Dung-can, V.I., B.C.

I saw a sign on a lamppost today: Emus for sale. This prompted the instantaneous revery of riding an emu to tam-tams. Of course, it wouldn't quite be that simple.. There'd be the obligatory cross-country roadtrip, where I'd have to rent a big enough car to seat the emu (though I have a feeling they fold up nicely), constant efforts to prevent the emu from fulfilling it's instinctual need to kick the shit out of people along the way. I say prevent, but I really mean curb. And then there'd be the absurdist rigamarole of fitting it for a saddle and harnesses. But just imagine the glory! Especially if I found the right coloured cape to wear. I wouldn't want to become one of those 'emu-people' though, they freak me out: how they think everything emu is cute, fridgemagnets and greeting cards of emus dressed as ballerinas and pirates. They just stay at home in their bathrobe, cooing to each one of their multiple emus about how everyone else is crazy. Tam-tams really would be the best place for an emu though. Emus and capes.

A Decade Ago... Time Capsule Time

HOLY FUCKKNOBS! While trying to sift through my mum's old computer for clippings to attach to a coverletter, I came across a pair of stories I wrote when I was 16. So much easier than typing up the new ones! Thank you, little me, but I wish you'd written a whole shwack of cover letters instead...

@ @ @

What I Did On My Holidays
"Pass the peas please, brother," Uncle Fred asked me above the noise of Christmas dinner. With one hand outstretched, and the other preventing his robe from dipping into the stuffing he looked at me and gave me a conspiratorial wink.
"O.K. Uncle Fred," I said, fulfilling the request while wondering to myself why my bald uncle both called me brother and winked at me every time we spoke.
"Please brother, I do not go by that name any more. My new name is One-Hand-Clapping."
"O.K. Uncle Fred," I repeated. Dismissing his kookiness, I turned my attention to my mother who was trying to feed Grandpa. This looked a little difficult because one was full of wine and laughing while the other was asleep and drooling.
"Grandpa Fred!" My mother giggled as she leaned over to shake him, tipping his prune juice over.
"Whut?" He wheezed as his crusty eyes opened and his wrinkled skin tried to form a face.
"Mum, can I trade you seats, Uncle Fred is really…"
"Freddy! Don’t interrupt, it’s rude!" My dad scolded, tossing a pea at my head. Smash, my little brother with hair still wet from his bath, copied him and whipped a potato at Uncle Fred. "Trevor," my dad called my brother by his given name, "don’t throw food."
Grandpa turned his milky gaze towards me, which was a feat in itself because he had cataracts on top of cataracts. Maybe he could smell me somehow. The only thing I thought of when I looked at Grandpa Fred, was that his head resembled a peanut.
"How old are you now Trevor? Nineteen is it?" He croaked to me.
"No, Grandpa. I’m eleven and a half and my name is Freddy." I answered.
"Whut?" He slobbered.
"Fre-ddy." I said slowly, putting both thumbs to my chest.
"…" He said, now asleep.
I changed my mind. A peanut would make better conversation.
Christmas this year had lost all its romance. It had started the evening before, on Christmas Eve. For some reason, Santa had neglected the milk and cookies laid out for him on the coffee table beside the hearth and made his way to the liquor cabinet instead. After lingering with his friend, Mr. Daniels, he stumbled to the tray of cookies, wrote a note saying "Meri Crismas, Love Satan" and fell over. There he slept on the rug, using the coffee table as a blanket, until Smash and I found him Christmas morning still clutching at our stockings. We played with our new toys on my father’s face for almost half an hour before my mother saw him and dragged him from his drunken slumber.
Now my father sat at the table staring at the peas with his party hat askew, nursing a nice little hangover. The table was arranged beautifully, the paper napkins were folded neatly and everything looked pristine. Everything except Smash’s corner. My four year old brother, having already tried putting a fork into his ear, was in the process of dismantling his napkin and scattering the confetti-like proceeds onto the dog who was lying beneath his seat. Flash, our seemingly-comatose dog, didn’t seem too concerned with the paper, as he was used to collecting dust for sometimes days straight.
Meanwhile, across from Smash, Uncle Fred was engaged in making paper cranes out of his cracker wrapper. Uncle Fred noticed my interest in his activities and gave me a wink. Without warning, Uncle Fred stood and cleared his throat.
"And now I’d like to recite some Haiku," he said and began.
"Whut?"
It was evident by everyone’s state of restlessness that dinner was over. Unanimously, we left the table and Uncle Fred’s poetry recital and assumed our positions around the Christmas tree. When my monk uncle sulkily joined us, the gifts were distributed, and soon there was a symphony of rips and tears. This was a climactic affair for my brother and I. When the wrapping paper settled and our pulses leveled off, we sat back and inspected our gifts.
Generally, I was not disappointed with my presents, although confused may be a good adjective concerning a few of them. I had received a construction set from my dad, a box of Havana cigars from Grandpa, sandals from my uncle, a sweater from my mum and wrapping paper from Smash. Smash, on the other hand, got everything he had asked for Christmas. Action figures and a snorkel mask, but what appealed to him most was the hammer he had received from Grandpa. He promptly took to hitting the book, "Buddhism For Beginners" that Uncle Fred had got him.
It was at the point when my uncle began meditating that my parents got into the fight.
"I don’t understand you George, I really don’t!" my mother said, holding up the lingerie my father had bought her. It looked more like a boot lace than anything that could worn for a practical reason.
"Ohmmmmmmmm."
"Whut?"
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My father didn’t answer, instead he was sheepishly inspecting a tie that I had bought him. Smash hadn’t given him anything, so I said it was from the both of us.
"Well what do you have to say? Even a salad shooter or pressure cooker would have been better than this!"
"Please brothers, be tranquil. Do not forget this is a religious festival."
"Does anyone hear that dripping sound?" My grandpa gargled.
"Well, what is it George? We have sex twice a week, is that not enough for you?" My mother said, ignoring my grandpa.
"Please brothers, not in front of the children!" Uncle Fred pleaded. It seemed that fighting was a little too much for his peaceful nature.
"No, never in front of the children. What kind of parents do you take us for you bald little yoga flier!" She yelled.
Thump.
"Now Marsha, you don’t have to drag my brother into this," my dad said, confiscating the hammer from Smash who was eyeing the Christmas tree lights.
Suddenly and without warning, Flash the dog, got up. He walked stiffly from the dining room up the steps into the living room. He stood there looking back at the dining table intently.
"I still hear it dripping," Grandpa said as urgently as one would take a stroll in the park.
Everyone had stopped and was watching the dining room. Slowly, the dining room ceiling started to bulge and the chandelier began to shake. Quicker than one can say "I can see my toilet from here," the ceiling fell in. A big cloud of plaster billowed out and water poured in from the bathroom above.
A strange sound, like somebody strangling an armful of guinea pigs to death, could be heard. Everyone looked around for the source of the odd noise. It was coming from Grandpa. He was laughing.
"Merry Christmas." He chuckled.
Through the haze of plaster and under a chaotic pile of damp timber, a cast iron bathtub could be seen now sitting on the dining room table. The dining room was ankle deep in water, which had been reduced to a trickle from the hole where the ceiling once was.
"Smash," my father growled dangerously, "did you happen to leave the bath running again?"
Smash gulped audibly, and ran and hid behind my shaking Grandpa.
My parents were in a state of open mouthed astonishment, Uncle Fred had fainted, and Grandpa was laughing hysterically. Taking a quivering Smash in one hand and Flash, who was drinking the bath water, in the other, I dragged them out of harm’s way. We watched TV and ate chocolates in the basement for the rest of the night, although at one point, Smash wanted to try out his snorkel mask in the dining room. In the end, Smash gave my father a nervous breakdown for Christmas.
I can’t wait till Easter.

@ @ @

Chastity

Rolling thunder rises into the clear salmon sky, but it is not a storm. The tepid breeze cannot sweep away this sound. The sound is of a countless number of drums beating in union, producing a low thrum that gently ascends above the still grass of the lilting plains. At the source of the drum beat, ebony figures whirl, stamping their feet into the warm, tanned earth. Crimson light from a fire paints each face. Each face shocked by flashing whites, glazed, entranced. This is the summoning of something indigenous in all of us, a primeval emotion native to the soul.
In a breath, like the swell of wind in the trees, voices raise their exhalations into the darkening skies. Choruses undulate to the throbbing drums. Beaded hair whips in turmoil as muscles pump, swaying beneath hidden southern constellations. This is the primitive voice of civilization’s cradle. This is human instinct immortalized.
The chant increases in intensity, as dancing silhouettes spin and weave flawlessly. An occasional white man, obviously a tourist or traveler, can be seen amongst the dashing forms, synergistic phantoms in synchrony. It is a passage to a higher state of awareness, a vessel to naturalization. Coursing like blood, the beat leaves none untouched. This is not a religion. It bears no prejudice.
The drums cease. The chants cease. The silence is deafening but the dancing forms flit unheeding, oblivious to the peace. Slowly, a solitary voice rises above the throng. A second voice, slightly lower in pitch, joins in to orchestrate a harmonized melody. This soulful wail fills the spicy air for a brief moment… and then expires. Silence again, this time to be punctured by the drums. As if feeding the dancers, the rhythm sends them into a frenzy. Eyes roll as feet rise and fall. The drums stop, and the singing once again can be heard furling in waves. Waves that bring the gathering towards the quietly encroaching shores of dawn.
As the golden light expands and the fingers of heat grip the land, the singing wavers and the dancers begin to drift from the popping embers of the fire. Relaxed smiles grace the features of all as the congregation begins to dissipate. The odd individual can be seen drinking from a glass bottle. Obviously refreshed by this elixir, the dancers hold the bottles at arms length, giving the impression that they carry something of religious magnitude. The drugged atmosphere, that briefly possessed and elevated the spirits of all, corrodes as reality once again regains tenure of the plains.
The next commercial glorifies the driving of a new Japanese car.

people occasionally accuse me of being a little non sequitur. well, to them i say 'chicken and mushroom pie'.

life after Soduku/the anguish of a dull pencil nib

I just walked past a small, moderately unattended child trying to unscrew the side-cap of a fire hydrant, and I had to imagine him succeeding. It was a comic thought a good ten seconds before becoming not-comic. I'm glad it didn't happen, but it's still early in the day and he looked commited. I also can't pretend I haven't wanted to do the same.

I've got a few hours to hack about before Air Canada scares me shitless once again, and I find I only think in fragments on travel days.. so here's an addendum to a January post.

You know you're in Quebec when...

• you keep loose bricks in your living room. bricks are really handy implements, they are also extremely 'guy': looking after bricks is a true man-skill. but having construction material at hand in the living room is pretty Queeb in general. Examples: 1) tables. you can use bricks to make a table, but you can't use tables to make a brick (unless those tables are made of really small bricks). 2) bookmarks 3) art... the list is exhausted only by the imagination and whether or not the brick is within armsreach.
• there are cigarette burns on the roof of your car. this would be disconcerting if it were truly your car.
• a chain-gang of 4-year-olds will sometimes amble by led by the most patient/stoned guardian ever. this is gratuitously adorable and never loses its charm.
• you eventually DO meet a person called Guilhomme in Carre St Louis.
• someone tells you a dog is about to piss on your bag as the dog is sauntering away. you shrug.
• the tightest store security is found in the dollar store.
• ladies all dye their hair run-lola-red on their 60th birthday. they're hip, because they chain-smoke and drink more heavily than the sterotypical stepdad, but they still find time to make being their neighbour hellish.
• foufounes electrique. um, yeah...
• once in a while, you see someone riding your bike. it's never the same person twice.
• after years of pondering, you still can't see how HydroQuebec can justify a rate-hike and yet burn money in mid-winter outdoor festivals.
• if your name is Tony K, you will change your stage-name to Tony Pepsi for broader cultural appeal.
• someone breaks down the gate to your backyard to salvage beer bottles.
• you've pretended not to watch the principle members of Arcade Fire polish off a poutine.
• you've subletted your apartment to the gram-o-gram dude.
• you either have a pony-tail, or are growing it back.

ok then.

is there an opposite of a zephyr?

i hope there is, or else i'm gonna be tacking into the wind. tomorrow i'm blowing westerly for a fortnight spent with my mum and bex. i figure i won't know how much i've missed them until i see them again. also, it's louis the dog time!! last time i went back, the mutt sniffed around me pretty suspiciously, and we didn't click proper until he remembered i was the loose-leasher. so, i'm going to get on the horn and see if i can see you linz, lori and j&n, if you guys are reading this.. let's spend a bender!! in cow bay, if you're up for it?!! (there probably won't be too many days for me to go astray).for those who've never visited, i'll try and convey some over-worded codswallop to capture the cow at tides both high and low. also, i'll try and coopt my sister's digicam and set up something really exciting, such as pictures only a select few'll ever really care about..

Bounty Hunt

It's been quite some time since I've had a worst enemy. Now I think I have two at the same time, and they fit snugly within this extended woman-bashing vacation I'm on: Carrie Bradshaw and that accursed Miranda. Bring me their scalps! Yes, I've watched quite a few Sex & The City episodes, mostly out of the hope of seeing the one where Miranda gets her head caught in a rusty bear-trap. Due to an HBO leak, I actually know the entire plot of this episode: Carrie finds this very selfish of Miranda, as she believes that this affects her relationship with men (the twist is, she doesn't know that having a hemorrhaging red-headed friend is a GOOD thing, as it means having red-hair is a little more normal). While Carrie is pouting and trying to come up with a plot motif, Charlotte tries everything she can think of to help release Miranda. This involves taking off her shirt and energetically shooing away the dogs that are chewing on Miranda's ugly. It doesn't help much, so she joins a convent and becomes a naughty nun. There's also some sort of sidestory here about how Samantha is a raging whore: she finds out she is riddled with an air-borne STD called gonodiarrhea. She gets all smug about it, and thinks about trying to help Miranda, but takes her shoes instead. Mr. Big comes along to save the day by skinning chubby Miranda and commissioning a tailor to make a dress out of her. He gives the dress to Carrie, who wears it to a high-school prom and wins prom-queen. BUT IT'S A PRANK!! When she goes up to accept the tiara, instead she gets pigs-blood dumped on her! Carrie loses it and uses her nose to slay every last kid there. Season Finale.

I hereby hold the cast and crew of Sex & the City accountable for every social ill there is: if you look close enough, the themes are only holding women down. They preach conformity, dependence on men (while holding them in objective disdain) and rampant self-obsession. The name for this is Fauxmenism. I would know, as I'm a feminist (I dreamt about marrying Bjork last night, how feminist is that!?)

I'll give my Skeletor action figure to anyone who brings me their scalps. Or earlobes or something. I'm not picky.

Existential Aspirin

Nothing like a voice from the wilderness to jolt you back. Ta, Mr. Rogering Me.. I feel my return service would be to show just how right you are (extrapolating, if you will). Spit or swallow..

Assuming I don't know you, you've got a quick finger on a slow pulse. I've tried to keep this thing apersonal, and by that I mean less a personal op-ed experience and more a medium for others' interpretation; something a reader'll relate to without having to feel they're indulging me. But, considering words are just burps of metabolized experience, gassy thoughts, maybe it follows that I'm just covering my mouth at some attempt at passing them politely. You're right, I am not frank. It's a perennial worry that this thoroughly overlaps my private life, my interaction with people I care about, and those I'd like to care about me. I'd like to rejoinder a big ol' "But who is?", but that's beside the point.. I often do feel like I'm glancing off the meat of the matter, and never driving through to the bone. It might be coz I'm lazy, or coz I'm trying to stay comfortable, or it may simply be something I don't want to do.. I'm actually not sure the reason, a little from each column methinks.

Anyway, Mr Rogering Me, thanks for your considerate posts. I agree with you on most of them: Isabel IS freaking hot, I have a lot of loog rattling around etc.. However, I think you did misinterpret what was a sloppy or less than eloquent post: discrimination. In my understanding, 'discrimination' has come to be an indicator of gross social injustice. Though I feel, in etymological terms, it is a misnomer. I feel the original meaning has been perverted to indicate almost the opposite: if there was a sliding scale of discrimination, firing a black-guy for being black is actually not as 'full' an act of discrimination as noticing that he doesn't meet his deadlines (for example). In which case, discrimination IS needed, and successfully used, when his sloppy work ethic isn't up to office standards. We discriminate between traffic signals and come-ons at bars, of trends and hygiene habits.. arguably, the greater we discriminate, the greater our well-being. Meanwhile, ethnic slurs (best example I can find) are actually an act of 'poor' discrimination.. or indiscrimination. Of course, this is some kind of revival of ancient Greek thought, a society that quite happily prospered from slave labour.. Tell me if I've reiterated myself uselessly here for missing the thrust of your point..

@ @ @

PENETRATION, THE STATE OF EMERGENCY and CSL as a state of MIND

steve and i, after a swell sunday afternoon with his grandparents, went to an empty carre st louis. drank a drink, and tried to get our party bearings. they recently opened ballroom, at $15 (on a sunday? because of dj unknown??) was a no-go.. if they need ballroom, they can keep it. i wasn't there to dance around people's egos like they were a tiki-god. we trod up to blizzarts, that place was another easter ego hunt, full of queen shebas and the guys trying to outlame each other in front of them. so we tried ballroom again (it was 11.30, and we had some dance we needed to slap down) as there must've been a mistake. no, still $15. so we went into the so-called Easter of Doom at Saphyr. perfect!!!! it was goth-metal techno night. we joined the vampires with beers and red bull. so much red bull, in fact, that we opted to leave by unordinary means: over the rooftops. the following 2 hours, we hopped on various roofs, exploring and climbing (my light is low from a cold, so most of it was steve pulling spidey-stunts). i've been needing to get on the proverbial roof for a while, so this is our mutual mission: it's an act of reclamation. our city.

(i had a brief epiphany in Saphyr! it's been bothering me for years: why are there always shells in a girl's bathroom? i think i know. considering they spend a lot of time in there, perhaps it's because girls see it as one of the few places they can let down their defenses? it's the statement: 'you can take your shell off here'. maybe the shells are among the few to hold witness to the raw, tender beneath?

or maybe it's just another lame bullshit nicecessity that girls are full of...)

VITRIOL

So I'm now among the nameless? I'm not to be considered? What catch nets are there for a guy when he flaps past the trapeze? Girls can curl up in a ball of selfish, hit you in the spots they know are tender and receive all the support they need. They believe your silence a cruelty, a sign of contentedness, a hummed satisfaction. They never consider it to be the only answer that can be given. In fact, to me, any other response seems cruel and basted in irony. Of course, it may just be further avoidance of consequence.

Silence. April is a cruel, cruel month. This post marks a pause, and I wouldn't have written at all save for the fear that the post below would ring on. In silence. Funny how newly sprung life can be so heedless to pain. Mean innocence, tactless and unassuming, a decorous segment of the abstract circle where the flowers need your bone marrow to spring from, root tendrils worm through the ossiferous cavities, sucking on salt water and clotted nutrient. Their coloured scent is your new breath, and your sweet panic'll only attract a stingier bee.

Sometimes I wish I had an office that an underling/untermensch'd walk into whenever I buzzed his collar. One day, I'd buzz him in and declare 'I'm going to be abroad for a month'. Next day, when the gimp came in to raid my office for stationary, I'd be wearing pumps and a dress.

Though I suppose I'd have to take a wage-cut.

Snowy/Clarence

Fear it

I'm going to go that one step further into the delusional, staggeringly self-obsessive room of blog and talk about a dream I had last night. Skip this if you can't help imagining yourself karate-chopping yourself into unconsciousness everytime someone starts talking about the AMAZING dream they had, but pretty much make up on the spot for you:
They say carrots help with your nightvision, and it took a few bumps for me to realize it may've been a bit misleading (I read somewhere it was propaganda during WW2 to prevent the Axis from knowing the Enigma code had been cracked..). But what if they mean Visions at Night. Like, seeing your totem spirit and shit. I ate a half-bucket of carrot four or so hours before going to sleep, and then everything went all Jim Morrison on me.

It started off waking up in a run-down pool changing room. The room turned out to be part of this whole, Goonies-like warren of pools and bathing complex. There was an ancient, near Mesopotamian feel about it all. In my lonely, ceramic-gazing wanderings, I finally came across a small group of people in the biggest room yet, who claimed to've woke up in the same place and came to this biodomey room. Tropical plants grew towards a small slant of sunlight that crept through the impossibly high, vaulted ceiling. The rays were visible, and dusty. The people figured they'd been kidnapped and were on some kind of reality show, as there were named envelopes with stipulated errands inside. So the four of us split up and ran our errands, sometimes in a team, sometimes vying, and nothing seemed to make overall sense. There was treasure and diving competitions, uncovering tunnels and shipwrecks, near-drowning and near-saving, joy and scare. But each time we came back to the dome, there were more envelopes waiting. It turned out one of the people were in on the whole thing, but more as a lifeguard than as an oppressor. Somehow, the guy, though a pleasant chap on the whole, knocked me out. And I woke up outside with something licking my face. It was a weird ferret-cat. I called it Snowy (though it's real name was Clarence) and quickly discovered it was a magic ferret. It considerately caught me lizards to eat and attacked things I found threatening. Next thing I knew, I was riding a ferret ('impossible!' you cry? Remember, this was an exceptionally strong, magical ferret-cat) around the country side, like some kinda wacked out Don Quixote. We foiled all sorts of dep robberies and evil warlock dudes, and everytime we met a doubter or hot babe, I could call Snowy/Clarence, and he would hop onto my shoulder and act cute and normal. And so on, and so forth until my EPIC dream ended. So, it seems my totem spirit is a mighty ferret-cat. I don't know if I'm disappointed or not. But I'm gonna do more carrots soon to get a second opinion.

This guy's one funny elitist wacko. The post about the last Star Wars film is great, and the '8 year-olds, dude' is from the one about comic book innuendos.

ps. i was thinking about shaving my head. care to comment or talk some sense into/out of me?

da bell! DA BELLS!!

Just point-form today:
- my socks came out of the dryer this morning already in pairs!!?!
- our upstairs neighbour stomped all over her apartment last night like a 5-year-old throwing a tantrum/pretending to be a majorette. we don't know why. for some reason, it gave me an adrenalin rush. and it wasn't solely because i ran upstairs, rang the doorbell and kicked her in the groin when she opened the door, in my mind. i remembered a Daily Planet show i'd seen 8 months ago about infrasonic sound and standing, naturally occuring waves prompting a fight/flight reflex in humans. it's something i'd like to mimic in electronic music. though, because the limen for human hearing is 20 - 20,000 Hz, these sounds fall outside of our perceptive range. i'm guessing they resonate in our chest and sinus cavities, influencing our naked resonance: eyeballs at 18 cycles a second, for example. but you can mimic this by generating two audible tones that only differ by 1 - 19 cycles (?), the cpm will hit you: voila, binaural tone. dropping back a few sentences here, on the DP show i saw, Natasha Stillwell cruised around to notoriously spooky spots in the UK with an infrasonic gun, and saw that most places, a standing wave, either created by draft or traffic disturbances or even an echoing heatbeat (which i thought was slightly different, but still interesting), could be found. so, next time you're either freakin' or freaking, think of the sound you can't hear. the long and short of this pointer is, my neighbour is a disturbed, spooky, weird, emaciated, scaly, vinegary, infected, afflicted, imbalanced, bullying, cantankerous, anal-polyp popping nuisance, and i'll be glad to be rid of her superimposing all her problems on cool people like us.
p.s. this site popped up when scouring for add'l info. funny. e.g.: http://www.halfbakery.com/idea/Anti-Karate_20_22Custard_22_20Armor#1144121389
- i'm on day 3 of a mean, mean headache. i wish there was a hatchet in my head i could point at and say 'oh that's why'. but no. only pain. limped along Mont-Royal last night like a hunchback, groaning and clutching my forehead, wincing at headlight and pharmaprix glows alike.

The Courtiers of King Louis

It turns out Guilhomme's real name is Jaques. Apparently he's the King. He came over and yelled at us for a bit on Thursday. We were 'saved' by a regular, who requested a cigarette. Steve said he knew the man.. and asked him the whereabouts of his guitar. Here's a recollected transcription:
CSL dude: 'My axe is in the shop. I'm not normally a man to ask for cigarettes..'
Us: 'The shop? It's getting fixed?'
CSL dude: 'No, the pawn shop. I almost lost it last week as I didn't pay the man.'
Us: 'Do you need a light? What's your name?'
CSL dude: 'Yeah. People around here call me 'the Wolf'. There's too many Marks, you see. Like 5. Some of them also play guitar. It's to avoid confusion, like, 'Mark, heard you been tapping my blonde' 'No man, not me. You ask Mark about it?''
Us: 'Ok. So you're the Wolf?'
The Wolf: 'This guy's a Mark too.'
Mark 2: 'I'm actually Mark 3. Hey, what goes "Mark! Mark, Mark! Mark!"?'
Us: 'Er..'
Mark 2: 'A dog with a hare-lip!!' HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
The Wolf: 'He plays the axe too.'
Us: 'The disfigured dog?'
The Wolf: 'Huh?'

@ @ @

LINDZ! AHOY!! I think Jaques is your Billy Ray Cyrus guy. The fountain isn't yet flowing, so no-one's bathing, but I'm sure Jaques'll be among the first. He did point at it and wink at me once or twice, so I'm sure he has designs. Also, the triker is out, we saw him the first time in a year on Thursday. He looks the same. He didn't have the squirrel-feeder on the trike's back, so I wonder if he's given up on that particular hobby. Last August, there was a new guy, who we haven't seen for a while. We nicknamed him Bum-Fu, as he sometimes weilded numchucks and loved to work out, doing chin-ups on trees. He's probably the least stable of anyone, so I hope he makes it to the park this year. If I remember correctly, he has the tattoo '151' on his forehead, which is a graffiti code dotted around that park. Perhaps he's the rightful claimant to the throne? Hope there's no titular Battle-Royale..

Carre St. Louis

The vernal wicked is on! Carre St. Louis is so hot right now. A few of last summer's regulars roam the soggy veldt, bum's roar majestically from various corners of the enclosure, dog walkers and dope dealers, head bangers and nursing seniors all convene in some sort of Blur-y ParkLife. This is like a farmer's almanac for the urbs: if Guilhomme drops his pants and yells at you, you can know Spring is oooon! He dropped his pants. Be there for around 3.30, and I'm sure he'll reiterate his sentiments for you too.

Yesterday, we met a few people who'd convened to reach accord with their lives. A fed-up construction worker who was tired of the teamsters and local gangsterism asked us for some advice between pulls on his stogie. Steve and I said, Go West. I was pushing for the Island, as subcontractors are swamped, some as backlogged as 2 years, and the lifestyle is wondrous. In the end, it seemed like we talked him round into selling his truck and making the plunge. A dude pulled up opposite us while we were talking to the disgruntled wide-neck. Turned out he was just moving back from Newfoundland, but'd gone to school in Ottawa. When pressed, he said Lisger. I asked if he knew Carolyn Jack, and he'd said he'd dated her! Turns out he was Mark Gilespie, the guy who'd purportedly later ventured into erotic entertainment under the alias Luke Loader. Well, I was tickled by this coincidence, but then, that's why I go to that park: to meet people. Other notable CSL personalities: Rollerblading Leprechaun (does crazy stunts, other than wearing hot-pants almost exclusively. Catch him at Tam-Tams), Sideshow Bob, Trenchcoat Predator (he was doing laps, probably with a colouring book under his coat), a random air-guitar guy who was wearing earphones with severed wires, someone walking her rabbit... and that's just the superficial layer. This park gets involved!

roll up the disRIMination to win

the echelon is swinging back round to drop the indignation: what the hell's going on with discrimination. as a concept of common usage, it's contradictory. look at this def'n (dictionary.reference.com) =

dis·crim·i·na·tion ( P ) Pronunciation Key (d-skrm-nshn)n.
1. The act of discriminating.
2. The ability or power to see or make fine distinctions; discernment.
3. Treatment or consideration based on class or category rather than individual merit; partiality or prejudice: racial discrimination; discrimination against foreigners.

where, from our swampy tongue, did the 3rd usage emerge? wouldn't that indicate a LACK of discrimination? prejudice is INdiscrimination, no? what warped this concept so? upon thinking about the racial problems, historical and current, perhaps one thread of 'discrimination' stems from the POWER to do so. the authority to have created these divides in the first place. in which case, discrimination, in its radicalized (and i propose, fallacious) usage still fails to illustrate this. so stop criminalizing a word, a word that is more good than bad (basis of all thought and dictinction of virtue), and get to the damned root. poor usage is indiscrimination.

loser

License to Foos (what a Thumbcentric world we live in..)

Rrrolling up the Rrrim to Win shouldn't really be giving me mild depressions. It's not my fault, I place the blame solely on the Tim Whorton's employee that picked the cup out in the first place. She's the loser here. It's akin to having the dep guy choosing the scratch 'n' win card for you, it's just poor lotto form. Let me point out the cup I want. How too does the cheery 'please play again' encourage me to get another cup of doubledouble (or 'two two' as some Quebs call it)? How did I 'play' the first time? By simply finishing my coffee and then remembering to do it? Isn't playing supposed to be associated with fun? This contest appeals more to obsessives and people with thumbs than true gamers (though, I must admit, I don't roll the rim, I chew it). Bake the freaking Rav4 key into a donut. That'd be fun. Because then you could order the donut with the key sticking out of it. Or how about wrestling the BBQ from a bear? (Though I'd want to keep the bear. We'd be pals. We'd listen to trance music and Enya together. I'd take it to bars, teach it to smoke and play foosball. Bear wrangling wouldn't be too drastic a lifestyle change really. Owning a BBQ seems like the real hassle here.) But I digress. Rrroll Up The Rrrim To Win! Gimme a break.. Lamest game I've ever played. It's a more suitable name for a modern take on the Karmasutra. HAHAHA. 'Please play again, for hours at a time.'

My First Short... (pre-edit)

Booked…
The apartment was a sunlight soup. Chunks of static flash were held in the liquid suspense of a pastel broth of curtain and carpet. The toaster and kettle kicked horseshoes onto the ceiling. Cutlery spat gold teeth onto the table. The vacuum tube silvered off the TV’s slumbering face. All was agleam and Geoff tasted it with a startled yawn as he blinked awake. This wasn’t the prison cell he was used to.
He sat up and scrutinized the room, bewildered. Nothing was as it should be. He glanced along his arm to his torso and legs: he was wearing a zoot suit, by the looks of it. Complete with wingtips on his feet and cuffs at his wrists. A black fedora capped a coat rack in the corner.
‘What the fkuff?’ He stumbled to the window and winced through the light. The sun was bleach, saturating the street behind the window. Buildings made severe by the lancing sun cut a mock world out of shadow. Lengthened people passed over these dark angles under which they neared obscurity. It represented too much to Geoff to realize that something was amiss. That the sun had no heat occurred less to him than his freedom.
‘Fkuff me, I’m.. Huh? I can’t fkuffing swear? FKarrrrrrFF!’ Backing up from the window, his throat under his fingers, he reeled in search of a mirror. ‘I’m free and I can’t find the words to express it!’ He thought wildly. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ His throat was smooth and without stubble, which, Geoff thought, was odd for a guy with a beard. After trying the only other doorknob in the room, which turned out to be the unlockable front door, he opened the one to the bathroom. Glancing around it, he saw it had no mirror. Nor a toilet.
He licked his lips and ran his hands over his face. No hair. He touched his head, a clipped and lacquered hairstyle touched him back. Maybe he could see his reflection off the TV. He tried, and though it gave a fisheye of everything else in the room, there was nothing of him. Even when he tried blocking all the light reaching it, it was if he simply was not there.
‘Holy sthit. What the fkuff? Am… am I finally a vampire?’ He hit the power on the TV, and sidled backwards to lean against the couch. A man’s head pushed onto the picture.
‘Hi Geoff!’ He greeted him genially.
‘Hi dude’s head.’ Geoff spluttered.
‘Geoff, you must be wondering what the heck is happening? We’ve been told that some of your predecessors had a rather uncomfortable time adjusting. So we started preparing live orientation vid-feeds. Any questions so far?’
‘Er. Other than, well, I’m sure you.. Never mind. Just keep going.’
‘Sure thing Geoff. My name is Garry. I do PR for InCORPSoration. Our company recently bought your rights from the Beaumont Correctional Institution. And we’re happy to say, you’re broadcasting live!’
‘Erm. Yeah. I’m.. still a bit murky on the details there Garry.’
‘Well, as I’m sure you’ve heard, even in your..’ Garry checked something just below the screen ‘.. seven year absence. Huh. The last one in solitary..’ and looking cheerfully back into the room, ‘Well, maybe you wouldn’t know then! We’ve developed a hit new KeyHole show wherein inmates and other legal non-entities are the stars! You’re going to serve the rest of your sentence under the public eye! The fans can either tap your feed direct, as in cerevision, or, and we’re particularly proud of this merchandizing adjunct, even read about your exploits in the Booked. A copy of yours is on the kitchen table over there. Not digital, like the consumers’ versions of course.’
Geoff looked over to where an officious black book stood upright on the table. Somehow, like mall music except in Geoff’s head, the fanfare from Also Sprach Zarathustra lit up for a few moments.
‘Garry, was that you guys in my head? That trumpet stiht?’
‘Yes Geoff. That was us. From time to time, we’ll integrate sound effects and whatnot, another feature we’re very pleased about. Perhaps one day even special effects, but that’s currently being pondered by the board members. Though, between us, they’re keener to promote the product placement right now. I must say Geoff, we like what we’re seeing here. You’re taking this all remarkably well.’
‘Thanks. Now, where is this place, if not Beaumont? And if this is at all related, where am I?’
‘HA. You know what? I’d almost forgotten. Yes, where are you Geoff? Well, according to the marketing demographic we’re trying to attract, we can’t allow certain, let’s just call them unsavory elements, to enter the shows. Needless to say ‘needless to say’, there were just some things we couldn’t control. So we created a virtual town for all you scallywags, and plugged you right on in. Your usual psychomotor interface was rerouted directly into our software. So the physics are piqued to our fancy: No need to defecate, swear or even have sexual relations. Fall four stories, and you’ll be fine.. You do know what that means Geoff?’
‘No toonpang?’
‘No. It means: IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO DIE HERE!’
‘Well, Garry, then I gotta ask, how is it possible to live?’
‘I’ll take that as a literal question. Your real body, your “biody” as we all call it at the CORPS to avoid confusion, has been suspended. It is being cared for by highly qualified technicians in the same building I’m orienting you from right now! Like I mentioned, your sensations have all been rerouted to here! And our viewers, your viewers, Geoff, get to see this instead! Pretty wild, huh?’
‘Yeah. Wild.’
‘The no sex/drugs/swearing thing is on a sliding scale, based on your behaviour. This virtual world may seem heavenly to you, but you are still technically incarcerated. So, we gave you a few stipulations. As you progress in your life here, you’ll enter a new rating category, whereby you can start swearing again, drinking again and so on. The one thing everyone can do from day one is fight. And it’s strongly recommended. In fact, the better you are at that, the more likely you will be to enter a new viewing time, and thus, a new rating category. If I’ve confused you, the rules are in the appendix of your Booked. Now, anything you have to add before I go?’
‘Yeah Garry. I have a question. Why can’t I see myself, like, you know, reflected off anything.’
‘Reflected in anything. Simple Geoff. We entered litigations with a few of our more sensitive viewers. They found it easier not to associate with you, found it humanizing or something, so our legal department deemed it fit to squash that altogether. Gosh, I should go now. Nice to meet you Geoff. Now, go off and enjoy your liberty!’ And with a sucking motion, the TV winked off.
Geoff put his head back against the couch seat in exhausted disbelief.
‘Fkuff you Garry.’

A wheel of starlings over Brighton's West Pier (in real life, James Warwick's URL isn't there)

bringing back 'toil' to the meaning of toilet

i remember Brighton's West Pier. only as a space i could explore from afar, from my place as a child, it seemed to be made of sea-wracked steel and ghosts. it'd been condemned before my birth, and seemed to me as far too delicate a thing to have sticking out of the ocean. like a glass wedding cake balanced atop chopsticks, it looked so untouchable. as if history could be preserved by the seething brine alone, and human fingers would only crunch it. it was a glorious sight, mottled with rust and scabby sea gunge, its crenellated turrets bit back against the monontony of the grey pebbled beach and brash skies. i often wondered about it, asking my grandmother, but i forgot what she'd said, so i left it in my mind as a photograph. a movie i just saw underlined how much has happened to it since, and i'd rather have not known. construction began in 1866, during the Golden Years of British industrialism by an engineer called Eugenius Birch, but wasn't completed, by means of a concert hall, until a few years before World War I. it was closed during the wars, getting heavily mined and boobytrapped to deter the enemy using it as a launching platform. it closed finally in 1975. it got wonky, and started to sag and collapse, and even though a substantial restoration budget had been put aside for it, it was gutted by fires in 2003. they believed it to be arson, and strangely, i would've liked to've been there to watch it burn. i heard that even more of it fell into the sea lately. the above is a picture of it, swept by starlings. more pictures found here. the place was beautiful.

meanwhile... high-ranking dog-shit officers attempt to rally the poop-troops after yet another attempt to recrapture Montreal goes awry...

It was low-tide in the mall and I was watching a pair of gnarly old goat dudes watch a pair of boutique-girls eat a pair of over-stuffed burritos, when I re-cognized that life, although the ultimate spectator sport, can be pretty graceless sometimes. Amidst these mall-humans, crustaceans and mud-slurpers alike, shuffling from lottery kiosk to bench and back, were very few instances of grace. Me included (my pants-fly is broken, I have underarm hair growing on my neck etc.). But why's it so important, I wondered? And then I realized I'd been thinking of it for a while, that everyone thought of it, at some base level, and that us crabs had served that day by lowering the flashpoint.

In it's brief flares of existence, grace seems to die when pointed at. Seems to vie against the spectacle. Seems to fly only in the periphery of pedestrian focus. All efforts are either to attain or channel it. Grace is a 'realizer' of sorts.. In the imperceptibly narrow space between an idea and its accordant action, grace grows. It actually imbues an action with idea. Harmonizes the two. Very few other words conduct this sort of metaphysical fluidity. It almost appears as if we have a dearth of "good" words.

What is grace? A skill? Or a state of flow? Can it be commodified? Can it sustain happiness? Can it be quantified or given a measure? Is it somehow a signifying agent, flickering around material like semantic lightning? How do we recognize it, appreciate it, accelerate it? Are we all looking to live in a state of grace as imagined? I obviously have no answers, nor would I assert them if I did, but I'm sure it lies at the heart of the perennial question of questions: What makes for a half-decent Bollywood movie?

Rat: I say! Badger!

Skeletor, Please Don't Look At My Greasy Ace Ventura Hair Like That

It feels like ages since I've been lucid enough to 'make-contact'. But boy oh boy, do I ever have the need to babble fecklessly today! The Wiz and I went to the Of Montreal show yesterday, where Grae, Greg, Mark, and the Brian/na met us. It was a bender! With spine-grinding bass, the Lesbians on Ecstasy broke us open, allowing the Of's catchy licks and showmanship to take hold. It was during the LonX show I realized that I've been dressing much like a lesbian for all these years. "Wicked" I thought to myself, and begged Isabel to buy me an LonX pin that said as much.

The Of Montreal needs a little section to itself: much of their antics were fresh and silly. At one point Kevin Barnes (?), the singer, lit up a moment where he'd 'spontaneously' write a song shittier than anything Billy Joel had ever released. The only lyrics I really caught were: "Her movements, while dancing, were louder than God. And God's voice is pretty loud." He had a bit of an ostentatious flare to him, delivering the music with a 'please humour my effete genius' type of swagger. It was good. In fact, I loved it. Turns out, a few of these guys are from Athens, Georgia.

Yesterday, while rushing out of Isabel's apartment to buy the tickets before the box-office closed, I almost got run over by some OAP hooligan in a motor-buggy. With those electric motors, you just don't hear them coming. So, as I was indignantly waving a fist after her, a second buggy crashed into my leg and ran over a bit of my foot. I caught a glimpse of the old bag's determined grimace before she scooted on into the distance. She didn't even bother to stop to see if I was ok. It was basically a Hit and Run. And now I only have to wonder... Were they a small contingent of some underground street racing OAP gang? Or was this a targeted maiming with intent to gather scooter-recruits? I found it kind of funny at the time, but now I'm mightily pissed off. Next time she tries that, I'm going to clothesline her, jump into her still-warm seat, circle round to run over HER leg and zip off to the park to feed the ducks and become The Laziest Man Alive.

I also found a use for those dates: here's the recipe...
-1/2 block of tofu... slice into thin strips, fry in olive oil for 5-7 minutes, turning every 1-2 min.
-2 cloves fine-diced garlic mixed with 1 teaspoon of Dijon mustard and 1 teaspoon Apple Vinegar. mix it up. Now slice and dice 2 Algerian dates, removing the pits. They'll be sticky, until you put them into the garlic mustard mix, at which point the vinegar'll break them into smaller pieces (with rigorous stirring). Add mixture over the now-browned frying tofu.
-Once the tofu sizzles the mix, reduce heat and sprinkle a teaspoon of parmesan cheese. Roll tofu around in pan and add a 2nd teaspoon of parmesan. Roll around some more.
-Put on plate and salt to taste. (Disclaimer: Don't give to date-hating girlfriend. She won't eat it.)

So the screams are getting louder at PI now, which means it's 4 o'clock.

REFUSED? THANK AND TERMINATE

The above title is one of the options we sometimes have at work when a call gets rejected. It was the funniest thing I could think off while working.. and other than the fact that I heard the name Garth on three different answering machines, I didn't really think of much else. However, the rest of the work scene, while aromatic, is surprisingly cool. Though I did have one experience today in the bathroom that only became odd because I thought of it too much: I went to the bathroom twice during my shift, and each time there was this shifty chinese dude just milling around. Now, i thought it may've been possible that we were on the same bladdercycle (a brief aside: i just put some pizza pops in the preheated-to-450-degrees oven on waxed paper. how do i know this is safe? because i was forced to read Fahrenheit 451 when I was 12. thank you liberal education) but how could i be sure? maybe he was on a more frequent cycle than mine, and other people had run into him there, and were thinking the same thing? or maybe he'd never even left the first time? but then I thought, it was most likely that it was just coincidence that we were both there both times and that he looked shifty.. and maybe it could be that he was thinking the same about me. which led me to worry about him telling coworkers about this dodgy white guy lurking in the bathrooms. i don't need that rep 2 days into my new job. give me a week.

i have to take these algerian dates out of my coat pocket soon.

(updated aside: using paper in the oven ISN'T a viable cooking method)

ps. i know it's starting to sound like i hang out in bathrooms here, but i dropped my phone in another toilet, so i'm basically unavailable. last time i did that my mum made a funny about me talking out my ass.

rebel scum

Ever see someone skydive naked? I have, and it's horrible.

Ok, so Thursday night, I ate my words: I squelched home sopping wet up to my thighs. There had been quicksnow everywhere.. I don't have too much to speak about today, though I did go to the Belle and Sebastian show last night, which was fine. Good musicians, and an even better band. I had the disadvantage of not really caring about them before seeing them, so I didn't have my life changed or anything. They had veteran-tight sets, and pretty accessible songs, though the melodies were a bit too complex to generate a spontaneous loveaffair with me. They sing about dreams and horses, so sure enough, the ladies love them (just like Sublime, what's up with that band and girls? Girls take their tops off if they even hear Sublime played in a commercial). They'll go down in my Top 20 shows. As for the rest of this post, today I only have questions..
-Does anyone else aim for the urinal-mint just to get that refreshing smell?
-Ever notice how predisposed to looking at people you are? Even if you didn't know someone was there, the chances of 'casually' looking at some otherwise uninteresting landmark are damned higher if someone is there. Like looking up in a coffee shop and looking directly at someone who'd been looking at you. Eery. I guess the only problem with that observation is that you'll never know how many people you don't see..
-Cogender toilet seat guidelines need to be heavily revised... why do I have to touch a seat I'm not using? Especially BEFORE I touch my winky? Anyone who insists otherwise is braindamaged in the head. The typical counterarguement 'I don't want to fall in' is just a further expression of just how extensive that braindamage is: who doesn't look before they sit down? Especially when half-naked and planning to pass body fluids!? We should at least meet half-way on this one, and accept that the seat'll go up and the seat go down, move it if you need to.. am I wrong? AM I WRONG?
-Which is your favourite dep? There should be annual dep awards, with acceptance speeches and everything. There are some serious deppers out there.. A few along Duluth are more like gunclubs than convenient places to buy baby formula: old dudes hang about sharpening butchering equipment or repackaging Gillette razors. Vote for your favourite dep here!
-Ever notice how the last wisp of a put-out cigarette smoke smells like fish oil?
-Do you ever need to turn the car-radio down to be able to park?
-In the music spectrum, when does reggae become dub? On the remix? Because some of the best dub I've seen has been live.
-I've no idea what a Super Dairy Boy might be, but haven't you always wanted toys like these? Check out the Powerisers!
-Back to DJ names, how's Rambo sound? Or EeryMouthy? Or The Metapickle? I definitely need someone to tell me, or else I'll be DJ Tommy, which sounds a little too gino-house for this lad.

War On Puddlism

Why do people wearing knee-high, lava-proof, 'I-eat-pectin-free-orphanjam-on-toast' jackboots and then tiptoe around the skinniest of puddles? Come on!! I wade though them in suede slip-ons, and my footsies are drier than a show-poodles quoif. People, embrace pedestrianism!! Wear your shoes out when you wear your shoes out. Why inconvenience yourself for a convenience? I emplore you, in this post 9-11 world, if you don't walk through them, the puddles have won.

OK. So, as I was landing myself a job today, I finally had the idea for Los Rawkiss Knee Bucklers' Cabaret that I needed. ***CHECK HERE FOR SPORADIC UPDATES: THE IDEA IS CURRENTLY BEING INCUBATED*** As I'm trying to shimmy into psy-fi right now, AND come into my ongoing 10 year fantasy of creating music, I'm going to compose a psy-fi soundtrack!! I've got the stipulative story all lined up. Now I just need to factor in the fun. But most importantly, figure out a DJ name, though, technically, I wouldn't be a DJ. I was thinking of a few: The Learnererer, Savage Cabbage, Mr. Mister, Captain Crow or Captain Turnip, DJ Welfare, DJ PalindromemordnilaP JD or, in that ilk: rorriM JD, CollyWobble, PuddleJumper, PigLicker. Or maybe something witty, like: WD40 on the Fly, The Chemical Single-Child, Hungry Hungry Hip, Trance'n'dance. Or political, like: Electricity is for the Weak, Freakanada, Willy Wonky, USreal, ChillWhitey, CondeleezaRiceIsTheAntiChrist, TesticleTariff etc. Basically, I need someone to decide for me... it's too bad I'm saving Optimus Prime as the name for my first-born. Alright, I'm off to celinebriate my gainful employment some more at Laika. Later!!

let the wild rumpus begin!!

Forced Perspectives and Squeaky Shoes and Han Solo's Revenge

Today marks the end of a weeklong binge-slump. I've been down in the dumps, taking a fake-it-till-you-make-it approach, only to realize just how prodigiously stupid that is. It's only been for a short while, but with mood comes a noticeable dip in attention-span, sociability, good-will, even 'luck' and 'intelligence'... Those are some damned hard things to try and fake [You can fake breasts but you can't fake good times (...waaaaaaait a second there...)]. Let's go a bit deeper.

Ever notice how a bad mood affects harmony with your environment? Yesterday, sitting with Isabel in front of a rolling DVD Lost-athon, I fired up a stove element to heat some water. A few minutes in, Isabel and I heard a crackling, she asked me what that was, and I replied 'roiling water for my noodles'... however, something bugged me about the sound: water doesn't crackle, so I checked the kitchenette to find the answer: the dishrack was on fire. I'd lit the wrong element. Plastic smoke billowed everywhere, causing the aromatic reminiscence of when I'd amputated Han Solo's blaster arm with a magnifying glass, and replaced it with his head. So, I did the obvious panic response and hit the dishrack with a wet cloth. Eventually it went out. Soot was everywhere, my finger was burnt and I felt like an idiot. This seemed to me to be the penultimate event of a series of unfortunate incidents. But did fortune really have anything to do with it? I am a strong believer in ultimate personal responsibility, even to a degree of psychic/physical coincidence, and so lumping it on bad-luck is also bad faith. Let's go even deeper.

Faith. Trust. Confidence. prefix, com-, "together, together with, in combination," + fidere "to trust" So, loosely speaking, confidence means to go-with, or be-with, faith. This implies a certain psychic predispostion at the very least: I'd even wager that, functionally, the root of all confidence is faith in oneself. Now, considering (consider, literally = "to observe the stars") my actions were revealing my inability to be sure of what I was doing, it left me with a few horrible options... 1) either I was mistakenly confident or, more likely as this was closely attuned to my mood (ie. emotional feedback loop) 2) my confidence was diminished. So I resolve today to restore my confidence.

How to reinstate confidence? Basing this etymologically, my fake-it approach is flat-out lying = how can you fake faith? Basing this emotionally, how do you break a recurring excitation of foul thoughts? Each is, arguing simply, the expression/fuel of the other. The answer lies in the emotional realm, but needs the rational mind as trigger...
1) Recognize the mood, and embrace it. You can't help what you're feeling, last thing you need is to feel bad about that as well (there's such a social precedence on displaying good mood, it's hard not to malign yourself further for not meeting it)
2) Use the mood to achieve what you DO want: effect guided change for the better. Allowing the bad mood to be an emotional loop that reinforces itself (as in, a whole bunch of neuroreceptors that have been, through use, primed to fire more quickly/easily... etc.), it follows that thinking and visualizing good things will steer towards a happier emotional plane. It is important to do this mindfully: sheer aversion to bad things won't do. That's avoidance or distraction and how commercials getcha to buy stuff. Effectively, going towards what you want will act to avoid the bad anyways.
3) Remember that there is no arrival: you don't BE good, you practice it. After you have a goal of worth, be it based in virtue or skill, you have to practice the person you want to be. This is tricky: when viewing another, it is tempting to see them as a finished product. It is easy to criticize and analyze them, your brain has every capacity to do so. However, the brain cannot do this to itself, even though it tries. I won't go into this, but just suggest that it leads to a form of self-negation. Even a positive take on itself is arrogance, a form of assumption.
4) Do not do this directly for others. This is the toughest of all, as people will ALWAYS tell you who you are, give you the reflection you need to know, but to accomplish something for the sheer positive feedback is to act without confidence. I am guilty of this problem. I have a fatuous existential phrase for this: you are what you do, but are judged on how you do it. By all means, accept praise, but don't provoke it.

Wow. Do I ever feel better!
ps. I've no idea how many people read this, but there've been a few short-lived posts that I've hastily removed as it breaks the conditions I set myself as a blogger. I'm sure there'll be more that come and go, but they're either too personal or opinionated to exist for any extended period of time. Look for them though, they're usually the most inflammatory/defamatory.

in your face, interface ace

Fine Finns finally find factors that'll amplify air guitar solos. This gives me an idea: I'm gonna start an air band. We're going to pick up our hands, and sham-jam until we're broadcast on the burgeoning music station : EmpTV. I'm thinking that the band will be called Air Souls. That cessation of music at your favourite coffee shop? That's our hit single! Aren't Finnish people fun?

I watched Donnie Darko again yesterday. As soon as I realized that it was Echo & the Bunnymen opening the credits, and that that seemingly innocuously placed song coincided with the fact that a giant bunny called Frank waded behind most of the action, I began to think there was a lot more I was missing. So I cheated and looked it up... Here there was a breakdown on the imagery. Apparently, rabbits are considered to be symbols for regeneration, perhaps even reincarnation: 'the rabbit expresses hope that life will be renewed, and better than before'.

Attention and intention typically solder to form inattention...
Institutionalized VD is here (finally Yahoo finds more news than Sharon's spleen). I bet today is the world's greatest break-up day... Fucker! Who is that trying to capitalize on my fear of being alone? Nothing more vapid than someone telling me to love, and when... Such a stupid day there aren't even any good websites about it.

Thanks Warren Ellis for not knowing how blatantly I repost your posts...

OK. Last bullet here... Just watched a blind guy pass by the window wearing no pants. Just plaid boxers and wellington boots. I don't know what the ethical thing to do is here. I have a vague feeling I'd be the one accused of public indecency by telling him. But he should know. It's -5 celcius, and 'feels like' -13. Talk about walking around with a white cane...

Los Rawkiss Knee Bucklers ('you have to do something radical...')

I just watched a guy playing the flute in his car as he drove past. Doesn't quite have the same devil-may-care panache of the AC/DC guy who waggled drumsticks through his sunroof everytime he ripped down St. Denis in his 80's Accord. But then, he's a man of legend. I remember Graham and Steve concluding his favourite as Razor's Edge. Which holds up under the closest scrutiny as a most excellent driving tune, especially the live recording. At any rate, in this case, the flute's a bit more seasonal and better for closed-window (tinted, if possible) congested traffic.

Had a riproaring day yesterday, most literally towards the end (my roommates came home and gagged on the noxiousness of my fumes, Justine inquiring as to whether Isabel was asleep or simply unconcious. I think they misinterpretted my redface as borne of embarrassment, it was more from exertion and probable assphyxiation).

Steve and I had quite the episode of chess at Cafe Pi. The atmosphere, always to what I expected was our mutual taste, really made an impression on him. In his words: 'My grandfather's always said that every man needs a club' and, accordingly, 'The first rule of Pi...' It is a fantasy land, alighting on all the chess jockeys' minds as a place to make war on each other in peace. We drank coffee until we could've moved our pieces by jiggling against the table with our feet. So much cerebralism goes into the Pi concept: Red Bull and tripped-out art, musical oddities and humaniacal travesties. All gets processed and reconstitutes itself there as some sort of mineral buildup in the toilets. We did glean a number of noteworthy quotes from the air though, amongst them my favourite: 'In Russia, we have a saying: Treat the working girl like a queen, and treat the queen like a working girl.' It may've been contextual, but it struck me at that moment as particularly sage.

Isabel and I later went to a poetry and prose reading at the Yellow Door. It was good; inspiring work-ethic, commitment, skill-progression, peer-exposure and the like. We saw a deadringer for a your-pants-are-affecting-your-facial-expression Ben Stiller, whom I saw again this afternoon. Same guy, same facial expression. Deadringer, as phrase, comes from a not unreasonable Victorian fear of being misdiagnosed as dead and buried alive. Intricate bell-systems were consequently rigged up in graveyards, so you could jingle for help were you to come around. However, I think Ben Stiller'll be taxidermed. Don't think that'll stop him from making movies though.

My Dad looks like Sting

Yesterday, Amy, Jus and Elle (a sweet Aussie friend of the girls staying at our place these days) declared that my Dad looks like Sting. Good going Dad, thought you might like to hear that from a few twenty-year old lovelies. We did a few comparisons after that, Isabel to Catherine Keener, Jus to Brooke Shields and Amy to Leonardo Dicaprio. They thankfully seconded my opinion that I don't look like Jeromy Irons, but I didn't want them to refute the Ralph Fiennes one, so I didn't mention it. Then, we Googled ourselves silly... the Images button is simply crawling with pictures with pictures of both Isabel and her cousin's artwork (they have the same last name).

@ @ @

Oh, Justine wanted me to mention the time we were chased around by a werewolf in Frankenstein's (or was it Draculas's?) Haunted Mansion in Niagara Falls. It frightened us silly: Isabel's hat got knocked off, and the werewolf tauntingly mimicked her cries of 'my hat, MY HAT!' Afterwards, Justine mentioned that she literally pooed herself. I made sure to ask her about it at the Ings' Thanksgiving dinner later that evening, noting that she was still wearing the same clothes. I don't know why she asked me to recount the story on the blog, it's pretty gross. But, come to think of it, she's somehow involved in every bodily-function story I've heard or retold recently: she startled some poor bloke on the street with a hiccough/sneeze the other day, giggle-farted in my room once (turning to blame the door-hinge) and unblinkingly supplied the requisite information as to how to make chicken stock ('just bung the carcass into a pot...' Don't know how that's a bodily-function thing, or even gross really, but examples MUST come in 3s, so...). The lady's pure style, and, like, the most creative person I know.

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Armand and Amy had a good game of 'what super power would you most want to have?' Teleportation ranked up there, as long as your clothes came with you. Armand claimed his to be the power to heal anybody, or, as Amy rejoined, 'to be Jesus'. Mine'd be telekinesis, for sure. Please post me your superpower of choice in the comments bit below. Or use your mind control, and I'll do it for you.

Here charts Becky devolution into the grotty-grimey girl we all now know her for. This is her Beautiful Becky Stage. Before she moved to the Island...

Bex with our Dad, shortly after she moved to the Island. Great Pic Guys!

Becky with normal people

Um, it was mid-snort? The transmorphogrificationism is almost complete...

Bwahahahaha-ecky

My Dad