arts credit) and lackadaisacal professors (not all) there have been some bumps in the road.

Rarely, I have contributed actual pieces of journalism to the school newspaper, the Aquinian -- or AQ as it is known in hipster circles and the cover of the paper itself. Luckily I have been able to weasel my way into the position of columnist.

Arts editors have for whatever reason given me a forum to ramble on about whatever pops into my head. I am in the process of finding copies of each of the columns I've written over the last few years and will be posting them here for your reading pleasure. I think there's one that was never published, but it will also make the grade.

Since this is the last semester at the great school of St. Thomas, it seems fitting to make this my requiem of my time spent there.


Thirst is nothing, image is everything...
by Jason Wilson

I am not cool.

The reason I am not cool is not because I lack certain qualities that create "cool." Instead, I see cool as nothing more than an abstract concept, unattainable by everyone...even the cool.

High school is a time where the segregations of social cliques hits a peak. You join the group that most closely resembles who you are on the exterior. If you have long dark hair, listen to Marilyn Manson (so 90s) and wear eyeliner...you're a "goth". If you play sports, wear polo shirts with an alligator on them (I give Lacoste a hard time), you're a "jock." If you wear vans or airwalks with baggy pants you're a "skater" even if you don't own a skateboard or have the dexterity and balance to operate one.

In each group (several go unmentioned, including sub-groups of the aforementioned) a different definition of "cool" is created and interpreted. If you don't belong, well you're uncool.

University and alternately, the working world does it in a different fashion. You strive to meet like-minded individuals you relate to on a conversational basis, but only if they wear something tasteful and to your liking.

When you meet someone, what do you talk about? The conversations tend to be simplistic and open because no one wants to be alienated and you don't want to alienate everyone you meet. Most, maybe...but not all. Simplistic equals common and common equals accessible and accessible equals popular.

What movies do you like?

What bands do you listen to?

What sports do you watch?

Books, television, celebrities, video games and products of the like all work as ice breakers and if you agree with the people you meet, the idea that that particular person you just met is cool sticks with you. If you disagree, you have no reason to extend the relationship.

Sprite lied. Their old slogan was "image is nothing, thirst is everything" and it had to be a conscious lie. It would have professional athletes like Kobe Bryant making mad dunks and cooling down with a bottle of Sprite with the label pointed perfectly at the camera. Kobe drinks Sprite and shoots threes, you can too if you buy our product!

Yes, it constantly said the opposite of what the images said and that's probably why the campaign succeeded as much as it did. It tricked people into buying the product by acknowledging the truth that Sprite would no sooner make you the next Kobe Bryant than consuming enough LSD to kill an elephant would make you the next Hunter S. Thompson or Aldous Huxley.

The pictures, however, give that glimmer of hope that maybe...just maybe you could be the exception to the rule. If you drink -- and buy -- just the right amount of Sprite then you will make the NBA and come up short for the MVP just like Kobe does every year (note: this column originally ran in spring 2007. Kobe won the NBA MVP in 2008). I wouldn't know. I've always preferred 7Up.

The image you portray, whether you do it by drinking carbonated sugar-water or if you dress like a hipster will directly and indirectly determine your social status. It doesn't matter if you're nice or a huge prick but what you look like and say.

Are you cool? Probably not because cool is not tangible. It is broad and abstract. A party girl once told me that I seemed like the kind of guy who would rather sit at home on a Friday night and read a book instead of heading out to one of the many trashy bars in Fredericton. I know she wanted to make a cutting jab at what she thought to be my lifestyle but instead I took it as a compliment.

When Lester Bangs says "I'm always home, I'm uncool" to William Miller in Almost Famous, I see myself. Granted, I am not the publisher of my own music magazine (SOMEDAY!) but I can relate to that aspect of the character.

Whether we want to admit it or not, we are all influenced by advertising and the ethos of image. We all portray an image and many will label you as "cool" of "uncool." Ask those people to define what they mean and a common response will be "cool" and "uncool." They are self-defining words, so how can they represent anything real?

"Oh, you just know cool when you see it" is bullshit or maybe I just haven't seen it, especially when I look in the mirror. That's not a bad thing.

Now excuse me, I need to take my Tommy's out of the dryer.


*I took the liberty to re-write this instead of copy and paste directly. It's mostly the same with some of the tense cleaned up. It turns out my schooling actually has taught me a thing or two.

#176: Thank You For Smoking

Thank You For Smoking (2005)
Directed and Written by Jason Reitman
Based on the novel by Christopher Buckley
Starring Aaron Eckhart, Maria Bello, David Koechner, Cameron Bright, William H. Macy, J.K. Simmons, Rob Lowe, Katie Holmes, Sam Elliott, Adam Brody and Robert Duvall.

It has been four weeks since my last cigarette. My quitting expedition has so far been a resounding success. Does that mean I no longer want the taste and feeling only a death-dart can achieve? Not at all...in fact I want one every day and most hours and minutes of those days.

You can call it addiction if you want, though I would never label it as such. Smokers don't only smoke because of an inherent need to fill their lungs with tar and a darkness that eats at the very core of their beings. No, smokers tend to enjoy smoking...believe it or not.

Why?

Cigarettes are murderers. They are in no way good for you and can be of no conceivable benefit in the health and well-being of your person. It's easy for non-smokers or former smokers to spout that rhetoric...and well it's true. Smoking does not improve your lifestyle or your breathing. It eats away at your wallet worse than your lungs and in most public places you turn into an outcast.

Smoking, while unhealthy, gave me an outlet...a common connection with other people of the same ilk. Working at the paper this past summer, whenever a bulk of us needed to get away from the office without leaving the work premises, CC and I would just bolt out the back door, light up a couple nails and commiserate about the day or talk about golfing or poker.

Anyone who says smoking is good for you is an idiot...but no one would say that. Non-smokers though seem to think that smokers have no idea about the risks involved in smoking. Far from it. Most every smoker I have come into contact with has alluded to the fact that he or she needs to quit. It doesn't mean that person will, but to think smokers somehow missed the life lesson that sucking a dark cloud of poison into your lungs is bad for you...well come on. Uppity non-smokers need to pull their heads out of their asses.

What I've discovered is that harrassing smokers to quit will not accomplish a thing. Usually when someone tells a smoker they should quit, it comes across as some kind of sanctimonious sermon. Self-inflicted death may be the price smokers pay, let them do it to themselves peacefully without any further pain. If someone is going to quit, he will likely do it on his own terms...unless money is involved.

Thank You For Smoking has an anti-smoking message but it's clever and not a morally self-righteous lecture on the perils of tobacco. In the end smoking is a choice, one that should be accepted in places where lighting up is still allowed. Like it or hate it, smokers are one dedicated lot because who else would step outside in 30-below temperature by choice for seemingly no good reason?

I like smoking, it's a fact. In August, when Horatio, Veda, Arlo and I travelled to Montreal to see Radiohead, I had been off the cigarettes for a week or so...a pretty big accomplishment. For the trip, I bought a pack of du maurier's and hit the highway smoking one after another until I had finished the pack by the time we hit the city. I bought another and I stayed with a friend who smoked like a chimney. It was fun. Smoking while driving takes the edge off and if you're driving an automatic transmission it makes the drive a little less boring and gives you something to multi-task with. Somehow I've never caused an accident.

But I do feel better since I've quit. Come May, when the bet is through and I've proven to myself and others that it can be done I may spitefully buy a pack of some cheap cigs and smoke all night. That or I may never smoke again...or maybe from time to time...who knows really? It's a habit, but unlike some people would have you believe it's not evil and it's not the end of the world if your 16-year old has a smoke. Most likely, we know the risks just as much. Does that make smokers stupid? Maybe...or maybe we're just stubborn.


* Sorry for no embedded links today...lazy and kind of busy...no just lazy
**Juno was weak. This was a better film from Reitman