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Friday 6 August 2010

CHA CHING


(sorry for the late post today boys and girls)

So the billionaires boys club has stepped up, and stepped up large. God I love when there is a positive news story once in awhile. Anyway, a group of the world's most renowned billionaires: Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, George Lucas, Ted Turner, etc. have banded together to start what is called 'The Giving Pledge.' In short, they have collectively agreed to give away half their net worth to charity. Not to their kids, not to an offshore account, or some dodgy man in Switzerland named Hans Muller who knows how to funnel things into untraceable places, but actually to charity. We are talking billions of dollars to those who need it.

Firstly, how nice would it be to be a member of this club?? Not even for the money - okay, I lie like a freakin rug, the money would be nice, more than nice. The money would be a total and utter head spin - in fact, I don't think I could handle it. I get giddy when I my tax refund is over four hundred bucks. I think a billion dollars would be a one way ticket to the jello ward.

I think the bigger thrill - for me anyway - would be the giving away of a chunk of money this size and figuring out where you would like it to go. Just imagine the possibilities, the amount of lives you could affect, be it personally one to one, or through science, charitable institutions, education, you name it. Hell, you could put a small country on the right track with a billion dollars. You could put our own country on the right track with that sort of cash! You could be flippin Oprah and buy the entire state of California new cars!

I wonder what your average day would be like knowing that you could walk into any store and not only buy all the contents, but buy the building as well, hell the street, the town, the city...sorry, I can't contain myself. [I haven't left the house today, I'm like a labrador that needs a good run!] Imagine your morning coffee run, 'I'll take 300 lattes please for the entire block, and two blueberry muffins. I'm feeling generous today.' Not only that, but merely watching the news would make you feel powerful. You'd come across stories of people losing their homes, or needing operations, or floods destroying all their possessions, and in one dial of a telephone you could solve a multitude of problems a billion times over. Okay fine, you'd have to be philanthropic at heart, and I'm sure there are a few out there who are not. But, I'm hoping that if one is a billionaire, they realize they have a lot of extra cash to spread around. Damn it, it's your duty if you're that rich (yes, yes, it's the socialist in me rearing it's fair and just head). 

Suddenly Star Wars and Hans Solo look altogether more profound now that ol' Georgie Boy has agreed to cough up half his worth. 

Thursday 5 August 2010

WHERE IS NOAH WHEN YOU NEED HIM?


So there is this man in Thailand….just kidding. I couldn’t resist.

I’ve always looked at natural disasters as the true reminder that we are not in charge. And not only are we not in charge, but we are OH so much smaller than we realize, and for humans, this is a sobering realization. The latest disaster to strike a region, if you’re living on Mars and do not have a television or the internet (notice how I didn’t say newspaper), is the utter devastation in Pakistan due to torrential rains and flooding. To be honest, I can barely watch the news at the moment – as you can imagine I’m extra sensitive – cause I find it so heartbreaking to see the thousands of people (and little defenseless babies!) without shelter, warmth, food, you name it. The looks of desperation on their faces as they tell the reporters that they essentially have nothing left, their President has abandoned them for a five star hotel in London, and their future looks bleak and hopeless.

Dear god I’m depressed now. 

The cynic in me then of course asks, what qualifies in terms of a natural disaster to warrant the world’s attention. And moreover, not just the world, but that (hysterical) microcosm of periodical do-gooders that we call celebrities. Cause I’m somehow feeling that Pakistan is not getting a telethon with Beyonce whipping out a new version of ‘Halo.’ I can't help but wonder how it all comes together. Is it the region that inspires one celebrity to issue the 'we must help' outcry? Poor Pakistan’s proximity to the sh*tstorm that is Afghanistan may hinder its aid prospects when it comes to the general public (I can hear it now from the uneducated masses, “aren’t they Arabs over in those parts? I say screw ‘em, they can deal with a bit of water”). Then again, perhaps it is the celebrity themselves– and the power they hold - that deem a cause worthy. For example, if George Clooney starts crying publicly over a locust epidemic in Cameroon, I'm thinking that would be enough to rally the troops (I’m feeling an interesting experiment here). At least Brad Pitt and Matt Damon would be on board.

Or perhaps it’s the type of natural disaster and death toll accrued that qualifies how quickly the world reacts. Macabre I realize, but I fear that’s the world we live in. Tsunami – hundreds of thousands dead, telethon and variety show put into the works pronto! Pakistan – under two thousand dead due to floods, hmmm, perhaps they'll get aid, but Rhianna is not dusting off her stilettos and lycra for casualties of that amount. Then again, I could be pleasantly proven wrong.

Sorry, fatigue makes me run even darker.


Wednesday 4 August 2010

BAKE ME A HEAD AS FAST AS YOU CAN


So there is a man in Thailand – is it me or is there a pattern with some weird sh*t going down in Thailand? – who bakes bread. Sounds harmless enough, no? Well, he doesn’t just carry on the family’s trade in baking, he decided to take it one step further and bake bread in the shape of bloody body parts. Before I go any further, this is one of those sentences that in itself screams BIG RED FLAG. He claims he is an artist, and I suppose at this point in time, who am I to start defining what is art (of course in future blogs I'll have to deconstruct this one!). Furthermore, he says he wants to speak out about his religious beliefs…through bread. Bloody body bread. Cause as he explains, bread is transient, like life. Okay then. I’m thinking someone has been standing next to a hot oven for a little too long.

Not one to take his ‘art’ lightly, Kittiwat – the man in question – has spent several years studying forensics so that he could get the detail on the body parts just right. And from the looks of them, he has been putting in some serious hours watching CSI. But more importantly – and oddly – it is the taste that concerns him the most, as he doesn’t just want the art experience to be visual, he wants it to be culinary as well. He started by making tiny heads with little beady little eyes, that he claimed tasted terrific (seriously, RED FLAG RED FLAG). From there he ventured into a variety of body parts that would transcend dough and put art in a venue where one would not usually find it, i.e the bakery. I usually head to the bakery for a good croissant, and not a small human head, but I appreciate his forward thinking.

Unfortunately due to the passing of his brother and sister (someone may want to check the furnace in the bakery and look into how they actually died), Kittiwat has had to take over the family business full time and concentrate on making baked goods that won’t scare the bejeezus out of the local children. But he says that he will certainly return to his artistry although he reckons he's going to move on from body parts. I'm actually scared to ask what he's going to make next? Small beheaded animals? Brioche hand grenades? Baguettes that serve as machetes?! And more importantly, who eats this stuff? Cause when I wake up in the morning, if you were to offer me a severed bleeding foot with my coffee, I may puke on your lap. Then again, my stomach is on the weaker side.

I suppose if you really think about it, bloody bread is no stranger than a pile of cow dung or a shark's head ala Damien Hirst. And at least the man is going to work, dedicating himself one hundred percent and thinking outside the box, wayyyy outside. As for me, I'm playing it safe this morning and am going to Starbucks for a muffin. A muffin in the shape of a muffin...hold the blood please.

Tuesday 3 August 2010

ASHES TO ASHES


I recently read an article about the bizarre places people want their ashes spread when they’re cremated. I have to say, it was quite the impressive list, not to mention imaginative. One guy, a long time comic book editor, had himself mixed with ink and put into a comic book. Hunter S. Thompson asked to be blasted off in a firework display. If you’re going to be spread all over creation it may as well be in a theatrical artistic way. Another guy was shot into space; one was buried in a Pringles can, a fitting casket, as he invented them; another’s ashes were converted into a synthetic diamond. Hell if I’m going to wear fake jewelry it may as well have some added bonus, like a relative stashed in there. Talk about a party conversation piece. “I love your ring.” “Oh, thanks. It’s my Uncle Frank.” The other places were definitely two of the rarest I’ve heard of in some time. For about four grand, you can be mixed with cement and added to a reef under the sea – sounds very Tony Soprano. The other is more sentimental and eternal, not to mention painful. Apparently, your ashes can be mixed with ink and then tattooed on one’s body. I’m thinking I’m going to write this one in my will for my partner to do, (something subtle, like my name across his forehead) just in case I go first and he has any ideas of showing up to my funeral with a twenty year old.

I’ve always wanted to be cremated. The notion of being buried in a box and buried beneath the dirt surrounded by maggots and bugs, left to decompose, well it never appealed to me. Can’t imagine why. The idea of cremation always seemed so quick and easy. One minute I’m of body, the next, I can fit in an ashtray. A bit messy for my tastes, but I’m ensuring that whomever is doing the spreading of my ashes knows what a neat freak I am.

I even have my places picked out where I’d like to be spread. One is in the town where I grew up. It’s a place my best friend and I used to go after school. We’d drive down the coast in her Volkswagen bug, top down, feeling like the world was ours, and we’d park at this special spot (not to be revealed of course). There, like any predictable teenagers, we’d get up to no good, talk about boys, and debrief our days at school…the usual stuff. The view is unparalleled and I remember the day I decided that right there in that very spot seemed like a good place for my remains to be chucked in the ocean. The other spot is in London off my favorite bridge. Again, it’s all about the view – I’m thinking when I’m dead this won’t be of a concern to me.

A few years back my sister and I spread my grandparent’s ashes. We took their urns to their favorite drinking/people-watching haunt, and of course ordered their beverage of choice. Then we took them down to the sea across from the building where they lived and dumped them in. Okay, we had to do this at night, as it’s illegal – which I’m sure my gramps loved - and my sister ended up wearing half of my grandpa due to the high winds, but the sentiment was in the right place. 

Monday 2 August 2010

WOOF WOOF


I’m watching a morning show where they are arguing whether or not children should be trained like dogs. Yes, I’m serious. One woman who is for the tough love canine approach suggests that children need discipline and training, and it’s the parent’s job to enforce this approach. On the flip side of the argument, horrified twin-set wearing Mother number one, suggests that children should – and can be – reasoned with and should be taught, not trained. Not to mention, the thought of referring to her child as if it was a dog made her shudder down to her sensible flat pumps.

From where I sit, this one falls into the lap of semantics – cause to me I'm not sure I see the difference. For starters, I’m thinking miss Tough Love is not saying kids are dogs (although some have the tenacity of Pitbulls, drool like Sharpei’s, and have the bowel habits of an untrained puppy…I’m just sayin’). Secondly the terms train vs. teach I'm thinking is where the argument hangs. So let’s just say at this point they are one in the same. Train-teach, teach-train, the end result is getting your child to behave, do what you want without crushing it’s little spirit, and enacting discipline so the child feels safe and knows what a boundary is. Trust me, all you have to do is look at a teenager with no boundaries and you’ll be running out and buying dog collars!

More importantly however, the argument that one can reason with a two year old just makes me laugh out loud. Have you ever tried to reason with a two year old? I have, and it’s almost driven me to drink. In fact, there have been copious studies that say that before the child reaches the age of four, children have no ability to see reason, or at least intellectualize it. Hence, they need discipline, order and repetition so that right and wrong is clearly delineated. Not to mention, have you ever spent any serious time with hyper active toddler boys? I mean ones that are so hopped up on their own testosterone they are practically vibrating? As my cousin says who is the father of two very young, and VERY active boys, ‘you gotta take them out into a field and run ‘em like dogs.’ You see the trend here?

I was raised by a very strict mother who believed that rules and boundaries were tantamount. I wasn’t put out back to feed, I didn’t sleep in a wooden house, and I wasn't reared wearing a shock collar. Although I was cleaned behind my ears, given short easy commands that I could understand and was rewarded when I did good and scolded when I did badly. And I think I turned out pretty darn well. I respect my elders, I follow rules but not in any mind numbing way, I know how to behave in a variety of situations without embarrassing myself or others (okay there were a few years where I might have slipped up on this front), and I didn’t end up in jail.

I mean I ain't no dog, but that’s got to count for something.
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