Y2XK

So it's 2010, Jesus-Christ.

Ten years and a few days ago a lot of people thought you world was going to end. Y2K. People called into talk radio shows to explain how at the stroke of midnight the computers were going to think it was 1900 and they'd totally shit an old timey bike or something. The grid was coming down and if you didn't stock MRE's, (meals ready to eat, an army put-in-your-mouth-substitute that can also be made into an anti-Gatorade bomb), garbage cans full of water and a ham radio you were fucked my friend, Fucked!

But now a word from my sponsor.

And we're back. Buy those videos kids.

So it will come as no surprise that looking back, as the clock rolled over to Y2XK, I was disapointed with the path my life had taken. I mean really, what have I done? In the past ten years I graduated highschool, enroled in three different Universities, graduated from one of those, worked several times at a Forestry Eduacation camp, was punched once outside a nightclub and got several tries at having sex. Pretty normal you might say. Pretty average. And that's just it.

I could have been so hard.

If humanity had been thrown into a post-apocalyptic wasteland I would be so hard right now. I would have slept with feral dogs. I would have had to make difficult decisions about caving a skull in for a crust of bread. I would wear tattered, awesome clothes that blew ragged in the gritty-grey sand of erodded skyscrapers. At exactly twelve midnight, January 1st 10 P.E.D. (Post Easy Days) I would have shook the mane of hair under my weathered panama hat with powerful developed neck muscles because my brother in arms Celery, (P.E.D. everything changed and 'Dean' just didn't feel right any more), would be a techno-mage, using the dying art of chemestry to create flashes and soaps and conductors that would frighten the savage eastern raiders. He'd also be good with things like keeping time without a wristwatch because he's so smart.

As for me, I'd carry a shovel and a shotgun, the only things you need to bury a man. And they'd call me Jack. Jack Shit.

As for you? Well you'd all be dead.

But I'd be so hard.

I could do with you fucking off

Whoever said "I'm a poet and I didn't even know it" first should have been hung and then shot. It would have set a good precident.

I'm in a bad mood.

Hey aclaimed British author Eoin Colfer - I purposely pronounce your first name wrong when I say it in my head and I don't appreciate your writting new Hitch Hiker's guide to the Galaxy books. I hope you understand that by doing this your taking something a consider sacred and possibly cocking it the cock up. And I say cock because that means you're fucking it up British style. If you've written a book that's even supremely above average I'm going to hate you. Simply the fact that you're stepping into the shoes of an author I revere means we've started off on terrible terms. And the worst part - the worst part is I have no choice but to read this book. I swear to the god Adams didn't believe in that if you George Lucas'd this series there'll be hell to pay.

Hey New Scientist Magazine, when you announced that you were taking submissions of flash fiction set 100 years in the future for a contest, I assumed you would get a Chinese garbage scow's worth of enviro-disaster shorts. I seem to be on the mark as seven of the nine stories you've published were variations on Pixar's Wall-E. Now I'm not saying that I don't believe in global warming, but next time I'll make sure to write to your politics and name my protagonist Gal Ore. And I'm not saying I should have made the cut, I'm just saying the winning story requires enough suspension of disbelief to hold up the Golden Gate Bridge.

And another thing

Dear Bawler,

Who taught you how to walk like that? My god, I would say your shoulders swayed like a boxer in slow motion if that didn't make it sound as though there was something graceful involved. You walk forwards and sideways at the same time. When you stand in one place to order your ground Starbucks coffee you jack yourself up and to the left, standing on your right toe. Your shoulders are level though, you must compensate by bringing the left one up and dropping its counter weight. This is my theory anyway. The folds of your volumptuous hoodie make distinguishing where you begin and end into guesswork. Is your goal to take up more space? Mission accomplished: no one wants to fight you and your ridiculous pants. You mutter something as your walk out the door. It sounds like a complaint or a rap lyric. You lumber off into the night, the crotch of your jeans a hammock between your knees, your shoulders wobbling like a circus bear on the high wire, your green flat brimmed hat making your look, nearly impossibly, even dumber.


I feel better.

Casting Spells in HTML

When I was young, I would pretend that I was special. Not that blanket kind special that your elementary school told you enveloped everyone! at self-esteem smile assemblies, but the kind of special that earned a telegram via owl at the age of eleven. The kind of special the would require a secret identity. The kind of special that would inevitably bring about a romantic tragedy with every woman you ever got into it with (and there would be a lot because ladies love unavailable men). It does not take a too much of an intuitive leap to say something like "I wanted magic powers to set me apart in my generic suburb." I'll even go as far to admit that I still want magic powers and then top it of with an assertion that I try to move things with my mind with a serious level of concentration. Never the less, I am attempting to move on and deal with my life an average human being

BUT NOT SO WITH LAURA WOLF: INTERNET WITCH

Laura Wolf is totally a witch, and she backs up this assertion with the full power of the Internet and its mighty graphics. Don't believe her? Just compulisten (aka read) to Laura Wolf drop the facts on Witching.

Can anyone be a witch?
"Not necessarily.."
Is it easy to recognize a witch in mainstream society today?
"Not necessarily.."
Do all witches have complete control of the extraordinary powers they possess?
"............"

Laura Wolf, your inability to control even your use of the ellipses speaks volumes to me about the control you wield over your extraordinary powers. Unless of course you simply want people to think you lack fine control over grammar and the occult. Why do you wish to scare us like this? I fear your aims may be less than benevolent and/or sexy as I have been led to believe good Witches ought to be.

Oh thank you Laura Wolf! I feel much better.

But wait, Laura Wolf please explain to me why you are a Witch as compared to other people who claim to be Witches on the Internet.

Many people refer to themselves as a Witch simply to apear cool in the eyes of peers or
feel powerful or perhaps they have the need to belong to a collective
... an attempt to flee from their personal fears, weaknesses and insecurities...
...to gain some sort of sense of control in their lives.
These are precious, needy children of all ages and my heart bleeds for them
... but they are not witches.
Some claim to be witches because they have read books, bought many non-essentials from occult shops
or perhaps they gather with friends to play the part.
This is fine...
but it does not make them witches!

Oh, I get it Laura Wolf. You're a real witch because you're willing to throw most everyone else who's doing what you're doing under the bus in a search for authenticity. That's Magick!

Here's a picture of Laura Wolf totally going it on her own and not being some fake 'social Witch.' This is also a picture of her and her friend DAGON THE VAMPIRE, whose website she urges you to check out.

Laura Wolf has the power of ENERGY which is VAST. From what I can gather from Laura Wolf's site this ENERGY is nearly as VAST as it is non-descript and generic. Laura Wolf is clearly a powerful lady-Witch, full of ENERGY far beyond the normal expectations of what the human mind, in its infancy, can currently understand...

Just look at her ENERGY Face

I would love to spend more time leading you through Laura Wolf's Internet site (or "Chamber" as she more aptly explains it) but there are some journeys the human mind must make on its own, like doing meth on your birthday all by yourself. If you step into the Chamber, make sure you turn your sound up. Laura Wolf will treat you to an audio of her reading her Pledge. I don't know what all the words mean (well, really just 'mote') but she is pretty worried about soul rape, whatever that is. You probably don't have to worry, I imagine that sort of thing takes VAST quantities of ENERGY, like three Red Bulls worth.

Late Edition: On her main page Laura Wolf informs us that she has been Deemed "America's Coolest Witch" basically the Grammys of Witchery. I would not have liked to be on that judge panel. Imagine having the heavy guilt of basically telling all the other Witches of America they they were just not as cool. Imagine all the ENERGY they would be firing at you. VAST like an expensive bathtub I bet.

I.C.B.C.

“Bing,” goes the sign. Red diodes die off while others sputter on as the signs, each as big as a cereal box and spread throughout the waiting room, rewrite themselves in unison. In a neat visual effect the top two series of letters and numbers shift down. There is a new letter/number designation on the top now, and the bottom one is gone completely. ‘C 256’ the top reads, then ‘B 159’ and ‘J 872’ below that. I have already seen the front desk and been sorted. It is time to wait patiently. I fight the compulsion to smile at the cameras and look innocent. These offices bring out my conciliatory nature; I want the cameras to know I’m on their side. The sign goes off again and it’s my turn, maybe for good behaviour.

The woman at the counter listens to my story which I’m sure is convoluted by her standards. The people around me want to get a driver’s license or they’ve lost their license and they’re here to get it back. I have two licenses, I am the envy of every other ‘B something’, I have licenses in spades. I show these to the woman at the counter. “I would like to consolidate my licenses,” I say. I hope the man beside me heard, that he’s jealous of the boy who has so many licenses he can afford to get rid of some of them.

I explain my situation to the woman at the counter. Suffice to say it’s a boring explanation, broken up only by a mediocre attempt at humour on my part followed by a smile that feels charming. I need her cooperation and she is not unattractive in her mid thirties. I am a young male; there are chemicals in me that make a certain amount of this behaviour beyond my control.

The woman at the counter leaves to seek the council of her manager. She is gone awhile, and then they return together. The manager’s fleshy shoulders fit perfectly on top of her fat sides. She is an egg. Her hair is pulled back in a long pony tail, nearly full white with streaks of gray. My chemicals recede.

“The problem,” she says, cutting right to it, “is that these are not the same people.” She fingers my licences. “This person was born in 1983.” She holds up the Quebec license. “This person was born in 1986.” She holds up the British Columbia license.

“But they were both born on March 26^th. Doesn’t it seem likely that ’83 was just a mistake?”

The manager shakes her head. “The computer won’t accept that these are the same people.”

“I was in Quebec for two years, that’s why I have a Quebec license. The one from B.C. I’ve just got since returning. I can show you my school I.D. a transcript, grad photos.”

The manager starts to organize a fold of papers she’d brought over. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“But look,” I say, appealing to her eyes and her sanity, “we are all the same people.” I point at the face on each license and make a gesture with my chin. “I’ve got all my documents, all my numbers, social insurance, care card-“

“I’m sorry,” she says interrupting. “The computer will not allow it. They are not the same people.”

I look over her shoulder at a camera and sigh. I try to look resigned but not angry. I gather up my papers, pocket my B.C. license. The manager takes the Quebec license. You’re not allowed to go around carrying other people’s licenses. I suppose you might get in trouble and claim it to be your own. The woman at the counter smiles weakly to me as I turn towards the door. Outside, I sit on my car for a moment. I feel badly for the boy who was born simultaneously on the twenty-sixth of March 1983 and the day that someone made an error in Montreal processing an out of province license. I hope he is doing well. I imagine he wishes he had his I.D.