Gélaté - Teaser 6

Jesus... When I think videogames, I still see Pong...

Life, explained in 2m29s

My Friend Jason. from Shot at The Dark on Vimeo.

Mariage

I'm filing this under: There's something you don't see everyday. If this woman ever gets divorced, I'm sure there will be a line of men... waiting patiently.

Gélaté - Teaser #5

Gélaté - Episode 4 - Cathleen Rouleau

Gélaté

In an effort to stay on top of things, here are the last 2 episodes of Gélaté that I forgot to put up here.
Related : Is human cloning legal yet?






Enjoy! You know... If you speak French...

PISSED OFF!!

I really enjoyed Sylvain Marcoux's blog entry about his take on the Occupy Wall Street movement. I thought other (English-speaking)people might enjoy it too, so with the man's blessing, I translated it and am posting it here. If you're interested, you can read the original here. Otherwise...

I had just spent the night working on a small contract (“small” describes the salary – not the actual workload). I was about to get breakfast ready for my kids but logged into facebook… only to find someone bitching about the Occupy Wall Street movement.  My blood boiled over and this is what came out…

Why do I support the Occupy movement?

- Because my wife and I work our asses off and get very little in return.

- Because we’re a small family and the aforementioned work gets in the way of the time we spend with our kids.

- Because our budget is very quickly becoming a financial labyrinth.

- Because our schedules work around finding a way to put food on the table.

- Because we’re not the only ones stuck in this situation.

I guess we COULD cut our budget. We COULD make some sacrifices.

We don’t need to buy so much food. Are 3 meals a day really necessary?

We don’t need to go out so much. Why spend family time actually DOING things with our kids?

We don’t need so many clothes. Why buy new jeans when there’s a perfectly good pair from 2009 that still fits?

We don’t need to use so much electricity. Our clothes from 2009 are still pretty warm, right?

No! We’re tired…

We’re tired of seeing people getting married at Versailles. Tired of seeing people book a wee-long trip on Virgin Galactic because it’s “something to do”. Tired of seeing nepotism in action… or is that inaction? Tired of seeing governments cut social programs and services that are already out of reach to most people. Tired of seeing friends and family dying of cancer that drops from the sky or hides in our food. Tired of hearing our son asking, “Why do you work all the time?”. Tired of explaining to potential employers that there’s a gap in our résumé because we wanted to stay home with our kids. Tired of hearing that we’re the reason the economy is melting down… because we aren’t buying enough crap. Tired of hearing the top 1% tell us that we don’t work hard enough. Tired… Just sick and TIRED OF IT ALL!

I’m not on the Right. I’m not on the Left… There is no left or right anymore, crooked politicians are making those lines disappear. I’m PISSED OFF! 

I support the Occupy movement because I’m pissed off and it’s showing me that I’m not alone.

Can you hear me? Can you hear how pissed off I am? Can you hear all those people, out in the street as you read this? Can you hear how pissed off they are? Can you hear the wind blowing through the wrought iron gates at the end of your mansion’s driveway?

Can you?

Gélaté - My New Web Thing...

This is a new web series I'm doing in French. I've got a few episodes ready to go, but here's the 1st one. Enjoy! (if you can French, that is)...

Gélaté - Teaser #1

Thursday that feels like Wednesday but smells like Friday...

Today has been this kind of day. See? I used italics and everything...

Any questions?

Sweaty Palms, Inc.

I always get nervous when I have to introduce myself.

It's tough.

You want people to understand what you're all about, but you also want to maintain the illusion that you're an interesting person. "Hi, I'm Judes. I'm a proud father, a borderline alcoholic and a chronic masturbator" doesn't seem to do that so well.

I regularly see people falling into the trap of introducing themselves with their jobs. You know... You're at a party and some guy comes up to you. "Hi! Chad, lawyer" or " Hey chief, I'm Bill. I'm a urologist. "Hey Bill. Judes... and unless you're a hooker or a cop, I don't really give a shit what you do at this point in our relationship!" comes off a bit harsh. But never forget: what you DO is not who you ARE.

I've been working on this recently, and here's what I have so far:

"Hi there. I'm Judes. I'm that guy that you work with who bitches about you when he gets home then plans increasingly intricate ways to kill you as part of his ingenious plan to take capitalism (and the Audi-driving sociopaths who grease its wheels) down to his level so that we can live in a world that is based on love, enlightenment and respect."

Feel free to use this if you want, but be forewarned: You have to come to our meetings on Tuesday nights if you do.

No. I don't really hate my job. I fear it.

I'm afraid of a lot of things... like clowns. Legitimate things too though! Like my kids not having a planet to grow up on... or getting stuck between a bear and her cubs on a hike... rodents... but yeah. Clowns, mostly.

Fear of your job brings it up a notch, though.

I spend most of my days hoping that nobody will notice that I'm doing the strict minimum. I'm scared that my barely-concealed contempt for the people I work with and for isn't as "barely-concealed" as I think. I'm afraid that the 3 or 4 times I go masturbate during the day (to cope) are being videotaped and will be held against me when I'm up for a promotion. I'm terrified that someone is dumb enough to think that I deserve a promotion.

So I have a plan. A light at the end of the corporate tunnel, if you will.

DMZs - Designated Masturbation Zones.

We may have to change the name in some places... like Korea. Can you imagine?

 "Captain! What is Kim Sang-Kyu doing in the middle of the most fortified region on earth?"

"He seems to be pulling "Kimchi" from his "Samsung", sir.

(That last line is from my new International Dictionary of Masturbatory Euphemisms. Coming soon to a book store near you.)

Anyway, DMZs... Just imagine! It will make capitalism better, and more importantly - it will be great for ME!

Your boss calls you: "Johnson, I see that your productivity has increased 756%! That's..."

"Sorry, but we can make this quick? I've got a bunch of files to sort if I want to hit the DMZ again before lunch."

And how can you have coworker contempt if you're masturbating all day? "Listen Mark, I can't wait to hear all about the variable interest rate you got on your mortgage, but if you've got about 7 minutes, we can talk about it in the DMZ."

The best part is the videotapes. I have a dream, my friends

I see an overpaid, underworked Inhuman Resources monkey hunched over her desk. She's eating a 3-day old tuna sandwich and watching a Greatest Hits compilation of my DMZ visits. I'm throwing coconuts from the palm tree of love (see dictionary for more details). She's hypnotized.

The Audi-driving CEOciopath who we rent our lives out to walks by. He stops, looks at the screen as his soul-less eyes focus.

"MY GOD! Who is that?"

"That's Dickey. Down in the basement."

"That kid's got moxy! Spunk! I want him in my office in five minutes!"

The Inhuman Resources monkey picks up the phone. She dials my extension, eyes still glued to the screen.

POW!

My plan is put into action. We take down the company from within. We liberate society to become the sexual utopia of expanded consciousness it longs to be AND...

I've got myself an introduction I can finally feel comfortable with...

"Judes Dickey, Masturbation and Development coordinator. Nice to meet you! Shall we step into my office?"

When I was 17...*

*With apologies to Frank Sinatra

I'm not sure why this popped into my head, but it did, so I thought I would share with you. I see you, you know. "Oh! Goody!", you're saying as you clutch that mug of tea, or coffer or... what IS that you're drinking? I also know that you're a busy person, so I'll make it quick.

As I remember this story, I'm also realising that it may be one of the reasons I have such a personal, inherent distrust of "democratic governments". I know. I know. The other options are sooooo much worse. I don't want Idi Amin. I don't want Noriega. Actually, an Idi Amin-type could be interesting, but... no. Maybe not. I want a government that can actually figure out the etymology of the word "democracy" and I want people who can be illuminated enough to not put Hitler in power.

I'm digressing, aren't I? Sorry.

It was 1989. I had won an essay contest at school (by "won", I mean "was the only person who had submitted to") and the Dartmouth Rotary Club sent me packing on a trip to our Capital City. Ottawaaaaaaaah. That's a yawn sound. try it. I'm kidding. Ottawa is actually rather nice, as far as Capital Cities go. It was called "Adventures in Citizenship". I was to go experience what it meant to be a Canadian, even though I was not yet of legal drinking age. It was the first time I flew by myself. It was also the first time I learned that you don't make bomb jokes in airports, which is why I suppose parents fly with their kids in the first place. To stop them from making bomb jokes... and joining the the Autoerotic Mile High Club.

We sat in Parliament, we looked at tulips. We did Ottawa-type things that I can no longer remember. And then, we went to Rideau Hall. "What the hell is Rideau Hall", you ask. You google it. The answer confuses you and you tell yourself, "This guy is a nonsensical jerk!". You finish your tea, coffee... What the HELL is that?!?! You get dressed, go about your day and forget this ever happened. I wish you shelter from the storm. Rideau Hall is the Governor General's official residence, by the way.

It was May 7th, actually. I had forgotten that part. It was my birthday.

It had been a long day. The tour guide was showing us the opulent luxury that non-elected officials get to live in during their term. I yawned a bit, despite the anger that burned inside me. "Who the hell gets to live like this just because their somebody's chum?" kept running through my mind. At one point, the guide said "The important thing to remember is that this is not the GG's house. It is every Canadian's house!". "PERFECT!", I thought. If it was my house, I could finally sit down! So I did. I still remember how cushy that chair was, 22 years later. So cushy...

"GET OFF OF THAT CHAIR!", yelled the guide as everyone turned to look at me.

"Why?", I responded (not getting up).

"Because you can't sit on it!"

"But you just said it was mine!"

"It's not. You can't sit there."

"BUT YOU JUST SAID IT WAS MINE!"

This is when security came. Not a rent-a-cop security, mind you. The man-in-black security. They glided over to the chair (have you ever noticed that? Secret service types always "glide"). They told me to get up. I refused, explaining that the tour guide had just explained that this chair was mine, as a taxpayer. Now that I look back on the incident, I imagine everyone was rather annoyed with me. I'm not sure what I was trying to prove, exactly, but I thought it was ridiculous and unfair and I thought everyone should know that. I finally got up, walked out of Rideau Hall and waited on the bus as the tour finished.

Later that evening, at dinner, some of the organizers came up to me and told me what I'd done was not very nice. I tried to explain my reasoning, but they weren't very receptive. They told me to knock it off. And I did.

But it's interesting to me that I remember this story so vividly, because I feel it really sums up what is wrong with the system. This "of the people" bit is really just lip service to mask the fact that a privileged, aristocratic mindset is really at the base of most democracies. We need to do something about this. What can we do?

Actually, the moral of this story is that I'm annoying and it seems that I have been for a long time. Also: Comfortable chairs stay lodged in your memory.

Be good to yourselves,
j.
( I don't have time to proofread this right now and I'm posting it anyway. Because I'm rash. I don't HAVE a rash anymore, but... Ah. Nevermind.)

Wednesday morning pre-coffee thoughts on language

The speed at which words are going through connotative metamorphoses is becoming a bit disconcerting. Think of it: The meanings of words like "douchebag" and "hipster" have become something entirely different than they were only 2 years ago. They have also jumped cultural and linguistic hurdles that used to make it take several years for them to be acknowldged internationally. Thanks Internet!

Not So Famous Last Words

A good morning, afternoon, evening, night to you all.

Here's the deal:

I'm starting a project (blog? book? pamphlet? Only time will tell...) called Not So Famous Last Words and I need your input.

We all know what Oscar Wilde, Louisa M. Alcott, Jane Austen, Beethoven and company uttered as they shuffled off this mortal coil. History has been good to them. A little too good, in some cases... but I digress! Famous last words have always interested me because they can either define someone's time on Earth or somehow capture the human experience, from profundity to the absurd.

The thing that has always bothered me with this little obsession is that thousands of people die every day, apparently. In hospitals, on sidewalks, baseball fields and rooftop parties the world over... you name it... Why aren't their final words jotted down for posterity's sake?

My job, kids, projects and yardwork don't keep me busy enough, so I'd like to start a record of regular people's... (wait for it) Not So Famous Last Words. That's where you come in.

If you are so inclined, please use the comments section to tell me what your friends, family and acquaintances said in their final moments. Please include their name, location and date, if possible.

It may sound a bit morbid, I realise that. But I'm seeing it as a tribute to our loved ones because I'm certain that they can beat Caligula's "I am still alive!". What a prick...

Thanks for your attention, your help in this endeavour and any Gummy Bears you would like to leave in the tip jar on your way out.

Be good to each other,

Judes

The conversation presently running through my head, 10:53pm

Judes (blurry-eyed, clearly needs to sleep): Oh! Hey blog... What's up?

Blog stands silent, turns it shoulders slightly to the left and looks at the ceiling.

Judes: What? What's wrong?

Blog: What's WRONG? Did you really just ask me what was wrong?

Judes: Well, yeah... I...

Blog (angrily): How dare you! You completely ignore me for months and then you just stroll in here like Caligula taking a pee break and expect everything to be OK?

Judes: Actually, I imagine Caligula just peed right in the middle of..

Blog: SHUT THE FUCK UP! You are completely missing the point. Again.

Judes (reaches out to touch Blog's arm, who walks away quickly and rests on the vintage Ice Cream freezer in the corner): I'm sorry. I didn't think... I didn't know that it would upset you this much.

Blog: For God's sake Judes. How could it not? Don't you remember how it was at first? You loved talking to me. We spent hours together, looking at what kind of weird shit we could find on the Internet. You did, you know. You loved talking to me. And we used to laugh. We laughed so much... but now that's all gone. It's just smoke. There aren't even any mirrors. It's all just smoke now. All because of that little bitch.

Judes (defensive): Hey. Just a fucking minute. Twitter is not a bitch.Twitter isn't anything. Well OK, no. That's not true. It's a friend, Blog. It's just a friend.

Blog (scoffing): If I spent that much time with my friends, I would have fucking killed them all and eaten the bodies... and we wouldn't have even been in the goddamn Andes! It's not normal!

Judes tries to find a witty response. He adjusts his collar. He shifts his weight uncomfortably. His mind is clearly racing.

Blog: Well?

Judes' mouth opens. Dry.

Blog: WELL????!?!?!

The Ice Cream machine awakens with a loud thud. They both jump. Dust dances in the pools of light around them.

Nobody speaks.

Blog: Jesus Christ. You're trying to find a way to say this with exactly 140 characters aren't you?

Blog storms off stage. The dull hum of the vintage Ice Cream machine fills the room like a Brian Eno record that somebody forgot to turn over.

Judes walks off into the darkness, a barely-audible "Seventy-eight...Seventy-nine..." cuts through the hum. Cuts through the silence.

School is out, apparently

My favourite part is when I whisper the chorus to move things along and it turns into a hardcore screamfest...

Thought of the day

Dear Professional Sports Stars who feel your opinion on same-sex marriage is important enough to share with the world,

Shut the fuck up, throw your balls and keep making 10 times more money than doctors and teachers. Assholes.

Warm regards,

Judes

Twittercidal Tendencies

(image: gizmodo.com)

My name is Judes. And I'm a twitterholic.

Um... Isn't this where you are all supposed to say, "Hi Judes!"?

I've been sober for 3 days now and... well, so far so good!

 I've heard all of your stories and mine really isn't any different. I started tweeting about... what? God... 8 months ago? It feels so much longer. I loved it at first, and I had it under control. I really did. I only followed some comedians and people that I stumbled upon that I found funny. Okay. Sarah Palin too. I admit it. How can you not though? It's like going to the carnival and not eating cotton candy. The red kind. It's not really red though, is it? More of a clown-blood pink. Like her heart, I imagine.

Anyway, I'm thinking about trying stand up and Twitter was a great resource for that. I discovered Marc Maron and his podcast. This has opened my eyes and has changed my life to a certain extent.  I discovered writers and performers I never knew existed. Craftspeople writing everyday, forcing me to hone my "jokes" or "stories" down to 130 characters. Razor-sharp precision. Most of the time, the razor was quite dull, with some blood and semen on it (how the hell did the semen get there?), but I was trying. Lord knows I was trying. And now, as a result - I feel, for the first time in a long time, that I'm ready to tackle the writing thing (or so I've made myself believe). I'm ready to jump into the comedy thing. Into everything. I'm ready. I think. So I'm grateful for that. I really am. It's what happened after that. That's where it all gets a bit fuzzy.

I started checking tweets obsessively. Not just "cute" obsession like that time I covered a high school locker with Natalie Merchant photographs (boy... I would have loved to seen the look on Jamal Smith's face when he saw that...), this was turning into the real deal. I came home from work - I checked twitter whislt playing catch with my son. I went to work, I stayed logged in to twitter. Just to see what was happening. And then I started tweeting. A lot. A wiseman over there once said that my tweets were like hand grenades in the hands of small children. I took it as a compliment (I'm pretty sure it was) but it also describes the sinister side of what I was doing. I really was like a child, shirking real-world responsibilities to try dazzling with wit... ok... maybe not so much wit as pure verbal bombardment. It was heady. I became obsessed with numbers. I got lost in it. Who am I following? It felt so good. Who's following me? Holy shit! HE stopped following me? Who the fuck does he think he is? I became one with it. I was tweeting 50 or 60 times a day. I was checking stars and followers just as regularly. What problem? I can handle it! I'm not hurting anyone.

But I was.

I was hurting that aspiration I mentioned earlier. I wasn't writing. I wasn't working on anything (well... I am working on something, but it's hush-hush right now) other than my tweets. And it was like heroin. Let's be clear I've never done heroin, but it was like what I imagine heroin is like. I needed more to feel anything, and the supply was drying up. The act itself wasn't fun anymore. I started to feel I was doing it to get the increasingly evasive rush. The tweets weren't there, and I started getting desperate. I may have made a few dick jokes that I will regret later in life. And then last Friday, I hit a wall.

I sat at work, staring at the screen. Forcing myself to come up with something funny when I knew full well that I had nothing funny to say. I was watching a terrible erotic thriller and it just washed over me. I had a problem,and only I could stop it.

So that's why I'm here tonight. To tell you all this. It's like confession, but without all the guilt, touching and weird lollipops.

I don't know if anyone I met on twitter will read this. I hope you do, if you're there. I "met" some really fantastic people that have either influenced me (by their style, their humour, their insane knowledge of Fabio trivia), comforted me (by making it wonderfully obvious that there are people out there with a similar sense of humour) or encouraged me (by telling me how much they enjoyed what I was writing). For those people, I hope I can use this newfound liberasobriety to make you laugh, and maybe even a little proud, knowing you were a part of this process.

My name is Judes... and I'm a twitterholic. But I think things are going to be okay.


"Mom, just get me a Pepsi! All I want is a Pepsi!'

The creepiest Flea Market stand on Earth?

Normally, I would write something like "What's wrong with this picture?", but in this case, I honestly don't think there is an answer.

The fact that the guy who ran the stand then came over to tell me that it was a portrait of him made it even more disturbing...

Dear Bobo Junior... / La chronique de Sastoff Junior

The sync on this is all messed but I'm tired and hungover, and I made it, so...

The Boboville Gazette is proud to announce the return of our very own Advice columnist/vlogger, Bobo Junior! If you've got a question, Bobo's got an answer!

Et la version française...

La Gazette de Sastoffville est fière de vous présenter le retour de la Chronique de Sastoff Junior! Vous avez des questions? Sastoff Junior a des réponses!

When good t-shirts die...

My girlfriend is my shirt nazi. She tells me when it's time to get rid of the t-shirts that I need to get rid of but just can't bring myself to throw out. I bought this one in Mexico a couple of years ago and I fear it will soon be on the shitlist. It's getting that "mansmell", as she likes to call it. It will be missed, so I thought it best to keep documentation. I wish I would have done the same with my Onion "Let the fucking begin" shirt 10 years ago. Oh well...

Montréal - Place des Arts - 8h

La peur (2e version)

I'm sending a video to a local comedy contest (in French) and I shot it a few times but the script was a bit too long. I'm sending them a shorter (and hopefully better)version (more details soon as I will undoubtedly be begging for votes in the next few weeks), so I decided to put the director's cut (that's right Ridley Scott, I went there, bitch!!! What you gonna do about it now?!?!?!)up here for my posterior's sake. Oh. No. Posterity's sake.
I hope the francophiles like it.

How Harper got his majority.

Do you have any other explanation?

La mode pour nuls, par un nul de la mode

Heille les jeunes!

Vous ne connaissez rien à la mode, mais vous savez ce que vous n'aimez pas? Moi aussi!

Étant donné que les nuls semblent être capable de faire n'importe quoi de nos jours (surtout sur internet et dans la politique), je me suis dit que je ne me laisse pas faire, moi, nul que je suis! Je prépare donc des chroniques sur la mode qui me tappe sur les nerfs, et j'ai besoin de vous...

Fermez vos yeux. Respirez. Bon.

Imaginez que vous marchez sur la rue. Une belle rue - pas trop sale, pas trop propre. Quelqu'un passe à côté de vous. C'est incroyable. C'est fatiguant. C'est horrible et ça vous tappe sur les nerfs, vous aussi. Dites moi ce que vous voyez. Parlez-moi. Je suis là pour vous écouter. Comme un psychologue, mais gratuit. Comme un mononc', mais sobre.

La mode, c'est pour tout le monde. Surtout les nuls comme nous. Laissez vos commentaires là, là. Vous voyez?

Je vous aime.

The comedy perks of having children

One day...

I will be able to keep this blog updated regularly at some point in the near future, so if you're here today, please wait or hop into the closest time machine. When you get back, please tell me how I am in the future. Am I funny? Am I tragic? Am I really Charlie Sheen? Do my kids take care of me in my old age or am I the victim of their cruel colostomy bag pranks? Any information you can give me will be greatly appreciated (ie I will give you 3 dollars).

Patience is a wart, you.

Chicken-related thing of the day

Katerine's album Les créatures was released in 1999 and it remains a staple of my musical diet. You really should listen to it, even if you don't understand the French. Here's one of the best tracks, an ode to a chicken - eaten warm at lunch, cold at dinner.

When boxers go bad...

Why acid is good for you - part 1.

Um...