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.