I think people are going to have a problem with Kanye West’s new “movie”. Mainly because it’s pretty much half an hour of classic Kanye pretentiousness, and a little bit because he bullied that poor Taylor Swift girl. However, I also think that if we hadn’t been subjected to Kanye’s antics for the past six years, and this were the first we had heard of him, it would be hailed as innovative and spectacular.
“Runaway” is visually stimulating enough to warrant a watch and the supermodel bird lady is giving off a serious 2010 Edward Scissorhands vide, which I appreciate. So, if Kanye West is worth 34 minutes of your time, or if you just like gigantic papier-mâché Michael Jackson heads, or the ballet (or all three!), this is the video for you:
“Think about your life. Think about the greatest thing you have ever done, and think about the worst thing you have ever done. Try to remember what motivated you to do the former, and try to remember what motivated you to do the latter...
How similar are these two motives?”
Chuck Klosterman
The above is, in my opinion, an extremely fascinating query from Chuck Klosterman’s book, “IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas”. Klosterman (pronouncedKloh-ster-man) is a writer/journalist who has authored six books (both fiction and non-fiction) and countless articles. He loves pop culture and seems to write with the notion that people enjoy reading about topics which they already have an inherent understanding of, as opposed to more fringe-like subjects. Why learn about some obscure movie when you can weigh in on that juicy reality TV show you watch every Monday night? Critics have labeled Chuck Klosterman as everything from “the voice of a generation” to “a sloppy literary pothead”. But the word most thrown around when discussing his work is “curious”. That word will also serve as the basis for this blog post. Of greater interest to me than his books or essays is Klosterman’s extensive array of hypothetical situations. You can actually buy a set of cards containing crazy Klosterman questions called, “HYPERtheticals: 50 Questions for Insane Conversations”. Below are four of Chuck’s HYPERthetical scenarios, one link to the author reading a HYPERthetical himself, and one hypothetical of my own. If you can get past the absurdity of these things, some (like the one above) have pretty important questions at their core (others, not so much).
ONE) Think of someone who is your friend (do not select your best friend, but make sure the person is someone you would classify as “considerably more then an acquaintance”). This friend is going to be attacked by a grizzly bear. Now this person will survive the attack; that is guaranteed. There is a 100 percent chance that your friend will live. However, the extent of his injuries is unknown; he might receive nothing but a few superficial scratches, but he also might lose a limb (or multiple limbs). He might recover completely in twenty-four hours with nothing but a great story, or he might spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Somehow you have the ability to stop this attack from happening. You can magically save your friend from the bear. But his (or her) salvation will come at a peculiar price: if you choose to stop the bear, it will always rain. For the rest of your life, wherever you go, it will be raining. Sometimes it will pour and sometimes it will drizzle—but it will never not be raining. But it won’t rain over the totality of the earth, nor will the hydrological cycle be disrupted; these storm clouds will be isolated, and they will focus entirely on your specific whereabouts. You will also never see the sun again.
Do you stop the bear, accepting the lifetime of rain?
TWO) At the age of thirty, you suffer a blow to the skull. The head trauma leaves you with a rare form of partial amnesia—though otherwise fine, you’re completely missing five years from your life. You have no memory of anything that happened between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-eight. That period of your life is completely gone; you have no recollection of anything that occurred during that five year gap. You are told by friends and family that—when you were 25—you (supposedly) became close friends with someone you met on the street. You possess numerous photos of you and this person, and everyone in your life insists that you and this individual were best friends for over two years. You were (allegedly) inseparable. In fact, you find several old letters and e-mails from this person that vaguely indicate you may have even shared a brief romantic relationship. But something happened between you and this individual when you were 27, and the friendship abruptly ended (and apparently you never told anyone what caused this schism, so it remains a mystery to all). The friend moved away soon after the incident, wholly disappearing from your day-to-day life. But you have no memory of any of this. Within the context of your own mind, this person never existed. There is tangible proof that you deeply loved this friend, but whenever you look at their photograph all you see is a stranger. Six weeks after your accident, you are informed this person suddenly died.
How sad do you feel?
THREE) You are offered a Brain Pill. If you swallow this pill, you will become 10 percent more intelligent than you currently are; you will be more adept at reading comprehension, logic, and critical thinking. However, to all other people you know (and to all future people you meet), you will seem 20 percent less intelligent. In other words, you will immediately become smarter, but the rest of the world will perceive you as dumber (and there is now way you can ever alter the universality of this perception).
Do you take this pill?
FOUR) While traveling on business, your spouse (whom you love) is involved in a plane crash over the Pacific Ocean. It is assumed that everyone on board has died. For the next seven months, you quietly mourn. But then the unbelievable happens: it turns out your spouse has survived. He/She managed to swim to a desert island, where he/she lived in relative comfort with one other survivor (they miraculously located most of the aircraft’s supplies on the beach, and the island itself was filed with ample food sources). Against all odds, they have just been discovered by a Fijian fishing boat. The two survivors return home via helicopter, greeted by the public as media sensations. Immediately upon their arrival, there is an international press conference. And during this press conference, you cannot help but notice how sexy the other survivor is; physically, he/she perfectly embodies the type of person your mate is normally attracted to. Moreover, the intensity of the event has clearly galvanized a relationship between the two crash victims: they spend most of the interview explaining how they could not have survived without the other person’s presence. They explain how they passed the time by telling anecdotes from their respective lives, and both admit to having virtually given up on the possibility of a tearful good-bye hug. It’s extremely emotional. After the press conference you are finally reunited with your spouse. He/She embraces you warmly and kisses you deeply.
How long do you wait before asking if he/she was ever unfaithful to you on this island? Do you never ask? And if your mate’s answer is “yes,” would that (under these specific circumstances) be acceptable?
SIX) Howie Mandel arrives at your doorstep, gives you a fist pound because he’s a germaphobe, and offers you a deal. If accepted, a tiny computer chip will be planted inside ten heads of your choosing. These heads can be attached to any body, even people whom you’ve never met. There are two different types of computer chips and you may only choose one. The first is placed in the optic nerve and will permit you to see (but only see) anything and everything each of these ten people do, at your leisure. The second type of chip will tap into the auditory nerve and allow you to hear (but only hear) anything and everything that is uttered by, or uttered to, each of these ten individuals. The chosen computer chip will be implanted painlessly, and without consequence, while each subject is asleep. These people will never be made aware of object’s existence nor will the device be detected when passing through airport security. However, if you take the deal, both forms of computer chip will be lodged inside your own head and ten members of your innermost circle of family and friends will be chosen at random and afforded the ability to watch anything and everything you do at their convenience.
Deal or no deal? If deal, which option do you choose?
Even though I am technically a graduate of Kwantlen Polytechnic University, I still find myself at the Surrey campus a couple days per week. Two of my six part-time jobs are based out of those halls and I’m also taking/enduring one course this semester. In Thailand they say, “same same, but different”. This applies here.
One thing that is “different” about this semester, however, is that I’ve been doing heaps of writing. Technical report writing, facebook inbox messages, but mostly just writing for fun (sorta like this). At Kwantlen there are two school newspapers that I’m aware of. One is called the Kwantlen Chronicle and the other is called The Runner. I am hardly a religious reader of either rag. However, The Chronicle has left a bad taste in my mouth from my bball “daze” at Kwantlen. They would interview members of our team and always end up writing some strange shit about them. Or maybe it was what they DIDN’T write that bothers me—student journalist requests interview, athlete accepts, student meets athlete at pub, information is exchanged, beers, impromptu photo shoot takes place in athlete’s front yard. The story is never published. Strange shit.
On the other hand, The Runner seems to be taking things a bit more seriously and their issues have been consistently good for a few laughs while on break from class. So, late last week when something noteworthy went down in the Kwantlen parking lot, The Runner was who I turned to.
Something happened. I wrote about it and submitted it to The Runner on the very same day. The Runner asked me if I’m single. I said yes. The Runner said that, not only are they going to “run” my article, but they are not going to rest until “Cute Girl” and I have been reunited. I told them that wasn’t really the point of the piece, but whatever. It is going to be included in next month’s Runner with an angle similar to “missed encounters” on craigslist.com or the “I saw you” section of the Georgia Straight. I find the whole thing hilarious, and silly, and I’m in! Here’s the article:
PAY IT FORWARD (or don’t pay it at all)
I hate paying for parking at Kwantlen and so do you. There, at a university as diverse as ours, we already have something in common. So what do we do about it?
At the Surrey campus I park, almost exclusively, in what has come to be known as the “gravel pit” (if you’ve been there, you know). The other day, as I attempted to navigate my aging Ford Explorer around traffic controllers and through the treacherous crater-like potholes that mark the entrance to “the pit”, I noticed a dark sedan rumbling out in the opposite direction. The driver of the sedan was a cute young brunette—quite cute, actually. Just as we are about to pass each other, she reaches onto the dash, grabs her full-day parking stub, and dangles it out the window at me. The move is so nonchalant that it takes me a moment to comprehend her gesture. It almost appears routine for her, like she has done this a thousand times before. I snatch up her permit, thank her enthusiastically, and life goes on.
Approximate elapsed time of the entire transfer? Three seconds. That’s less time than it takes you to pump your palm under one of those sanitary sauce dispensers after using the old creepy bathroom with the shower in it on the first floor of Fir (formerly known as ‘D’) building. It is my fourth year at Kwantlen and this is the first time such a thing has happening to me. I suppose it was her act of kindness (or perhaps her aforementioned cuteness) that was responsible for the smile on my face. It couldn’t have been the five dollars she saved me—I had not planned on paying anyway.
I no longer pay for parking at Kwantlen. Not because I think it’s grossly overpriced (which it is), or that IMPARK makes up to $15 per stall per day (which they do, do the math), or because I’m a badass (which I am not). The reason I don’t pay for parking is because history has shown that whether I pay or I stray…I get ticketed anyway.
I used to purchase official IMPARK (Imperial Parking Canada Corporation) “e-permits”. These are the electronic parking passes that you buy online and, in theory, offer reasonable weekly rates all while reducing your carbon footprint. Because there is no physical pass or paperwork involved, there is nothing to display on your dash. When the parking police notice you are permit-less and plug in your license plate number to issue a violation, their little machines are supposed to inform them that you are, in fact, exempt from punishment (for now). However, this system did not work so smoothly in my case.
When I parked without a weekly e-permit, I got a fine. When I parked with a weekly e-permit – same story. The tipping point was when I came out to the parking lot after a tough midterm exam to find my vehicle missing. It had been unjustly towed. University life is often one of two things: (a) stressful, or (b) very stressful. I could no longer tolerate sitting in class not knowing if I’d have a ride home. I had to make a change. I decided that, if my Kwantlen education has taught me anything, it is that I should not pay to be ticketed and towed while inside receiving said education. I stopped paying altogether. I felt great. I also called IMPARK to complain (and to tell them to stop towing my vehicle). They were quick to remind me of my numerous parking infractions (some legit, some not). But I was even quicker to establish that they would not be receiving another cent from me. We haven’t spoken since.
Now, I understand that my situation may not be commonplace. Though if you sit next to a perfect stranger in class and try to break the ice by saying something like, “That parking lot made of gravel sure is a crazy fuckin’ place, huh?” They will invariably respond with some near-death (or at least near-inconvenient) IMPARK experience of their own.
Ultimately, we as students, along with the KSA, should get organized and propose bill, sign a treaty, or maybe even start a revolt; anything to get a handle on this parking crisis! But until such a bill is passed, why don’t we follow Cute Girl’s lead and start with some passing of our own. If you possess a validated parking permit, pay it forward on your way out of the gravel pit. Too classy for the pit? This concept extends to even the most luxurious of Kwantlen lots. If pulling out of a numbered slot in one of the paved sections, roll down your window and tell one of the dozen-or-so stall scavengers impatiently waiting for your spot that it is paid for (only if it actually is). It will make their day. It will make your day.
I think Bob Marley even wrote a song about passing on your left hand side. I’m not sure if the man was referring to Kwantlen parking permits or not, but Bob Marley was rarely wrong. Oh, you like Bob too? Well I guess that’s two things we have in common.
Falling out of touch with all my
friends are somewhere getting wasted,
hope they’re staying glued together,
I have arms for them.
Take another sip of them,
it floats around and takes me over
like a little drop of ink in a glass of water
Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.
Cinderella through the room
I glide and swan cause I’m the best slow dancer
in the universe
Falling out of touch with all my
friends are somewhere getting wasted,
hope they’re staying glued together,
I have arms for them.
Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.
Now I hardly know them
and I’ll take my time
I’ll carry them over, and I’ll make them mine.
Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.
Amadou Diallo is 22 years old and has just relocated from Guinea to the 1100 block of Wheeler Avenue in the South Bronx. It is 1999 and the drug trade in this poor working-class neighbourhood is bustling. Though dangerous, Wheeler Avenue is exactly the kind of place an immigrant in New York City is looking for—cheap and close to a subway. Minutes before midnight on February 3, 1999, Amadou Diallo perches himself on the steps outside his building and soaks up the night. It has likely been a long day for Diallo. He works as a peddler but a mild stutter and far from perfect English make selling videotapes on the sidewalk difficult. Furthermore, a good friend of Diallo’s has recently been mugged by a group of armed men. In this quiet moment to himself perhaps the short and unassuming man envisions himself overcoming the odds to find success in the big city. Then again, maybe he is simply contemplating what to pack for lunch tomorrow.
A group of four plainclothes police officers pull onto Wheeler Avenue in an unmarked car. They comprise a fragment of the NYPD’s Street Crime Unit and each carries a semiautomatic handgun. This unit is dedicated to patrolling certain crime “hot spots”. Amadou Diallo happens to be standing in one of those hot spots.
He’s out here alone? At midnight? In this lousy neighbourhood? ALONE? A black guy? He’s got a gun; otherwise he wouldn’t be here. And he’s little, to boot. Where’s he getting the balls to stand out there in the middle of the night? He must have a gun.
The four large men approach Diallo. One calls out, “May we have a word?” Diallo pauses and then flees into the building’s vestibule. A chase ensues. Cornered in the vestibule, Diallo turns his body sideways and digs at something in his pocket. “Show me your hands!” The cops scream. Everything is dark but one officer sees Diallo grasping something black—like a gun. “GUN!” The officer yells. Diallo continues pulling on the object in his pocket and raises it in the direction of the policemen. All four cops begin frantically shooting, aiming for “center mass”. A total of 41 shot are fired. Amadou Diallo is killed. As the cement dust settles the men approach the body. Diallo’s arm is out and his right palm open. Where there should be a gun, there is…a wallet. A snap judgment gone fatally wrong. The four large men sit down on the steps, next to Diallo’s bullet-ridden body, and cry. Bruce Springsteen writes a song:
