Apple Clubs Seal Hunt App

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 Newfoundland game developer, Matt Smyth has had his seal clubbing app rejected by the careful screeners who brought you this app, until it was banned after public outcry. Wow, I'm sorry that I missed out on the opportunity to virually shake a baby to death on my iPhone.

Apple has apps that allow you to kill all sorts of animals, from deer to fish to bears to humans. The Grand Theft Auto app allows you to kill innocents, prostitutes (if you kill them after being a customer, you get your money back) and police officers. All for gain.

In terms of this discussion, our varying opinions on the seal hunt matter not one bit. This is not about the seal hunt, it is about the absurdity of glorifying one type of violence, while vilifying another and our conditioned acceptance of  the false hierarchy that we create around violence.

In Canada, murdering people is illegal, the seal hunt is not. In Apples view you may use its platform to kill humans, but not seals.

 Now, I like a good hunk of meat as much as any carnivore, and in terms of the cruelty to animals, I take the argument down to its Zen base. All things are living and the fact is that if you want to live, something has to die. I recognize that every bite I take is the result of violence, and that includes the carrots.

I don't mean to rag on  one company. Apple has the right to refuse any app on its platform that it may choose, but we need to ask ourselves a wider question.

Why is that we accept routine violence against any number of species (most notably, us), while repulsing over a practice that is a drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of daily slaughter that surrounds us?

Are we really so seduced by the way things look, rather than the way they are?

Does perception really beat reality every time?

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Matt Smyth, who developed the game, has a blog.

There Are Faces I Remember

It was Easter Sunday, 2009, and my bony carcass was surveying one of the most marvelous and magical locales I have ever witnessed. The Kejetia market in Kumasi, Ghana is the largest market in West Africa. I have also heard it said that it is the largest open air market in the world. Given that the far end of the market disappears over the horizon, I would be shocked if its not in the top five.

Christianity is an integral part of society in much of Ghana. Chances are that if you're not hearing some awesome drumming, you're passing by a chapel emanating beautiful voices in inspired unison declaring their faith through the power of song.

So, of course Easter Sunday is one of the largest events on the calender and as a result the massive market was positively subdued by local standards. By Western standards it felt busy, but I immediately sensed that it was not the teeming cauldron of human endevour that it normally is.

I'm a little sad that the market is not its usual vibrant self, but the relative quiet presents an opportunity to drink it all in, to banter with the locals, and to savour the sheer enormity of this incredible place.

One issue I'm very sensitive about when traveling is taking pictures of people. People the world over deserve the right to privacy, and our day to day existence is not some freak show paraded for our collective need to satisfy some voyeuristic vacuum. Besides, I'd already had two incidents in Ghana involving using a camera when I shouldn't have.

As I strolled the market with wide eyes, I passed by this lady, and something sparked.

She was selling yams and obviously bored. Our eyes met, and I smiled and nodded at her. She said hello and we engaged in some small talk. I asked if I could take her picture, and she posed for me. I  gave her a small dash (tip) and as I did so she held out her hands to me, which I instinctively accepted.

She looked me directly in the eye and said to me, "I love you". Deeply touched, I returned her stare and I said " I love you too". I began to release my grip, only to feel her hands tighten and her eyes grow more intense.

"No" she said, "I mean it, I really, really love you". In that moment I feel something shoot through me as the depth of our impromptu exchange dawns on me. I look her back in the eye and tell her that I mean it, too.

We release our grip. My buckling legs bid farewell as my welling eyes turn away. I marvel at the sheer aliveness of the people I have met in Ghana.

And I know I'll often stop and think about them.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Life Is Difficult

Image by boskizzi via Flickr

At some point in the late 1970's M. Scott Peck wrote a book titled The Road Less Traveled. I have never read the book, but the first stanza is one of the great opening paragraphs I've ever read, from a book that I've never read.

"Life is difficult. This is a great truth, one of the greatest truths. It is a great truth because once we truly see this truth, we transcend it. Once we truly know that life is difficult - once we truly understand and accept it - then life is no longer difficult. Because once it is accepted, the fact that life is difficult no longer matters." 


As I ease into middle age with all the Zen calm of a rabid squirrel, I see transitions all around. People pass, priorities change, children grow.

A little travel has taught me to suspect that people the world over face different difficulties every day, yet each of us, in our context search for joy. And we search for that joy through each other, because at the end of the day there is nothing else that truly matters.


Yes, life is difficult, and for far too many of us, life is dire.


Nonetheless, I have heard joyous laughter in the most difficult of circumstance, and pointless scorn from the blindly entitled in the easiest circumstance. Mostly from myself.


I see deeply unhappy people who have a lot more than I do, and I have witnessed true joy in the hearts of those who have nothing. Yet we all face difficulties, some of which are presented to the poor and others that are created by the rich.

The thing that ties us together, that defines our commonality, is our will to get through our difficulties.


http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Climbing The Ladder

Image by Artcatcher via Flickr

"Stock, we need a piece count. Go get it now!" That was the command from The Centurion as I stood on the deck of a flatbed truck parked on the edge of a dock that day in the height of an early nineties west coast summer in a northern British Columbian fishing village.

I looked over the edge to see it was low tide in these northern waters, and therefore a long way down, and a long way back up, using a freely swaying chain ladder in a high wind. Fortunately, I was wearing wet gum boots, which I am sure is the top choice of footwear for those in any extreme sport.

A 'piece count' is an estimation of what a fishing boat is carrying in terms of species, and it is done in order to facilitate the more efficient unloading and recording of the catch. In my particular case, I was unloading salmon boats, so I needed to find out, how many pink,spring, sockeye, chum and coho were on board.

Given that Pink salmon were worth 19 cents per pound and Sockeye were worth $3 or so, its important to know the difference. Knowledge of the "piece count" also contributed to trucking issues, given that we were a temp operation that relied on semi trailers for storage.

I won't bore you with all the details, but a piece count is key to unloading a boat quickly and efficiently. The salmon season is short, and unloading a boat has a lot in common with a NASCAR pit stop. Get them in and out quickly.

A deckhand or two is dispatched to Prince Rupert (30 km away) to buy about a grand worth of supplies, while the rest of the crew watches the graders (me) for accuracy. Another is stationed at the tally shack, to ensure accurate recording of the catch as it is weighed. There is a lot of money involved, so it is hard to blame the boat for having someone hanging over my shoulder as I decide whether a fish is a pink or a sockeye.

The scrutiny tended to become even more intense when skippers would learn that the guy who was grading their catch on this remote dock was from Toronto. To this day, I will give $50 to anyone in Toronto who can identify a salmon species more accurately than myself.

For some reason, this invaluable skill has not furthered my Bay Street ambitions in the least.

But, I digress. I was talking about climbing down a swaying and lengthy chain ladder.

Did I mention that I had no business being involved in unloading fishing boats, that a pussy like me should stick to pouring drinks and that I should stay well away from real men doing real work?

Oops, digressing again. This is about a long hanging ladder. The worst part was letting my lower body hang down as my gumbooted feet felt for a grip on the top rung of the chain ladder. Engaged, I began the long descent on my swaying conveyance, all the while willing myself not to look down.

As I reached the bottom, I thought I was done, but no. My landing pad was a slippery, waterlogged boom, coated in a teflon like moss. I struggled to climb on board, and was greeted by a number of arms from the crew straining to help me, much to my humiliation.

People who fish for a living tend to be like that. They risk their lives and they depend on each other in a way that you and I will never fully know, and when they see an idiot like me struggling, they reach out to help.

I got the piece count, and headed back up the ladder. By the time I got to the top, my knees were like jello and I had to sit down for a moment.

As I paused, I asked myself what some soft little city boy from Toronto was doing in this job so far from home and my element? Why am I driving a forklift? Why am I climbing this ladder?

But you know, all these years later, I am so glad that I threw myself into that unlearned world. I cast myself out into the unknown and forced myself to have a new experience. And years from now, when I am relegated to my rocking chair, I will look back on that chance I took and I will smile to myself.

I hope that you take the same chances in your own life, that you climb your own ladder,  so that when you are old and grey, you will have a similar smile on your face

http://www.goyestoeverything.com.

Restaurant Critics Lie

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Around the time that SARS hit Toronto, I  was working in an offshoot of a well established Toronto restaurant. that rhymes with bEDO. We we're struggling to get off the ground, when I had the pleasure of serving an elitist moron who was the son of one of Canada's great authors and in a conflagration of poor judgment had been granted the position of food critic in a still fledgling national newspaper of dubious reputation.

(update: the publication is still fledgling and still dubious)

I wish my Daddy's reputation could get me a job like that. For arguments sake, lets call this person bRichler, though I will avoid any reference to bathroom breaks, sniff sniff.

I served Mr. bRichlers table that night, it was a party of three, they had ordered sushi and then mains. I brought the sushi course, which was then consumed. After that the critics friends disappeared for a long long time, and frankly if I had the misfortune of knowing this spoiled moron, I would probably do the same.

But I'm your waiter, and I don't know that your friends are so bored with your company that they have fled to the bar upstairs to spend more quality time in the bathroom. I tell the kitchen not to fire the mains, thinking that Mr. bRichlers skittish friends are going to return.

They never do, but the following day, I get to open up the Bational Boast and watch good friends get pilloried by some born to the manor twat (who may or may not benefit greatly from rehab and a reality sandwich). On a personal level, I was left unscathed, but it was clear to me that these folks didn't know the difference between dining and eating.

Fortunately, the gentleman who owns this ill fated joint is blessed with another review in another national newspaper, and this time it comes from someone who attends the same synagogue. Lets call her, Boanne Bates, for arguments sake.

I then open up another national newspaper, (lets call it the Glib and Drole) only to find the same restaurant is one of the most brilliant things ever.

The thing is, that I served Ms. Bates. Once when she came in with her husband, and on a subsequent visit where she spoke with the owner, someone that she had previously to as " attractive and charming" in a previous review. I felt a sexual tension in the air that left me surprised that Ms. Bates did not get on her knees under the table in full view of her husband.

But hey, I'm just the waiter and that is not my concern. Ms. Bates later went on to vilify another well known Toronto restaurant run by the exact same chef, providing a similar menu. Perhaps the owners should have spent their Sundays somewhere else.

Next time you read a restaurant review, take it with a grain of salt, consider the source, and remember that the words you read may have an agenda that you cannot see.

Eat, drink, and think, for yourself.

And by the way, to all libel lawyers out there, I am implying that Jacob Richler is a cokehead and Joanne Cates is a liar. Any takers?

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Becoming Somebody

Image by aprilzosia via Flickr

A few years back something changed in me.

I gave up in the race to "be somebody", which was  a good idea, because I wasn't doing very well in that competition and decided  that I needed to throw out a lot of the stuff in my head.

I realised that my dreams were more connected to things I wanted to do, rather than things I wanted to have. Make no mistake , having nice things is enjoyable. I have many nice things that I enjoy, but the having or not having of these things has no bearing on my happiness.

The things I own bring me enjoyment, but they do not bring me happiness. However, we live in a consumer culture that exerts relentless pressure on us to confuse the two. Enjoyment is not happiness, and it never will be, no matter what Madison Avenue says.

I enjoy traveling, but the trip itself cannot bring me happiness. It can bring me enjoyment. Happiness only follows from learning the lesson that the journey is trying to teach you. And at any given time, most of us have many different journey's on the go, whether we see them or not.

Its like the difference between trying to "be somebody" and choosing to become who you are.

We are all constantly growing into ourselves, whether we like it or not.


http://www.goyestoeverything.com

April 17th People

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Thirty-five years ago today Khmer Rouge troops marched into Phnom Penh and began a systemic rampage that would later give the language a new term; autocide. A holocaust visited upon people of the same background as the perpetrators. Within days a city only slightly smaller than Toronto was emptied, its hospitals cleared, and all citizens were ordered to march.

Under the madness of Pol Pot, the country was divided into two groups. "Base People", who were viewed as pure peasants and noble workers, better than the "April 17th" people, who were elitist intellectuals, decadent parasites on society. The city dwellers.

Imagine Toronto bashing, writ very, very large.

Nowhere in the annals of the human politic does there exist an example of  man using divisive means to such genocidal effect, creating a mayhem that turned people of the same cloth against one another in a degree of cruelty that rivals any terrible reign.

"I'll wait for you", my driver said. I nodded as I headed towards the entrance. I could feel my knees buckle and my stomach churn as I paid the paltry entrance fee. I had arrived at "The Killing Fields", or more accurately one of  more than eighteen hundred killing fields scattered throughout The Kingdom of Cambodia, this being the Phnom Penh branch. A head office of a sort.

I entered and took a deep breath of the hot air, fuelled by the midday sun. About forty feet ahead was a tower and the rest of it was, well, a field. I approached the structure and lit a stick of incense to honour the dead. Before me was the monument, about forty feet tall and filled with the skulls of April 17th people.

As I walk the pathway I read the signs. I paraphrase, but the truth remains.

"Please Do Not Walk In The Open Graves"
"A Speaker Was Placed Here To Drown Out The Screams"
"Chemicals Were Poured On The Graves To Ensure The Death Of All Victims"

As I walk through the Killing Fields I see something beyond the fence that makes me stop and marvel at the irony. There are three children flying a kite. I shake my head, buoyed by the hopeful image, and the lessons taught to me by the people of Cambodia. These are strong people.

April 17th, 1975  marked the beginning of a spiral into madness, inspired by a conflagration of circumstance. Money was abolished, and all forms of trade were barred. Families were ripped apart and people were forced to eat in cult like mass halls

The next stop on the tour is Tuol Sleng, a former High School turned torture chamber, the last stop on the way to The Killing Fields. Fortunately, it is conveniently located in the heart of the city, and one wonders how it is that the neighbours didn't know. But it is not my place to judge, only to witness.

In the increasing heat my dismay and depression escalates. I ask myself, why do I drag my carcass to such places?. Only a few days earlier I had been in Angkor Wat, full of wonder. Now I was here.

For me, Tuol Sleng was much more difficult than The Killing Fields of Phnom  Penh. Skulls don't have eyes, pictures do. To see the faces of children carrying infants in their arms and knowing the fate of both....Well, lets just say that its a little much for a rookie traveller and bleeding heart like me

Despite my despair, I find it difficult believe that you will encounter a more resilient and decent people on this planet than you will find in Cambodia. 

I have learned lessons about humanity in each country I have visited, but the most profound lesson was in Cambodia, one of the poorest places in the world. Resiliency, forgiveness and strength.

It doesn't matter where you are, in one way or another, it is all sacred ground, but for me, Cambodia was special

I exited Tuol Sleng to find my driver waiting. By now I was feeling really sick and I just wanted to go back to my hotel. I spent the next two days in bed.  Maybe it was a bug or maybe it was something else.

Either way, I made a promise to myself in Phnom Penh that I would always mark April 17th. I would tell others, and I would not forget the haunted look in the eyes of that long ago slain child. So thats what I'm doing

April 17th is just another day for most, but for me it is now a day that I quietly mourn the victims and celebrate the strength of their children.

A forgotten genocide, another log tossed on the artificial, but well meant, "Never Again" fireplace. 

My visit to Tuol Sleng was one of the most awful and profound experiences of my life. The following video of my visit is both horrific and amateurish, but each face was a victim of the madness.

Please take a moment to consider the fate of the "April 17th People".

And remember that there, but for the grace of God, go I.

At the very least, we owe them that.

WARNING - VIDEO CONTAINS DISTURBING CONTENT

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Running On Empty

Image via Wikipedia

Looking out at the road 
Rushing under my wheels
Looking back at the years
Going by
Like so many summer fields

Jackson Browne

"OK, thats odd", I thought to myself as I watched her walk in to the bar. Something is not quite right here.

Bartenders who deal with a lot of regulars develop an awareness of the plethora of rhythms that make up the daily traffic. Certain people come in at certain times, and when that rhythm is broken, a bartender becomes curious.

When the dude who has never shown up prior to 1am is waiting at the door for the commencement of a new day, I get inquisitive. Mostly, the reasons are innocuous, but sometimes they are profound.

And so it was tonight as I watched one of my favourite members of Team Humanity make an out of place entrance. I glanced as 180 poured her a drink, I saw the thousand yard stare in her eyes. I know that look, something very bad has happened.

I wander over and ask her how its going, knowing the answer is not going to be good. Her voice cracks as she tells me her story. A friend has died suddenly, someone her own age. Someone close to my age.

Look around for the friends
That I used to turn  to
To pull me through
Looking into their eyes
I see them running, too


As we grow older, we experience the mortality of those around us at an ever increasing rate, until we experience our own expiry date.

I walk out from behind the bar and try to comfort my grieving friend, but I feel that my words are terribly inadequate.

My advice to anyone dealing with death is simple. Grieve fully, give yourself all the time you need, and eventually, learn to accept. Sometimes though, its a long road out.

At the end of the day, some things are tragic and unfixable, and we have little choice but to stoically move forward in the face of adversity. We owe it to the departed to do what human beings have done in the face of crisis, tragedy, and loss since time began.

Press on.

Running on empty
Running blind
Running into the sun
But I'm running behind

And keep going.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3nrGrP8xBg0
 

He's Gotta Have It

Image by raysto via Flickr

Its good to admit when you have a problem, when you realise that your dark need to satiate your overwhelming urges forces you to seek out the street in search of feeding that thirst that can never be fully quenched in the way it was that first time.

My problem first started in Vietnam, Saigon to be exact. I hoped that Hanoi would change things, but it didn't. It only got worse. I figured that once I got back to Canada, I could let it go, forget about things and put it behind me once and for all. Pick up the pieces and move on. But I couldn't.

Thus it was that I found myself wandering the streets of Chinatown, peering into darkened doorways, looking for that familiar lettering that let me know that the mist rising from that impossible bowl was purveyed here, that the agonising drip of the brown elixir into the cauldron of stilled whiteness might be gleaned within these florescent walls and that I could be made whole again, if only for a moment.

As I walked in, I felt my desperation permeate the room. I needed it bad and I needed it now. I can barely enunciate as my choking throat gasps out the order. It seems like an eternity, but within a few scant moments it arrives.The edible version of my great white whale.

A steaming hot bowl of pho and a Vietnamese iced coffee. I squeeze the lime, add the sprouts and tear off the leaves of whatever that herb is and dig in. I eat, mesmerised by the coffee slowly dripping before me. And for a moment the world is perfect.

I think to myself, yeah, Hanoi was pretty awesome, but Toronto isn't too shabby either.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

I'm Not Lovin' It

Image by freebeets via Flickr

In my many years in the hospitality industry, I have tried to respect everyone. When the homeless guy asks to use the washroom or when someone from the street walked in and requests a glass of water on a hot day I always say yes. I may be a bartender, but I'm also a human being, just like the person making the request.

I believe  that everyone deserves a measure of dignity, no matter their station.

And so it was that I walked in to a MacDonald's at the ironic corner of Washington and Lincoln in Miami Beach on a muggy afternoon. I was hungry and quite obviously desperate. As I walked to the counter, I noticed an argument erupting to my left, and I was both shocked and dismayed by what I witnessed.

I deduced that a little old lady of eighty four years had the temerity to ask for a glass of water and was being refused. A man had interceded on her behalf in protest, but the powers that be refused to budge, backed up by a summoned manager.

If the little old lady wanted water, someone was going to have to pay for it, as per company policy. Another person in the line advised her to go to the Starbucks around the corner, where they would give her some water for free.

My real question is whether the people who run the MacDonald's at the corner of Lincoln and Washington have lost all sense of our common humanity, or whether the people who run MacDonald's worldwide take a grim pleasure in watching old ladies die from dehydration?

Please help me in my research by popping in to your local MacDonalds and asking for a glass of water without ordering anything, and please repost this so that we may get a global opinion.


http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Being Alone

Image by alasdair.d via Flickr

Lately I've been thinking a lot about relationships, my own carefully cultivated walls, and why I choose to be alone in this world.

Everything in life is a compromise of some sort or another. If you're in a relationship this means that you may have to waste Super Bowl Sunday at the in-laws celebrating the fourth wedding anniversary of a third cousin, but it also means you get to wake up next to someone special.

However, in my experience, the specialness doesn't last. People get bored with each other, tired of the repetition of dealing with the same idiosyncratic neurosis played ad infinitum.

Over time, some couples reduce themselves to open hatred and anger at one another, others resign themselves to submissive roles in the face of mortgage payments and keeping up appearances, and some just cling on because they are terrified of being alone.

Cynical? Probably.

But just remember, every cynic is someone who once believed.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Dear Landlord

I just thought I should post this, so that I may protect myself when my landlord tries to screw me on a rent increase next year. For the record, here we go.

Under Ontario law, a landlord is allowed to raise the rent without limitation when they renovate, but a tenant is entitled to make a claim for "loss of enjoyment" when the premises that they pay for in good faith  are altered.

I am currently entering day fifteen of a renovation that I was told would take ten days. In addition, my back door has been nailed shut, in violation of fire regulations.

I hope you all had a great Easter weekend. It was nice and warm here in Toronto, but I couldn't open my windows. In addition, my apartment was filled with the stench of the grease trap from the bar below me.

Now, when you choose to live over a bar, you agree to put up with certain things, but the combination of an ill maintained grease trap, a warm day, and being illegally prevented from access to fresh air are not in the contract.

Neither is having to sleep on yoga mats in your own hallway so that you may avoid this unspeakable noise.

I must admit that the work is done, and it looks good. But the really galling thing is that my back door remains nailed shut so that the contractors may be protected from me stealing their broom, paint brush, or bags of crap that I don't give two shits about.

The work is done, and I hope you all enjoyed a long weekend surrounded by fresh air. I know I didn't.

I can see that your work is of the highest quality, but would you mind getting the fuck out of here?

And a note to my landlord; if you even consider jacking up my rent based on these renovations that evolved from a repair, I will see you at the tribunal with a copy of this post in hand.

Keep in mind that the space you're renovating is technically mine, not yours. Believe it or not, as a tenant, I do have some rights.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Giving Notice

It was a Thursday night in early August. I was working the bar alone, and it had been a steady night. I had a vague sense that I had some messages on my phone, but I had been too busy to check them. I didn't think much about it, because I had email forwarded to my phone, so it was constantly going off with messages, the vast majority of which were unimportant.

When things slowed down a bit, I opened my phone. Instead of the usual stream of meaningless messages, I found a multitude of email and phone messages from family members in British Columbia. My heart began to sink.

As the blood drained from my face, I turned to The Animator, who was working the kitchen, and asked him to keep on eye on the bar for me. Whatever was happening, it was clear to me that it was very,very bad.

I managed to choke out ,"I need to make a call", as I headed for the door.

The conversation was short and succinct, mostly because I couldn't quite grasp what I was being told, and I needed some time to comprehend. I hung up the phone, took a puff on my smoke and stared at the sky.

My father was dead.

I took a deep breath, steeled myself and headed back to my post. After awhile it occurred to me that I would have to fly across the country and that maybe it would be a good idea to tell my boss that I was going to need some time off. I headed to the sanctuary of the dishpit to make this call.

I love denial, but when you actually have to speak the truth to someone about what is happening, the realisation becomes undeniable. As I explained the situation to Cayelle, I felt overwhelmed by emotion as I heard my voice crack over the phone. "I'm going to need some time off", I managed to choke out.

Seemingly, within seconds, Cayelle was at the door, offering comfort and telling me that I could go now if I wanted. But something inside me didn't want to go. Maybe it was my own stubbornness, something in my DNA, or just denial; but I wanted to finish my shift, and finish it without undue attention.

After the bar cleared out, I cried for my loss over a few pints, alone in the dark. But in that darkness, the light of a blessing enveloped me.

My father had been close to death previously, and I had been given the interim to realise that every remaining moment was precious. Some people don't get that opportunity.

As I quaffed my pint in that dimly lit public house I realised in my despair that I had in fact been given a great gift. Awareness of mortality, but with a little more time tacked on. I am grateful for the way my father died, because through his circumstance, he gave me notice before he quit.

I wish everyone could be given such a gift, a chance to say goodbye.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Ritual Childishness

Image via Wikipedia

The comfort of our earth choking Western society is doing a disservice to many of our children and has been for many years. I know this, because it is rare that a night goes by that I don't run into one of these adult children.

Dysfunctional and addled with a rampant sense of entitlement, they may own Armani suits, but are still more properly suited in a onesie and a bib. Over time the game has become more complicated, but they still behave like a child seeking out its mammy's teat.

However, it is people like this that I have the most sympathy for. They have been compliant and obedient all their lives and they seem to live in a world of childish anger without knowing why.

The why involves the fact that neither their parents or society ever forced them to take a risk. Not a chance, but a risk. The two are different.

In the myriad of cultures and beliefs that make up the mad cauldron of belief, most systems have a ritual whereby boys become men and girls become women. But these things are not just the equivalent of going to the banquet room at the local hotel so you can give 13 year old Larry his Barmitzvah gift.

They were real tests with real consequences, and sometimes your beloved child didn't make it back, or you would be chosen for the highest honour as an adolescent, a human sacrifice.

Some people have this rite of passage built into who they are. I was paying my own rent when I was sixteen, mostly because I didn't like the constraints of other peoples rules. At that point I was willing to take responsibility for myself

I know a lot of gay people who had to become themselves by the ritual of coming out. I have a lot of respect for that, because it is not always easy owning who you are in the face of adversity. But that is the definition of a rite of passage, a ritual. Owning and becoming who you are in the face of adversity.

A ritual is supposed to cast you out into the unknown, so that you may return as a fully realised and mature member of the community. This used to be common practice with children, now its rare among adults.

Wonder why piercing and tattoos are so popular? These things used to be badges of honour among ritulistic societies, signifying accomplishment. Now its just product signifying  imitation of the once sacred,  adornment meant to compensate for a need inside us that was never quite quenched.

Anyway, I gotta run, cos the guy at the end of the bar is very upset about the number of cherries in his Manhattan.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com