A song song song about everything

Yeah, so I finished mixing the "first single" today. I think The Current is a passable band name. Good, not great; then again, it's better than Starfish (Coldplay), or Mythical Ethichal Icicle Tricycle (the Dead). Maybe I can use that sweet boat I drew as our logo or something. I called the song "Deanimated?" and, in a nutshell, it's an imaginary dialogue between a dying atheist and Timothy Leary. What a screwed-up idea for a song... It sounds, as usual, completely different from everything else I write. It's not a ripoff of a specific artist though, it's me singing like me, and it makes me wince.

Might as well explain to the nobody that cares how I got "The Current" as a name. It's a Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters thing, and I read about it in the Electric kool-aid acid test (Tom Wolfe, yeah before that crappy Bonfire of the Vanities thing). The next big thing that they wanted to do (whether it was hopping on the bus and freaking out the establishment or inviting dozens of hells angels over for tea and biscuits) was called "the current fantasy", but since I didn't want to partially steal Owen Pallet's use of "fantasy" in a band name, or make it sound kinda wimpy. Also, I can now use an electric or nautical bent on the word (even though the whole water theme is currently being done to death).

I am so not serious about the whole band thing though, not really. To be so seems a little crazy to me, actually, to be serious about anything seems at this point to be ludicrous; just about everything I do is for a joke, something to make myself laugh and forget the impending doom of responsibility or the emptiness of lack thereof. Not that I think that.

Predicting things isn't that amazing. We're people, and people create the future. We WILL have our jetpacks, because we thought of it, and a future without jetpacks is inconceivable because they were conceived of (in the past) and must be realized (now, which is the future).
I'm reading the Brothers Karamazov because I got sick of everyone everywhere talking about Dostoyevsky and poor old me not knowing anything about him. It's full of philosophy which I can somewhat identify, and talks about Russia alot, which I can't.

Reading a book which you cannot accept is an amazing experience-everyone with the stomach for it should read some Sade and hear, among other things, a perfectly logical argument for the completely natural right of a mother to kill her children at any time in their lives, while at the same time admiring his vulgar eloquence and hating him for expressing emotions and desires which we may or may not have, but that we know are evil and terrible (and we kick ourselves for even thinking). Maybe that's just me, though. Maybe everyone else is all saintly and not secretly murderously perverted in the head. Wow, that came out wrong.

I read that both Jaco Pastorius' basses were stolen before he died, and were never seen again. I really would love to know whether someone has 'em locked up somewhere, or whether they're in the back of some dusty pawnshop, or if they're in pieces in a dump somewhere.

Some musical info; Jesus and Mary Chain, Radiohead, Barenaked Ladies, Flaming Lips, and the Kinks are hugeish influences. I refuse to take it back, Chris, Amos Lee has a damn sexy voice; so does Aimee Mann, though. My favourite song is currently "In the Sun" as done by Michael Stipe, with Coldplay, on Austin City Limits. While in Cuba, I saw Michael Stipe doing an interview on some cuban tv show, then switched back to "Catwoman" with english subtitles.

Pledge Week

Well, I have confidential insider info that the Surrey School District has a pledge in the works. That's right, every morning, everyone stands and repeats a motivational speech (ie. "I pledge to do my best, to work hard...etc.) That might be an interesting idea, except that I generally have very little loyalty or pride in things I'm a part of (example, Canada with its maple leaf-dunno why, guess symbols and junk aren't my thing, because to me a flag is just an ordinary, very flammable piece of cloth) and having to memorize and perform this pledge every morning... It would suck, yes. I'm not sure that BS Secondary is ready for such a cutting-edge motivational technique. Rizzardo, you said it: "At Burnsview we strive to exceed mediocrity." (why do the good quotes always come from goat farmers?).
It is incredibly hard to stay out of the angry complaint/tearful introspection/advice from the clinically retarded that I usually find in blogland. It's so hard to do, in fact, that it makes me want to kill everyone/cry/watch american idol.
Giving up on dreams is one of the most freeing things anyone can do: I'm happy about deciding not to apply to music school. It's alot of pressure to work hard for something you feel like you should do but don't really want to, deep down. Yup, that's just it. When I have to do something, it's no fun, it's just work. Music, I like, it's probably the best way I can think of of wasting time. The problem with music as a university program is that it has to be formalized into a degree (that can be used for a pre-law or what have you) and so must be serious and structured and all other adjectives beginning with s. It makes me anxious just thinking about music as a career, so I thought in order to keep my refuge I had to forget about making it my education too. More than that, I'm lazy, insecure, and okay with it.
I was talking to some hockey mom about her sons, and she actually said: "...he's a nice kid, but Jack... I don't like him. He's a bully." Completely seriously and detatchdededly. "I don't like him." It may be honest, but I don't think she deserves a subway sandwich. I hope mothers usually have more tact; I cannot take that kind of brutal honesty for long. Incidentally, Subway has more locations than McDonalds. Thousands more.
I watched "deal or no deal" today, and I think it was created by someone who felt that gameshows are in general too hard, that someone with the ability to count from 1 to 26 deserves to be able to win a million dollars. It's the first show I've seen where an ordinary (non-talking) horse could have a shot. And yet, like a very shiny, bald magnet, Howie Mandel's spherical skull sang its siren song, cause I wound up watching the whole stupid thing.
"Lazy Eye" by Silversun Pickups has wormed its way into my head. I tied to resist, but it's a perfect example of the undefinable something that makes a good song: the drums and bass are indiepredictable, the singer is an "emo" dude, the song's chorus is one chord, the guitar is...well, who cares. The important and interesting thing is that after hearing it a few times, it comes on and your brain says "yes, I know this, now bob me up and down in time to the music." There's a reason fans generally don't like hearing new things live (unless it's a first impression) because people want to hear songs they know. Songs that bring back memories of people, places, life. Songs they can react to in a pre-planned, totally unspontaneous way. OH, I know this one, it used to be on the radio, wait, here's the best part...Dah dum DUM! Not that there's anything wrong with it, I just think it's weird that when the Who come everyone wants to hear Pinball Wizard, but that literature's mostly about "the next book". I guess it's because albums are product, performances are art. Books are both. In conclusion, we should bring back those high profile "readings from the new book" things, the ones in theatres with everyone who's everyone there and dressed up. Yeah, that's what we should do.

More religious crap

Just in case it looked like I was done talking about religion...

So. Christianity. Any system which bases itself on the perfection of an individual is setting itself up for problems, because humans do not have the capacity to be perfect (again, depends on your definition of perfect, but here it means toeing all the various moral guidelines at all times). The fact that we cannot be perfect is addressed, as I see it, like this: it is explained through original sin and is allowed through forgiveness. But, if you can be absolved of whatever you do, then it's like tearing up a bartab: someone drank, someone's gotta get paid, and I know because there's a bunch of empties 'round your seat. If we allow saints and those guys to be held up as having achieved their ultimate theological potential, then the idea of human perfection is possible (while at the same time impossible because we are, according to the same beliefs, born imperfect, and that sin ain't going anywhere). When you can't be born with a clean slate, something is seriously wrong.

The US constitution contains a clause saying that each landowner gets an extra 1/2 vote for every slave they own. Things change. Others cease to apply. What we believe and how we interpret any given thing changes with the times, and it's wrong to think that anything's gonna hold up through the ages or be too literal minded when it comes to forever.

I'm so sorry. I'll try to be funny again soon, I promise.

A Brave Stab at Religion

No one knows how close I am to applying to theology-and it’s not just because “Master of Divinity” is a wicked name for a degree. I think it’s because I want to find out if I’m justified in not being religious; if I knew more about the subject, I could make a better case for myself. As I see it, organized religion fills some basic needs and that’s why it’s been popular for so long:
1. It provides an explanation for how (and to a varying extent why) we came to be; an end to uncertainty regarding all sorts of existential questions.
2. It appeases fears of mortality and the process of death; I think death is harder on atheists than on those who believe they’re going to hell.
3. It appeals to humanity’s sense of community and belonging; religious fuctions are usually either fun, awe-inspiring, cathartic... with a group of people with whom you can identify because you have identical beliefs (and usually similar sociological backgrounds).
4. It’s part of a grand, longstanding tradition... stretching back through the ages with satisfaction guaranteed or your money back, est. The Beginning of Time (according to [blank]).
5. Perhaps most of all, religion is a moral guideline (interpreted à volonté) which provides a unified concept of right and wrong to the entire group. Before state superceded church, it was The Law... with its own courts and some very physical (rather than spiritual) punishments.

One thing that bothers me about all the slightly different branches of the same spiritual saplings is that each one (more or less) claims exclusivity on their own version of the afterlife. This is not a new thing, every society is based on exclusivity-because of an underlying fear of being itself undermined of abused (example: the mother of all examples, Nazi Germany, WWII). The christian idea of the conversion of the jews before the apocalypse is a good example, so are most basic remarks regarding the afterlife ("I guess we'll see who's right"), and it seems to me to be some kind of childish notion of "Absolute[ly] Right", as in "You'll see it my way sooner or later". The reason for this is pretty obvious-if someone cares what others believe, they're not sure themselves and are just looking for a little confirmation. If they don't get that, then they look for someone smaller than themselves to bully into backing them up. Schoolyard logic should not have a place in religion.

The problem with the metaphor of religion as a tree is that religion is not a growing, constantly budding thing...it’s more like a shrub-a dead one, but that still has some foliage. There are a lot of roots, a lot of branches, but no trunk. Looking from across the street, I can’t even tell whether all those branches connect into each other somewhere in the leafy middle, or if they just intertwine but stay separate. Time and chronology can only be applied in a historical sense; the closer to the ground or sky your paticular place on the shrub happens to be doesn’t mean you’re any closer or farther to (“truth”/”god”/etc.) than anyone else.

Sorry to all of our little philosophers, but I don’t think that anyone young (unless they’ve had quite an extraordinary life) has the knowledge or perspective to understand what is implied by the Big questions, let alone answer them. Their answers will be uninformed and frivolous. This definitely includes me; I can’t even salute others’ efforts to make sense of life through original or combo-meal thought because I’m too preoccupied by living, doing what I feel like, and deciding what professional direction to take. The idea of exposing myself to any of that heavy existential angst that’ll make me have an brooding, pensive look on my face all day long is distasteful. I can’t do that to myself, and this probably means I can’t be a master of divinity either. Whatever. It may be superficial and typical, but for now I’m happy with happiness and no more.

Mind Things

A few thoughts which come to mind-mainly just an excuse to write though.

I have a title for our generation: we are "The, like, generation." I feel it will stick (and have a panapale of reasons for thinking so) because it has become our all-purpose word. The Eddie Poe of today would write "...and the raven was like, Nevermore!" It's not like it's a bad thing, like, if I want to express myself I don't have to remember alot of complicated words, which I like. What are the other characteristcs which set us apart? Being the first kids to grow up with the internet? An undying, puzzling love of Johnny Depp?

The popularity of the word "sex" makes me think. It, like "jazz", is a distinctive sound which some find ugly, raw. In fact, that's why it's popular. It, like its subject, is vulgar and coarse, yet socially acceptable. It isn't used by old people, which is fine because to us they don't indulge in it anyways. Compared to the thousands of names available, it's harsh, abrupt, unromantic. The fact that it's so common means that it must reflect our current views on it in some meaningful way (pessimistic? maybe. only europeans still make love and get that chance to make love stay).

I try to make the unimportant interesting
but keep getting smaller
so easily flattened unknowingly
that even though it means nothing
I still care.

My dad made an interesting comment to me today. His involvement my school consists of attending the awards ceremony at the end of the year, and he read that 26% of children in BC High Schools are overweight; but saw very few at the ceremony so his question was naturally: "Where are the fat kids?" This was not a hurtful thing to say-it was born of genuine concern for our portly chums. Maybe we need to start a scholarship program dedicated to leveling the playing field, (Outstanding Achievement in the field of Obesity?) but then again maybe not. It may simply be that statistics in general suck (32% of people already knew this, and I'm sorry for repeating it. I've wasted your time. 59% of people didn't know and didn't care. Whatever. 9% of people, however, are still reading. Thanks?)

My Author Biography Thing

This is not good. I've had a happy, uneventful childhood, no discernable mental illness, and minimal racial persecution. As a result, I am not interesting and will never do anything brilliant and amazing. I will not die of a failed liver transplant at 32 and be endlessly glorified by the media for another 32 years after my death, or be forever surrounded by the posthumous mystique that comes from being the tragically maladjusted, underequipped celebrity of a generation. I can fight this, though. There is still time to make my back-story interesting, should I ever need a good inside-the-jacket article. Better still, I could just make it all up: in every book a writer has hundreds of pages to tell their life story but only a couple paragraphs to lie through their teeth about their history and social status.

Greg McLeod graduated simultaneously from Harvard, MIT, and ITT Tech in 1906. He lives on a plantation in Iceland with his 6 wives and (at last count) between 30 and 38 children. When he is not writing, Greg trains his beloved poodles to fly and collects and shrinks world figures into bite-sized pieces, covering them in the finest belgian chocolate (Sky Mall, $19.95 each). In his infancy, he wrote several adaptations for the stage including Macbeth, The Effect Of Gamma Rays On Man-In-The-Moon Marigolds, and Beverly Hills 90210. J.K. Rowling recently wrote a series of books based on his early life at wizarding school. This is his first novel, but he's pretty sure Charles Dickens often channeled his spirit in writing works such as Oliver Twist and Oliver Twist 2: Back In Buisness.

That reads like the world's worst mad lib, doesn't it?

More Comics

I decided to go back to work on the good ol' comic strip "A Sigh Of Relief" again today, so here's six new ones. For those who don't know, it's a first aid book that I take pics from and add (arguably) humorous captions.


That's it for now.

Shortlit

This is an odd little thing I wrote for myself-(it's kind of my attempt to emulate Anaïs Nin's short stories) but in the end, it's just a stupid little story that's easy to read because it's almost entirely simple sentences.

A few years ago I rented a small flat on la rue Saint-Sulpice in Paris. I was an aspiring artist and found myself alone for the first time in the big city.
As I sat in my room one night staring out at the swirling clouds, I noticed a light on across the courtyard. In a small, crowded room a strikingly beautiful girl sat alone at a table, seemingly contemplating the obscurity of the moonless Parisian night. She was close enough that I could read her expression; she had a prominent, haunting eyes and an intriguing smile.
While I watched from my window, she produced a bottle of wine from a cupboard and slowly poured herself a glass. After taking a few sips she rose, recorked the bottle, and, having placed it in the cupboard poured the remainderof her glass down the sink. With a hollow countenance she rose and drew the blinds, and it was with wonder that I regarded the thin slices of light which still emanated until sleep overtook me.
When I awoke it was late, and her yawning blinds revealed her absence.
Over the next few nights I witnessed the same sad scene: she would pour the glass, take a sip, and would drain it without fail.
I found the address of her building, and by studying the Annuaire par rues I noted all the likely phone numbers. One night as she sat holding her wine I called the numbers one by one. I saw her get up and walk towards the phone. As soon as she lifted her receiver, I began: I had dialed her nuber at random; I was lonely and needed a sympathetic ear. For the first time, I saw her smile falter, but instead of hanging up she listened intently.
After the conversation had gone on for several minutes, she made an odd remark: her face, it seemed, had been badly scarred on one side in a fire. I quickly replied that there was something she ought to know about me.
“You’re short”, she said simply.
We arranged to meet the next day at a café down the street which looked onto the Jardins de Luxembourg. After I hung up she went immediately to the window and closed her blinds for the night. I noticed that her glass was still on the table.
I purposely arrived at the café a few minutes early and sat down at the counter. It was Saturday and I watched the children playing in the park; the weather was fair, and the city was alive with sights and sounds.
The girl entered the café and scanned the tables. Her face, without blemish, radiated with a wistful expectation. In the doorway she seemed so tall. When she looked my way, I stared past her into the park. She stayed a short time, the same enigmatic smile playing about her lips. I watched as she walked out the door into the busy street.

The Ugliest Tree

Not gonna lie, that tree is made of branches I found in my backyard, and I didn't start decorating it until 1:00 christmas morning...

University better be worth it, because I spent 23 hours over the last two days recording a 3-minute song for my audition tape, and I have at least 2 more to go. It's a 30s swing song, and until I tried to play it myself, I don't think I really understood how understatedly hard that kind of playing is.


I just found out that my grandfather is perpetuating the grand McLeod tradition of writing books no one needs (and publishing them himself), and this one happens to be about the trip to Europe he took in the early 90s. Basically, it could be titled "100 reasons why I should have stayed home and 200 things that annoyed me"... reading is truly like being in his presence (hilarious). Some examples:

"We found the English food inedible."

"Amsterdam city was the dirtiest, scummiest place I have ever visited. It is obvious that it has attracted all the world's drug oriented young people- many of these are supported there by their families, an easier solution than watching them die at home."

"We hadn't realised that the bus would be serving Beer and Sandwiches, and a group of young drunks in the front area made continual noisy asses of themselves as we rolled along."

"It was the filthiest, dirtiest hole of a public facility I have ever seen. Edinburgh should be ashamed of this."

It's so ridiculously pessimistic that it cannot be taken seriously and is therefore pretty funny. Oh, and give Corner Gas a chance, it has a certain sarcastic charm.