i'm inches away.
i'm crawling towards the end.
i'm desperately reaching out.
i'm fighting, clawing, for...uh beer.
it's not just any beer. nope sir e...this beer is special.
it's special like a white Christmas.
i've dreamed about this moment.
a moment that once seemed so far away.
now it's here, and i'm inches away.
the beer is nigh. i can almost feel it.

I congratulate myself among the rest of you hard-working, ridiculously brilliant CreCommarades! We are the champions of the first semester. We are champions until the end!

(...just write the script, hand-it in and run)


celebrations.


happy holidays. get trashed or read the bible. or both. or not. or something else. or what.





to be with you again,
jon

Late Night Jazz

i love late night jazz.

i dropped steve off sometime in between two and three in the morning and continued on home.

i turned some mind numbing radio on, and then skimmed through the stations to stumble upon some late night jazz. my mind suddenly felt clear.

i love late night jazz. it's a tasty treat to listen to because i can think above it or casually focus on it.

fluttering piano melodies. heart-warming drum sounds. sometimes a cool, classic trumpet singing about late night love, or leaves falling, or whatever it feels like to me as i drive through the lights and into the darkness of the country.

most gals i've known don't like late night jazz. to me it's the perfect sound to accompany her and me. whoever she may be.

i love late night jazz.

I LOOKED, AND THEN I LOOKED AWAY

Chapter 4 - "One Hell Of A Cigarette"

The madman could see his motion for prayer was enough to send shivers down my spine, but not enough to send me running away screaming. My fear was now mingling with a rage of my own.

I suddenly realized I was still smoking what could be my last cigarette. I guess if I was to die by the gun in a lonely African town, I might as well smoke the hell out of this last cigarette; for all it’s worth.

After pointing his semi-automatic at me once more, he slid his thumb against his throat with his other hand. His final warning had been made. I was going to die.
Still, shock kept my feet glued to the pavement. Where was the rest of my company? Where were the police? Was I really that cursed that I was the only one in the parking lot with this terrorist? I looked around to see if anyone could see what was about to happen. Nothing; there was nobody in sight.

“Of course,” I thought. It was only a few parked cars and shopping carts.

The madman started to shout at me again. This time louder and with less patience. I couldn’t help but notice the harsh rasp in his voice. He could be fucked on crack for all I know. He could have lost the woman of his dreams today, or turned his back on his religion. No sense in talking about it. In fact, there was no sense in running away screaming either. It’s either he shoots me or I walk away.

Life is wild in this way. I’ve experienced many conflicts in my life. Most of them get resolved through careful communication or a fight, be it verbal or physical. I’ve been in predicaments where my life was on the line. Every time it hasn’t been my decision whether I would live or die.

Two weeks prior to this predicament I was hopelessly surrounded by lions in a tent, far away from a gun or even a knife. That night I experienced true terror. I could hear the menacing growls of these fierce predators circling the campsite and around my tent. It was like I had to suffocate myself for fear of making the slightest sound. I had to hold still and remain frozen for hours. I don’t know if they weren’t interested in man flesh that night, or whether the embers of the dim campfire began to mysteriously burn into a flame, scaring them away. I know I pissed in my sleeping bag that night.

That was a horrifying experience. Africa was turning out to be what I might have been looking for. It was dangerous, and it was an adventure to say the least. I knew I had changed significantly in the short time I was here.

However, now as I stared into the barrel of the gun, none of these experiences or realizations truly mattered. What mattered were the last puff of my cigarette and the next few seconds of my fragile life which was currently held in the hands of a madman.

I exhaled that last bit of smoke as I looked him in the eyes. It was death looking back at me, grinning with flattery. I paid no more attention to him as I turned around and walked away, flicking my cigarette into the wind.







...and that's all folks...

I LOOKED, AND THEN I LOOKED AWAY

Chapter 3 - "The Lord's Business"

The madman put his hands together and looked up into the blinding blue lit sky as if to say to me, “Pray for your life.”

“You don’t know who you’re talking to you asshole,” I muttered in my mind. I didn’t want to pray. I didn’t want to ask anything out of God. This African trip was a spiritual journey that died in the sand. I hated God.

When I left for Africa I had a real desire to see if God was here in Africa. I had heard enough about genocide, crime, and poverty. But I also had heard of crazy miracles taking place like limbs growing, diseases disappearing, and even people getting raised from the dead. To me it seemed like God was in Africa and not in Canada.

I used to believe that I could talk to God, and that he truly cared about me. I was raised this way in my small-town of seven churches. My dad was the pastor of one such church and so I had to attend service every Sunday. It was boring every time. I knew religion better than most kids on my block, however, and I knew the confusion and torment that comes with it. I was taught that God was in the business of love which I had learned on this safari, was not true. He was in the business of stealing and tormenting and being a bastard.

He took my gal away while I was on this safari. She was perfectly in love with me before we left.

I met her at my best-friend’s wedding. That day was perfect. She wore a beautiful yellow dress with a white flower in her hair. She reminded me of summer; a feeling of freedom and happiness. Her deep brown eyes and long dark hair made me think I was in a dream. We danced that night under a canopy of stars and I knew when she smiled that she was the one for me.

It felt so right for so long until a few days back when I had called her from a payphone at a lonely gas-station in the middle of nowhere. She said she didn’t know what was going on inside of her or why she was losing the love. She just lost it she said, and then hung up.

I didn’t believe it was her. It was my luck, as the good things in life - the beautiful things in life, are taken away from me and replaced with terrible things.

After my heart was completely crushed, and I shed a few tears, I heard the sound of music coming from the other side of the station. It sounded like hope to me. I walked around the front to see what it was.

A large group of Christians were singing hymns together. It sounded angelic and I thought, maybe, just maybe, this was a good sign. It’s not every day that you stumble on a group of angels singing outside of a gas station in the middle of the Kalahari Desert. Maybe I should open my heart once more. It felt a little soon, but I didn’t really have anything to lose by that point. She was gone and I was alone.

I lit a cigarette and stood outside of the group, observing the joy these people were expressing. They were all smiles. Men, women, and children all gathered together in a semi-circle singing so passionately. It was like God was conducting this beautiful choir.

Was this why I was in Africa? Was this the moment I had been searching for this whole time? My heart was hopeful and tears began to roll down my cheeks.

Then an older man, which looked like the pastor, started to approach me. As he walked my way slowly I realized that this was it! Something out of the ordinary was about to happen to me! The pastor man looked into my broken heart. I thought he might have some sort of profound word to say to me. He got closer and my heart burst with excitement.

“Could you smoke your cigarette over on that side of the station? We’re doing the Lord’s business here. Thanks,” he said with a concerned look in his eye.

Fuck. Everything that was good inside of me disintegrated into nothing at that moment. My heart was already broken, and this was the finishing blow. It was like somebody beat the hell out of me; beat the life out of me with a simple instruction.

He was her. He was God. He was this African adventure. In that moment, he was everything that was once something good in my life.

I turned around without saying anything in reply. I flicked my cigarette into the wind and walked towards the safari bus feeling my heart had just been literally turned into stone within a few minutes. I turned my back on God in that same moment, with the flicking of my cigarette and the exhale of my smoke.

I LOOKED, AND THEN I LOOKED AWAY

Chapter 2 - "Chaos Has A Gun"

The man was shouting at me in some sort of African language which I could not understand. The rage in his tone gave me the sense that life had taken this man and thrown him into the desert. He was Chaos as far as I was concerned and there was no point in trying to reason with Chaos. Especially, when he’s got a gun pointed at your face.

His appearance made him look like he was the man to avoid eye-contact with when shopping at the grocery store or the kind of villain that walks into a saloon and changes the drunken noise into silence upon arrival. He was wearing two-different sized boots and a ripped up pair of jean shorts. His build was just as frightening as his bravado with his massive arms sticking out of the black sleeveless Nike shirt he was wearing. If he was so angry about rich white tourists getting off the bus in this shitty little town, then why was he wearing a cool American muscle shirt? It didn’t matter. It was the fruits of my capitalistic society either way. Something he probably didn't know much about, but who was I to know?

The racism pissed me off. The lack of respect pissed me off. The perspective pissed me off. My emotions melted like lava onto the hot pavement of the parking lot as I began to smoke faster and more nervous than I ever have.

I LOOKED, AND THEN I LOOKED AWAY

Chapter 1 - "Why Africa?"

I stood there, motionless; gazing into the red eyes of a madman and the barrel of his gun. I felt the hate from a few steps away; cold and confused. It was as if he was stealing my soul with his blood-stained stare. I was helpless; raped. Death held me over the edge, eager to let me go. The only thing left for me to salvage was the rest of this cigarette, and possibly, a free ride home in a casket.

“What the hell was I thinking when I decided that it was a good idea to go to Africa anyway?” I sulked to myself. The consequence of my choice seemed far too real at the moment. I could’ve shot myself for my own stupidity.

Why Africa? This question I could never honestly answer. I didn’t know why, or what I was doing in this god-forsaken desert. I used to feel a sense of pride when the question was thrown my way. Whoever asked me was truly puzzled; especially Africans. It was the chance for me to say, “Hey! I’m crazy! I want something crazy out of life.” Now my pride had been sweated out in the sweltering sands of the Kalahari. I wasn’t proud. I was powerless.

My answer was always true; I didn’t know. I was going to Africa, and I didn’t have the slightest clue as to why. Maybe it was a young man’s desire for a real adventure. Maybe I wanted to dip my feet in dangerous waters.

I had spent my entire life living in a small-town on the Canadian prairies. The most adventure I could find there was in drinking tons of booze, getting really high and jumping the midnight train. It didn’t really matter what country I was going to. My hometown was a place that made me question everything. I wanted answers. I had to get out; see the world. What was it like beyond my borders? Would I change if I stepped outside? Who am I? The sort of questions that barrage any young man’s mind after getting out of high-school without a clue of what is what. And rather than working on the farm till the cows came home, I chose Africa. But by now, it made me sick to think about.

Twitter Tweet Twat Twoot Twittle Dee Twittle Dum

I tweet, therefore, I am a twitterer. I mean, I use twitter.

You're asking why?

Twitter, among the many social media services such as facebook and myspace, is a useful tool to give and receive news, information, and/or useless, waste of time status updates. It is a necessary weapon in a professional communicator's arsenal. The service provides quick information and can be used on the fly which makes it valuable in the corporate world where life can often be lived through a Blackberry.

I was disgruntled when I first heard that I HAD to create a Twitter account, however, after I was able to try it out and experience it for myself, I wasn't so grumpy.

I think Twitter gets the reputation of being another facebook, just with status updates or a chance to get the play by play on Brad Pitt as he brushes his teeth and combs his hair. And, to many it is. Upon using it, I was able to see that it is more useful in gaining knowledge from millions of people around the world. It's like a water hole for the world to congregate around and share the latest bit of knowledge with one another (I know what cheese tastes like, and that was pretty close). But it's true, and it's a good thing.

This being said, and I don't want to dabble into a major debate topic, but I think with all the new social media services being thrown at us (like iANYTHING), we lose our personal edge to communication. We become less raw, and more like computer-nerds, computer-heads, brainless computer headed humans, Blackberry people, facebooks, technology based humans, or like robots.

On a more important note: I know I must roll with the times, but I would rather send love letters than love twitters.

The House

The house stood alone on a country road outside of town. Its bright red steel roof was visible from miles away and if you were to look at it from the south side you could see the jumbo size poster of a disfigured teeny-bop pop star stuck to the roof from the highway.

Behind the house was an abandoned shed standing crooked as if it would fall with the next push of a prairie wind. Inside it was an old rusted ’54 Chevy pickup all together forgotten. Sticking out of the tall neglected grass were couches, hockey sticks and half-burnt bookshelves.

The garage was filled with the stench of a pool sized garbage pile rotting beside the door and beside it firewood littered everywhere on the cracked floor. Two sparrows had flown in and out as they fed their nest perched up in the rafters.

When entering the house you would have to read the black graffiti message sprayed on the door, “Hey there” and a post-it note stuck on the window saying, “You are the party.”

The foyer floor was a layer of dirt, dust, and dozens of random shoes kicking around. Looking through the foyer and into the dining room dividing wall was a fruit basket lodged into the wall, holding an overused ashtray.

Upon entering the dining room you could smell the history of debauchery in the form of hundreds of beer cans, whiskey bottles riddled with mould and ash, cupboards filled with old bread and bowls of half-eaten macaroni and cheese, with the lingering scent of marijuana smoke living in the couches. Christmas lights and sticky notes with subliminal party messages cluttered the walls.

The “dining room” table top was a collage of melted crayons, party signatures, and faces burnt in the wood with Bic lighters. Walking through the chaos was like stepping on a piece of gum as the floor was permeated with beer; subjected to the fate of being sticky. The dividing wall was half covered with boxes of empties,

To the right was the kitchen fridge, masked with waxed on t-shirt logos and angry faces. The counters held mostly beer cans and looked abused and hostile as there was no room to rest an arm.

If you were to waltz through the first phase you were sure to pass out in the second as your eyes would meet with a broken mirror staring back at you asking if you wanted a shot of whiskey. The living room was the resting place of the junkies that lived there. Four or five ashtrays full of garbage, cigarettes and anything else small enough to fit in an ash tray would fill the trays. Drugs and booze covered the coffee table. Two TV’s sat in the corner where teeny-bop pop star used to hang. Behind the coffee table were two couches stacked on top of each other as if to accommodate those who wanted to sit in a higher place. The chandelier looked down upon the garbage ridden floor, usually holding up a hat, Christmas lights, and more random objects.

Beyond the dividing wall was a place of musical treachery. All instruments lay there to rest. A fire place beaten to it's naked state with a hammer and axe was situated in the wall. Above the Christmas stockings read a white spray on Christmas wish, "Happy Fvkcin' Xmas."

The basement was truly hell. Hundred's of broken bottles carpeted the floor. The air down there was a mouthful of choking fire extinguisher dust and dry-wall debris. The walls were beautified with drunken p-art-y work or hacked to pieces with the household hatchet. It was a crime scene.

The bedroom's could look better or worse. You couldn't know until the morning.

The house was a place of art in the form of debauchery. This is where I lived for close to a year with my dearest brother's of rock 'n' roll hellfire, and I miss it a little.

BEWARE TEXT SHORT CODE USERS!

TEXT MESSAGER's BEWARE!!

Don't use text short codes (says Advertising group 1: Neil, Christa, E-man, and myself)

From an industry stand-point, text short codes are a way for cell phone users to connect with different types of media. From a short code user’s stand-point, it's a fun thing to do. Coming from a group of Cre Comm students who thoroughly researched the issue, it is an industry designed to deceive its consumers.

When our group first looked into researching text short codes we realized there was a good chance we could find something misleading about it. The actual advertisements for these short codes really gave it away. We talked about how the advertisements are usually very busy, and quite distracting. It’s good advertising; however, the fine print contains the most important information: the financial terms. Often, people message a short code and don’t think anything of it. In reality, anytime you text a short code, you pay a small fee and you are also being billed monthly.

Text short codes are a small number that people can text to in order to vote for the next American Idol, see the “joke of the day”, win a new iphone, or acquire information about the weather. They appear in commercials, on billboards, on the internet, and even on gum wrappers.
Our goals in this “Buyer Beware” assignment were to explore how text short code companies mislead their customers by not clearly showing the subscription fees and extra costs. We went about this by researching the rules and regulations pertaining to the mobile industry, finding out about short code scams, experimenting with short codes by trying them out, and surveying the demographic that short code companies advertise to.

Neil, the greatest group member, looked into the rules that are supposed to regulate the mobile industry. The association that is in charge of this procedure is called the Canadian Wireless Telecommunications Association (CWTA). They say that applicants of the short codes must have an opt-out option, and that all unsolicited messages are a violation of the agreement.

Short code advertisements always do have an opt-out option, but the CWTA’s regulations only extend so far. Companies provide the opt-out option, but the option is written in the fine print that which is hidden so well.

This was one of the short code case studies that E-man, the coolest group member, had conducted:



The fine print is obviously very small and in it contains important information about what you need to do to stop the subscription with this service. This service actually sends your daily horoscope to your phone, which is a situation where you get charged daily for the one time you wanted to see who your celebrity soul mate was. How many teenagers you know would read this fine print?

Christa, the prettiest group member, did research on exactly this by sending a survey via her sister to junior high students. This survey indicated that close to 50% of the students do not read the fine print, or even believe there are additional charges with short code services! Close to half of the students have used the service at least once. Teenagers are naïve, and so often they are the best demographic to market towards, because they don’t know any better, or might not care.

The CWTA indicates that unsolicited messages are a violation of the agreement. I was in charge of researching text short code scams. I found one such instance that happened in Canada where a man received an unsolicited message that read, “I fancy you.” The message continued in urging the recipient to find out who the mystery caller was by calling a premium rate number. This was act was a direct violation of the agreement, and this caller paid mega dollars for this unnecessary phone call.

Aside from the fact that text short code services are extremely useless, people shouldn’t use them because they are a sketchy service that is repeatedly laced with hidden costs and fees. If short codes are your thing, READ THE FINE PRINT.
Beware,
jon

Gimme A Goood Scream

It seems whenever I get myself involved in something, I unconsciously pull away or push the boundaries until somebody taps me on the shoulder and screams at me. I don't know why, but by now I know it's not a good habit; neither is spitting nor being late for important dates. Today, and once again, I heard the scream, loud and clear!
So it's wake up time on Princess Street. I mean, it's time to make school my life and vice versa. I've been dozing in and out, or just haven't been able to get to class due to H1N1, saving old ladies from car crashes, and beating up punk a, bumdeal kidz who stole my money. And, these excuses aren't good enough to miss class, but they are definitely good enough for someone to scream in my ear when I'm dozing off in class. I needed a wake up call. Thank you to those that gave me your loving scream. You'll see the benefits and so will I.
Till morning,
Johnson

Hockey Pools, Hockey Rules!

Hockey season is here and I'm way too excited about it. Here is my pool lineup:

1. Sydney Crosby (F)
2. Danny Heatley (F)
3. Alexander Semin (F)
4. Patrick Kane (F)
5. Jason Spezza (F)
6. Brad Boyes (F)
7. Anze Kopitar (F)
8. Scott Niedermayer (D)
9. Niklas Kronwall (D)
10. Zdeno Chara (D)
11. Marc-Andre Fleury (G)
12. San Jose Sharks (Team)
13. Mike Camalleri (F)

It looks pretty good to me.
Go Habs,
jon

Random Something That Happened

this morning i was walking to school and this big bird flew right into my face!

Creative Limitation (And Some Knowledge)

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” - Albert Einstein

Who cares if that quote applies to what I am about to say.

Last week I sat in class for the first time in a long time and like high-school, I felt the pressure. I just began a two year journey at the Red River College in Winnipeg. The program I am studying is called Creative Communications and as long as I am attending classes here, I must manage a blog. This isn't pressure to me and neither are the due dates or tests. These things are just expectations that come with being a student...blah, blah, blah. The pressure I feel is like my heart is being broken as I bid farewell to my pure, childish creativity. In saying good-bye I saw hello to new knowledge mixed with rules, limits and strict guidelines. "This is the ONLY way to do it." I like to my finish my letters without always ending in "Sincerely." I like bedheads. I don't like wearing black to a funeral. I like laughing when other people aren't. I like crooked smiles. I like getting my car dirty. I like starting sentences with and. And if some of the "creative communication" I have been taught would be given a colour, it would be black and white and maybe some grey.