The winds are howling long and loud across these barren plains today. The little bit of snow that is left, sits as tiny islands surrounded by a sea of molasses thick mud. I can feel my house pitch and sway with every gust of wind. I curse at the winter’s frigid breath as it makes it’s way through my walls, and down my spine.
Ah, to be a Canadian…
And, really, if one must be something; a Canadian seems to be a good thing to be.
Unless you’re a moose or a fish. Or a Native. Or Treehugger. Or citizen of a small town or the countryside, in this place we call Canada.
Unless you ask the News Man, deaf dumb and blind as he may be…
You see; I watch the news a lot. The news channels are what I watch, late at night, smoking pot. While the rest of the world’s watching smut and eating cheezies ‘till they pop; I’m revving up the mojo, using cable news to fuel this hop.
A leap across an ocean, a sea of industry.
And so I lay out these words as a topographical map.
A trailblazers guide to personal anarchy.
What I have gathered, and questioned and watched with a white-hot inner fire on the electric tit; is nothing short of decrepit, prolapsed, journalisticesque bile. The kind that leaves the discerning viewer wondering:
“with that industrial-sized hand wedged up their colon, how do they manage to fake that veneered crocodile smile?”…
It’s all nothing but lame spins of the wheel of perspective.
But, for sheer entertainment and insight into the cerebellum of the pinstripe culture, it can’t be beat.
Watching television that makes you rant and curse the very monitor itself is enervating, life affirming, and good fun.
Who doesn’t damn a politician or ten now and then?
No one I know.
Isn’t that a funny thing?
Crooked pinstriped politicians, paraded in front of the T.V. cameras; like wing-tipped chromosomal defects born out of a truck-stop toilet stall, they sloth about the houses of government belching out a slurry of idiosyncratic endtrailing afterthoughts…
Rarely, if ever; do we hear news of constructive, time-well-spent undertakings at the political level. And if we do, it is immediately followed by the most putrid smagma of back-scratching perversity.
I have gone through long, drawn-out periods in which I have abstained from watching anything news.
For reasons of anger management and blood pressure normalization.
But, since my last fasting ended, the news I see on the computer and on T.V. is nothing short of concentrated, twice distilled ‘shine. Damn hard to swallow, but if you’re into having your head twisted, it sure is a hep way to have a good time.
When Occupy Wall St. first started building up momentum I found myself locked in a junk sick kick with all things News and Wall Street. But it was not the gut boiling Incredible Hulk-fest of the past. No indeed. This new incarnation of my dynamic, event-oriented information obsession was a whole different, and quite strange beast all together. I found myself sweating, chain smoking, and babbling about a bear, a fox, and an electric box if I missed the O’Reilly Factor. What poppa bear thought of these hippies2.0 seemed of the utmost priority. He is a voice of a mindset which has confused commerce with community. Social progress with fiscal prowess. Intelligence with networking abilities. And so, I found, and still find, it to be my duty to dissect and examine this stinking, viscous, knee-jerking oratory demon.
Occupy Wall St. was definitely a sacrificial lamb; one which the News demon seized with both of it’s greasy hands and knashed it’s teeth into with all of the thoughtfulness and tact of a bulimic’s convention let loose inside of a Chuck E. Cheese… and again, there was Canada, right at the forefront of the closed dialogue, criminal inventing culture.
We were the one’s that started tearing down the camps.
As I view headline after headline concentrating on the notion that Stephen Harper is some sort of pinstriped, closet commerce thumbsucker, who roams the halls of parliament with his pants down, looking for someone willing to swipe their card in his slot and leave a deposit; I find myself fighting to remember that this is all slanted, tinted, tabloid drama…
I’ve had to remain conscious that the News Man is more than happy to pounce on the utter lack of moral fibre in the political process, so long as he is the one presenting the subversive dialect. And so long as it serves him, or an associate, to do so. When gatherings and protests start sprouting up across the land, spewing out unedited commentary and social criticism, however, the News Man becomes territorial, and seeks to attack any idea or sentiment which does not originate from within the hallowed halls.
This is a grotesquely ornate question.
One which, I have found, leads a man to the edge of madness. And sometimes, far beyond. That being said. Lets tackle and dissect a portion of the beast, shall we…
At it’s core it is a simple answer, dressed in complicated clothing. The short explanation being:
The paperboy aligns himself with whatever political party will align itself with what the paperboy wants. The problem being: most of the time, the paperboy simply wants to toss everyone’s daily news deep into the rose bushes, so folks have to reach their half-awake hand deep into a jungle of razor sharp thorns in order to get their daily dose of distracted misinformation.
And then he wants to get paid for it!
The next day, there will be an expose on the incident printed in the paper… which will likely be lying in a puddle at the end of the driveway.
Or a pile of dog shit on the front yard.
The News Man has become the town crack-whore, with an ADHD enhanced Napoleon complex.
Compounded to that, we have our snake-in-the-grass of a federal government; who is more than happy to hand over copious amounts of money to this pack of glorified soapbox hollering, screech-drunk, rag-and-bones peddlers; so that they’ll waste their air-time/ad space touting a radioactively-retarded commerce manifesto that only a purebred pinstripe could love. We have created a bull market for the dirt digging/shit spreading industry in Canada.
A curious friendship, that lasts as long as the next news cycle; and, as long as the cheque clears.
In those terms, I myself wonder: why on earth do I find so much joy in my late night T.V. binges?
… After much pondering, I have concluded that the answer is a relatively simple one: It is the same reason everyone else watches porn. There’s usually a screen full of boob and pussy battling it out with a giant dick. There’s a bunch of moaning and screaming. And at the end, someone gets an ear-full of something.
The only difference is, the News Man is better at reading his script; and, while you still feel that sense of shame for having watched, at least you don’t have to wash you hands after sitting through a segment of the news.