I was walking around a drugstore the other day. I was feeling a bit under the weather and I was looking for some Nyquil, which as we all know, is the sick person equivalent of the recovering heroin addict giving up on sobriety and going off in search of smack.
Like most sick people, I was not in the mood to ask anybody where to look, so I went aisle to aisle, reading the little placards that hang above the aisles. There was an aisle with only two items on the placard. It read, “Family Planning” followed by, underneath, “Laxatives.”
I couldn't help but wonder to myself if anyone, in a time of panic, had used the items from the second group for the items in first group's purpose. Disgusting, but I'm fairly sure it would work.
On the end of one aisle, I saw a new product released just in time for the holidays from the Duraflame log people. Duraflame, now with Coffee-Flavouring. Who is this product for? I guess its for people who enjoy the relaxing experience of sitting beside a roaring fire with a cup of coffee, but hate actually drinking coffee.
Finally getting to the Nyquil aisle, I now had to make the difficult decision of no-name brand or actual Nyquil. Strange thoughts always seem to pass through my head during these decisions.
“I wonder how the no-name people cracked the Nyquil formula?”
“How long did it take them? Months, years?”
“If I got the no-name brand and it didn't work, would I be man enough to return it and admit to the cashier that I'm a cheap bastard?”
“Why is the no-name brand $15 for 270 mL and actual NyQuil $17 for 260? I wonder how much it cost for 270mL of heroin? It may not help me get better, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't care about my cold symptoms and at the same time, maybe I could save some money.”
Also, I had to decide between Dayquil or Nyquil. Really, both make you really high and unable to do anything, so I guess it basically boils down to what colour you want your tongue to be, green or yellow.
I wonder what happens if you mix Dayquil and Nyquil. Is it like the red/blue gum in Mission Impossible, you mix the two and they explode? If so, I think the drugstore needs better security to guard against the terrorists. The small Pakistani women wearing the neon yellow vest doesn't seem like she could take down a terrorist cell by herself.
I got the real green Nyquil, just in case some friends came by and perused my medicine chest. This way, I figured they wouldn't judge me.
On the way out of the drugstore, I passed the feminine hygiene aisle. There was one of those warehouse packs of tampons with a giant tear in one of the corners where someone had evidently broken in and stolen 5 or 6 tampons.
I hope they never caught the shoplifter on this one. The Pakistani women seems nice and something tells me the person who stole those tampons was not in a docile mood.
Some things just aren't worth the 8 bucks an hour.
Francis Brian Shaw
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Story time - How I Broke my Ankle (part 2)
Anyways, the story. I broke my leg doing laundry. It was December and I was starting the exam period after my third year of University. With 5 hours until my first exam, I decided I had studied enough and just needed to do something to take my mind off it. Something like laundry.
I was living in Fairview residence at UBC at the time and you had to go outside to get the laundry facilities. I piled up my laundry, put it in the basket and headed out.
Unfortunately, I made the decision to check my laundry card balance before, which means I had to walk along this path behind the complex. And being December in Vancouver and it had snowed in November, there was ice on the sidewalk. Not a lot, but I was 21 and I figured I could handle going over the odd chunk.
Nope. One slip, I heard two quick snaps in my foot (which apparently was the sound of an ankle exploding) and the basket went up and the clothes everywhere.
Now, a normal person would panic, but not me. I didn't panic because I had a cell phone. Finally, I was actually going to use my phone in an emergency, which is what I always told my mother was the reason I needed one. I dial 9-1-1 and I get somebody who thinks she's having a bad day.
“9-1-1, what?”
I start strong: “Yes, operator. I just fell down on some ice, and pretty sure I just broke my leg. I need an ambulance right away.”
“Alright, sir, where are you?”
“On the ground.” It's reassuring to know, that even when I'm in intense pain and going into shock, I'm still capable of being a smart ass.
“I'm at UBC, on the road behind Fairview Residence. It's just off of Westbrook Mall.”
Deep sigh. “What the cross-street, sir?”
“The what?”
“The cross-street, sir. I need the cross-street to send an ambulance.”
“I'm not at a cross-street. I'm on a sidewalk and I can't see the sign, it's too far away.”
“Well, can you get closer to the sign?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem. I'll just get up and, oh wait, that's right. MY ANKLE IS BROKEN.” Again, the smart ass is alive and well.
About this time, a passerby comes by and helps me out. Very nice girl. She takes the phone and deals with the ambulance people for me and helps me collect my laundry, etc. She was told the ambulance would be 20 minutes, tops. She had an exam to rush to, so I sat there waiting.
Eventually someone from the residence office comes out and hangs out with me. First aid says that you shouldn't more someone with a broken limb so I stayed where I was. It was only going to be 20 minutes, I can do that.
Three hours pass while I sit on the frozen ground.
Somebody finally comes for me: a firetruck (not kidding, a real firetruck).
Apparently, the BC ambulance service, being the well-funded and well-staffed organization it is, decided that, on a Wednesday in December, the City of Vancouver only needed one ambulance on duty. That's right, one ambulance. 750,000 people, any of whom could fall ill at any moment and one ambulance. And because I happened to break my ankle during the same time as 2 car accidents, I got a firetruck.
The firemen were nice enough, though. Confused as to why they were sent out, but nice (one of them joked about throwing me into a tree, just so they could use the truck's ladder to get me down). They did the first aid thing, gave me oxygen, checked my vitals, told me I wasn't going to die (probably). They finally got a call to go do real firemen stuff, but luckily, the one ambulance was en route. Great.
I watched three big firemen guys get back into their truck and drive away. A half-hour later, the ambulance arrives and two women get out. Now, there's nothing wrong with female paramedics, but it was a problem that both were under 5 feet tall and probably weighed under 100 lbs apiece. I'm 6'0 and, at the time, 195 lbs.
So after lifting my own ass into their ambulance, they take me to the hospital, finally, after 4 hours. I called my professor from the ambulance (for the exam that had just missed) and had my room-mate collect my laundry. Usually this is where the story would usually end with a “And I lived happily ever after,” but this is one of my stories.
The hospital they took me to was UBC Hospital. From where I sat, for 4 hours, that desolate spot behind the complex, I could see only one building beyond Fairview. It was UBC Hospital. The ambulance ride was one minute, forty-five seconds long (yes, I timed it).
And it cost me $65.
Thank you BC Ambulance service.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
I've always thought my worst quality was my inability to make a decision and stick to it. No wait, that's not it...
I was living in Fairview residence at UBC at the time and you had to go outside to get the laundry facilities. I piled up my laundry, put it in the basket and headed out.
Unfortunately, I made the decision to check my laundry card balance before, which means I had to walk along this path behind the complex. And being December in Vancouver and it had snowed in November, there was ice on the sidewalk. Not a lot, but I was 21 and I figured I could handle going over the odd chunk.
Nope. One slip, I heard two quick snaps in my foot (which apparently was the sound of an ankle exploding) and the basket went up and the clothes everywhere.
Now, a normal person would panic, but not me. I didn't panic because I had a cell phone. Finally, I was actually going to use my phone in an emergency, which is what I always told my mother was the reason I needed one. I dial 9-1-1 and I get somebody who thinks she's having a bad day.
“9-1-1, what?”
I start strong: “Yes, operator. I just fell down on some ice, and pretty sure I just broke my leg. I need an ambulance right away.”
“Alright, sir, where are you?”
“On the ground.” It's reassuring to know, that even when I'm in intense pain and going into shock, I'm still capable of being a smart ass.
“I'm at UBC, on the road behind Fairview Residence. It's just off of Westbrook Mall.”
Deep sigh. “What the cross-street, sir?”
“The what?”
“The cross-street, sir. I need the cross-street to send an ambulance.”
“I'm not at a cross-street. I'm on a sidewalk and I can't see the sign, it's too far away.”
“Well, can you get closer to the sign?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem. I'll just get up and, oh wait, that's right. MY ANKLE IS BROKEN.” Again, the smart ass is alive and well.
About this time, a passerby comes by and helps me out. Very nice girl. She takes the phone and deals with the ambulance people for me and helps me collect my laundry, etc. She was told the ambulance would be 20 minutes, tops. She had an exam to rush to, so I sat there waiting.
Eventually someone from the residence office comes out and hangs out with me. First aid says that you shouldn't more someone with a broken limb so I stayed where I was. It was only going to be 20 minutes, I can do that.
Three hours pass while I sit on the frozen ground.
Somebody finally comes for me: a firetruck (not kidding, a real firetruck).
Apparently, the BC ambulance service, being the well-funded and well-staffed organization it is, decided that, on a Wednesday in December, the City of Vancouver only needed one ambulance on duty. That's right, one ambulance. 750,000 people, any of whom could fall ill at any moment and one ambulance. And because I happened to break my ankle during the same time as 2 car accidents, I got a firetruck.
The firemen were nice enough, though. Confused as to why they were sent out, but nice (one of them joked about throwing me into a tree, just so they could use the truck's ladder to get me down). They did the first aid thing, gave me oxygen, checked my vitals, told me I wasn't going to die (probably). They finally got a call to go do real firemen stuff, but luckily, the one ambulance was en route. Great.
I watched three big firemen guys get back into their truck and drive away. A half-hour later, the ambulance arrives and two women get out. Now, there's nothing wrong with female paramedics, but it was a problem that both were under 5 feet tall and probably weighed under 100 lbs apiece. I'm 6'0 and, at the time, 195 lbs.
So after lifting my own ass into their ambulance, they take me to the hospital, finally, after 4 hours. I called my professor from the ambulance (for the exam that had just missed) and had my room-mate collect my laundry. Usually this is where the story would usually end with a “And I lived happily ever after,” but this is one of my stories.
The hospital they took me to was UBC Hospital. From where I sat, for 4 hours, that desolate spot behind the complex, I could see only one building beyond Fairview. It was UBC Hospital. The ambulance ride was one minute, forty-five seconds long (yes, I timed it).
And it cost me $65.
Thank you BC Ambulance service.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
I've always thought my worst quality was my inability to make a decision and stick to it. No wait, that's not it...
Story time - How I Broke my Ankle (part 1)
I seem to have an odd history when it comes to bodily injury. In order to justify a statement like that, I decided to go back into the story archives and mention the time I broke my ankle when I was 21.
In the rehabilitation stage after the incident, I noted something. When you walk around on crutches for six weeks with your foot in a giant cast, complete strangers will help you out; get the door for you, hold the elevator, etc.
Most will say they do so out of kindness and they never expect anything for it. This is utter bullshit. They always want something, and that something is the story.
Which is fine, I guess, if your injury is comes out of you doing something cool, like, “I was skiing the black diamond run and took a wrong turn.” But if, for example, you broke your leg doing laundry, like I did, telling the story sucks.
I used to avoid telling it by going big into the ridiculous realm of story-telling. The second someone asked, I went “Well, you see, there was this bear, right. I saw him circling this innocent group of cub-scouts. At the time, I was hiking through the woods without shoes on (because, I like to train my body to climb Everest at any time, and I do so sherpa-style). I saw only one option, of course, so I stripped naked and prepared to fight.”
And on, and on the story would go.
The further into the story my audience let me go, the more preposterous the story would get. My record was 25 minutes at a Christmas party my room-mates threw. I finally got to the end, after which one very naïve girl asked “Really?”
I went, “No, not really. It was nothing like that.”
That was the only time I actually got out of telling the story, mainly because nobody else at the party wanted to talk to me after that. I didn't care. I had large amounts of both eggnog and Tylenol 3 in my system, I think I ended up talking to a house plant. Good times.
In the rehabilitation stage after the incident, I noted something. When you walk around on crutches for six weeks with your foot in a giant cast, complete strangers will help you out; get the door for you, hold the elevator, etc.
Most will say they do so out of kindness and they never expect anything for it. This is utter bullshit. They always want something, and that something is the story.
Which is fine, I guess, if your injury is comes out of you doing something cool, like, “I was skiing the black diamond run and took a wrong turn.” But if, for example, you broke your leg doing laundry, like I did, telling the story sucks.
I used to avoid telling it by going big into the ridiculous realm of story-telling. The second someone asked, I went “Well, you see, there was this bear, right. I saw him circling this innocent group of cub-scouts. At the time, I was hiking through the woods without shoes on (because, I like to train my body to climb Everest at any time, and I do so sherpa-style). I saw only one option, of course, so I stripped naked and prepared to fight.”
And on, and on the story would go.
The further into the story my audience let me go, the more preposterous the story would get. My record was 25 minutes at a Christmas party my room-mates threw. I finally got to the end, after which one very naïve girl asked “Really?”
I went, “No, not really. It was nothing like that.”
That was the only time I actually got out of telling the story, mainly because nobody else at the party wanted to talk to me after that. I didn't care. I had large amounts of both eggnog and Tylenol 3 in my system, I think I ended up talking to a house plant. Good times.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Week 2 : Driving in Saskatchewan
I got a speeding ticket last week. It's been a while since I've gotten one and considering how I like to drive (I think 45 km/hr is only appropriate while in a funeral procession), it's well overdue.
One thing I noticed though is that, when the cop told me he “allegedly” caught me doing 79 in a 50, I found myself disappointed and, at the same time, reminded of this story from when I lived in Saskatchewan when I was 19.
For some reason, despite being allowed to drive, insure and own a vehicle, people under the age of 21 (and sometimes 25) are not allowed to rent cars in most provinces. I say most because, at 19, I was able to rent a car in Saskatchewan. Ha-ha.
The car I rented was a 2003 Suzuki Swift, which I can only describe as a Smart car built before they were actually smart. The thing had four doors, which was stupid; you could've pulled out the drivers seat and sit in the back row and not only could you reach the pedals, you'd still feel cramped.
In the car's defense, it was easy to parallel park: you just had to park the car nearby, get out and shoulder-push it sideways into the spot. Like I said, this car was a stupid car.
For $29 a day, I got this car with unlimited kilometers in a province with No-Fault insurance and the world's flattest and straightest highways. And I was 19. If you can't see where I'm going, then either you have never driven with a 19-year-old or you were the idiot working behind the counter at the place that rented this car to me.
I'm pleased to report that I now know the top speed of a 2003 Suzuki Swift. Its 178 km/hr. I hope you're impressed, because I know I sure as hell was. It may have been a tiny death-trap, but hell, at least it was a fast tiny death-trap. I feel obliged to mention that, in order to get the Swift up to 178, you need to hit the air vortex coming off of an 18-wheeler cattle truck going 130. And you also need to be borderline insane.
At that speed, the whole car starts shaking, you can see the windows flexing, the door panels are starting to shake off. I'm nearly shitting myself, and the car's making sounds like the Pod-Racers in Star Wars, Episode 1. There's a bumblebee trapped in the cab, looking out the window and thinking, “Holy Shit! Am I hauling ass, or what?!”
During the long weekend I had the car, I saw lot of Saskatchewan in the only way one should see Saskatchewan: through the window, flying by very quickly.
I have another posting worth of stories regarding the weekend that I've decided to save for another time, but for now I'll say this. Getting busted for doing 79 in a 50 in Vancouver is nothing when you've drag-raced a cattle truck through the prairies.
Also, if you've learned nothing else, you really shouldn't drive with me. I'm crazy. I mean, Christ, I drag-raced a cattle truck through the prairies.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
When I was in Saskatchewan, it got to – 35 degrees Celsius. When it got that cold, everyone kept asking me about it. “Is this cold enough for you?” “Got enough of the cold yet?” and my favorite, “Have you ever been this cold before?” I never knew what to say to the last one. “It's – 35 degree Celsius! I'm from Vancouver...I wasn't even aware the Celsius scale went down that far.”
One thing I noticed though is that, when the cop told me he “allegedly” caught me doing 79 in a 50, I found myself disappointed and, at the same time, reminded of this story from when I lived in Saskatchewan when I was 19.
For some reason, despite being allowed to drive, insure and own a vehicle, people under the age of 21 (and sometimes 25) are not allowed to rent cars in most provinces. I say most because, at 19, I was able to rent a car in Saskatchewan. Ha-ha.
The car I rented was a 2003 Suzuki Swift, which I can only describe as a Smart car built before they were actually smart. The thing had four doors, which was stupid; you could've pulled out the drivers seat and sit in the back row and not only could you reach the pedals, you'd still feel cramped.
In the car's defense, it was easy to parallel park: you just had to park the car nearby, get out and shoulder-push it sideways into the spot. Like I said, this car was a stupid car.
For $29 a day, I got this car with unlimited kilometers in a province with No-Fault insurance and the world's flattest and straightest highways. And I was 19. If you can't see where I'm going, then either you have never driven with a 19-year-old or you were the idiot working behind the counter at the place that rented this car to me.
I'm pleased to report that I now know the top speed of a 2003 Suzuki Swift. Its 178 km/hr. I hope you're impressed, because I know I sure as hell was. It may have been a tiny death-trap, but hell, at least it was a fast tiny death-trap. I feel obliged to mention that, in order to get the Swift up to 178, you need to hit the air vortex coming off of an 18-wheeler cattle truck going 130. And you also need to be borderline insane.
At that speed, the whole car starts shaking, you can see the windows flexing, the door panels are starting to shake off. I'm nearly shitting myself, and the car's making sounds like the Pod-Racers in Star Wars, Episode 1. There's a bumblebee trapped in the cab, looking out the window and thinking, “Holy Shit! Am I hauling ass, or what?!”
During the long weekend I had the car, I saw lot of Saskatchewan in the only way one should see Saskatchewan: through the window, flying by very quickly.
I have another posting worth of stories regarding the weekend that I've decided to save for another time, but for now I'll say this. Getting busted for doing 79 in a 50 in Vancouver is nothing when you've drag-raced a cattle truck through the prairies.
Also, if you've learned nothing else, you really shouldn't drive with me. I'm crazy. I mean, Christ, I drag-raced a cattle truck through the prairies.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
When I was in Saskatchewan, it got to – 35 degrees Celsius. When it got that cold, everyone kept asking me about it. “Is this cold enough for you?” “Got enough of the cold yet?” and my favorite, “Have you ever been this cold before?” I never knew what to say to the last one. “It's – 35 degree Celsius! I'm from Vancouver...I wasn't even aware the Celsius scale went down that far.”
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Corporate Responsibilty
In the newspaper yesterday, I saw an article about the opposition to a private member's bill currently tabled in the House of Commons. Apparently, three of Canada's largest mining conglomerates oppose this bill.
The bill in question states that, when the Canadian federal government (and its various investment funds, like the CPP, etc) invests in a particular company, the company must adhere to Canadian social responsibility standards in both domestic and foreign operations.
In plain English, this bill would mean that a company could be investigated to see if its operations (including ones in South America, Africa and Asia) are up to the standards expected in Canada. If not, no investment.
In related news, apparently, three of Canada's largest mining conglomerates have done shit that apparently they want to hide.
Check out the article here.
The bill in question states that, when the Canadian federal government (and its various investment funds, like the CPP, etc) invests in a particular company, the company must adhere to Canadian social responsibility standards in both domestic and foreign operations.
In plain English, this bill would mean that a company could be investigated to see if its operations (including ones in South America, Africa and Asia) are up to the standards expected in Canada. If not, no investment.
In related news, apparently, three of Canada's largest mining conglomerates have done shit that apparently they want to hide.
Check out the article here.
Vancouver's Amateur Comedy Scene
In a tragic case of breaking rules I just made for myself yesterday, I wanted to say something in the traditional blogging sense.
While I wasn't there (I was busy speaking into the smoky darkness at another comedy room at the time) based on every account I've heard, the LOL @ the Cellar charity benefit last Thursday was a rousing success. I just want to say congrats to the two brains behind the show, Andy Kallstrom and Donovan Patrick Mahoney.
While browsing through the facebook pictures of said event (which you can find here), I came upon a realization; Vancouver's amateur scene is pretty damn stocked right now.
After nearly 5 months of hauling my ass around to the different open mics and Pro/Am shows in this city, I'm amazed at how far a lot of us have come. Even just speaking of the 10-12 comics who started this summer (including the aforementioned Donovan and Andy), seeing the progression of both the individuals and the group has given me a real boost of confidence regarding my own development as a stand-up.
It seems to me that, while we may all still have extensive periods of intense stage-suckage, we also are kicking ass in greater frequency and amplitude than expected. In other words, for a bunch of rookies, we seem to be better comics and having more great shows than we should be.
Pardon me while I pat myself on the back. If you're part of the scene, feel free to do so too. I'll wait.
What's also amazing to me is how well we all seem to mesh. While there's some amount of the personality conflicts and back-stabbing that goes on within any amateur scene, we all seem to get along (though, I, for one, still maintain that Ross Dauk is far too handsome to be a comic; get off the stage, dreamboat and leave it for us Fug-ohs, dammit).
Anyways, my point is this; I'm honestly proud to be part of this scene right now. I also wouldn't be surprised if, 10 years from now, I'm going to be telling people "You know that guy/girl, (insert name here)? The one on TV, the one with that special? Yeah, I knew him/her in week 5. And man, did he/she SUUUUUUCK!"
Keep it up everyone, and if you are not a local comic reading this, go to any comedy show and look for the amateurs (we're easy to find, we're usually the ones begging the Host for more stage time). Better see them now before success hits and the same people become giant assholes.
Also, I hope Ross knows I was joking before. I think you are plenty unattractive to be a comic. I (heart) you, buddy.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
I realized last week three things: my father owns a trailer, my mother lives next to a swamp and favorite uncle just got parole. Apparently, my white trash credentials are in fine order. (Seriously guys, NOT joking)
While I wasn't there (I was busy speaking into the smoky darkness at another comedy room at the time) based on every account I've heard, the LOL @ the Cellar charity benefit last Thursday was a rousing success. I just want to say congrats to the two brains behind the show, Andy Kallstrom and Donovan Patrick Mahoney.
While browsing through the facebook pictures of said event (which you can find here), I came upon a realization; Vancouver's amateur scene is pretty damn stocked right now.
After nearly 5 months of hauling my ass around to the different open mics and Pro/Am shows in this city, I'm amazed at how far a lot of us have come. Even just speaking of the 10-12 comics who started this summer (including the aforementioned Donovan and Andy), seeing the progression of both the individuals and the group has given me a real boost of confidence regarding my own development as a stand-up.
It seems to me that, while we may all still have extensive periods of intense stage-suckage, we also are kicking ass in greater frequency and amplitude than expected. In other words, for a bunch of rookies, we seem to be better comics and having more great shows than we should be.
Pardon me while I pat myself on the back. If you're part of the scene, feel free to do so too. I'll wait.
What's also amazing to me is how well we all seem to mesh. While there's some amount of the personality conflicts and back-stabbing that goes on within any amateur scene, we all seem to get along (though, I, for one, still maintain that Ross Dauk is far too handsome to be a comic; get off the stage, dreamboat and leave it for us Fug-ohs, dammit).
Anyways, my point is this; I'm honestly proud to be part of this scene right now. I also wouldn't be surprised if, 10 years from now, I'm going to be telling people "You know that guy/girl, (insert name here)? The one on TV, the one with that special? Yeah, I knew him/her in week 5. And man, did he/she SUUUUUUCK!"
Keep it up everyone, and if you are not a local comic reading this, go to any comedy show and look for the amateurs (we're easy to find, we're usually the ones begging the Host for more stage time). Better see them now before success hits and the same people become giant assholes.
Also, I hope Ross knows I was joking before. I think you are plenty unattractive to be a comic. I (heart) you, buddy.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
I realized last week three things: my father owns a trailer, my mother lives next to a swamp and favorite uncle just got parole. Apparently, my white trash credentials are in fine order. (Seriously guys, NOT joking)
Week 1 : Blogging
Welcome to the obligatory first post on my blog. And in saying that, I am fully aware that as a first post on one of 14 thousand new blogs created daily in this world, this post has less chance of being read by any other human being than it does becoming the constitution of a newly created nation made entirely of aliens. Whoa, that was a long one. I think I need to sit.
My point is that the creation of blogs has immediately caused a sudden counter-reaction within the culture; the technology that made everyone's voice available to hear has also caused so much noise that the average blogger, loud or not, is lost in the static. Therefore, thanks for tuning your AM dial into me (and to the ppl who get that reference, you're welcome and I'm truly impressed you made it past AOL keyword search).
Regardless, even the mightiest redwood must start from a seed and similarly, even the world's most popular blog must stat with an audience of zero before it blossoms into something worth having the three, maybe four dozen followers that allow it to rule the rest of the blogosphere. Alas, this may be a goal I shall never reach, but a man can still dream.
Blogging, in my opinion (read: the only one that matters in a blog) is the modern day equivalent of a caveman yelling at his cave wall. Yelling not out of necessity, but more out of sport, pretending the cave's echoes were agreeing voices. Part of me wonders how many caveman generations passed before somebody turned to the guy yelling and went, “For Random-Sun-God's sake, Ugg, would you invent the goddamn pencil already! We've got kids trying to sleep and/or pick bugs off of each other!”
And with that, bang, we got what is now called blogging. Granted it was fairly simplistic and easily communicated thoughts, like “This is what food looks like,” or “This is me with a spear looking for food.” But, boiled down, this is what a blog basically is. If you added the occasional racial slur and a link to a twitter account, Ugg's cavewall accounts would be on par with 90% of the blogosphere.
But my point remains. Homosapiens, as a species, like communicating, even if (actually, I've found, especially if) there's no one there to retort. We, as the phrase goes, just like to hear the sound of our own voices. This blog is just that, you are now reading the echo in my cave. And no doubt, by this point, you are wondering what your voice will sound like with an echo. And we're back to the thing I said about static.
It's like the circle of life, but comprised entirely of people who should be out hunting wildebeest instead of listening for an echo. In other words, it's the circle of “should be living”.
But I digress, as I'm currently writing this while on a ferry (also know as a boat, idiot) and I'm fairly sure we just ran over a whale. And for some reason, I'm now hungry.
Francis Brian Shaw.
Thought for the day
Is it just me or does Prime Minister Harper's head remind you of what the heads of the parents on Charlie Brown would look like if the camera panned up?
My point is that the creation of blogs has immediately caused a sudden counter-reaction within the culture; the technology that made everyone's voice available to hear has also caused so much noise that the average blogger, loud or not, is lost in the static. Therefore, thanks for tuning your AM dial into me (and to the ppl who get that reference, you're welcome and I'm truly impressed you made it past AOL keyword search).
Regardless, even the mightiest redwood must start from a seed and similarly, even the world's most popular blog must stat with an audience of zero before it blossoms into something worth having the three, maybe four dozen followers that allow it to rule the rest of the blogosphere. Alas, this may be a goal I shall never reach, but a man can still dream.
Blogging, in my opinion (read: the only one that matters in a blog) is the modern day equivalent of a caveman yelling at his cave wall. Yelling not out of necessity, but more out of sport, pretending the cave's echoes were agreeing voices. Part of me wonders how many caveman generations passed before somebody turned to the guy yelling and went, “For Random-Sun-God's sake, Ugg, would you invent the goddamn pencil already! We've got kids trying to sleep and/or pick bugs off of each other!”
And with that, bang, we got what is now called blogging. Granted it was fairly simplistic and easily communicated thoughts, like “This is what food looks like,” or “This is me with a spear looking for food.” But, boiled down, this is what a blog basically is. If you added the occasional racial slur and a link to a twitter account, Ugg's cavewall accounts would be on par with 90% of the blogosphere.
But my point remains. Homosapiens, as a species, like communicating, even if (actually, I've found, especially if) there's no one there to retort. We, as the phrase goes, just like to hear the sound of our own voices. This blog is just that, you are now reading the echo in my cave. And no doubt, by this point, you are wondering what your voice will sound like with an echo. And we're back to the thing I said about static.
It's like the circle of life, but comprised entirely of people who should be out hunting wildebeest instead of listening for an echo. In other words, it's the circle of “should be living”.
But I digress, as I'm currently writing this while on a ferry (also know as a boat, idiot) and I'm fairly sure we just ran over a whale. And for some reason, I'm now hungry.
Francis Brian Shaw.
Thought for the day
Is it just me or does Prime Minister Harper's head remind you of what the heads of the parents on Charlie Brown would look like if the camera panned up?
Friday, November 27, 2009
Welcome, oh non-existent readers
Welcome one and all to My Brain Is (Not) Broke, the one stop comedy blog for a comedian you've never heard of: me, FBS. As a lowly amateur comic, I'm big on heart and short on funny (here's where you go "awwww"), but hopefully, over time and maybe a few alcoholic beverages, this may be a good place to have a laugh once in a while.
Until then, sit down, read an essay or a story and shut the fuck up, dammit! Oh, I nearly forgot. Did I mention I'm also good with people?
And if you're wondering about my choice of name, then obviously you don't know me and in which case, wait, and you should get it after a few posts. For those who know me and still don't get it, congratulations, you haven't been paying attention to me for the last 7 months and are therefor a terrible person.
Anyways, I'm out.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
Expect nothing and sir, (or ma'am, if you have the appropriate lady-parts) and I shall deliver.
Until then, sit down, read an essay or a story and shut the fuck up, dammit! Oh, I nearly forgot. Did I mention I'm also good with people?
And if you're wondering about my choice of name, then obviously you don't know me and in which case, wait, and you should get it after a few posts. For those who know me and still don't get it, congratulations, you haven't been paying attention to me for the last 7 months and are therefor a terrible person.
Anyways, I'm out.
Francis Brian Shaw
Thought for the day:
Expect nothing and sir, (or ma'am, if you have the appropriate lady-parts) and I shall deliver.
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