Friday, January 09, 2004

I promised I wouldn't cry, so I didn't...I got angry

WHOA! Ok, if you live in Toronto, don't go outside today. Stay where you are, in front of your, warm, buzzing computer.

I stepped outside today and my eyeballs froze, expanded, and when I came back inside they cracked and fell apart. I shrieked like a banshee and gave permanent nightmares to everybody I work with for the rest of their lives. That is some cold out there.

I swore I wouldn't write anything today, I swore I would work. But...it ain't gonna happen.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

Laid Back

So T OH DD DIDDLY DOO came back, bringing up that infuriating question. Who is this Todd? Why two D's? Why ANYTHING? My entire world has been flipped upsidedown.

His promise of communication in ways other than brief and mysterious notes in the guestbook has fallen through. I've lost all faith in Todd.

Dave threatened me with a fight in a dirty ally. It wasn't dirty at first, but all that crap that shot out of me when Dave screamed "BRING IT ON, ALL OF YOU. AHHHHHHH!!" kinda made it dirty. I fluttered, and whimpered like I had been electrocuted as his shockwave of words washed over me.

Dave was very scary, but it was the fact that he referred to me, the only other person in the ally as "All of you" that really creeped me out. Either he's crazy, or he sees dead people...And then challenges them to fights...Its all very peculiar.

At least the dead people would be on my side.

Ok, Lucas was right

It's stupid, and not worth it.

Some people are just some people.

Read the word "people" a lot and it starts to look mighty strange.

The Realization

When I was angry I was going to call this one "LOOK OUT, SHE'S GOING TO BLOW!"

Haha, my cheesy attempt at some sort of rebut or argument fell on its face, mostly because she is right. I just thought I'd put her site on mine so that those of you that know me can delight in her anger and truth. She knows my type. I'm a snail who hasn't seen the world for what it really is.


Time to Rebut

Alright, Blog fight.
Dammit, I don't want to fight.

When I first read it I had so many questions. Who is this? Why does she care so much? Doesn't she realize that she is just emphasizing my point? And why is she attacking me personally? How can I make her cry? Why am I shaking with such red-hot fury? Whoa, steam really DOES come out your ears!(When you pour boiling water in them)

These are not tears of joy.

But then I thought...Wait...I don't know this person. All I know is this; she is probably a friend of Dave, she writes well, and she truly thinks I'm pathetic. Fair enough. She seems nice enough, she can be funny, and its good that she can be passionate about very trivial things i.e. My silly opinions. I just want her to know that this thing is not me, and never could be. What I write is shite. This blog is my toilet. I want her to know that whatever she thinks of me, good or bad, is false because she has no idea who I am. I'm not going to apologize or back down from the things I write whether I truly believe them or not. I'm not going explain anything.

I said that Coldplay sucks, and I believe that, with all my heart, they do indeed suck.

However, and this is the real Max talkin', I KNOW for a fact that not everybody that listens to their music is a bad person, far from it. I just know that if Justin Timberlake names them as his favourite band, they can't be as deep as many think they are.

I can understand that you think I'm arrogant, I am, just not to the extent you think I am. If you met me, then I think things would be different.

(Of course, this entire thing has proven a lot, especially my vanity)

Well that sucked.

I know that I shouldn't be angry, that it shouldn't matter, but it hurts even more when I realize that I am, and it does.

My hair is blue, my shirt is red, my favourite movie is, well, not Judge Dredd

Dyed my hair last night, while packing my belongings. Had a few of the boys over to my new place, to show off my "Radiation King" TV. I most definitely do not have a microwave. I most definitely do not have a lot of things.

Angry, ok, but its going to be boring and repetitive. For those of you that live close enough to walk to work. Move farther. Walking to work may sound convenient, but there is nothing like sitting on a morning streetcar, surrounded by sleepy business people. Ah those wacky business people, what will they come up with next?

Their world is bizarre. They wake up everyday, shower, shave, eat a grapefruit. Grab the paper, maybe put on a CD player and head for the door. Grab the streetcar, meet an annoying friend. Talk about nothing for a moment. Read some cryptic numbers, pick up cell phone and talk to Cathy. Look at me for a second in potential disgust, then realize, I'm just a kid. Jump off the streetcar with the fellow lemmings and jump in an elevator. Spend the day doing nothing but laughing all too whole-heartedly, and talking about the secretary who in most cases is a girl straight out of college who wants nothing to do with them and everything to do with some guy from the bank branch downstairs (That guy is dreamy). Leave the office tired, making awkward, awful conversation in the elevator, run to the street car. Sit in silence. Go home, go out, drink. Go home, sleep. And they do this 5 days a week for years and years of their lives. Poor business people.

I got a fortune cookie this morning "Good news will come to you from far away"

ooooh...How vague. I wish it could give me at least some sort of time frame. And the damn news better not be "Well the good news is that they can send your prosthetic limbs from Taiwan tomorrow". That is of course, after I lose all my limbs because I was pushed into a giant jet engine by TERRORISTS! Very vague TERRORISTS.

"If you don't do...Something...Then we'll be forced to do...Something... Horrifying to somebody or something you enjoy being around sometimes...Maybe"


Its becoming ridiculous how little I do here. Of course there are periods of hard work, but for the most part I truly do next to nothing.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004


I have thusly dined with the Burger King. A very gracious host to be sure.

His many indonesian slaves were all too happy to warm me up a delicious veggie burger.
I think they really love working there. So much that they try to make it look like they're about to cry just to mask their uncontrollable joy.

Today I've eaten 4 Doughnuts, Coffee, A bottle of water, and a Veggie burger. I'm so healthy it hurts. I'll eat ice cream for dinner.

I just erased a massive rant on music today. How its stale and all. But its not worth it. It just scares me because it just seems so incredibly obvious and to me, just as important that we continue moving forward in music. Instead of staying in one place. The industry (which is a terribly pretentious word to be sure) is staying put. Sure trends come and go, but the majority of them are SHOVED DOWN OUR THROATS with a cold, calculated precision so that nothing gets out of hand. Nothing slips through. Of course there are some that get through, but even those seem so concentrated on being "independent" that they lose any sort meaning. Did you know that converse was bought by Nike? But then again, whats the difference?

I could go on about hip-hop too. Thats gotta move along.
Thank God for Outkast.

I hate my writing.
My opinions can be very, very vague, and incredibly stupid sometimes.


So here we are.

I have my own apartment for the next little while. And by golly it feels weird. I spent most of last night tossing and turning, listening to the wind howling down College. "It sounds like a herd of rushing bulls caught in a net. Screaming and kicking". It really does.

Should I rant about the pathetic 911-rapping? Nah. But I guess I could recommend a song that is actually better than I expected. 911-Gorrilaz feat. D12 and some weird guy. They wrote it 2 days after the whole 911 thing. And they keep the whole "my dick is bigger than yours" thing to a minimum. Its got a cool flow to it anyway, anything by Automator does. Check it out I guess. I wonder if I should do this or not.

Here is my new line in da clubs

"Hey baby, howsabout you and I head over to my step-grammas place which I'm taking care of for a bit under the condition that I talk to the plants. We can't talk too loud, there's nothing to eat but some old grapes, and if you really must know yes, I need you here because it scares the crap out of me to be alone.
I'm scared. Do you know where I can buy cheap toilet paper, and lot's of it?"

The ladies love dat real sexy "I'm a 10 year old boy in a 19 year old's body that likes to talk like he is a 30 year old prophet" weakling shit.

Ok, I got some coffee in me.

I once dated a girl named Caffiene. She was cool an' all but the thing is she was constantly shreiking at the top of her lungs "MY HUMMINGBIRD HEART IS GOING TO EXPLODE". And like that joke, it didn't work out.

Shall I rant? Ok, a taste. Taste my rant. It tastes good doesn't it.

Ok, imagine this. A guy masturbating to C.O.P.S. haha


Why is it spelt C.O.P.S anyway?

Completly Oppresive Pig Service

Can you tell that I haven't eaten today? If you could see my pale, shriveled prune face and hear my stomach pleading for some precious sanity then maybe you would understand. Right now, I could eat crude oil and say "My mouth is full of crude oil, and I'm LOVIN' IT"

New "McWHITE McMEAT" Chicken-Mcflavoured McNuggets, with "BBQ, Honey, or new "Crude Oil" McDipping sauce

I just ate 4 doughnuts, and I'm feelin' kinda woozy. I'll write more later.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004


First of all, I'm not weird you're weird.

I don't want to start with the moaning and the bitching about other people. "But Max, that's what you do? It's your thing". I know, I know, screaming legions of fans, calm down. It's just that I'm sick and tired of other peoples opinons. Of course, that doesn't mean they're bad people, or bad opinions. I just don't give a shit.

"But Max, don't you want to know what kind of music we like?"

Sometimes, yes. Of course I do, but if all you want to tell us about is how great fucking coldplay is and how you could listen to them endlessly then no, I don't want to hear it. Coldplay sucks. Just as much as any other contrived, catchy "I mean so much, just look at me" bands (ie Travis, The Verve, Oasis). The thing is, they mean nothing. Just because he has giant blue beatuiful eyes that you could get lost in for hours doesn't mean that his music means anything. Sure they're probably intelligent guys. Sure they write catchy music, and wear lots of denim but it ends there. Coldplay along with fightclub and southpark have been blown so incredibly out of proportion. Why? It's probably because they gear themselves towards the intelligent, lonely, students that need something to make them feel like they're somehow intresting and different. Which of course is completly false. There are SO few genuinely interesting people out there, let alone original. Everyone is contrived.

"But Max...you're an asshole"

I know, and I'm contrived as well, whats your point?

"Well then why should we even bother reading anything you write. It's not original, you can't even say "Masachusetts" and when you try you ineveitably end up in tears because you're laughing so hard. To yell you the truth, there is a growing number of people that think that you may in fact be mentally ill. When you read Queens Quay you pronounce it Queens Kway for Christ Sake. Get off your horse retard."

I don't need you, you Coldplay lovin' bastards. That's right, anybody who has ever even heard a Coldplay song is a bastard, even by accident! And yeah, that's including everyone down in Massatwoshits HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

"C'mon guys, lets go listen to our lame, tame, safe music. It'll make us think that the world is a lot less complicated and give us the impression that we somehow understand something about life. That and I'm getting a little weirded out"


"Hey do you guys hate George Bush?"
"Yeah I hate him a lot"
"How much do you hate him"
"This much"
"Whoa, that's a lot"
"Yeah I know, he's so stupid"
"Yeah he is, like a do-do bird"
"hahah George Bush is a do-do bird"


*At this point the tape ends, shakily, with screaming in the background until the camera eventually falls to the ground focusing on a guitar with a "dave matthews band" sticker stuck on the side.

I have my own apartment.

I wrote the following yesterday in about 15 minutes. Some of its funny, a lot of of it isn't. Enjoy.

I can’t wrap my head around a lot of things. I don’t think it’s because I’m absent minded or even the very possible stupid. It’s just that some things are so strange to me, so very weird and there doesn’t seem to be any real explanation behind them. For example; my father looks like a young Neil Young. And not just a little bit, but almost exactly like Neil Young. Why? What strange cosmic reason could there be for my dad to look exactly like a famous singer\songwriter. I don’t think it’s ever helped him and it certainly has never been a downside. It just is, and that confuses me to no end.

Which brings me to a much more important point. Why don’t I look like someone famous? What did my dad do that I haven’t? Ok, let me rephrase that. Can my dad juggle? I thought not. Bah… Dad. Still, my Dad can always say “Do you look like Neil Young?” at which I have to respond “No, but I can juggle” and he has to repeat “Yes, we know that already, but do you look like Neil Young?” This is where I take control of the argument by screaming “I HATE YOU” and locking myself in the bathroom.

Why can’t I look like Jimmy Carter? Or June Carter? Or Joe Carter? Why am I not the tallest man in the world so that I can look down on you from my massive, distorted, misshapen head and laugh the laugh of giant people, the laugh of kings? Have I done something to deserve this? Why hast the lord forsaken me so? Oh I get it…He or She (or It, I think It always sounds masculine anyway) is saving me for something bigger, something far more important. You normals as we higher ups like to call you, couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to have that sort of weight on your shoulders…your puny, weak, yet admittedly proportionate shoulders.

Or then again, maybe I don’t need to look famous because I already am famous…yeah…that’s the ticket.

Either way my famous-ness isn’t really an explanation. I’m still me and I don’t understand why. It looks to me like all these physiographers and astro-scientists are going in the wrong direction. Isn’t there something a little more important than looking at squiggly bugs and salty seas? Think about it. In fact, don’t think about it. Think about me. If the science world would only take their nerdy little heads out of their nerdy little asses (probably looking for squiggly bugs) for but a second, they would see that every question they have can simply be answered by figuring out what makes me tick, figuring out why I don’t look like The Fonz. I am the Rosetta stone.

And so I ask you, the sissy-ass reader, who is more important than me? Really, who? Because I don’t see a lot of contenders.

Sunday, January 04, 2004

Oh this? Yeah, this sucks

These days I never dream. It's actually sort of depressing. But the last two nights I've had some of the strangest, most real dreams I've ever had. The first was that I was caught in a school shooting, which was absolutely terrifying to say the least, but it gets worse.

So I'm sneaking through the school, because I've decided to be the hero, which of course would never happen in real life, but alas, this is but a dream. I'm looking for the person with a gun, along with quite a few people actually. So anyway, I realize that once I meet up with this person, I'm gonna need to deal with him somehow, so I look around for something, anything to kill a person with and naturally the first thing I see is...Get this...A giant, razor sharp axe. So we walk into what looks like a garage when we hear someone walking down the hall. We all freak out and take our positions, the door opens, and an absolutely beautiful blonde girl walks in carrying a rifle. Almost instantly three or four people are on her pinning her down, and someone yells "SHE'S GOT A BOMB, DO SOMETHING!". Now here is the disturbing part. Since I'm holding an axe, and somebody is yelling at me, my first instinct is to swing as hard as I can down on the girls neck. THUNK! The axe goes partially through her neck exposing the layered meat within. I woke up.

The next dream was almost more disturbing but a little less violent. So me and Tupac (what?) are chillin' at my house. Tupac, looks nothing like Tupac in real life, but that doesn't seem to bother me. Around this time a talent show is announced, which no, is not a normal occurrence in my house. So Tupac and I feel like we just gots to enter and decide that I'll beatbox...And Tupac will do his thing. Ok. So we're called onto the stage, which I don't think exists in my house, and Tupac tells me we can start. I start beatboxing, and then realize with dismay that Tupac has forgotten who was rappin' and who was beatboxin' and decided to beatbox a beat of his own. So there we are on stage both beatboxin totally different beats and we both know it, but decide the show must go on. I woke up. (And for the last time, I was not soaked in my own urine...It was somebody else's)

I don't know what the hell any of that means, but I can't see it being a good thing.

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