golden boy

I may be late on this viral internet story, but I'm going to share it anyway. This is the story of Ted Williams - a man that was homeless up until being shared around the world via internet for his incredible "golden" voice.

I thought of just continuing through my day upon finding this, but found it too inspiring and important to simply cast aside. It simply goes to show that talent and imagination can still be found in today's bland world of gadgetry.

He now owns a house in Cleveland and is a broadcaster for the Cleveland Cavaliers. Watch the video below. I promise it will impress.

drifters

I firmly believe that an artists value should not only be validated through the content of their work, but also the incessant need to create it in the first place.

The only condition in which I'd actually look myself in the mirror and call myself an "artist" (a debate that has been touched upon many times on this site) is that I just want to lay all my ideas down somewhere I can see them. I don't really give a shit if anyone ever sees them; I just need to know I made them. In fact, 90% of all the work I've ever made sits in the dark. However, I experience solace knowing that it even transpired.

It shocks me to hear that some of my closest friends, who's works of art I once loved in the past, have nearly completely abandoned their love for creating more work and/or have barely made any since our last encounter. I don't understand how a once burning passion to created images was simply done and done-with after a certain point in their lives. Isn't it something that should just burn like an ember inside of you?

Personally, I know that once I have an idea in my head, it's go time. I smirk to myself, write or type it in detail (because one time I was drunk and wrote "family security" on a piece of paper and had no idea what the fuck I was getting at the next day), and then sleep on it. That entire night, I'll lay in bed with the sensation that I'd just won the lottery and didn't want to tell anyone. I then damn-near run to my studio within days to get things moving on a canvas. Nothing can get in the way of this kind of speed, because usually I know exactly what the finished pieces are going to look like, almost how a chef can taste the food before it's been prepared.

So for me to hear that ones inspiration to create is all but lost, it confuses me more than anything. I was going to say it saddens and upsets me, but a lack of motivation and drive are not character traits I hold very high. If you want to make it, make it. If not, just keep drifting.

sit down, stand up

T-Mok and I are going vegetarian and sober this week. So far, so good.

I'm actually not finding the vegetarian part hard at all. There are so many bomb fruits and veg that, in consistency alone, stand proudly next to the finest meats. Assorted mushrooms, avocado, and tomatoes all contain umami which is a beautiful quality that gives certain vegetables and fruit their meaty, hearty taste. Cooking with any of these items is an easy way to sub' meat out of your diet - just learn how to cook with them.

The absence of beer has been the harder of the two.

I'm going to try to write this next part in a way that makes me seem as little like an alcoholic as possible.

I love beer. It's a wonderful thing. That's a point worth making.

Yet however nice it is, like anything, there are limits.
Most times over the summer alcohol is just straight up over-used. I was going to use the word "abused", but that sounds a bit overdone. Abuse usually involves binges beginning in the a.m.
But most of the time, amongst my circle of friends, boozing is just something to do on a nice sunny afternoon or to congratulate yourself on a hard work week over $10 pitchers.

Although fun, it has some restrictions.
I began drinking when I was 19, which is quite uncommon given that most people I've met used to hustle old men or their brothers for Max Ice outside of the LC when they were 13. The bottom line is that I've been drinking long enough to recognize a good time from a shit one. Fifty per cent of the time, it is an absolutely worthy effort to get drunk for i.e. birthdays, essay completion, fridays, exams, sporting events etc. The other fifty usually isn't, and it's something to recognize as one gets older. You can avoid certain outtings by simply dividing what you know of the setting, the day of the week, the occasion (or lack of one), what you're drinking and who's coming. Is getting drunk at that point a good idea? Not really.

I know I can't preach to people about the importance of drinking in moderation, because I am in fact one of the biggest drinkers (in frequency and volume) of beer that I know. But every man's got his limits, unless your an alcoholic of course, and that's a completely different story.

The difficult part that I mentioned earlier is strictly derrived from the pleasure that I get from hanging on a patio with my friends and some brews. So when I walked down Queen Street this afternoon, seeing patios like The Horseshoe Tavern, Black Bull, Smokeless Joe's, and The Rivoli completely packed made me sad I couldn't call my friends for a beer. Because it's not always about the drinking as much as it the aroused senses that come with it.

Either way, this no meat and no beer diet is being coupled with 300 sit-ups a day and nine glasses of water in an effort to cleanse myself for next weeks cottage fest in Sauble Beach, because lord knows there will be plenty of meat and beer up there.

i didn't think we had it in us

What started as an innocent trip to the grocery store turned into one of the most violent and radical days to hit my life thus far.

Clearly, I am talking about the recent G20 summit that hit Toronto this past weekend. To not write this on paper would be a devastation to myself. Tess and I were curious to investigate some of the protests we'd heard might be happening downtown Saturday afternoon, so we used our trip to Metro as added incentive to head towards Yonge Street.

After about 20 minutes of produce shopping, security came over the loud speaker to inform us that the building will be locked due to external security threats. I brushed this off as some power-tripping paranoid tactic used to keep everyone under lock and key from something that was hardly considered a threat. This was a very dangerous assumption. Everyone in Metro was asked to move to the back of the store, where we patiently waited in the seafood isle for nearly 30 minutes. Luckily, a man was there that had an iPhone that could stream CP24, which came in handy when discovering that the entire exterior of the building which we were in the basement of was smashed to shit.After waiting another long stint, we were released, and the shit had already hit the fan. I mean that somewhat literally, in the case of American Apparel.


The windows of over 40 established businesses had been destroyed on Yonge street alone. The Time Hortons and Starbucks at the corner of Yonge and College had taken the worst two beatings I'd seen. Car-sized holes had been smashed through the glass windows. Chairs were thrown amongst the street. Displays were carefully "rearranged". Businesses were looted. It was fucking chaos.

We walked everywhere. Once we made it to Bay St. and Adelaide we noticed a heard of people running down the narrow streets only to be followed by a battalion (how often do I get to use that word, really) of riot police and a vehicle that I can only artfully describe as a tank; a tank that stopped for no man or woman. Police created perimeters around the peaceful protests and refused advancements towards city hall, where Jazz Fest had been poorly scheduled (would you like broken glass and flames with your Oscar Peterson covers in the key of C#?).

Finally, we concluded our day with a little organized chaos, ending up in Queens Park. After sneaking our way around the hundreds of officers clad in riot gear and shields, we were on the front lines. For those of you who haven't witnessed any of the Queens Park events in the media, let me describe it as such.

1. People get mad. People start yelling.
2. Riot police in groups of 30 or more forcefully charge aforementioned People.
3. People run for their lives, scared shitless by large men with shields and bats.
4. People stop running. Start yelling again.
5. Riot police release additional riot tactics, including mounted officers, tear gas, paint balls, and rubber bullets. Police reestablish and expand riot line another 100 yards forward, moving North.
6. People run. Some get gassed, some get trampled, some get arrested and beaten.
7. Six guys yell "Pussies!!"

Hey! Who are those handsome dudes seen at 0:25 in that clip? No less than A-Laye and some shawty gettin his grocery list on. (Huge bigs to DP for finding this clip. A true internet G)

And this goes on for about 3 hours. I was one of the people. Thankfully, I was not one of the trampled or gassed, but the danger was very real. I can hopefully say I'll never experience something that forceful for the rest of my life, but I was there willingly, so I couldn't complain if I did.

To talk about the rest of the actions seen throughout Saturday and Sunday would be irrelevant, because you can't even take a shit in your own home without hearing about the ridiculous actions that took place during the Summit.

I must admit that the violence and irreverence that took place throughout the city was absolutely inexplicable and inexcusable. The members of the Black Bloc, as well as the other "anarchist" zeroes that decided to smash stores acted like a bunch of cowards that obviously weren't concerned with the changing of political policies or overthrowing of governments and corporations. They were there for the single purpose of smashing shit under the guise of civilians.



Let me tell you something. Broken glass does not change jack shit. You think a few broken windows are going to change anything? You can throw bricks all day and night and it won't change dick about these corporations you're inflicting violence upon. You think Bell is going to lose sleep over having to call a repair man in the morning to fix a fucking window?
This type of shit is completely amateur and speaks nothing of the words "revolution" or "overthrow". Even as I sit in my chair now, so angered that I can't even get my hands to move fast enough to type, these shitheads are back home getting their moms to wash their black ski masks, lighting a joint, and listening to Rage Against the Machine. You threw a chair. Whoopdy fucking woo.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for the majority of the peaceful protests that took place throughout the summit, but smashing up a few retail outlets simply makes no sense and will change nothing except the status of your boner.

flashes in a wood shop

As I'd hoped, the shoot went fantastically. Even better than I'd hoped.

I arrived to meet the new principle of Beal, Don Macphereson around 2:30 pm today. He was a really nice guy. Him and I chatted until Dave, the head janitor, arrived at the office. At this point, to my surprise, the two gave me a full-access Visitors Pass, as well as the janitors master key which opens every classroom in the school. This was seriously some sort of dream come true.
The shoot was very expedient, and although I would have loved to mull around my teenage classrooms longer, there was work to be done. Off to Mountsfield.

I knew there was no way I'd get the same treatment at Mountsfield. Oh, how wrong I was.

As I walked the halls to the tune of the intramural basketball game down the hall, I was approached by Linda Moffatt, the principle. She asked if I was Andrew Schmidt, to which I happily agreed (do I look like a photographer or something? maybe it was the gators I was wearing on my feet). Instead of lending me the keys, she gave me two personal janitors to escort me throughout the school, opening whichever classroom I wished whenever I needed it. What a trip.

Special thanks goes to principles Don MacPhereson, Linda Moffatt for their patience with me and for their work among their staff on my behalf. Additionally, custiodian staff members Dave, Bob, and Jenna that were so gracious in lending me their time and stories of their own.

Talking about what I saw once in the schools is worth 2,000 words in itself. I'll get to that some day.

ps. Do I look like a janitor in the above picture? That's my favorite photography shirt. Maybe it's because you can't see that it's tucked in. And shit, if being a janitor means having keys to every room in the house, it doesn't sound so bad after all.

dotting the h's, crossing the b's and a lot of purple and gold tape

I was very recently (the pic was taken in bed after the last phone call made, where I still remain) granted full access to both of my childhood schools.

For those of you who may have been following this progression, for my term final project I am ambitiously photographing every classroom I've ever had from kindergarten to university. I'll post my statement some day, but it really boils down to how the roots of our knowledge (socially and academically) can be quantified within the walls of our learning institutions.

ps I can recite that sentence in under two seconds, as I've been reciting it verbally and by email for weeks.

The idea wasn't the hard part of the project, nor will the actual photographing of the rooms themselves. It's the red tape. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming.

In the case of Mountsfield Public School ( my home from grades JK-8), the case is being taken all the way from the permission of the entire staff, to the Thames Valley District School Board. I had to write a detailed form of my intentions, justifying that no children or staff are to be involved. Additionally, they made me assure them that even small images of students that may be seen in the room must be taken down as well. Now that's some tape forya.

With Beal, the current principal I talked to was rather chipper with my idea and granted me full access to the entire school pretty much as soon as I voiced my idea. Aparently Beal has a slightly higher appreciation for conceptual art than the protection of it's students - which I'm all for. That's always been the case there. On top of that, I get to walk around with Mr. Haney, who was the head of the Art department even when I was there.

Principles are very funny to talk to. As usual, when I want something over the phone from somebody who doesn't know me from Sam Hell, I try to start the conversation off with a positive bang by putting an upper inflection on my "Hi! How are you today?" People are usually impressed by this, because most phone calls are bullshit anyway. Yet you see, with the case of principles, they pretty much answer to nobody. Remember when they'd walk into your classroom when you were a kid with those cool suits, 'staches, and fat guts (generalizing huge here)? They were like kings walking amongst ants, and you knew it too. So when a civilian number such as my own reaches their phone line, my greeting is shot down quite quickly with a "good", then deafening silence.

Try it sometime. Try to get something from an old principle and see how far you get before the ice melts to water. Since we both know you won't and have no reason to, you can probable imagine through my experience what it's like. Both shoots are slated for next Tuesday, then it's CARPal-tunnel-photoshopCS4-hands for 24 afterwards.

it continues....on and on...

I seriously can't kick this look-alike shit.

I was dancing at Sneaky Dee's a while back and this guy comes up to me, convinced that I'm Tony Hawk. He actually had to spin me around to make sure The Hawk wasn't actually dancing on stage. I had to convince him I wasn't the real deal. I wasn't The Hawk.



Secondly, Terri, as usual, whips up another crazy look-alike out of thin air. This time, it's some random jabroney boyfriend of Monica's seen in the first season of friends.



Keep 'em coming folks. Just keep 'em coming.

thought of the day

Hitler ruined a perfectly good mustache for everybody.

nay-sexual

A couple days ago, it was nearing the end of the day and something interesting occurred to me:

I hadn't been turned on once the entire day.

In truth, everyone gets sexually turned on by something daily, if not by the minute (you know who you are). There's nothing at all wrong with that. Yet on this day, I had nothing. Not a dirty thought entered my mind nor a smokin' be-hind to look at. So, naturally you can understand the gravity of this, because I noticed it right away.
I was so excited by this fact that I quickly walked home so that I could write about it. But on the way, sadly, this girl walking past me was popping huge cleav' and we eye-fucked for about two seconds. Great. My experience was completely ruined by really nice boobs. Now I'll have to wait another 23 years until it happens again.

Raging Bull

Okay.
Everybody listen.
Scratch that.
Everyone in a band, or collective, listen.
Take the advice from ?uestlove (one of the greatest drummers/influences/aficionados/impacts on modern music today, from possibly one of the best hip hop groups of all time) and listen to him.
Sunday is Band Day.
Above any politics amongst your group, Sunday is Band Day.
Lately, Hue's has been Monday.
We drink tequila and freestyle.
I talk about cooking for the band, but the tequila is usually the deciding point.
Listen to ?uestlove.

meow

I just witnessed something very interesting. As I was walking down the street, I noticed four people looking very concerned for the safety of this street cat that was trying to cross the road. On the other side of the road, a homeless man was sleeping on the streetcar tracks with nobody gave a shit. Kinda makes you wonder where peoples priorities lie, doesn't it?

smooth as a babies bum

Last Saturday I was scheduled to do a photo documentary on the Nuns.

About an hour before leaving, my sister (who works their reception desk) calls me and asks me to remove my beard! Apparently nuns do not like beards, for whatever reason.

Seeing as I really wanted to photograph them, I removed it without hesitation. I just thought it was funny, because I'm sure I'll never have to be asked by nuns to remove my beard ever again.

On a second note, one of the Sisters asked me if I had a girlfriend while talking in her suite. I said no. She then told me that she was going to pray for me. Isn't that amazing? Right now, there is a legitimate nun praying for women on my behalf. She even wrote in her prayer book "Andrew Schmidt. Girls." By god, I hope she works some magic.
I snapped a photo while she wrote it and will surely post it as soon as it's been processed.

second thoughts

I just wrote, and deleted, a lengthy piece on ego-masturbation.

After realizing that it might offend some people, and that it was mostly just ranting and raving, I decided to keep it to myself.

Now, I know all about expressing yourself and why not to hold anything back, but some things are just meant to be kept in the old pumpkin I guess.

A lot of it came from watching American Psycho this afternoon I think, except when Patrick Bateman got mad, he killed people.

"i'm a rude dude, but i'm the real deal"

John Bean filmed a short documentary on me the other day. It pretty much revolved around my sordid (and colorfully narrated) past with Ryerson. For some reason, I've always loved being interviewed. Especially when it's something I'm comfortable talking about, and when they let me swear (unlike Rogers cable).

Speaking of swearing, lately I've been analyzing the language you and I all use. More specifically, the cute little sayings we just roll off the tongue without questioning the meaning, or the origin (I got a book off Glen a while back on the origins of everyday sayings - I'll lend it to you). I've been thinking about the power of our language, and how most of us subconsciously blabber on without understanding what it is we're actually saying. In reality, the thought of misusing words and phrases scares the shit out of me, because we are only as good as the language we use. Otherwise you're doing yourself the fine favor of misrepresenting your own intelligence.

I'd have to say my big interest in language came from the work by George Carlin. After listening to his work (I'd rather not call it a comedy routine, because his stand up was more lecture than anything), I began comprehending the language we use, and why. Carlin had that really sharp way of speaking, which can be drawn from his love excessive swearing, and hatred towards modern euphemisms and soft language that conceal the truth (his speech on the transformation from "shell shock" to "post-traumatic stress disorder" is a classic example). I listen to his tapes on a daily basis because of this.

Below is Modern Man, something which I consider to be one of the greatest stand up rants of all time. The amount of culturally relevant sayings he crams into this short segment is unbelievable. I can probably recite about a quarter of it, which isn't bad considering it's really hard to remember it all.

wedding crashers

Cara sent me this video a little while back and I just recently watched it.

I fucking love it.

Serious kudos to those two for organizing something so fresh and hilarious. I can only hope that my wedding will be that cool. On top of the dancing, that's got to be the cutest couple on the planet. When the groom busts in with that somersault? Are you kidding me? And the wife's solo entrance makes me want to cry. My wife better be that cool.

Give it a looksy.

True Patriot Love

Happy Canada Day, my friends.

Having skimmed through my usual blog roll earlier this evening, I thought it necessary to at least brush upon the fact that it's Canada Day. The only thing I've missed mentioning while on tour is the passing of Michael Jackson, but that topic deserves some planning, which I'll get to.

But really, etiquette and tact aside: I love this fucking country.

For starters, I should mention that I've never really understood the large amount of pride that one puts into it's own nation. You'll never see me defending Canada in fatigues, nor will you see the red maple leaf stained permanently on my arm. I've always thought that priding oneself on the soil you were born on was more of an elementary idea, and that goes for every nation. There's not a country on this planet that I'd pronounce any pride from. However, I know that I enjoy living here.

I won't go on about how much I love the Rockies or Double-Double's, but rather what is contained within our borders, figuratively speaking. Our culture (and trust me, we have one) is such an incredibly fragile thing. It really only hangs by a few, strong threads. Our passive nature as a nation really allows us to legitimately lollygag around almost any situation, and I love that. The manners, the courtesy, the respect for one another: it's all quite remarkable.

It's only when you step outside of this nation that you realize how unique our culture really is. And you need not travel too far: minutes south of any Canadian border lies an accent you'd swear was as foreign to you as China. Having traveled across this country many times, under very different circumstances, I can tell you that Canadian culture is not too hard to find. All you really need is an empty stomach (to crave the food), a vehicle and destination (for the sights), some knowledge of the French language (because you're supposed to), and an old couple to talk to (because that's where the straight Canadian goods lie, largely).

I could just as easily go on about how many problems we have in this country, but I'll leave that for another day. Because who likes to get shit on when it's their birthday?

And besides, I got to see Joel Plaskett play last night for free in St. Johns, New Brunswick, so how hard can life here be?

I really want to revise this, but I'm tired from driving across the country. I'm going to bed, and wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy Birthday Canada.

sunday advice

A piece of advice:

Never give somebody credit for being good looking, because nobody deserves it.

Certain things such as style, clothes, hair, and makeup are commendable, but never straight looks.

Because really, their parents happened to rub together just enough, and at that precise moment, said person was created. And by rub, I meant they were fucking. What's creditable about that? 

Some people are fun to look at, and a lot of people aren't. Never in my life have I placed somebody on a higher pedestal than another for the purpose of looks. That's senseless. 

That's also life. 

DEL

As previously mentioned, I had a show in Scarborough, last week? I'm not sure exactly. My days are becoming so full that I can't tell what day it is anymore, but that's good.

The show went exactly how I thought it would go. I'd show up, hang my single piece (which I'm almost certain was the largest there), walk around for a while kissing babies, then bugger off for a while to enjoy the sun. That day, now looking back, was actually a lot of fun. Dan and I don't really get to just hang out much anymore, so it was fun to kick it together just like old times. The only thing we did all day was crack jokes, and I wish I was exaggerating about that. Later that night we met with some friends and didn't feel like laughing anymore.

I had my wall space good and ready to go. As usual, I was a horrible self-promoter. So bad in fact that I wrote my contact information on what I thought were business cards they provided, which in fact were raffle tickets. hahahah, holy shit. This funny gay couple (who were all over East and DP) were saddened by the fact that I couldn't hang the piece higher on the display. They had a point, but I wasn't too shook by it.

After seeing the light cast by the bulb in the top left corner of this piece I became really attached to that sun spot. I've considered roughing one in.

The free coffee, tea and cookies didn't quite get rid of my hangover, but definitely helped the conversations flow a bit faster.

This character, seen above in the tight red sweats, gold bling, and a child's Raptors jersey, absolutely needs to be mentioned.
The man's name was Ian Moo Young, and I'm pretty sure he was absolutely off his rocker. He showed up to the show with a cart full of shit, including a mop, bottles of liquor, and a big red rug. These would all be included in his wacky display later in the day.
At the beginning of the day I became jealous when seeing him speak to other exhibitors. I just wanted him to, you know, flirt with me a little.

Moo indeed was off his rocker. After nearly being thrown out for calling a photographer a "shit" and "an asshole", he fled to East and DP to hide from the women running the event. At this point, Moo went on and on for almost two hours about all kinds of things. I can only really skim the surface when talking about what he said, so I'll try. These are some of his accomplishments:

a) He trained several of the top tennis players in the world, and wants to one day, win the Wimbledon. He said he still schools world-ranking youngsters.

b) At one point, he was one of the top filmmakers in Britain, and directed more than one hundred commercials for many corporations throughout the UK.

c) Was good friends with Princess Diana, and that the only reason they never hooked up was because they were both in relationships at the wrong times. And since this was the case, somebody he called The Duke of Devonshire wanted him dead, which leads to the next point.

d) He's killed people. After being chased into a cave by assassins at night, somewhere in the Southern Pacific, he proceeded to kill one man by throwing his machete at him. He killed the other two assassins by spreading a bad of pigs blood (which he seemed to have on him at the time) on the ground the attract the local tigers. Every time he mentioned someone dying, he let out the creepiest laugh I've ever heard.

e) He's dated supermodels and is the eye of any woman he meets. He planned on asking a girl he met at the show if she wanted to be in his next film. I'm just going to assume she said no.

Needless to say, Moo was nuts, and I'm sure only 1% of everything he said was true. Although, his work was interesting and some of the motifs presented were intriguing. Just stuff about how we're all mermaids, and then something about foot fetishes. Whatever.

Either way, the day was an over all success, and it's always fun to drive on the Don Valley Parkway.

heidi wore clogs, and so do you

So last night, Meme, Jess and I went to go see Doves.
I've been really into their latest album Kingdom Of Rust lately, so I had to see this material done live.
The show was fantastic, but this is not what I'm here to talk about.

After moving to the front (which is the best bonus to seeing shows with small, cute girls), we began to get our dance on and the tunes were bumping. All of a sudden, I could feel myself being stepping on, and stepping on someones foot. I didn't care because everyone was having a good time and this is, presumably, what happens at shows. Not to this guy."Hey man, you're stepping on my feet. This is my spot."

"What?"

"I said this is my spot. I've been here for the past ten minutes."

"So?"

It turns out that there was a blubbering vagina standing behind me. Some Dexter-Zero was chewing me out for dancing on his toes.

Oh, I'm sorry hun, I've never slow danced before.

First off, who comes to a rock concert, moves to the very front, and stakes a claim amongst hundreds of people? Your spot? Who the fuck are you?! Yukon Cornelius? Maybe if he had a pick axe, monster beard and a hunger for gold- then I would have taken him seriously

Secondly, how can you come to a show and not expect to get your feet stepped on? I could understand if he wasn't dancing and I was just causing a scene, but he was, as was everyone else. I've gone to shows with perfectly white Stan II's on, moshed for two hours, then proudly gone home with someone elses blood and dirt covering them. A real musical experience should be about passion, love, appreciation, and expression. Don't just stand there like a paper napkin. What a fucking pussy. My buzz was killed by this Joe-PC. Grow some balls for gods sake.


One thing that I know in life is that the world is full of uptight, unenlightened, anxious, high-strung matters of waste that we call "the public". People are no longer passionate about anything, and are so afraid to express themselves that they retain mid-life Osteoporosis just from sucking their boss' dick or from nodding "yes" so much every day.

People like this just make me want to stick fireworks in their pants, just so they'll feel something for once. They have pickles so far up their asses that even their breath smells like dill. I have only one piece of advice for these people: Verbally disagree with someone at least once a day. After a few weeks, you'll sleep sounder. I promise. Why? Because it's one of the many free things in life that are good for you. I'll jump back to that topic at a later date when I have more examples.

Am I out of line? You're damn right I'm not. Let's eat some pickles.

cock-eyed

Just recently I've realized that my slang, abbreviations, and cockney-like delivery on words has made my everyday diction almost incomprehensible. I'm not sure what triggered this, but I'm well aware of it by seeing how many people I confuse on a daily basis. I'm going to write a couple lines, in simple English, then translate them into Times New Andy.

i) Hey friend. What time did you want to meet up for a drink later? I can't make it until at least 8. I have things to do. Goodbye.

Hey Brewhan. What's the dill on drizzing tonight? I'm a No-Can-Doosky till 8. Too much shit on the plate. Paaaece.

ii) Be careful when walking home tonight. Some people are just looking for trouble. Jees Louise.

Make sure you don't get jacked later cruising home. Some fuckheads are just down for rocking a mob. Fuck sakes!

Now, I should draw some sort of conclusion as to how such foul language came to be. I could easily take inspiration (if that's what you call it) from several specific, as well as broad sources. For starters, Trailer Park Boys has grossly effected my vocabulary. Words like rock, fuck, bang, brew, shit, cock, dick etc., can be sourced to most of my bad words. Listening to hip-hop will do this too, but that's where the tact comes from and not so much the words themselves. British people. They're a huge help. Brits have the most disgusting and appealing slang going on in the world today. At moments I hate it (there's nothing worse than a burly-brit-bitch who laughs too much at her own bad British jokes), and other times I think it's the most badass and tasteful way to swear, ever. Hell, guys swear at girls (and they like it), and kids swear at their parents (and they think it's cute).
I've had some help from George Carlin as well. His cusses flow like water and stabbed like knives, and nobody swore like George. His swearing also utilized a lot of purpose, which is something that gets easily lost in the act of using bad language. This is something I've had in the back of my mind when dropping bombs for several years now. This nothing more ignorant or unattractive than using cusses poorly, and I'll admit to doing it every so often. Such as using "fuckin..." as a space, segway, or intro to an idea. "She was like, fuckiinnn, lookin' at me n' shit."

Ig-no-runt.