So I know it has been a while since I have constantly posted, but I will be following a much better formula. I have just finished University so I will have much more time to mess around on the internet and numb the minds of good bored internet dwellers everywhere. So here is my planned Wednesday instalment of my blog called “My Honest Opinion”.
Now by the time I am writing this there has been a billion posts on the Boston bombing. You can’t escape it is all over the news, it is all over the internet. You load up sites and you are met with the bright eyed 8 year old Boston Bruins fan who died in the blast. You go to YouTube and you see footage presented on the homepage.
Now I am not going to jump out and label anyone as the attacker, as there has been no one blamed yet. Whether it be a foreign or domestic attack on America it comes with the talk of WHY? HOW? All these question that in the face of pure evil no one can really find the answer. Evil just happens, it is like rust eating away at the world. It is senseless, and it is useless. Therefore it is senseless and stupid to try and pull a meaning from it.
So why am I talking about this. Let’s for a second assume it is a domestic attack. It is not that farfetched, American’s have blown up Americans before. Now I try not to blog about gun laws, and whatever simply because I feel like the internet is already full of people to battle for both ends, and you don’t need to find blogs in order to see the discussion. You got to YouTube and watch a video and you look down and all the sudden the conversation comes up.
So just to be clear am I for or against guns? In specific situations you could say that I am both. If I moved to the USA right now one of the very first things I would do it buy a gun. I would buy it to protect myself, simple as that. So do gun laws need to be stricter? I would say yes they do. The idea of outlawing assault rifles is a step forward. I feel as though the mentally ill should not be able to obtain a gun.
The issue I see is. . . taking away guns does stop gun violence. It does not stop all violence. I am not saying it is possible to stop all violence, in fact it is not. That is the world we created. There was a story in the US about a man who went on a stabbing rampage. No it did not kill people, but it was violence. It caused people to feel pain needlessly. I think about this lots of times during the week. It hit me hardest when I was coming home from work and my grandfather asked me “Did you hear about Boston?”. So I turned on the news and there is was. People killed, many injured. Then more news broke about people waking up in the hosital and having no legs. There was doctors saying the worst thing is pulling nails and ball bearing from a little girls leg. It breaks my heart the whole situation.
It does however show that taking guns away from people who are mentally ill does not stop violence. Therefore I am not an advocate for stronger gun laws, I am not against gun laws. I am against all violence. So what solves this issue?
This is my honest opinion. They United States is in dire need of a better and stronger mental health program. Why not? Maybe a free mental health program. It would create millions of jobs for students graduating with a psychology degree. It would eventually lead to a more stable society. I am not a politician by any means, but if you run a country that is coming up out of a recession, and you are willing to spend millions, even billions on bullshit policies. Then you can toss down some big dollars to set up a government funded mental health program that will supply jobs to people in need of jobs, and in turn drive the crime rate down.
It just makes sense. Whether someone kills a man with a chrome snub-nosed gun, or with a homemade bomb made out of a pressure cooker the result is the same. It is time people stand up. It is time the US Government honours that structured agreement. We give up our freedom for safety, safety that is currently not being offered.
Now this tragedy was horrible, it displayed how evil humanity can be, but it also showed how united humanity is. Marathon runners ran directly to the hospital to donate blood, the members of the armed forces ripped down the barrier like it was paper. People carried to wounded. What I saw was a failed attempt at creating terror. I say the American people be strong, be united in the face of pure evil. I suggest that next year the Boston Marathon be the most attended Marathon in American history. I am Canadian, but I am behind the people of America who are so resilient in the face of this attack. No matter how many evil people there are, there are so many good ones.
Keep hope alive. Keep the human in humanity.
This is the part where I would add a link to provide donation to the people who fell victim of the blast, but unfortunately specific members of society are so fucked up there are tons of fakes. Well until next time this was my honest opinion.
Just some Canadian rock to share with the world. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. New tune from The Headstones.
I know that I have been a little lacklustre lately, but with school and family life just keeps shitting on your time. Anyway this is a segment I am going to try and do every money. Just write a bit till I hit a point and post it.
Did you ever look in the mirror and see someone else. Something you never thought you would be? It is like your 5 year plan was just that, a fucking plan. A plan never set into action and in your early twenties you stand there looking at your face. Your face is cracked, covered in physical and mental wounds with the aging of a forty year old heroin addict. Bags hang under your eyes and you toss back another bit of the blackness, of the coffee. So you run to class to obtain an education they tell you that you need. You go to their institutions, take part in their social structures and one magnificent magical thought that is out of the box. . . and they call you insane. You see thier doctors, take their pills. Pills, pills, pills. You go to their jobs, you become their socially constructed ideal robot. So as you sit here looking in the mirror at someone you no longer know, ask yourself first
1) Is it, NO was it worth it?
2) Who the fuck am I?
We all come out the same, and each of us are to blame. Individualism is a color, uniqueness simply a texture, freedom is an illusion. Underneath our exterior we are all the same. We are all moulded by the man. We are fed their media, their news, their fiction. The dominate ideology destroys anything unique. Nothing is original. Time is money, and money makes the world go round. Sick capitalism in a candy coating and we eat the shit up like a box of Twinkies. We are the working class, the dreamers, we are the 99%.
This is how they plan to kill us. This is how the plan to kill it. . . creativity.
Just a spoken word piece by Corey Taylor of Slipknot and StoneSour fame. Beautifully talented artist.
Having trouble writing lately so here is another old first attempt at writing a script I never actually finished. Enjoy!
(Fictional) Lexington Louisville USA- The Place Dreams go to Die.
The sun bakes a broken down old gas station that rests in “the middle of no where” gasoline gently trickles down the rusted green gas pump. The wind whistles slightly, but not enough to drown out the sound of droplets of gasoline hitting the ground creating a small puddle that evaporates in the hot sun making a stain on the cement. The drip, drip, drip of the gasoline and the whistle of the wind all seems to stop becoming overshadowed by the sound of a high performance engine. A blue sports car with the bass pumping and tinted windows blazes its own trail across the cracked asphalt. Hitting top speeds, it pulls itself toward the gas station. The gas meter falls below “E” as the driver punches it to the floor the speedometer reaches above 100 mph. A set of black hands grabs the wheel to control it. The gas station is framed through the windshield that is stained with the carcasses of bugs that met their ultimate demise at the hands of the speeding machine. The blue mechanical devil gently glides its way into the gas station the rims are polished silver that casts a reflection so accurate that it reveals every detail of what you put in front of it. The wheels halt at that broken down leaky pump, and the stench of burning rubber fills the air. The bass shakes the frame of the machine as it is shut off abruptly. Inside the store a bald man sits dressed in overhauls a white shirt is placed underneath but small chest hair still poke through the thin fabric. He sits reading the latest issue of penthouse magazine, a perfect set of breasts greet anyone who enters into the establishment. The gas attendant is startled by the beeping of his computer that rests on a yellow stained (former white) tabletop. The cashier tucks his “educational reading” into a drawer. He pushes the authorization button to allow the pump to start as he looks outside in disgust at the finely tuned sports car, and spits as he eyes up the two African Americans who have stepped out laughing wearing baggy clothes that barely stay on their body. His bald head catches a slight reflection of the sun and he shakes his head keeping a keen eye on the two men who are outside.
The screen reads $30.00 as the men hang up the pump and walk inside the store; they quickly walk to the back of the store to scope out the beverage section.
Cashier: How are you boys today?
Guy 1: Good, nearly ran out of gas out there. Glad there is at least one gas station around this hell hole homie.
Cashier (joking): I get most of my customers bridging on empty son.
The two black men laugh as they scan the store. The cashier opens the drawer he stahed the magazine in again and he places his hand on a gun, it is a small snub nose piece all black. His white hand gripped around it makes quite the contrast. Meanwhile a red truck pulls up outside at another pump, the cashier pushes the authorization button; he does not even take his eyes off the two men in the store who continue to scan the store for snacks. The two approach the cash and place two bottles of Nestle water on the counter. The second person cocks his eyebrow sensing the hostility as the man stares a hole into their souls.
Cashier: This and thirty dollars of gas?
Guy 1: Yes sir that is everything.
Cashier (suspicious): That is everything?
Guy 1: Yes…
Cashier: Are you sure?
Guy 2 (offended): Yes, we are God damn sure! What are you trying to get at here white boy?
The cashier grips his gun tighter as the young black man gets close to his face. BANG! The cashier falls behind the counter. BANG! Guy 2 goes down his brains falling onto the counter as he tumbles to the ground knocking gum onto the ground with him. Guy 1 turns to see a man with long black hair and a moustache that stretches from his upper lip, down the sides of his face all the way down to his chin. His eyes hide behind black aviator glasses, and a cigarette hangs between his lips gently as he holds his gun upright aimed toward the black man. The man looks there in shock at the gun wielding maniac, there in the reflection in his aviator glasses, you can see the man get shot directly in the chest, and another bullet nails him between the eyes (within the reflection of the glasses). Beautiful clean shooting, blood spouts out of the small black hole left in the mans head. The gunman blows the smoke off his old six-shooter that sparks silver. The gunman walks the store casually he looks through the snack isle finding nothing, then he comes to the mother load, in the beverage section a nice big quart of Jack Daniels stares at him. Good ol’ Jack, his only true friend. The gunman smiles with a set of white teeth as he grips the Jack and takes it toward the counter with him. The gunman hears choking, and coughing, he looks over the counter. BOOM! A bullet flies by the gunman’s head, and shatters the light right behind him. The gunman takes cover behind the counter. The cashier lies on the ground choking on his own blood, holding his hand over a hole in his throat. His eyes continue to fall back into the back of his head as the blood flows through the cracks of his fingers; he holds the gun with the other hand.
Gunman: Look fella you do not want to die like this, it is not as glamorous as they say to die in a hail of bullets. It is not like that little gun you have made by a poor child in east India is going to fire again anyway. You are lucky enough it fired in the first place. How long has it been collecting dirt and dust in that goddamn drawer? Years I would say.
The Gunman stands up and looks over the counter at the cashier who lies in a pool of his own blood. The cashier lifts the gun, and it falls in a sad attempt to fight off the man that is taking his life. The gunman smiles as he casually grabs a bag and pushes a fist full of cash from the till into it, along with his bottle of booze. He shoves a pack of blue cigarettes into his pocket and looks down at the cashier. He gets on his knees, smiling he pushes the cashiers head back and smacks his face lightly.
Gunman: Pay attention now.
He pauses to scratch his head softly with the end of his six-shooter.
Gunman: Now if there was one thing I learned from the killing spree of Mickey and Mallory Knox in the nineties it was “Always leave someone behind to tell the tail of your legacy. You need someone to continue your story.” I was going to let you live, clip you in the shoulder. My aim is a little off it seems though. Anyway, long story short is we have come a long way from then, technology wise anyway. I mean look at that camera up there, it will tell a better tale than you ever will…
The gunman looks up at the camera and smiles, posing arrogantly. He looks back at the cashier and shakes his head.
Gunman: Have you ever been to the United Kingdom? Of course not what am I asking, you are stuck in this little hell hole your whole life. In the UK they did a study, they figured out that the average person is caught on camera 300 times a day. That is crazy isn’t it? Now it’s great that you got this lovely little camera system here, because I could not leave you here bleeding to death that’s terrible. It is a very horrible way to die. I don’t think there is such a thing as pure evil. I like to think that there are degrees. That is why i can’t leave you here bleeding to death like some fuckin’ animal. I consider myself a humanitarian!
BOOM! One clean shot to the skull, blood splatters all over the counter behind him as the Gunman turns around grabbing his cigarettes, booze and cash. These things are all the necessary tools of life. As he gets outside he places a cigarette between his lips and lights it. He inhales and blows the smoke into the hot sun. He gets inside his pickup and drives away leaving disturbed gravel. He begins thinking to himself as he flies by the hot sandy desert…
Gunman (V.O.): Who the fuck am I? I ask myself that question every single day; I bet most normal people find themselves doing the same. The only thing is I am not sitting there behind a desk with my dick in my hand, no I am doing something. I am slowly finding myself as the days go on. One discharged bullet out a time. So what the hell have I found out about myself? I am an unloved being, a waste of talent; I am a survived abortion, the thing that goes bump in the night. I am torture, I am pain, I am rape, and I am the FUCKING AMERICAN DREAM … freedom personified. I am oppression; I am angry, empty… I am a walking Desperado.
Smiling Desperado flicks the cigarette out of the window and it bounds lightly on the asphalt. We follow this cigarettes journey as credits begin to roll to the tune of Folson Prison Blues by Johnny Cash