Hell is full
the dead walk the streets
You, literate junkie
listen and wrest nothing

Shut hopes of
You, emotional whore
look and wipe at dry eyes

Brass figure
from copper and zinc
You, alloyed betrayer
fall out of suspicion


I found a great little site today. Basically, you print out cards and hand them out to people who insist on talking loudly on their cellular phone in a place where we can all hear them. If I had access to a printer right now, I would print out this pdf. Amusingly enough, someone just called me on my cell phone as I finished inserting that there hyperlink.

Pleasing and agreeable in nature

I do not have anything worth posting about right now. I am sure I could make something believable up, but I do not feel like it. I did some laundry today, mostly underwear and socks. I cooked up some loneliness for dinner. I might have a job at a natural foods delicatessen. The manager is nice. I had dinner with my aunt, uncle, and cousin. They are nice. I have been walking around Kitsilano a lot. It is trendy, upscale, and nice. My house is nice. My roommates are nice. The weather is nice.
Great news everyone! I got a job at a local scotch and cigar testing facility, and Friday is free coke day!

And another one bites the dust

Pierre Berton is dead. At age eighty-four, one week ago, he was still kicking and did a celebrity tip for Rick Mercer's show. Here it is. Oh, and Happy World Aids Day everyone! No, I do not have any paper hats or noisemakers. You sick asshole.

The Diving Rock

Gather round, everyone. Only read and you shall be saddened by this, a tragedy like many before it, a story of life, love, and death. John was a happy young man, of ready wit and gifted with excellent genes. He was lucky enough to be born to wealthy parents in a modest suburb of Winnipeg. His father, also named John, had done well by starting a garment company that supplied Canadian troops with combat uniforms during the first world war. Once the war was over, he sold the company and lived comfortably by investing prudently in tobacco firms and other, less savoury, overseas investments. The sole luxury that he afforded to himself and his young, not yet pregnant wife, was a fabulous house overlooking Lake Winnipeg in the idyllic community of Victoria Beach. They spent many happy months there and, in the fullness of time, young John came to complete their lives. The child was a joy to his doting mother and father, trophies and achievements dripping from him to form pools of success. Women, both young and old, would follow him everywhere, hoping to attract the eye of such an eligible bachelor. Their efforts, however, went unnoticed. John had eyes, and heart, only for Jane. Jane's life, until she met John, was not a happy one. This might have been one of the attractions for the pair, that is, their utterly different paths through the maze of childhood. Where his parents were well off, hers scrabbled to stay sane while living in poverty and destitution. Where he succeeded at all he touched, she could not but fail. Their romance was an enormous scandal for John's parents, and Jane's parents could not help but be suspicious of his motives. Nonetheless, the two somehow managed to ignore everything but each other, and often went out in the evening to dance, or swim, or learn anew what wonders could be found in the world. On a hot night in July, in nineteen thirty six, John and Jane danced their last step and went outside to cool down from the stifling press of bodies still dancing their cares away. They decided, it being a night of such accursed heat, to gather some friends and go for a swim in the nearby lake. They soon made a collection of people, and left, some on foot and some by bicycle, for Scott's Point, so named for an early settler of Victoria Beach. The women hiked up their skirts and waded in, splashing each other and laughing with youthful vigor. The men, not as constrained by custom, stripped down to their shorts and swam out to a flat rock about twenty five yards away from shore. There they took turns diving, in the hopes of impressing upon a young lady their athletic prowess. When John's turn came up, everyone applauded a fantastic entry, almost no splash and a good distance away from the rock. Their applause quieted, and they waited for John to come up so that they might properly shower him with compliments. When it became clear that he was not going to come up, the rest of the young men searched the lake floor while a silence fell on the formerly rambunctious crowd. Jane, no stranger to sadness, curled up on the sand and wept. After a brief period of swimming, coming up for air, and swimming back down, John's body was recovered and pulled in to shore. Upon seeing her beloved, his broken spine, blue lips, and bulging eyes, Jane cried out in pain. She tore away from her friends and ran, cutting her calloused feet, until she reached the height of Scott's Point. Deaf to the cries of her friends, Jane threw herself at death, to join with John, who was her only happiness in life.

Can I have one?

'Ware comfortable old habits, dear reader. I have recently taken up issue with the succubi that are alcohol and nicotine, and they are not kind. Their winged (pronunciation is wing+your nickname if your name is Edward) forms taunted me and I was unable to resist the rare pleasure of a fine cigar as accompaniment to a good helping of usige. A man could not ask for a more pleasant activity on a crisp fall evening in Ontario. The demonic forces had tempted me with their beauty, and I fell, willing, into their arms. Once the honeymoon wore off, though, my appetites had changed. They had become boorish, even belligerent. I looked on, horrified, as I attempted to revivify my desire with the application of beer and cigarettes. I will not bore you with details, I believe that it will suffice to say that I woke up grumpy and sore for not a few mornings. All the while ignoring my better judgement. It is only through memory of previous success against this dual addiction that I have summoned up the strength to deny myself their increasingly insistent charms. Is there a lesson to be learned from all of this? Most definitely. Will I repeat my bold flirtation with these awful demons? Also, and if you know me, you knew this, most definitely.

Good artists gone bad

Lately I have been thinking a lot about those gifted individuals who choose to use their powers for evil. What the devil is going on here? How can a writer as talented and funny as Stephen King continuously churn out such horrendous garbage? How can an mc with skills so good that he can pay his own bills, namely 50 cent, do likewise (substitute bling and hos for psychos and the undead)? I am sure there is a long list of these people, people who would use a shotgun to kill a small rodent. To quote a police officer I was chatting with, "Pow! He was gone! I sprayed that little shit all over the yard! I couldn't even get near him with the Glock."


I have this ever present wish for something better. I think it is symptomatic of a life where, due to some incredible luck, I was born so privileged as to believe that I could do anything I wanted. I do not mean to imply that I am alone in this, I know that I am not the only person in the upper middle class. The wish is there when I am dreaming, eating, fucking, reading, or watching television. It is there when I am talking to you, when I am drinking, and when I am using drugs. On the rare occasion when the wish fades away and I am fully engaged, the black cloud is behind me, every thing I can see has a crisp border, my perception is the tip of a knife cutting the Gordian knot, life is good. The gift of immediacy tears away my nebulous dissatisfaction. It is these moments that I hold together with paper, and try every day through varied means, and with infrequent success, to reach once more.


Well, I was drunk, anyway. So it was probably a party. Let me think. I stole some things, among them a bathroom key from Shell (which it turns out they only had one of, so no one could use the bathroom until someone took it back) and a Jason - esque hockey mask. I seem to remember reading poetry in a theatre venue. I think, no wait, I did grope a platonic female friend, let's call her "Cluff". Sorry about that, Cluff. There was some pretty bad karaoke, and I scream - heckled them. No idea what I said, sadly. I am sure it was some good heckling though. A waitress spilled beer all over me, let's call her "bitch". Not just beer, but smelly American beer. I had no clue that Budweiser smelled so awful until that moment. So bitch brought me a black russian. Yay. Instant karma for not paying cover and bringing my own beer into the place, I suppose. Now my head hurts, and I have a cool wet towel on it. Cool as in ice water, not cool as in retro. The towel seals it. I was at a party.

Japanese cuisine

There is something so right about coating tofu in cornstarch and frying it. I love agedashi tofu. I am pleasantly full of it, as well as some other tasty treats, including a monkfish roll, a yam tempura roll, and some yellowfin tuna. Now to settle in to some serious lounging. A blaxploitation joint, Black Caesar, complete with soul godfather soundtrack, and some fine ass imported beer. Cheers!

Je l'ai deja vu

I had a bit of a deja vu while on the phone with a friend this morning, so I thought I'd have a peek around the world wide web and see what was up with that. I like the explanation that says your cognition is lagging behind your perception, creating the feeling that you are experiencing and recalling the event at the same time. It's pretty neat, however you look at the phenomenon. The whole thing has, as the French said and we English speaking types have come to say, a certain je ne sais quoi.

Heineken, the second worst import

I guess Heineken is not really that bad. But lord, it is not that good. Damned vendor beer. The village was in fine fettle tonight, though. Nothing like wandering around on a Sunday night getting drunk in public. On the positive side of things, I managed to walk the village without being asked for change. On the negative side of things, I did not steal anything or scam anyone. So really what I am saying here is that life (bad simile to follow, skip ahead if sensitive) is like something that has both positive and negative aspects. Maybe a battery, or maybe more like a bleach shampoo. Your hair is clean, but your scalp hurts.

quirky cliche about this being my first blog!

These things have always appealed to me, but not really. So I just set one up, mostly because I wanted to post a comment on a different blog about how many times w. has been to prison. I don't think I'll bother with that anymore, but now I have a new toy to play with online. Which is, of course, just about exactly what my life is missing. Further distraction. Hoo-bloody-ha, says I.