Sometimes I give change to homeless people, maybe not as much as I should, but I swear it happens. I few times I’ve bought that newspaper from them. The one produced by street people–the name escapes me right now, it’s called Outreach or something. I like buying them, they’re only a buck or so and they’re littered with grammatical errors, but they’re often funny to read. Sometimes on-purpose funny, but often by accident. They’re also littered with things like factual errors, unfinishable crosswords and opinion pieces that just don’t make sense.

Regardless, they make for a more entertaining streetcar ride than a Metro, so because of that, I buy them. Which is why this video by Willis Earl Beal makes me feel like saint! Look at all those wretched people ignoring Mr. Willis Earl Beal, walking right by him like their is something inherently better about them over him. Did they just release an album? I doubt it. A book? nope. If you call them, will they sing to you? Willis Earl Beal does all those things! Plus, he’ll be doing it in Toronto on April 30th at the Drake.

So apparently in addition to being a twisted–if brilliant–filmmaker, David Lynch is also a musician. He’s the type of musician you might imagine David Lynch to be, bizarre and difficult and a little bit disturbing, but I don’t think the music actually sounds as one might expect. I don’t exactly know how I pictured David Lynch’s singing voice, but it wasn’t the high-pitched, underdeveloped adolescent I heard on the above video for “Crazy Clown Time.”

I’ll say, his music leaves me with the same sense his films do. In that I’m never quite sure how to react or how to digest them. I should note, I do consider myself a fan, but I still leave his work confused. Not because I’m unable to follow the narrative–although, I’m often not–but because I don’t know how it makes me feel. His work doesn’t lend itself to binaries like “good” and “bad.” I’ve never walked out of one of his films raving about it, but I’d never condemn his work either. He makes me uncomfortable and I like that.

This video had a similar impact on me, initially his voice was the tough thing to digest, but a couple minutes it it kind of normalizes in your brain. The weirdest thing to me was actually the inclusion of the black bars, blocking out the nipples. I mean, this is the internet man!

There’s nothing particularly special about a cardboard shipping tube, there’s no real reason to get all giddy and girly. But you do—er, well I do.

You could claim it’s not the tube and I suppose you’d be part right. The tube is nothing without the mystery of what’s inside. It’s also the tube, the sturdy brown cardboard with the seam that spirals down the length of it like a candy cane. The promise of gifts to come and – more importantly – evidence of those gifts; it’s a symbiotic relationship.

It’s an excuse to walk down to the post office and say hello to the gentleman who works the counter and wave a little card in his face that says: “I’m important!”

That there are people out there in the world whom I don’t know and have never met me, but want me to have things. Sometimes I’ve ordered them, but sometimes I haven’t. Sometimes they’re gifts from family and sometimes I have no idea they’re coming at all.

But when that gentleman smiles, scans my card and ruffles through his boxes of parcels and packages, there’s always a small pang of anxiety; what if someone took my tube by mistake?

What if it wasn’t a mistake?

What if I’m the victim of—gasp!—mail theft.

What course of action can a person even take in these circumstances? Once it’s been picked up, is it even still traceable?

Should I alert the authorities?

How did the thief know I was expecting a package?

Was this crime punitive in nature? Did he want to punish me? Or did this thief know something I don’t know about my tube’s contents?

Do I know the thief?

Or maybe, the gentleman across the counter is him, maybe my package isn’t missing at all. Maybe based on the label, the attendant has decided he’d rather keep my cardboard tube for himself. Perhaps he peaked inside and saw something he fancied.

What if it’s right there, in one of those plastic bins and this guy is just waiting for me to turn around and walk out of here before he busts it open and celebrates another job well done; another successful scheme.

How deep does this thing go, his wife works the counter sometimes—does she know?

Of course she does, how could she not? She must be in on it; they must use the post office a front—for smuggling! Yeah, larceny is probably just a pleasant perk.

But who’s going to stop them?

Certainly not me, I can’t prove a thing!

He has all the power here. How often has this happened before? And to how many people? Is he targeting me?

Oh, how could I have been so blind! So trusting!

I mean, I get a fair number of packages, but maybe there should be more. Maybe he lets the mediocre stuff slip through just so I don’t get suspicious, but keeps the really choice stuff for himself.

Who knows what could have been coming my way: first class tickets by priority mail, bubble wrapped boxes of premium chocolate truffles, sturdy tubes of limited edition prints—my walls are so bare! I could really use those prints!

I should mention this to someone; he can’t get away with it any longer. He’s guilty, his face is guilty, but there’s no way for me to prove a thing.

I can’t tell; does he know I know? He looks nervous. Is he hoping I’ll just turn around and leave? Keep hoping. I’ll just play cool. Yeah, I won’t say anything today; I’ll wait until I have more evidence.

I’ll keep perfect track of my mail from here on in, what goes in and what goes out. I’ll correspond with the people I receive things from, send thank you cards and follow up emails. Soon I’ll be able to predict the incoming tubes before the cards even show up in my mail slot—get things going like clockwork and the, I’ll lay the trap.

I’ll mail something to myself. Then, when he steals it I’ll call him on it, I’ll bring the police in with me and slap on the cuffs. He’ll protest, but it’ll be too late.

But how can I be sure he’ll take the bait? I’ll need to get to know him better.

Yeah, I’ll be friendly and jovial; I’ll get him to trust me. I’ll ask him about his life, his kids—oh god, what if he has kids?

Those poor children, what will they do once their dad is behind bars. And it’s all my fau—“Please sign here sir.”

Oh, he found my tube. Oh! Look there’s my name written across the centre on a white label; my, that’s nice penmanship and they spelled my name right! People so often spell it with a “c”—“Luc.” It’s the French way you know. Oh! It’s sturdy too—very durable. And look at that colourful business card fastened to the end with packing tape, I wonder what’s inside!

When the Arcade Fire picked up the Grammy for album of the year, it was a triumph for the little guy. Finally the mainstream media had made the right choice and picked an album that achieved its success through artistic merit rather than an enormous marketing machine. The Suburbs was the little album that could; the problem is, it could so good it’s not little anymore. So tonight, when it picked up the Polaris Prize—an award given solely for artistic merit and not charts, popularity or sales—many of those same people cried foul.

But I think accusing Polaris of selling out or being disconnected with the underground is misguided. Polaris isn’t the indie awards, and an award mandated that sales, charts and marketing shouldn’t play a role in the decision making process should work both ways. Being able to release an album on Merge records, take it to number one on the Billboard charts, scoop up a Grammy and a Juno and get near unanimous praise from independent and mainstream media the world over is just the kind of thing that should be celebrated with an award for artistic merit–all the success this album has garnered has been on artistic merit, right up to last night.

The award should not discriminate between accessible or seditious music.

The Suburbs is a rare album that speaks to nearly everyone, it’s loose story about the aching apathy that plagues suburban kids is something that the majority of us have grown up with, not to mention that “We Used To Wait” might just be the best song they’ve ever written.

It’s easy to forget all that though because we’ve all heard the damn thing a million times since it was released a little over a year ago. I think that’s one of the issues with this win as well, an award for artistic merit should sound new and exciting and I’ve already gone through my The Suburbs phase–I’ve moved on.

The other issue I think has to do with the prize money. It’s hard to get excited for Arcade Fire winning this award because they really don’t need the $30 000 that comes along with it. For a band like Braids or Hey Rosetta!, that prize money would be huge. Hell, for anyone on that list other than Arcade Fire that money would be huge.

But still, just because they don’t need the award, it doesn’t mean they don’t deserve it–they do. I’m not suggesting they solely deserve it, it could have gone to any of those short listed and it would have been ok. Even more than previous years, the list was stacked with deserving, and realistic candidates. But in the end, it had to go to The Suburbs, because no album this year did what it did. Every milestone that Arcade Fire hit along the way was evidence–an argument–in their favour.

But really, I mean whatever, if we’re in a year where people get upset with the Polaris winner because they’ve already got a Grammy, I’m cool with that, be upset, because that’s pretty fucking awesome.

Ever since 2011 started animals have been dying, en masse, all over the place. We’ve been told it’s fairly common and all the commotion is media hype, but that doesn’t really sit right. I mean, first it was 1,000 birds in Arkansas, then the fish started dying, then more birds and now crabs. Now, I’m not saying this is some kind of biblical end of days kind of thing, although I might have already, but it’s a cause for concern I think, no?

There’s a song by The Police called “Canary In a Coalmine” and it’s kind of about the idea that this person is a little, say, over cautious.

First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect
Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect
You live you life like a canary in a coalmine
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line

It’s a great song, and one of the things I love most about it is that the person it’s about is pretty ambiguous. It’s not an obvious jab at a girl that won’t let Sting make out with her, or some other kind of “stop being square” accusation. It’s a pretty gender neutral song that’s just saying “stop being so timid, live more.”

Of course, the thing about a Canary in a Coalmine, as the saying goes, is that they live short, but meaningful lives. They’re the first signs of danger, which I think is something we can acknowledge – without getting too far into conspiracy theories – could be scaled upwards. Animals with more delicate respiratory systems, animals like birds and fish, will be affected by upcoming dangers before more complicated animals like say … mammals.

Even a pretty incredible video like this, of a swarm of birds above the Eaton’s Centre in Toronto, is uncomfortably eerie. If it weren’t for the morbid news of that past week it would be beautiful, but the movements feel anxious and desperate now. Like they’re being closed in.

I know! Like a swarm of fucking locusts! All I’m saying is, even as a non-believer, I still kind of hope this is the end of days. Could you imagine? It’s it’s all true?! And really, is bird dropping from the sky in enormous numbers and fish floating to the surface by the millions not something you’d expect to read in the bible? I just want to know what happens next. When the mammals start dying, I’m going to church.

Update #1 01/07/11 10:30am: Behold, a google map to help keep track of the carnage:

View Mass Animal Deaths in a larger map

Update #2 01/07/11 3:06pm:So science blogger and pretty smart lady Maggie Koerth-Baker isn’t buying any of it, and you know what? she’s probably right. I trust her sensibilities more than my own. There is no birdpocaypse, just some dead birds, and there will probably be more which we may or may not hear about.

It’s a question I’ve been pretty consistently asking myself since I can remember. Who am I supposed to be? What do I need to do to be fulfilled and happy?

I feel like I’m getting closer, but every decision, every step, has so much weight attached to it, it’s difficult to move. For most of my twenties I was content with just living. Just being a young adult and being reckless and irresponsible. It’s a stage that I would say is pretty important in becoming a grown up, but also one that is very important to grow out of. Finally, after nearly a decade of reckless, irresponsibility it seemed appropriate to move on and dedicate my life to my life’s purpose. After some humming and hawing, it seemed that purpose would be writing.

That doesn’t really sound right, I think the purpose for everyone is the same–to create value and meaning in your life. You choice is the route you take to pursue that, I chose writing. What is appealing and kind of magical about writing is that you can apply it to anything. You get to spend your time becoming an expert in whatever it is your currently writing about and then you break it down into an easily digestible size and share it with people. The problem is, it’s kind of important sometimes that you choose a stream, that you have a field. Are you a science writer? A music writer? Politics, crime, war? That’s been the next stage, to find out what type or writer I am. But I don’t know, like I said, what drew me to it in the first place was the freedom to learn about anything and everything. It took me a decade to find out I was a writer, I don’t have another decade to learn what kind. I suppose that means I’ll just have to decide. I’ll have to make myself a certain type. One thing I know is I don’t want to be negative, I want to reveal things to people that will enrich their lives, not make them angry. I’m not so concerned with the pursuit of truth, I’m not even sure I really believe in truth.

What I’m interested in is culture, and cultural movements and the things that influence those things. I’m interested in people who do spectacular things–geniuses. I want to talk to geniuses and let them rub off on me a bit and tell their story so hopefully when someone is reading about it, they might confuse things for a little while and think I’m a genius too.

But where do you start? You can’t just start out at genius level, then there’s nowhere to go. Does that mean I start by interviewing totally average people? Who would read that?

Two-Year Old Toddler Smokes Cigarettes – Watch more Funny Videos

Record Club: INXS “Never Tear Us Apart” from Beck Hansen on Vimeo.