Did I mention I coproduce Bounce Rap shows now? Check it: PNC Fridays presents Dizzy AKA Raw DI
Current mood: Succulent
Category: Succulent Music
Hosted By: Christopher Fontana When: Saturday Aug 16, 2008 at 10:00 PM Where: The Frat House Uptown 8200 Willow Street New Orleans, Louisiana|19 70118 United States Description: Christopher Fontana
The latest exercise in post-productive hijinks from the irrepressible boys at Neutral Ground Films.... Please enjoy the fruits of my chemical imbalance. Cheers -cwf
My 2nd movie! Sadly I can take no writing credit for the impending chaos of G3 however I get to help write the sequel! What's cooler than getting paid to act? Try getting paid to write at the same time. So behold: THIS is the kind of money, THESE are the kinds of resources that I've got behind my ideas nowadays.... Cheers -cwf
This is a great example of what happens when you're waiting to shoot the final few scenes on a project & the boys behind the camera get bored... I'm honored to be working with people who cope with the restlessness of post-production in such clever ways.... Cheers -cwf
At last, for the Myspace faithful, the final, main version of the trailer for my very first cinematic endeavor, Neutral Ground Films' "Below Sea Level!" Created by my good friend, "Magic" Mike Dardant, it is truly something unique that shows what's possible when some of the most talented people in a city like this one collide & interact!
These Days: After All The Misery Made, "It Will Be Just Like In The Movies"
Current mood: anointed
Yes, I know it's been a while since my last entry. An entry, coincidentally enough, which also began with an explanation. Hmmm… If I didn't know any better, I'd say I've fallen victim to a trend.
Each time I manage to post some meandering treatise (such as the one you're presently reading), I preface it with all kinds of bullshit promises. I solemnly swear to all my readers that I'll post something new every week, like my blog is something they've been anticipating. It's as if I'm promising to wake up in the morning and spontaneously start to act like some kind of prolific writer: the kind I've certainly never been before and am unlikely to ever become…
Then, after a few blog-less months have gone by, I end up typing one of these little forwards. I wonder: why it is I feel I owe the faceless masses of cyberspace some kind of apology? What exactly would I apologize for, anyway? Spending all my time in real life or neglecting my fake Internet life? What's funny is that while I know I shouldn't feel guilty about this, I do.
The reason it used to bother me is truly a sad one…
Despite a lifetime of trying to be the kind of guy who always does what he says he's going to do, my becoming such a guy is a relatively recent development. Finishing the things I start is one of my new skills rather than a natural strong suit. In this way, you could call me a late-bloomer. And did I ever know it! My self conscious-ass was once hyper-aware of any and all perceived shortcomings, both real and imagined. Since I knew I'd only quit blogging out of sheer laziness it was easy to hate myself for it. I felt like I was somehow letting everybody down- and in a public forum, no less!
How utterly ridiculous is that? Nowadays, I'm painfully aware that "everybody" neither noticed nor cared about my lack of artistic discipline. What everyone does seem to notice are the changes that occur when you're forced to at least pretend to have that discipline. Everything has changed, everyone has noticed and, for once, these are both good things.
What's more is that this all started a scant seven-months ago. That was when I finally "retook The Holy Land" (or "moved back home to New Orleans," for the uninitiated), and ever since that day I've been uncharacteristically dynamic. Besides holding down the fort at my 9-to-5er and performing stand-up comedy whenever possible, I started piling things onto my plate until it wasn't just full but overflowing. One of those things was "Sketchy Characters" (my improv/sketch troupe), and it led, however indirectly, to the very chaos that holds sway over this day and age.
Most of those friends that I started the troupe with are primarily actors as opposed to comics. They tend to act on their ideas and such habits are contagious. Case in point- spend a few months working closely with them, only don't be surprised when you wake up one morning to find yourself filming two movies at the same time. Life has presented me with a new definition for the word "busy." Once the grand champion of wasting time, I have since forgotten what it's like to watch tv or play a video game.
In fact, so much has been going on lately that life's got this sweep to it that is, well… downright epic. The downside of all this is action is the equally epic case of writer's block it's given me. How's that for a "Catch 22?" I mean, please don't tell me that's how it works: dare to move on your ideas and you stop having them? I doubt it. Still, I wonder how I'm supposed to use words to do justice to that which consistently leaves me at a loss for them?
So I strive to keep things in their proper perspective. This means struggling to keep in mind that this stupid blog isn't a novel and therefore I should stop treating it like one. Henceforth do not expect these entries to be shinning examples of my writing ability, rather expect them to read more like what they have been all along: entries in a public diary. Writing those entries has long been my substitute for the proper psychiatric care I so desperately need. The masses of cyberspace may be faceless but they listen just as well as any shrink… plus they do it for free.
Sooo…
Maybe that's why I still feel guilty?
Maybe not. Either way, I should go, save my strength for our next session. Being the kind of guy who follows through requires me to admit that it's late and I should get some rest. After all, tomorrow's going to be a busy day.
"Who loves you and who do you love?" -cwf
Currently
watching
:
Mighty Boosh Release date: 01 November, 2004
Top Ten Fun Facts About My New Job!
Current mood: down-size-able
Whew.... ok.
It seems this job is going to be keeping me busier than I originaly expected, so the blogs will still be coming hard if not as fast as I'd hoped. Clever and insightful, of course, still remain to be seen. Speaking of 'twerk...
TOP TEN FUN FACTS ABOUT MY NEW JOB
10.) Every time I ride the elevator, my ears pop half way to my floor. "I can see your house from here..."
9.) As the single weirdest person that most of my coworkers have ever had a conversation with, MY Hawaiian shirts reign supreme on Casual Fridays!
8.) In the kitchen down the hall from my office: Free Fresca! (Yoo-hoo coming soon, as per my request)
7.) With a list of clients that includes Haliburton and various oil companies, my firm should be able to hook me up with a sweet-ass internship in Hell!
6.) I printed up a giant banner and hung it over my desk. It read, "Is This Good For The Company?" No one got the joke.
5.) I've had enough time to put together a Power-Point Presentation entitled, "Why I'm Hot" ("... now, If you'll refer to figure 12-a, you'll see that these numbers clearly indicate that I'm hot cause I'm fly...")
4.) While I'm not entirely sure what the "IT" in the title "IT Guy" stands for, I am sure that I have four of them... and that it only takes one to fix my computer.
3.) After nearly a month of working in my building, I finally understand why black people make fun of us.
2.) In the professional world, everyone just assumes you're doing your job.
1.) Since I've been hired, girls my own age are once again willing to sleep with me.
Reports of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated...
Current mood: Orwellian
Well hello again...
This isn't so much an entry as it is a fair warning: my blog is about to make it's triumphant return to myspace! A LOT has happened since we last spoke, and I find myself in a place I did not expect to be- an office. Yes, I've returned to my mythic home, New Orleans, and gotten a new (and remarkably real) job. This means I spend copious amounts of time in front of a computer now. That means that the blogs will start coming again, hard and fast... and perhaps clever and insightful. For some reason I felt obliged to put you all on notice, worrying that it would be somehow rude of me to simply start posting again out of the blue. Then I remembered that very few people read this for the simple fact that there's no reason for them to... and then I felt silly. So on that note, please stay tuned for fun and excitement as I disclose the details of my real life, the inner workings of my mind, and in turn shed some light on the reasons why said mind wrecks such havok on said real life.
Finding Neverland in Tigerland: An Unflinching Look at Life in a Modern Day Hippie Commune
Current mood: retrospectaculative
Category: retrospectaculative Life
--> -->--> -->--> --> --> -->Behold! That's right, 'Space cadets! I have returned unto you! Finally catching a wind and happily leaving my creative dolldrums behind, I'll be doing my damnedest to become prolific once more! Weather or not I can manage to keep it up this time remains to be seen, but after you've digested this one, you'll understand why I feel I have the right to say that I'm back with a vengence! Believe it or not, this piece of Gonzo-journalism WILL find its' way onto newstands throught Baton Rouge within the next month. What's still up in the air is weather it shall grace the pages of Tiger Weekly or Redstick Magazine... both monetary compensation and censorship being the deciding factors. Either way, enjoy, and be on the look-out for the addition of a concluding paragraph or two once this monstrosity's fate has been determined...
"Finding Neverland in Tigerland: An Unflinching Look at Life in a Modern Day Hippie Commune"
Hi there!New here?Uh-huh.Me?Hell no.I've been here TOO long, bleeding my college years for all they're worth.When you've spent as many years in college as I have, that's a lot of blood!Yet the end draws near and it looks like I'm going to have to grow up after all.Until then, you can think of me as Peter Pan's sleazy evil twin.Anyone familiar with both James Barrie's classic character and myself can vouch for how much we have in common: Peter Pan was some strange sort of man-child who refused to grow up, did nothing but play around all day, regularly dressed like an asshole, and would sometimes hang out with fairies.
As if that weren't eerie enough, Pan and I even share the same favorite pastime: picking up teenage girls and then whisking them away to a magical fantasyland where time has no meaning.We only differ in how we go about meeting these girls.He's got it easy.All Pan has to do is wait until it gets dark and then simply fly in through some hottie's bedroom window.Having forgotten how to fly, I'm stuck driving out to clubs and bars come nightfall- a routine that, much like yours truly, has been getting real old, real fast, for a real long time.By now the pixie dust has settled and I could've sworn my adventures in Neverland were over… I was wrong.
I could've also sworn that by now I had experienced every type of student housing out there.I'd lived in a dorm, in a closet-like studio apartment, in a huge chaotic apartment where night and day blurred into one another, in various kinds of houses (from "fraternity," to "duplex," to "crack"), hell- I even slept in the back seat of a car for an uncomfortable week or so!Cramped as it was, that car was still more comfortable than the semester and a half I spent "playing house" (that's when you live in the same place as the person you're sleeping with- better to skip this one if at all possible).None of these experiences, however, could have prepared me for the bizarre dynamics and dangerous excesses of life in a modern day hippie commune.
It all started one day this past August when I realized that, while I had to be out of my old place by October, I wouldn't be able to move into my new one until November.So I gratefully accepted the sofa space offered to me by Michael, a fellow stand-up comic whom I'd performed with a number of times.So much for a smooth transition into my latest digs: I'm quite a few years older than Michael and he and his friends are a bit… out there.But I was out of options, so I commandeered the couch at their three-bedroom Tigerland apartment and said to myself, "I've been there and done that!How crazy could it be, right?"
As it turns out, "it" could be pretty freaking crazy and, despite my cocky attitude, I soon learned that the Neverland commune (as I came to call the apartment) was a "there" to which I had never been!A place where "that" which they were often doing was the kind of thing I usually reserved for special occasions.But most striking of all was how warmly I was welcomed by Michael's friends: a tribe of postmodern hippies who in turn became the Lost Boys to my ex-raver, postmodern Peter Pan.
Ever on the lookout for a chance to do some "Gonzo Journalism," I began keeping a journal of my experiences living at the Neverland commune.Not only because I thought it might make for an interesting read, but also for the sake of my own dignity.Writing about my stint in residential limbo transformed this embarrassing oversight into an exercise in hardcore field research, if only in my own mind.The Lost Boys were now my subjects and my complete immersion into their world was proof of my artistic zeal rather than of my irresponsibility.
I remembered hearing stories about the research conducted by Tom Wolfe for his latest book, "I am Charlotte Simmons."Appropriately enough, it's a story about the intertwining lives of a group of contemporary college students.Although set on a fictional campus and subject to the kind of exaggeration often seen whenever a generation gap is crossed, it's still a shining example of what's possible when a writer throws himself into the world of his subjects as completely as Wolfe does.His vivid account is based largely upon first hand knowledge of daily life on the frontiers of academia.True to his reputation, the seventy-one year old author lived along side actual students for extended periods of time.He ate when they ate, slept when they slept, and for the most part, lived as his subjects did... within reason, of course.
As writer in my twenties, I am not bound by such reason.Mr. Wolfe's status as a senior citizen may have obliged him to work within its' bounds but I was free to follow my subjects to the edge and beyond.Nevertheless, cleverly dealing with my housing snafu does not make me Tom Wolfe.Perhaps a more down-to-earth parallel is the story of how Johnny Deopp lived in Hunter S. Thompson's basement for a month before playing him in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas?"Deopp even spent a birthday down there, upon which Thompson wrapped up a live explosive and gave it to him as a present.Deopp narrowly escaped the blast, which, according to Thompson, was the whole idea: the close call was meant to leave Deopp feeling "truly alive."
And yet as my new reality set in, I began to worry that maybe I was carrying on a tradition more scientific than literary.I hoped not, because that would make me less like Tom Wolfe or Johnny Deopp and more like Grizzly Man or Jane Goodall.While I hardly expected the hippies I was living amongst to eat me as bears or gorillas would, the difference between "cultural icon" and "slain naturalist" is a long way to fall.If I was to avoid such a fate, all I could do was gather my wits up about me and adjust to my new surroundings.
To properly picture the Neverland commune, it's important to remember that we're talking about a space no more remarkable than your average third-world style three-bedroom apartment in Tigerland.What sets it apart is the fact that it's actually run communally, in a style more ideologically pure than any form of communism I've ever seen.Everybody shares everything equally with whoever else is around at the time.And by 'everything' I do mean everything: from food, drink and drugs to djing privileges and turns on Guitar Hero.
Despite the place's three-bedroom layout, at least five of the Lost Boys spend more than enough time in Neverland to be considered residents.Unlike any other peer group I have ever known, these five individuals share an interdependence that is near absolute.The symbiotic way in which they interact gives them an uncanny knack for picking up each other's slack.The result is nothing less than a twisted little family, one that's somehow happier and less dysfunctional than many which occur naturally.That's what made such an impression on me… well, that, and the excessive drug use.
The best way to get a handle on what life is like at the Neverland commune is to meet the Boys.The Lost Boys, that is- LSU's own postmodern hippies.
Michael, "The Surgeon General"
Neverland may not have a standing army nor a seat in the UN's General Assembly, but it is nonetheless much like a sovereign nation-state- complete with division of labor and specialization of tasks. Michael, for example, serves as the commune's Surgeon General, FDA, and DEA all rolled into one. His stage experience and networking skills make him ideally suited to serve the greatest of goods in this grayest of areas. When he isn't on stage or out and about on the fringe of society, Michael takes precious little very seriously. In fact, only two exceptions come to mind: his extensive collection of classic rock on vinyl and making the most of his free time.
Mike's devotion to recreation (rivaled only by his feelings towards the Allman Brothers) runs so deep that those around him rarely need to hunt for things like high-quality marijuana or hallucinogenic mushrooms.In Neverland, this is a weighty contribution indeed.In fact, it's safe to say that if Mike wasn't as on top of this issue as he is, nary a Lost Boy would ever accomplish anything else.
Along side his records and a three hundred dollar glass bong ("Senor Pablo Escobong,") there is a tent in Michael's bedroom.It's a child's tent that he has cleverly set up inside out so that the colorful images of characters from "Winnie the Pooh" are visible from within.The tent acts as a kind of sanctuary for when things get too crazy, even by Michael's standards.
For example, the tent comes in handy whenever the Boys pick mushrooms and hold one of their famous "Through the Looking-Glass Tea Parties."They brew mushroom tea and give it away for free, occasionally even wandering around campus and offering cups to total strangers.At some point during each of these parties Michael will retreat to his Winnie the Pooh tent (or, as he calls it, "The Hundred Acre Wood") and spend about a half an hour smoking pot amongst his animal friends.
Richie, "The Prime Minister"
Of all of the Lost Boys, Richie makes the most serious attempt at keeping it all together.His job requires him to go to bed at an almost reasonable hour, bringing to his daily life a jolt of regularity.Secure in the knowledge of just how high his salary will be a year from now, Richie has begrudgingly taken on the role of the responsible one.He buys groceries, turns off lights, and puts out all manner of small fires that may spark up here and there.Simply put, the power bill is in his name.
Correspondingly, Richie sees himself as the man of the house.Which isn't to say he's anymore sane than his fellow Lost Boys.Case in point: Richie once marched out his bedroom pantsless and, in front of two couches full of guests, demanded that his girlfriend immediately have sex with him so that he would sober up and stop tripping.Now that's a man who's home is his castle.
Just as they share everything else, the Lost Boys seem to take turns 'freaking out.'Knowing that they're safe at home and amongst friends, one of them will get remarkably wasted- to the point that they loose touch with reality and must be essentially cared for by their more reasonably intoxicated brethren.So even though I came to expect that each one of them would have their moments, it was still particularly unnerving when the moment at hand happened to be one of Richie's… I wondered, if he's standing on that chair, holding a spatchula and issuing more pants-less decrees, then who's putting out those fires?
T-Slay, "Cultural Attaché"
The only Lost Boy who could be accurately described as quiet, the unassuming T-Slay serves as Neverland's unofficial artistic director.His interest in Japanese culture (it's almost as if he's nostalgic for the way a place to which he has never been was at a time before he was even born) is the only reason that I can now proudly say that I have seen every last episode of Cowboy Bebop.
What T-Slay brings to the table is a keen eye for artistic merit.This contribution keeps the atmosphere in Neverland from getting too lowbrow.For proof of his influence, one needs look no further than the commune's walls.With the exception of "The Art Wall" (a schizophrenic mosaic of pen ink sketches, cartoons, graffiti, and kindergarten-style finger paintings), the décor would be downright run-of-the-mill if T-Slay weren't there to spice it up.The result is, as you may have guessed, Japanese with a psychedelic twist.
Samurai swords, throwing stars, and a wooden sparring sword that T-Slay carved himself adorn the walls in nearly every room.They share space with silk-screens of anime cells and a few incredibly detailed drawings of similar characters that T-Slay somehow sketched freehanded.A prolifically visual artist, he has also exhibited a gift for tie-dye.Cloth examples of his work hang alongside the cells and swords and provide the aforementioned twist to the oriental theme, balancing out the apartment's otherwise uninspired mix of movie posters and stolen street signs.
Brian, "House Mom"
The Neverland commune's only gay resident, Brian has taken on a role similar to that of a fraternity's House Mom.Easily the kindest and most generous of the Lost Boys, he protects the often times fragile emotional well being of his friends with maternal zeal.Brian may in fact be the nicest, most accepting person I have ever met- and considering the number of self-described hippies I count as friends, that's saying something.
Brian's awareness of other people's emotions was easy to spot no matter what the topic of conversation was that day.In a room full of wasted people, it's not uncommon for more than one person to be talking at once.Whenever this occurs, someone is bound to get 'talked down' by the competition.Feeling as if they've lost their bid for the audience's attention, this person begins to trail off into silent despair… and that's when Brian steps in with his ever-nurturing nature.He'll make eye contact with the disenfranchised speaker, arch his eyebrows, and lean forward as if to say 'I'm listening.'
But my favorite story about Brian's maternal side has to be that of his humanitarian relief trip to the mall.Nearly all of the Lost Boys (Brian included) work at the mall and hate it.Besides being about a half-hour away from Neverland, the mall embodies many of the things about society that don't sit well with hippies.One day I was at the mall buying shoes and stopped to say hi to the Boys who were congregating around a kiosk where one of them worked.After chatting for a few minutes, they all excused themselves and scurried back to their respective jobs- all except Brian.
"Want to go smoke a bowl?" he asked me.I said sure and we walked out to his car and did so.After a while, I began to worry that I was keeping Brian from his responsibilities.So I asked, "Dude, don't you have to get back to work?"He smiled and explained that he didn't have work that day, saying, "I'm just here hanging out and getting people high."Despite the price of gas, the traffic, and the general horror of the mall, Brian had made the trip for purely altruistic reasons.
Skeet, "Grand Vizier"
What is a Grand Vizier?Good question.What is Skeet?An even better question.An enigma by any standard, Skeet (or "Papa Skeet") defies all attempts at classification in every imaginable way.Physically he is like a living, breathing cartoon character.Both good and evil, great and terrible- Skeet is capable of playing messiah in the morning and devil's advocate by sundown.But regardless of his ethical orientation at any given time, his persona is always larger than life.
="">Skeet's ever over-active imagination has had a profound impact on the way the Lost Boys talk.To share any commodity with someone is "to give them a pull off that," weather it be a sip of a drink, a bite of a candy bar, or a hit of a pipe.To take any activity to excessive extremes is "to set that bitch on 'splosion."Skeet even uses his linguistic creativity to poke fun at himself, maintaining that he is no mere human, but a "goober-borg" (substituting 'goober' for 'cyber').
The social equivalent of a Swiss army knife, Skeet seems to have friends from every conceivable walk of life.His ability to move freely from one social circle to another makes him especially apt at making big things happen (both good and bad), to the point that his capabilities in this area rival that of some clubs or organizations.A personality this over the top almost requires its' owner to develop an alter ego and Skeet is, for once, no exception.He calls him "Topical Dan" and I have neither the time nor the space to explain his origins here, suffice it to say he has his own myspace page.
Textual Healing... SMS, IM's, and Why I'm Moving to The Philipeans.. eventualy for Tiger Weekly
Current mood: clairviolent
Category: clairviolent Web, HTML, Tech
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Textual Healing... SMS, IM's, and Why I'm Moving to The Philippians eventually for Tiger Weekly Current mood: clairviolent Category: Web, HTML, Tech
I have a theory that, starting roughly an hour after I came into this world, every human being from that point on was born with a genetic predisposition for instant messaging. I know its weak as scientific theories go, but its all Ive been able to come up with in my efforts to understand the popularity of IMs. Its as if everyone else picked a screen name and established their pin while they were still in the womb somehow. While the majority of you seem to communicate this way almost instinctively, Im caught off guard and confused whenever I get one... maybe even a little annoyed. Well it serves me right- my rampant abuse of text messaging has definitely earned me a taste of my own medicine.
Yes, Im ashamed to admit that I am guilty of one of the cardinal sins of communication: the gratuitous use of text messaging. Why do I consider it such a sin? Because texting is unnecessary. We use our cell phones to send awkward little memos to other peoples cell phones when we could just as easily call them. Its a half-assed, lazy mans way to communicate, which is probably why its so popular in so many places.
Text messaging, or SMS (short message service), has only been around since 1992. But it didnt really catch on until 2000, when wireless customers worldwide sent an average of thirty-five texts per month. In 1995, that same number was a mere 0.4, so by now the worlds monthly average must be something like... a whole hell of a lot (while Im sure I couldve done those calculations, I didnt- Im a lazy, text-junkie, remember?).
I included those global statistics to emphasize the global nature of the SMS phenomenon. In fact, if you had to guess the country in which texting is most popular, youd probably guess wrong. I said America, which was way off of the mark- the region that sees the most SMS traffic is Southeastern Asia. In 2003, Filipinos sent an average of 2,300 text messages, earning their homeland the dubious distinction of planet Earths most text-alicious nation. I wonder if whoever crunched those numbers notified the Filipino people of their victory via text message. Perhaps one day in early 2004, one tenth of the population received one of those obnoxious chain-letter-texts that said something like,
Congrats! U r ..1! 4ward this msg 2 @ least 10 of ur countrymen or u will have bad luck 4eva! LOL!
Or maybe not... While the Philippines may rein supreme, thats not to say that other parts of the world are immune to the text epidemic. SMS is particularly widespread throughout Europe with one exception- it received a chilly reception in France, if you can believe that. Associating text messaging with a fast-paced lifestyle and being traditionally resistant to change, French culture was especially slow to embrace it. And yet, with an average of nineteen texts per month, even the French easily beat out the Americans (averaging just thirteen). This makes text messaging the only thing the French have ever won... although they sure came close to adding soccer to that list.
Weird, huh? Wouldnt you expect Americans to rank among the worlds most prolific texters? Seems like a match made in heaven to me! Why bother placing a cell phone call in real-time and risk giving someone the erroneous impression that you think theyre worth speaking to? This reminds me of the days when we all carried pagers and beeped one another incessantly, only to have to pace in front of some payphone like a crack head until the person wed paged got to a crack phone of their own. Except that today we send more complex beeps from the very cell phones we used to wish we had. Instead of trying to get to pay phones to call each other, we use our cell phones to get out of actually having to talk to one another weve come so far, havent we?
What other form of communication is quite as intrusive yet still as impersonal as the text message? It enables us to violate some ones personal space with the digital equivalent of a post-it note! Getting a text is like having a stranger walk up to you out of nowhere, slap one of those little yellow squares right in the middle of your forehead, and yell, Message from Larry! as they walk away. While you may not expect qualities like intrusive and impersonal to compliment one another all that well, they combine to make text messaging something as American as quad-stacker burgers and drive-by regime change: that which is detached and yet still somehow in touch.
With the US at the back of the SMS pack, those of us who live in the south can expect the coolest of the gee-whiz technology to take its sweet ass time trickling down our way. So while Ive never purchased anything from a vending machine via text message, I have read about it. You send a special message to an equally special number and they magically add the cost of the item to your phone bill! Gee, whiz what a fun way to put a neat futuristic twist on good old fashioned highway robbery.
Sure, thats cool and all, but what about those of us who demand something a bit more cutting-edge than a new way to buy the same crap from a vending machine? No worries- all you die hard futurists out there can look forward to (drum roll, please) MORSE CODE MESSAGING! Nope, not a typo! Just imagine Youre sitting silently in a dark theater when suddenly your pants begin to vibrate... but its not just the simple pulse of your ringer, its a whole text message! Through the magic of Morse code, this urgent message reaches you DURING your feature
New technology that requires its users to learn Morse code (it translates incoming messages so only the recipient needs a military background) isnt new technology. At best, text messaging is a new spin on old technology thats been slyly integrated into newer technology (our cell phones) that, by its very nature, renders the old technology obsolete. Its enough to make you wonder why your service provider ever offered this service in the first place... until you get the bill, at which point everything becomes clear- including why my friends want to have my text-happy ass exiled to the Philippines.
Who loves you and who do you love?
-cwf
Currently
listening
:
Peeping Tom
By
Peeping Tom
Release date: 30 May, 2006
"Got a Light?" Originaly Published in Tiger Weekly, June 19th, 2006
Current mood: Nonrenormalizable
Greetings, 'Space Cadets,
We got a live one, here- this article has already generated over forty comments on Tigerweekly.com, so I felt obliged to share my all-out assault on Baton Rouge's recently passed ban on smoking in public. Please, tell me what you think...
"Who loves you and who do you love?"
-cwf
Got a light? [46 Comment(s)] By Chris Fontana
I am an unrepentant smoker. I started many years ago, mostly because I thought it made me look cool. Since Im a lot older and a little wiser nowadays, I know that no matter how badass I look when I light up, it doesnt justify the expensive, dangerous addiction that Im stuck with now, and yet here we are.
Yes, Im addicted to nicotine and yes, Im hyper-aware of the health risk, but over the years Ive come to terms with my smoking and I still look cool.
Still, theres no getting around the fact that I made a bad call when I decided to pick up smoking for the sake of the look. I was a dumb kid with even dumber priorities: I simply cared too much about how I thought other people saw me. Naïve and irrational, I worried so much that it kept me from seeing the big picture. I was too insecure to be okay with who I was as a person, so in order to deal with that fear I needed to try to look like a badass, to set myself apart from the crowd with as much bravado as possible; I needed to feel special, which brings me to our current state of affairs here in the capitol city.
I have no idea how many people in Baton Rouge are hopelessly addicted to smoking like I am. However, after witnessing the outpouring of support for this ridiculous ban, I know there are plenty of people who are addicted to feeling somehow superior to those around them to feeling special like I used to.
Forget for a moment that I am a smoker and please hear me out. I am suspicious of the smoking ban not because it limits my freedom to indulge in something I enjoy, but for the same reason Im suspicious whenever they ban anything! The sad fact is that very seldom is this kind of legislation enacted with the best interests of the public truly at heart. The lofty, moral high ground taken by the anti-smoking lobby makes their deception all the more insidious.
Everyone knows second hand smoke is deadly, right? After all, anybody with any doubts need look no further than The American Cancer Societys Web site (or any number of other sites). Itll give you the results of a myriad of studies, but have you ever wondered who funds such studies? If you dig deep enough, you might be surprised to find that the money often comes (albeit indirectly) from a company with a very real financial interest in getting you to quit smoking. Remember how unsettling it was to discover that Philip Morris (the makers of Marlboro) and Kraft (the makers of countless food products) were one and the same? Well guess what? The bad guys arent the only ones with such diversified holdings.
There are other multi-national conglomerates out there that are equally dedicated to jerking us around on the sly, so to say. For example, Johnson and Johnson has bank rolled countless studies on the effects of second hand smoke no, not because they love you and want you to be healthy, but because their company sells more than just baby shampoo. They just so happen to be one of the biggest manufacturers of stop-smoking aids! Since the competition turns such a tidy profit slangin smokes, the good guys provide the alternatives! Everything from inhalers, patches, pills and dietary supplements right down to that wretched, ass-flavored gum. These products are everywhere, and just like cigarettes, they aint cheap.
So now youre shaking your head, saying, Cmon, Chris. ALL of those studies werent privately funded. What about those conducted by government agencies?
Yes, what about them? Ask yourself how much of a difference there is between a private company and a governmental entity. Each is an enterprise upon which the careers and livelihoods of numerous individuals depend. Just as a company must remain profitable if it wants to stay in business, an agency such as the EPA must justify the steady flow of tax dollars that keep its doors open a goal which the agency seems to take very seriously.
In 1993, the EPA conducted a study on second hand smoke, or ETS (environmental tobacco smoke), as it is known in scientific circles. They announced that ETS caused 3,000 new cases of cancer each year. This well-publicized statistic is the one most often cited by anti-smoking zealots as justification for their ongoing crusade. Whats significantly less well known is the downright dishonest nature of the study. So dishonest, in fact, that I wouldnt be surprised to hear that the spin doctors responsible for this travesty were promptly hired away by Big Tobacco.
It turns out that the study in question wasnt really a study at all. Instead, the agency conducted what epidemiologists (those who study the science of studies, surveys and the like) call a meta-study, which is just an analysis of the results from numerous other studies that have already been done on a topic. As half-assed as that may sound, meta-studies are common and stop quite a ways short of being ethically questionable. Its what the EPA did next that I still have a hard time believing.
The EPA publicly stated that ETS caused 3,000 cancer cases each year BEFORE their meta-study was even finished being conducted. When the results finally did come in, the number of new cancer cases likely (emphasis on the term likely) caused by second hand smoke was about half the estimated 3,000 that theyd already presented to the media as a fact. How does the EPA then handle this situation? Did they admit theyd jumped the gun a bit and clear the air (no pun intended)? Nope. They quickly and quietly doubled the studys margin of error so they could stick with the impressive number 3000 and just assumed that no one would notice.
I hope that I was able to convince at least a few of you that Im as cynical as I am regarding the ban for a few good reasons, rather than acting that way because I think it makes me look cool even though it does. It just seems ridiculous to me to think that so many people believe things are so simple. Like there are good guys and bad guys out there, doing battle for nothing less than the health of the general public. Nope, sorry; its actually more like two monstrous companies fighting over who gets to manipulate the law so that as many poor bastards as possible MUST buy their products.
So, may I offer my condolences to all of you who believed the lie and cheered for the smoking ban as if finally, all those smokers were going to be taught a lesson. Well, I have to admit, all of this has taught me a lesson. Its convinced me that I dont have to feel stupid anymore because I smoke. So what if I got addicted to something lethal while trying to look cool, to feel special? Sure, one of those monstrous companies got me and my money, but at least I can say that when they did when I believed the lie, I was a dumb, angry kid, as opposed to an educated, full grown adult. Got a light?
E-mail your comments to editor@tigerweekly.com.
Send Letters to the Editor>> Originally Published: Issue 335 - July 19, 2006
Who's Down with OPP, Part II: The Miracle of Banks Street
Current mood: evo-lightened
Category: evo-lightened Life
Those of you who read this blog regularly (for some reason) are about to be treated to the very first sequel Ive ever written. If youve yet to read the entry regarding my arrest this past Mardi Gras (March 27th, 2006, entitled, "Whos Down with OPP? Every Last Trainee, Lucky, Leonard, Fela and Me..."), you may want to do so before reading on...
If Ive said it once, Ive said it a thousand times: each individuals life is their unique, personal saga- their own sprawling epic in which every event can be thought of as an episode. Each episode is simultaneously a tale in and of itself as well as a part of a greater whole which spans that persons entire lifetime. If the story of my first encounter with a certain member of the NOPD was, as I claimed, "simply too good not to be told," then the story of our second meeting may be among the greatest Ill ever tell.
The first time I crossed paths with this flat footed bastard, I remember sitting in the back of his squad car shaking my head, awestruck at just how badly the deck of circumstances seemed to be stacked against me: it was Mardi Gras Day (so I wasnt as "sharp" as Id have liked to be), I was wearing a samurai costume, and the very nature of the training mission this guy was on prevented me from being able to talk him into cutting me any kind of slack. Not that I didnt try! Throughout our time together Id tried every trick in the book to humanize myself, win the guy over, anything- anything to avoid being brought to Orleans Parish Prisons infamous Central Lock-up... all to no avail.
During one of our fruitless exchanges, I discovered that my arresting officer was a New Orleans native (Greater New Orleans, that is... brah) whod attended Rummel High School. While it did me precious little good at the time, this bit of information stuck with me for some reason and ended up saving a day after all- just not that particular one. Before this story goes any further, I should take some time to give my readers an idea of the kind of guy I was dealing with...
The term "hardass" comes to mind, but it falls pathetically short of doing justice to the chip on this guys shoulder. It wasnt simply the fact that he couldnt cut me any slack since Fat Tuesday 06 was his first time out on his lonesome. I can smell the Dark Side of The Force at work a mile away, and this guy wasnt so much out to "protect and serve" as he was out to "persecute and get even." Weather it was due to penis insecurity, a case of Napoleons syndrome (he was a full head and a half shorter than me), or the fact that he got picked on in high school by the "cool kids," I couldnt say for sure. Regardless of why this guy felt disenfranchised, a burnt-out headlight and bad timing had nonetheless conspired to make me the guy he took it out on.... and I spent the next eleven or so hours in jail.
Flash forward to this past Wednesday. Im back in New Orleans visiting friends and family in between semesters at LSU. The suspended drivers license that had sent me up the river over Mardi Gras is still suspended (as Id taken my sweet-ass time getting my ticket info to the powers that be) and I foolishly volunteer to drive two close friends of mine to Save-a-Center on Carrolton to buy some pies... what, doesnt anybody else get uncontrollable cravings for pie every now and again? Pat, Rob and I hung a U-turn on Banks and thats when we saw the lights behind us...
As soon as this guy walked up to the window I recognized him. Of course, he looked exactly the same as he did two months ago while Id changed quite a bit: this time I was clean-shaven, wearing a dress shirt and suit pants, not wearing a visor, and had gotten a fairly drastic haircut. "License and registration," he said unenthusiastically. At first, I reacted completely naturally. "Dude, its you! Whats up man?" The shock and surprise in my voice were real- I couldnt believe it was him. He shined his flashlight in my face. "Dont you remember me, from Mardi Gras Day?"
He shined his light in my face two or three more times as I breathlessly waited for him to realize that I was the samurai hed brought to jail that night. Finally he spoke. "Oh, umm... Mardi Gras? From where, on St. Charles Avenue... maybe?" And in that nano-second it hit me- I looked familiar to this guy, but that was it. He knew hed met me before (probably recognizing my voice more than my appearance), but he had yet to place me as the first poor fucker hed arrested all by himself.
A lot went through my mind right about then. I remembered how Id known he was a trainee after he brought Lucky and I to his substation before bringing us to jail. I remembered how mentally weak Id perceived him to be when I saw him drop his bad-ass persona like a bad habit and sheepishly present us to his superiors. I remembered thinking that, had I met this guy under even slightly less hopeless circumstances, the outcome of our battle of wits and wills wouldve been very, very different... and I remembered hearing his Sargent ask him how things had gone for him on St. Charles Avenue earlier that day.
Knowing that "Officer Friendly" would love nothing more than to send my ass back to Central for continuing to drive on a suspended license (had he recognized me), I decided to roll the cosmic dice and pray for sixes. "Yeah, we were on St. Charles! You do remember me! Im friends with Jonathan Watson, from Rummel?" Jonathan is a friend of mine from back in the day who did go to Rummel and just so happens to be a cop elsewhere in Southern Louisiana- but not in New Orleans. I just used his name because it popped into my head. He shined his flashlight in my face a couple more times while I fumbled for my proof of insurance going, "Wow I cant believe its you! How the fuck have you been?!"
Thats when this guy, ignorant to the fact that he was witnessing a truly superb performance by a great actor, began putting on a performance of his own- a truly obvious one. "Oh yeah... hey man! Howve you been?" he said, doing his level best to pretend to realize who I was. Right on cue, Pat and Rob chimed in, "Yeah, man! Whats up? Jonathan Wa-... Rummel! Yeah!" The four of us briefly shared a laugh, relieved that the tension had finally drained from our situation... albeit for completely different reasons.
Well hey, I tell you what- you can get on out of here. All I was going to do was write you a citation for not signaling when you made that U-turn back there... good seeing you, man! Have a good one!" And he got in his squad car and drove off. Pat and Rob looked at me in shocked silence. "Hey guys..." I said as I caught my breath...
"That guy doesnt remember me from St. Charles Avenue. And he doesnt know me through Jonathan Watson, or from Rummel... That was the same cop that arrested me on Mardi Gras Day for driving on my suspended license..." "Which is still suspended..." Rob said as smiles slowly spread across all three of our faces. "You son of a bitch..." said Pat, laughing. "How in the fuck did you..." Id had my head buried in my hands and was nearly hyper-ventalating. I looked up and interrupted him with a wave of my hand. "You dont need to see any identification... These arent the droids youre looking for... He can go about his buisness- move along."
I decided to let Rob drive to Save-a-Center. I cant remember pie ever tasting better than it did that night. "For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is..."
