Saturday, September 10, 2005

When There's No Time For Tits

Okay, first off, read this...

Click here.

Basically, for those of you who can't read the article or are too lazy to read the article or just don't give a fuck about any fucking article and are only here because the word "tits" appears in the title of this post I'll summarize by saying that there were women who survived the hurricane, but not allowed onto some rescuers' boat because they refused to show their potential heroes their tits. Yes, you read that right. Women were asked to show the hillbilly rescuers their tits and when they refused to do so they were not rescued.

Now for those of you who don't know me that well let me start off by telling you that I've been single for quite a while now or I've had relationships that ended quickly, but what's most important to state is that I'm usually in a perpetual state of loneliness. Now, I'm not saying that because I want your sympathy. I'm not saying this because I want some generous woman to read this, come over to my house and plant her cooch on my face. I'm saying it because insofar as non-incarcerated people go, I'm damn near the loneliest man in existence, but so what? It's suited me just fine. I'll be fine just going on being lonely.

Okay, Michael, but why are you going on and on about being lonely after you start talking about hillbillies and titties?

Here's the point.

Thank fuck you finally have a point!

As lonely as I am I don't go about my daily existence asking women to give me a view of nipples for every little favor I do for them. As such I don't ask women to "put them on the glass" when I hold a door open for them and I certainly don't yell out "show me your tits!" when I pull a chair out for a woman to sit on when we go out to eat. Why don't I do that? Because it's fucking rude, that's why! Holy fuck!

There's a time and a place to yell out shit like that and a definite method and a code of conduct to be followed. It's very, very rare to be in one of those situations where it's okay to ask a woman for a flash of her bodacious ta-ta's and I would have to say that the aftermath of one of the most devastating hurricanes in American history, if not the most devastating hurricane in American history, ranks very high on the long list of inappropriate situations in which one can ask a woman for a glimpse of her tits. In fact, I would almost go so far as to suggest that the aftermath of such a powerful hurricane, amid all the debris and rubble, it's probably the exact opposite of an appropriate situation to say, "Show me some titties!" But then again, that might just be me, Mr. Concerned Canadian Guy who got a boy scout merit badge in fucking manners! I would help old ladies cross the road and I certainly didn't ask them to show me their tits when I did so.

Which brings up another interesting point: Why?!?!?! Now, I might not be completely up to snuff on the destructive power of a hurricane the magnitude of Katrina, but I would suspect that most, if not all, the survivors looked at the very least a wee bit dishveled? I mean, you see footage all over the news of these poor victims of the hurricane wading in filthy water without homes and who have probably been wearing the same clothes for a couple of weeks and do you know what comes to my mind when I see that?


No!!!! Even if I saw a poor refugee's tits I doubt that it could be a turn on, so why the fuck even ask for a show? If refugee tits were so hot then why aren't there more sex tours to Sally Struthers countries? That's right, because there are settings in which tits are really supposed to be furthest from one mind.

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure most, if not all the women in question, are absolutely gorgeous and they must have bountiful racks, but after a hurricane I would go out on a limb and say that they probably don't look their best. Maybe their tits are even a little on the less-than-centerfold quality side, maybe a little malnourished from being stuck on a rooftop for days, maybe dehydrated from lack of drinking water. Something tells me, though, that in non-hurricane conditions these women would look infinitely more stunning. Again, so why the fuck even ask for a show? Why not let the women get some shelter, some rest, some food, some water, and then ask them to show their tits? At least then they'll have all the strength they need to punch you in the testicles for being such a chauvinistic prick.

To the asshats who would refuse women a place on your rescue boat because they wouldn't show you their tits: are you really that hard up for a sight of some titties that you would refuse traumatized women the help that they need? I'll send you some porno mags just get them the fuck on the boat! Holy shit, now is no time split hairs when it comes to tits. There will always be time for tits later. As lonely as I am even I know that. I have a whole retirement plan built around tits being flashed my way. It'll be great!

So I would like to take this opportunity to suggest that we start a Rescuers of Hurricane Katrina Porno Fund so that everybody in the affected regions can be given the proper attention without having to lift their shirts as some sort of primitive payment. I'm putting together a benefit concert as we speak and I hope to have some big name acts on board. Hustler ain't cheap, people, those women need to be saved!

Sometimes Sinister

Tonight's a poetry night for sure. I'm leaving for Calgary tomorrow after I wake up and pack for an overnight trip. The reading on Sunday is filling me with a lot of anxiety because right now I think my goal is to be memorable, not necessarily well-liked, but memorable. As it stands I'm hoping to rattle off some of the poems I've written for my Sometimes Sinister project. I'm pleased to say that at this point in time I definitely do not have enough time to read half the poems I've written for that project so far (and that's not even counting the drafts that I'm not even confident enough to include in the project yet). So I thought that before I head out on the road I would leave you with a short piece from the project. I have a series of short poems written in prose-like blocks that list of ominous concepts and closing with the refrain: Sometimes sinister, like the way I love you. I won't transcribe all of those short poems for you here, but here is one of the ones that seems to have caught my eye just now as I was reviewing my work for my possible setlist for Sunday...

Sometimes Sinister

A bad idea. Nape hairs prickling themselves at premonitions. Feeling the long staredown with death through a complete absence of light. Hearing the axe remove itself from a block of wood. A neighbor's television set turned up too loud and muffled, though still audible: commentary on the latest round of prostitute murders. Creamsicle street light: rain, baby, rain. The semicolon suggesting there is more to the picture that is disjointed, maybe not even there. The way fingers twitch when they've clutched too many knife handles, too many gun butts, and now find themselves without something to hold. The masturbator's posture. Carpal tunnel.

Sometimes sinister

like the way I love you.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

One From The Vaults

While I plug away at fine tuning my poetry for this weekend's appearance in Calgary please enjoy one of my older pieces. It's about one of my favorite game shows.

The Price Is Rant

You know what television show is great? The Price is Right. Goddamn I love that show. You’re probably thinking right now that there’s some sort of joke coming. You’re suspecting that I’m going on the record as saying that The Price is Right is a great show just so that I can be ironic. Maybe I am, but goddamn that’s some good TV.

But Michael, you’re probably saying out loud, Bob Barker is bringing so much light into the lives of so many people with his game show, why do you have to be so fucking mean all the time?

Bob Barker can have a spay-or-neuter-a-thon all he wants. In fact, he can line up all the house pets in America and sterilize them ‘til the cows come home, or I get laid, whichever comes first (and folks, the pun is fucking intended), though the cows coming home looks to be the pony to bet on in this race. Whatever. Big fucking deal.

Back to the point, though.

The best part of The Price is Right is that it’s not so much a showcase for all the great products being churned out by manufacturers everywhere, but rather that it’s a showcase for the people who play the games. Isn’t that awesome? I love how whenever I feel depressed about how shitty things seem in my life sometimes, I can always turn on the TV and there on The Price is Right there will be hundreds of people who are worse off then me. At least I’m not one of those fucking tools, one can easily think while watching that daily drooling parade of idiocy. Not only that, but those hundreds represent a demographic that could number in the millions. My fucking life now rocks! Thank you very much CBS!

I have to say that the people on the game show wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t for all the fucking home made t-shirts. Each one of those ugly-ass t-shirts says the same goddamn thing:

[insert town, city, fraternity, military regiment name here] loves Bob Barker

Thank you, folks. I’m sure Bob can make the happiest corpse in the world now. Who the fuck cares what banal group loves him? That’s right, nobody. And believe me, we’re all fucking impressed that you were able to claw your way from Bald Knob, Arkansas to California to appear on a game show. In the grand scheme of the universe, of all the fucking great feats a person can ever hope to achieve I rank making an appearance on The Price is Right somewhere between getting your testicles crushed by transvestite ironically named Tiny and impaling yourself on a three-foot long dildo. In case you’re wondering how feats like that rank in the grand scheme of things in this universe among all the other great things humans have achieved, it isn’t very fucking high. Sorry.

But Michael, how can you just pick on these poor people who only come to win a Ford Taurus or a poorly made catamaran? They’re just ordinary people like you and me.

Wrong again. These are people who are setting humanity back oh, say about three evolutionary steps even while they are achieving. That’s just wrong on such a monumental scale. Think about it. You have the attention of millions of sofa jockeys across the world for minutes. That’s right, minutes. Millions of people are focused on you for minutes. How many times do opportunities like that come up for people? For most people, well ordinary people like you and me that is, there’s no audience of millions hanging on our actions in some pricing game. It’s a rarity to say the least.

And the best thing that any of these people can state, whether it’s on their fucking stupid looking t-shirts or when Bob puts the mic in their faces to ask them tedious questions about Gay Head, Massachusetts or French Lick, Indiana is “We love Bob Barker!” Holy shit! How terribly original and thought provoking and that, my friends, is fucking sarcasm. I’m sure Bob has been verbally fellated by just about every asshat under the sun, from Assawoman Bay, Maryland to Humptulips, Washington, at one time or another, way to squander the opportunity to make a statement again and again and again, morons!

Is Bob Barker really some kind of gold-plated god who has to be worshipped on a TV show for the better part of his adult life?

We love you Bob! Bob, you’re great! Bob, father my children; I need your perfectly coiffed seed to spawn!

Fuck you.

You see, there’s a reason why I’ve never been on The Price is Right. Believe me, I’ve tried. The problem is that my t-shirts never get past security. I keep thinking that if I could capture the imagination of millions for a few minutes I better give them something worth listening to. I better give them a message worth believing in. Does anybody really care if I love Bob Barker? No. Can I appear on a TV show without having to take it up the ass from the host so that he looks like some sort of modern day saint of sterilizing animals? You bet your ass I can’t! Fucking TV has gone to shit a long time ago.

Here’s a t-shirt message for you: Get Off The Sofas Of The World And Do Something With Your Lives, You Human Slugs; You Make Me Sick Enough To Puke Blood. Okay, maybe a tad on the long side. Or how about: Read A Fucking Book. Stop Spaying And Neutering Your Brains, Morons! Okay, a bit shorter, but still too acerbic to get past the quality control. I suppose all that’s left is: Edmonton, Alberta Loves Bob Barker. Holy shit! The people were right all along! They weren’t going on with the intentions of professing their love of Bob Barker; they wanted to say something decent, but couldn’t get it to fit on their t-shirts. I believe I owe the world a fucking apology.

So Price is Right contestants, I’m fucking sorry you lack the imagination to do something worthwhile with your t-shirt real estate. I mean that seriously from the bottom of my coal-black little heart.

I do wonder something about many of the people who wear these t-shirts to their big break on The Price is Right, though. Do they lay awake in bed for days beforehand thinking, Fuck, Bob is so totally going to fucking love my t-shirt. I bet he decides to move to Rough and Ready, California when he see how much we love him on my fucking t-shirt. I’m so fucking cool. Wow. The scary part is that I bet a few people out there really get hard dicks thinking about how awesome their Price is Right t-shirt is going to be. Mention the possibility of incorporating glitter into their design and I bet they jizz all over themselves. I’ll get a towel.

So here it is, The Price is Right will cheer you up no matter how bleak your outlook on life is. Sometimes life throws you one of those curveballs and you’re not sure how to handle it and it might even get so bad that you want to just slit your wrists and have it over with. Realize this, though, you can write The Price is Right, Tickets, 7800 Beverly Blvd, Los Angeles, CA, 90036, for tickets and see just how much worse things could be first-hand. I guarantee you that you’ll come away from that experience wanting to live just to line assholes up to knock them down.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Alex Grey

Last week I received a book that I ordered through an eBay store entitled Transfigurations by visionary artist Alex Grey. I've only had the book a week and I can't help but pick it up from time to time to gaze in awe of the tremendous art contained therein.

For those of you unfamiliar with the work of Alex Grey, he was the artist responsible for the mind-blowing cover art for the latest Tool album Lateralus, which featured anatomically based art painted on acetate overlays sort of like you would find in an anatomy textbook, but with a more spiritual slant to the various layers. That album cover was the first exposure that I had to the work of Alex Grey and since then I have been raving about his unique sense of style.

Anyway, I thought that I would take this opportunity to tell you that the price you would pay for Transfigurations is well worth it. Ordering it through a Canadian bookstore can get kind of pricey so it might be best to hunt for it online like I did. I had been looking for a good bargain on this book for quite some time so, naturally, it was a tremendous relief to find it and to find it at a cost that could afford.

I know that looking at the cover to the book won't really convince many of you out there unfamiliar with Alex Grey so what I will do is pass along a link to his website, which shows you some prime examples of what his work looks like. Make sure you take a peek at the Progress Of The Soul series as well as the Sacred Mirrors. Here's it the link.

Click Here.

It's only a couple more days before I head down to Cow Town for the big poetry event happening this weekend as well as to party with some of my Calgarian friends once again (I can never do that enough). If my posts get sporadic for a little bit here it's because I'm fine tuning some of the pieces that I plan on reading at Pages Books. For now enjoy Alex Grey.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Pearl Jam

Last night Jeff, Cory, Steve, and I attended the Pearl Jam concert at Rexall Place here in Edmonton. It was one of the best shows that I have ever been to. Not the best, but definitely up there with the greats (and I've been to a lot of shows over the years).

Pearl Jam played many of the hits from their catalogue, which is really extensive when you think about it. The setlist went as follows:

1.) Release
2.) Go
3.) Save You
4.) Spin The Black Circle
5.) Nothing As It Seems
6.) Daughter
7.) Evenflow
8.) Betterman
9.) I Am Mine
10.) Grievance
11.) Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town
12.) Sad
13.) Corduroy
14.) Given To Fly
15.) Wishlist
16.) Animal
17.) Do The Evolution
--Encore 1--
18.) Love Boat Captain
19.) Crazy Mary
20.) Jeremy
21.) Porch
--Encore 2--
22.) Fucking Up
23.) Yellow Ledbetter

The highlight for me was definitely opening with "Release." Eddie Vedder's voice was very powerful during that song. And to open with it? Well, I just knew then it was going to be an amazing show. The crowd sung along with favorites "Daughter" and "Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town."

One thing that I really have to commend the band on, though, is their practice of making bootlegs of their own shows available to their fans. Right after the show in Edmonton was done one could log on to and download the concert in mp3 format along with a collection of photos, which I found most beneficial since my seats were far away from the action on stage. The beauty of it is that it only cost me 10 bucks to get the download, which is a fair price for such a good quality bootleg.

Well, it's been a very special day for me I think and I'm getting tuckered out now. My ears are ringing and I've been to a spectacular rock show. In two weeks it'll be me raving about seeing System of a Down and The Mars Volta. The autumn of great concerts in Edmonton is now upon us. Hail, hail!

Monday, September 05, 2005