On The Stigma Of Gang Violence

I remember what it was like when I was much younger and heard of the shootings that accompanied the early screenings of John Singleton's Boyz N The Hood and thinking, "Wow, that movie must really be some kind of experience if it would bring people to shoot other people."

Click Here.

And now it seems that the 50 Cent vehicle Get Rich Or Die Trying is behind similar violence. And, luckily for all parties concerned, I'm cynical enough to be be bothered by this for all the right reasons.

Now please bear in mind that I don't know anything about the attack whatsoever so if you are a gang member who is looking to "pop a cap in my ass" at least hear me out first. This fatal shooting bothers me. I'm not going to climb up on a soap box now and start running my damn fool mouth about how we should all just get along. That wouldn't be fucking realistic in the slightest. It would be ideal, don't get me wrong, but for right now that shit ain't happening. I've accepted it. You should too.

What bothers me, though, is that it was at a screening of a 50 Cent movie that this would happen.

What?! Movies only cost 50 cents to get into again?! God bless America where inflation has been finally defeated. Ma, get the kids together we're going to see a 50 cent movie!

No, no! Hold on their Pops McGee, the movie didn't cost 50 cents to get into; it stars 50 Cent. He sings the rap music. Kids are into that sort of thing.

Sorry about the bad humor. If it's any consolation to you, I'm laughing at it.

But anyway, back to the point. I loathe the fact that the violence would happen at a screening of Get Rich Or Die Trying. Why? Because that's where the violence would be expected to break out when it comes to movie theater shootings. It's disheartening to see that people are still offing each other at movies where you'd expect people to off each other.

Can't they shoot each other at Jennifer Lopez romantic comedies? I think that's why I make it a rule for myself that I not attend screenings of Jennifer Lopez romantic comedies. I just don't think I could trust myself to not leap over the row in front of me and start beating the shit out of the first person I actually hear laughing at that celluloid fecal matter.

It bugs me because seeing a 50 Cent movie might not actually be that bad. I haven't seen it yet, but I think that I would liken it to Eminem's first movie 8 Mile, which was actually quite good. So I would have to say that I would give Get Rich Or Die Trying a chance at least to impress me. Hearing about people taking the time to kill a guy at that theater screening it either means they were so thoroughly unimpressed with the film that killing a guy seemed like the only way to derive any entertainment from the movie-going experience or they loved it so much that they decided killing a guy was the only way to make the movie-going experience absolutely complete.

The other thing that irks me about this news is that killing somebody at a 50 Cent movie really isn't very original or interesting at this point. If they had only saved it for date night when their dates would undoubtedly dragged them to Maid In Manhatten or The Wedding Planner I would have been shocked. I have to admit that the shock value of gang violence at a screening of a movie about gang violence is kind of ho-hum. Sorry gangs.

Really, save it for the Jennifer Lopez movies, you'll actually be a lot more likely to go down in history for that. The problem is that you actually have to stay awake long enough through that hour and a half smegma stain on the big screen to commit actual violence. Hell, if you can stay awake through an entire Jennifer Lopez movie you've already proven yourself to be a more resilient man than anybody I've ever met or likely will ever meet so I guess you probably don't even need to commit violence to impress me.

What's the conclusion? Well, I suppose there are a number of conclusions you can draw from this meandering rant, but there is one message that I think I desperately want to make, one point that most of humanity wants to make. Hollywood, please, enough with Jennifer Lopez!

I beg of you.

Enough.

Feathers

"Feathers" is the poem that I performed this week at the "Five Wednesdays; One November" reading for the Raving Poets. It is part of the Sometimes Sinister sequence. I have it at one point in the plot of the series of poems that the wreck of the woman just leaves the protagonist. One morning he just wakes up and she's gone. I've hit on that part of the series with an earlier poem called "Vapor Trails."

Anyway, after the reading Adam Snider came up to me and asked me if I was recycling lines from some of my other works. At the time I said no, but after I had left and was given some time to dwell on it I do believe that he was actually on to something. I have used some of the elements in "Feathers" in previous poems and now I'm sure of it. What "Feathers" then becomes, in essence, is a complete redraft of those earlier poems. What I wanted to really incorporate into this one were the images of the "molted plumage," the idea of the protagonist openly admitting that he is making a project of the woman he loves as opposed to just loving her, and some of the imagery associated with the truck stop clientele. I guess it all just goes to show that Adam pays attention. I totally forgot that there were elements in "Feathers" used elsewhere in my work, but I think that with this incarnation of those elements I am a lot happier with the outcome.

Also, on Ron Silliman's blog there was recently a discussion regarding line breaks. As I sat down to write this draft of "Feathers" I was cognizant of where my line breaks were and I was thinking about how the poem would sound when read aloud, bearing in mind that each line ends with a slight pause. I actually consciously sought to place the line breaks in places where they would be rather unnatural in my typical work and I kind of like the results here.

So anyway, without further ado. Here is "Feathers"...

Feathers
I keep looking for your molted plumage caught
in an updraft or
dancing in warm blasts from
central heating systems down
among these mouth-breathers,
these heavy set knuckle dragging shamblers,
sloped foreheaders,
Nascar enthusiasts.

And all I find are nosebleeds and
jitters,
racing hearts and sciatica,
big belt buckles
Everything is bigger in Texas
and Pepback pills.
Poppers.
Zappers.
In every truck stop
and 24 hour diner,
bar and grills
where cocaine residue makes
mime time of
counter tops, makes
that public washroom smell of
every room
just a little more toxic,
a little more forbidding and
electrically charged.

Sad
this is where instinct tells me
to look for you.

Make a project of
a woman,
let her become your
anchor
and when that weight is
lifted or vanishes
where do you go except
to drift through
galleries of abuser and users,
shift jockeys and pushers?

To say
I miss you
doesn’t capture,
doesn’t compute.

You gravitational core.

Sometimes I’ll catch
a feather lofting gently to
a coffee stained tile floor,
hear the buzz of a neon beer sign
and know
I’m not that far behind.

Tasers Gone Wild!

Click here.

Reading that news story brought to mind a couple of things.

First of all the point of the story is that Taser has developed a camera that attaches to their product.

But what's their product?

Tasers, idiot. Your parents must be proud that you can even manage to dress yourself each day.

Hearing that Taser will have a camera available really made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. No, seriously. Isn't it great? Finally I will be able to see actual video footage of people getting Tasered by jittery police officers! Yes!

But Michael, those Tasercams are only going to be used to answer questions regarding tactics. They're not meant for entertainment value. You're a monster!

Uh-huh, and you just know that nobody would ever find any entertainment value in video footage of a person getting Tasered. I mean our society has the highest standards when it comes to entertainment. Illustrious shows such as Jackass, Monday Night Raw, and Will & Grace are all indicative of these impeccable taste we have. Yeah right! Shows like the ones I just named off the top of my head only go to show you that Taser: The Television Series is only a few overworked police officers away from fruition.

Oh Michael, stop being so melodramatic. I think that there are a lot of great television shows out there. There will be no need for Taser: The Television Series.

Au contraire, mon frere, you simp. Just look at this excerpt from the script for an episode of Will & Grace entitled "The Donkey Puncher" and try to tell me with a straight face that we are not heading down the road to entertainment anarchy.

Grace: Hey Will, what were you up to last night.

Will: Oh not much Grace. This latest man and I had a lovely night full of hot passionate man/sausage love.

Grace: Oh Will, your monkey shines are too much for me! How was the sex?

Will: It was all going according to plan until I found out he was a donkey puncher.

Grace: A donkey puncher? What the hell is a donkey punch.

Will: I'll show you. Turn around.

See? We're fucking doomed! It'll only be a matter of months before any police force with the entrepreneurial know-how and the greed to do so figures out that you can sell DVD compilations of the best Taserings and slap a title on it like Tasers Gone Wild! and total morons will practically rip apart their pants because they can't find their wallets fast enough to buy that shit. Hell, I've practically got my Visa card on standby for the when they finally release Volume 1. Come on, police, I know you can do it!

And here's the other thing that bothered me about the article...

Apparently a six year old kid got Tasered by police which prompted the Taser company to develop the camera so that police can see the how and the why of the situation that would prompt a cop to Taser a child.

The article discusses how the child was threatening to slash himself or any approaching officer with a shard of broken glass.

Awwwwwww....kids grow up so fast these days. I'm seriously this close to crying. Wow.

But fucking come on! He's six years old! You're a cop! You can't figure out a way to stop the kid from hurting himself other than Tasering him? That's just laziness I think.

I mean, he's only six fucking years old. Just tackle him and give him an arm bar.

Not only that, but if the kid is threatening to hurt himself with a piece of glass I say let him. I remember what I was like when I was six years old and I couldn't hurt myself wielding a piece of glass. I couldn't even make safety scissors work properly, how the fuck am I going to do anything substantial with a piece of glass?

I think by giving the kid a good old Taser shock you pretty much did all the work that he wanted to do for him. How's he ever going to learn to get stuff done on his own if you keep smothering him?

In the end the message is that the children of today are spoiled. If I wanted to hurt myself so bad when I was his age I would have had to throw myself off of a balcony my own self. I didn't have these fancy police officers offering to Taser me. No sir.

Damn kids.

Classic Michael Appleby

I apologize for the silence on my part. I've been switched to day shifts for a little bit here and it's been difficult, to say the least, adjusting to being a daytime kind of guy. Naturally, I'm tired as hell. Anyway, since many of you out there probably aren't too familiar with some of my older poetic works I thought that maybe once in a while when I'm too lazy to come up with new material I would just give you what is ultimately a rerun for me. Seriously, though, I will get back to normal here before long. More night shifts start at the end of the week. In the meantime, though, come down to Yianni's Taverna on Wednesday night to check out the latest from the Raving Poets. For now enjoy "Fists For The Uncreator," a piece I wrote back in 2002.

Fists For The Uncreator
this fleeting bit of cosmic debris could come all apart at any moment.

could crack. a fissure, a widening canyon beneath the morning sky. sun glaring off the shiny bits of glass of the skyscrapers’ tears. families, once huddled, arms locked over their numbers, reduced to single temporary entities where the ripping was too intense. the falling stars dripping into the chasms, all infinity being sucked in. a huge inverted light, a vacuum at the top of a rabbit hole pulling you up and out and your scream is drowned by agriculture, flocks of sheep, herds of cows, instant carnivorous fantasies, fields of prime rib, green grass painted red before a bite and a swallow, mother nature working toward indigestion. a chorus of car crashes. freight train smash. giant forests now kindling and splinters; forests of severed toothpicks. island nations everywhere.

could melt. urban candles, skyscrapers sinking slowly from the long burn. bridges that spanned now merge, all sense of defiance against water lost. aggressive morning dew on the lawn that didn’t know a limit to ambition -- and won. the sense of touch that became fuzzy then gooey until no sense was left at all. when the lovers grope each other they press that much harder with each passing moment, losing nerve endings inch-by-inch, whole bones disappearing into liquidity, they are forlorn, longing to lust, now forgetting that sex even existed. a wet consummation, oceans growing with the pouring of highways into the horizon. a drought that became a bay slowly and now a sea endlessly, dark tides that sway with the seeping moon overhead, lunar viscosity with a dissipating gravity until all waves are the thrashing of our elements changing.

could explode. a chorus of inflated shopping bags all popped at once, millions of oxygen molecules set free in one fell swoop, rushing toward the atmosphere. tanker trucks as grenades with 18 wheels; the pins’ pulled; the times’ waning; all become sources of shrapnel. You might be hitching a ride alongside a trucker and boom you join an overstatement of all existence, vast universes turning into powder kegs, sudden and painless, one big burst. skeletons leaping out of their bodies before that instant orgasm into endlessness, a restlessness that went too far, too fast, became fire and oxygen, a second-long incendiary before dust and big black burns on a sheet of time. vehicles along roadways as firecrackers, a divine fuse cut short, illuminated.

could disintegrate into dust. the death’s wind catching a sail and blowing right through it, a momentary mist of canvas blues and reds on the gust before the whole boat is fiberglass particles swirling faster than it has ever sailed before. evaporated milk, evaporated land, evaporated water, the level of the world low and flat getting flatter, whole utah harems joining their salt lake on air currents. the scents of baked goods are the actual baked goods in easy-to-consume forms. no fear of smoking. the ash tip becomes the ash cigarette becomes the ash smoker becomes the ash smoker’s shoes, becomes ash everything, a kiss for the omniscient, powdered war paint on the face of god.

the route to here forgetting itself for you until you want only to lie on your belly limbs outstretched as far as they can reach with fistfuls of dust handfuls of dirt clutching holding everything together if only where you are.

the route to here forgetting itself for me until I want only to punch at nothingness, swing, crazy, mad, with fists for the uncreator, knock the belligerent down, though he is a higher power than me.

kiss you. it seems appropriate at the end, a lasting token for the last, my coin for charon, a toll for the lethe.

On A Side Note

Yesterday was my 69th posting in this blog and I forgot to make a juvenile comment about the sexual position. I'm losing my touch.

Anyway, a belated "Uh, Huh, huh, huh I said '69'," to all of you.

69 indeed.

Incidentally, for those of you out there who are not up to snuff on sexual positions, 69 is the position that leaves everybody in need of a Tic Tac.




And apparently they eat Tic Tacs around the world, which just goes to show you that 69 knows no boundaries.

Hipeponymous

I've been waiting anxiously for the past number of weeks. Why? Because The Tragically Hip's first ever box set Hipeponymous was slated for a November 1, 2005 release. Naturally, this being November 2, you can bet your ass I hauled my sorry carcass down to the nearest HMV to buy myself a copy yesterday, the day of, as soon as I woke up at noon, which is much earlier than I am used to getting out of bed.

I have to say that I am quite partial to The Hip. There's something that just makes listening to them a particularly Canadian thing to do. I've been a big fan of their work ever since I heard the opening bars of "Grace, Too" for the first time, which for those of you in the know, was actually not the very beginning of the band's rise to fame. I was quite late getting on The Hip boat, but now that I'm here I'm quite comfortable.

I've been fortunate enough to see them perform live three times, each time being a remarkable experience. The best show I saw was easily when I was able to see them perform at the New City Liqwid Lounge as a special club tour that the band went on in the week leading up to the release of In Between Evolution. But that's more of an aside to show you how much of a fan I am.

Anyway, back to the box set. The set is quite handsomely packaged, containing the double disc greatest hits package Yer Favourites as well as the live DVD That Night In Toronto. Both Yer Favourites and That Night In Toronto are being made available separately. What the box set has that neither of those packages have is a bonus DVD containing the entire Tragically Hip video catalogue, a documentary about the band, and a series of artistic shorts called The Right Whale. Naturally, the completist in me coveted the bonus DVD so I absolutely needed to get Hipeponymous as opposed to the smaller, more incomplete greatest hits and live concert DVD packages.

The actual greatest hits are pretty damn good, but I am not really that drawn to them because, while there are many, many great songs on the two discs of hits provided, there are many more songs that I would have loved to hear that didn't make the cut. No "Dire Wolf"? For shame. But it's really more of a trifle for me to complain about one or two songs that were excluded because I am aware there is a deep catalogue to cull from and only a limited amount of space for fan favourites.

The live DVD is awesome and makes me really want to see them play Edmonton again just for that Tragically Hip experience. The footage was shot in Toronto as the name of the DVD That Night In Toronto would suggest. Apparently it's not just a clever title. If you've listened to Tragically Hip live footage or you've seen them live you're probably familiar at least somewhat with Gordon Downie's on-stage presence. He rambles. He improvises spoken word parts into many of the songs. He dances spastically. Basically Gordon Downie is that weird uncle you would probably be embarassed of at family outings, but are strangely compelled to visit every chance you get. Hearing The Tragically Hip studio albums and listening to them live are definitely not one and the same and it's nice to finally have a high quality live performance recorded other than the live album Live Between Us, which is also worth checking out.

The bonus disc is just icing on the cake to resort to using a cliche. Being a fan of the music video medium it's nice to have a copy of the Hip catalogue so far. The videos for "Poets" and "Ahead By A Century" being two of my favourites, though I could certainly ramble off about a half dozen other titles worth checking out, which is a testament to how deep the Hip catalogue is. The documentary has some good footage of the band in a non-performance light, giving interviews and just being normal human beings. I haven't really delved into The Right Whale yet, but that will be on the itinerary in the very near future I'm sure.

I think that in Canada and being a poet, it's almost a requirement that you want to perform your work alongside Gordon Downie or to perform Gordon Downie or to be Gordon Downie. This is a package that will give you insight into his methods, though you still won't be able to write like the guy. There can be only one Gordon Downie. Sadly.

You have to check it out.

The Singularity Is Near by: Ray Kurzweil

Last week I finally found a copy of Ray Kurzweil's latest offering The Singularity is Near. Ray Kurzweil is best known as a prominent inventor, having developed reading devices for blind people and working with synthesizers as well. He does also dabble in books.

His latest book seems to continue with some of his thoughts that arose in his last book Age of the Spiritual Machines and, yes, that was the book that inspired that Our Lady Peace albume Spiritual Machines.

I've only just started to read The Singularity is Near and it's likely going to take me a while based on the fact that when a lot of thought-provoking concepts are introduced in a text I tend to have to put the book down to ponder them awhile. So far this is proving to be the case with his writing once again.

One of concepts that has always fascinated me when it comes to Kurzweil's books is how he explains how our lives will be lengthened perhaps indefinitely. Advances in computing and the emergence of nanotechnology, Kurzweil believes, are going to transform humanity into beings capable of transcending the limitations of their own biology. The thought is that we could very well be living hundreds of years if not as long as we want to live.

So far what I have read into his latest book he explains how most people look at human advancement as being linear in nature. He argues, though, that it should be viewed as being exponential. That is to say instead of judging how much we will advance technologically over the next 50 years, say, by judging how far we advanced technologically over the past 50 years, we should actually be thinking about it in terms of exponential growth. The rate at which we develop technology as a species is increasing as well so the sheer volume of advancements we are going to be making is only going to go up as well. Reading it like this things tend to make sense.

But, alas, that's just the beginning of the book and I'm already raving about it. I'll keep you posted on how things go as I make my way through the body of the text. Last time I read a Kurzweil book it affected my poetry greatly and I wonder if the same things will happen this time around.

Time will only tell.

Announcement

Starting November 2, 2005, the Raving Poets will be starting a brief reading series at the downstairs lounge of Yiannis Terverna (10444 - 82 Avenue) in Edmonton. The series will be running on Wednesday nights in November starting at 8:00 p.m. each time.

It will be exciting to be part of a regular reading scene, as brief as it may seem. So if you find yourself in the Old Strathcona area on a Wednesday night in November and you don't know what to do just remember that some of Edmonton's coolest poets are kicking some ass behind the mic at Yiannis Taverna.

I hope to see you there.

And Then Some Celebrities Are A Little Too "Down-To-Earth"

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My last post dealt with how some of our beloved celebrities (we love them, don't we?) make the most ludicrous demands of hotels they plan on staying at, which could easily one to believe that these celebrities all have overdeveloped egos. And then today I get this shit.

Yes, that's right, Paris Hilton fucked her new boyfriend in a porta-potty according to insiders. At this time I'm going to be skeptical of the story because she hasn't actually bragged about it herself in the media. I'm sure, though, that if it is true it'll become chic to take your lovers into porta-potties and fuck the shit out of them.

Guh!

I think it's fucking gross to fuck anybody in a porta-potty. I know I've ranted about people who have problems taking a shit in public washrooms before, but playing horsey on your lover's schlong in an outhouse goes well above and beyond the stigma of that public washroom B.M.

I know what it's like to be so turned on by somebody that you could literally have sex in some pretty strange and disgusting places like the back seat of a Volkswagen, behind a dumpster, on top of stack of old newspapers outside your neighbor's house before the garbage men make their rounds. But come on, a fucking porta-potty? Now granted, all I know of where this happened was that it was at a Hollywood party, and I don't know much about Hollywood, but couldn't you get a fucking cab to take you someplace other than a porta-potty for sex? You are a fucking Hilton, aren't you? Don't your folks own a hotel you could go to for some naked fumblings?

I also know what it's like inside a porta-potty from numerous years spent at summer concert festivals in Camrose. Porta-potties are definitely not a place that I would even think about having sex in. Sure, it's kinky, but the smell is enough to wilt tulips let alone a penis. Paris' new boyfriend must be into some hardcore shit in his sex life or he doesn't have a fucking sense of smell. I mean wouldn't lighting up a cigarette for that post-coital bliss ignite the fumes in one of those things?

I guess the message is that some celebrities are so out-of-control when it comes to egomania and then there's Paris Hilton.

She'll fuck in a porta-potty.

They really do come in all shapes and sizes, don't they?

Guh!

I Just Love It When Celebrities Refer To Themselves As "Down-To-Earth"

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From now on when a celebrity refers to him/her self as "down-to-earth" or is referred to as being "down-to-earth" by entertainment journalists (oftentimes a shameful besmirching of the term "journalist") I'm going to put my boot through the fucking television or whatever medium this message is being pushed through. If I see it on the newspaper you happen to be reading at the time be prepared to taste steel toes.

Did you read what some of those celebrities request from the hotels they stay at? Holy shit! There are way too many delusional celebrities out there. J-Lo needs an entirely white room? Mariah Carey needs brand new toilet seats and gold faucets? Justin Timberlake requires that nobody on the hotel staff address him personally?

Has the world ever been this bad? I mean, more specifically, have we, as the North American society, ever found ourselves in such a state with our cultural icons where we have to install brand new toilet seats, furnish rooms in all white, and not address hotel patrons because some people have egos that out of control? I suppose there have been moments that Elizabeth Taylor has had or maybe members of the Rat Pack, but it seems like things are way out of hand now.

It's times like these that I wonder what Bill Hicks would have to say about many of these icons in our midst. It's times like these that I really think the world needs Bill Hicks more than ever.

The Quest For A More Manly Michael Jackson

This month in Blender magazine's news roundup one story that was given a brief blurb had to do with everybody's favorite Martian, Michael Jackson. It would seem that according to some insiders, the former King of Pop is currently seeking to establish a more macho image for himself. To accomplish this miraculous makeover Michael Jackson plans on lifting weights to attain a beefier appearance and wearing shorter wigs among other penile enhancing techniques.

I wish I had a link to post so that you can verify this story for yourself. You'll just have to take my word for it now unless you pick up the November 2005 issue of Blender featuring a very hot looking Natalie Portman in all her punk glory on the cover.

You know what?

Good for him. Good for Michael.

Obviously this man has done his homework regarding the whole "macho" image. I mean when I think of the manliest men alive (naturally, yours truly numbers among those testerone enriched beefbags) I think of weightlifting and short wigs.

Wait a minute...

Wigs?

He wears a fucking wig? Is he a chemo patient that we haven't heard about? No? Well, what the fuck then?

I know what will make people think of me as being more of a man and less of creepy pedophile! Shorter wigs!

I know, I know. There are other ways he's going to enhance his image to ooze machismo, but come on, wigs?

And why the sudden interest in looking manly? He's already established himself as a certifiable lunatic. Did you see some of the shit he buys when he goes shopping in those posh Las Vegas stores in that Donald Bashir documentary? First of all, when I think of manly men doing manly man things I don't think of shopping in posh Las Vegas stores. What he needs to do is call a press conference where his sole purpose of being there is to leap onto the back of an angry bull and kill it with a pocket knife and gumption. That's manliness.

But Michael, there have been plenty of macho men throughout the ages who didn't have to go through such an absurd ritual to prove their mettle. Why should Michael Jackson have to slay an angry bull?

Well, I don't write the rules. Basically, the way I look at it, he's done so much to build this image of the wacky pseudo-human with the horribly disfigured plastic body who gets a bit too friendly with unassuming kids and lives in a constant state of delusion thinking that he's still relevant to our culture. Now to suddenly become manly, and thus become the antithesis of everything he's already established himself as, he's going to have to kill a fucking bull. I don't write the rules. I just observe them.

But in all seriousness, this just weirds me out. The thought of a "manly" Michael Jackson. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. There are certain archetypes that keep the society balanced, precariously, but balanced nonetheless. One of those archetypes is that of the freakish man/child/alien/attention whore. If this asshole undergoes the transformation into manly man who the fuck is going to take his place?

I suppose the universe rights itself eventually and having a "macho" Michael Jackson going around and talking in a deep voice about how his sleeping with young boys is purely platonic and clearly "manly" might cause some chaos in the order and stability of the cosmos, somebody, somewhere, is going to step up to the plate and restore things to normal by being the freak for a while.

Good luck with the shorter wigs, though.

Happy 2000th Pageload Massive Missives!

2000 page loads just goes to prove that my refresh button still works.

This Is How It All Went Down

So this is my first post since the Calgary road trip this past weekend.

Finally, Michael, what the fuck took you so long? You said you'd be back to posting Saturday!

Meh. I remember what I said.

But here it is. I was absolutely exhausted by time I got back home from the brief trip. I departed for Calgary early, early, early Friday morning after working the Thursday night shift. I got home and made a phone call to Jessica, then I packed, and then I was out the door and on my way.

The drive down to Calgary was amazing. Easily one of the most pleasant drives I've ever been on. Next time I go on a longer road trip like that I should really remember that hitting the road before dawn makes for a nice stress-free ride. The highlight of the drive down was definitely catching sight of the mountains once I got south of Red Deer and seeing it by the light of dawn.

Since the trip was made after a night of work and not a night of sleep I was naturally tired by time I reached Jordan and Lori's place. I killed a bit of time with my friends and by 1:30 we found ourselves at the Court of Queens Bench to take in the ceremony whereby Jordan got sworn into the Law Society of Alberta.

Then it was back to the apartment where I had a drink and took an hour long nap. After the nap it was off to the Weaselhead Bar and Grill for dinner and drinking.

Most of what happened at the bar was kind of blurry due to my exhaustion and excessive drinking. I do remember performing "Put Your Head On My Shoulder" for the karaoke portion of the night. I also remember and argument I had with my stomach in the men's room after downing a shot of Jagermeister. My stomach thought it would be wise for what George Carlin would call an involuntary protein spill and I thought it would be more pertinent to shrug it off and continue drinking. It was one of the few times I was able to win an argument with my stomach and I drank quite a bit more.

Sleep that night was light and troubled because I was having numerous epiphanies regarding my novel and Sometimes Sinister. Waking up Saturday left me with a huge hangover. Jordan and I spent a few hours eating lunch and checking out some of the cooler little shops in the Kensington area of town.

After that it was time to go back home. I waited until 6 before I departed and it made for a beautiful sunset to watch over the mountains in the west and a nice drive at night along Highway 2.

What a perfect weekend.

So why haven't I posted anything yet since getting back? Well, I stopped at Best Buy in Red Deer and purchased a couple of Playstation 2 games, Capcom Classics, and Street Fighter Anniversary Edition. Naturally, I've been enjoying this sort of retro video gaming spree the past couple of days.

But now I'm back after I've had my fill of old school video games. It's good to be back.

Here's the best picture of the weekend...

Leave A Message After The Beep

So long, suckers. I'm going to Calgary almost immediately after I post this message. I'll be back Saturday, October 22. So if you're wondering why there's little or nothing posted in the interim, that's why. See you people when I get back. I'll try to get some pictures of my trip.

BEEP!

From The 'Why The Fuck Would Anybody Want To Do That?' Files

Click here.

So, there you have it. David Copperfield, the magician whose most famous illusion was making Claudia Schiffer fall in love with him, is about to strike again. This time, though, his goal is to knock a girl up without even touching her.

What the fuck?

No, seriously. What the fuck?

If there was ever proof that a man needs to get his head examined, this would be it. Why the fuck would anybody want to do that?

But Michael, lots of perfectly sane men would love to become fathers.

Hey, no argument here. But come on, if you're going to impregnate a girl why not at least get your rocks off in the process? For most men that's at least half the benefit to knocking a girl up.

See, I don't claim to be any sort of sexpert, but it seems to me that getting a girl pregnant traditionally involves sex. Last time I read up on the sexual process the man writes into Penthouse and tells their editors that they're probably not going to believe this. He meets some really friendly girls and by friendly he means that they refuse to wear pants. He inserts his penis into a vagina and just goes hog wild all up in there what with the bucking and groaning and the pushing and moaning. He drops a load and nine months later a baby emerges and gets smacked on the ass. With talk like this I bet you're wondering why I haven't made my foray in fatherhood yet.

But anyway, for a lot of men, the only reason to be a father is so you get to do all that fucking. For a lot of guys a child isn't even wanted, but kind of an inconvenience when it's on the way. I'm not trying to be a dick here, but that's just the way it is. Some girl gets pregnant by accident and calls her sexual partner to let him know and he might not take it as good news. I don't make this shit up. That's just how it works sometimes.

But David Copperfield wants to get a girl pregnant, on purpose, without even touching her? What the fuck? David Copperfield wants to pay child support for some kid of some girl who he didn't even fuck? That's either mighty noble of him or mighty stupid.

I don't get it. I just don't see how this can be that great of an illusion.

Hey David Copperfield, it's called artificial insemination. Look it up. Men have been knocking up women without having to touch them for years. Now if you can somehow get the woman to get pregnant without touching her and then have her give birth to a 70 pound hippopotamus after being pregnant for only 16 minutes, I'll call that a magic trick.

Human Hot Box

Human Hot Box
Nothing short of remarkable
the way your friends’ smell
transposes itself into my wardrobe.

I always get asked
if I just got home from Amsterdam.

People rib me
by referring to me as the human hot box.

I go to work
and my cubicle
fills with the stench
of cheap pot
and sour failure.

I’m carrying a half a dozen
different taints
around with me in the world.

Today I found an old roach
in my jacket pocket

and decided that I need
to invest
in a closet that locks

and a doormat
that insists
this house enforces
a no failed cum stain policy.

If I Can Get Political For A Moment Here

What the fuck is up with this? Click here.

So George W. Bush talks to God? George W. Bush talks to God? What? Wait a minute. My mind is in the midst of being blown. George W. Bush talks to God? Huh?

Didn't Clinton almost get impeached for getting a cum stain on some intern's dress? George W. Bush talks to God? What? God told him to invade Iraq to end its tyranny? Huh?

Okay, seriously. What?

I don't get it.

Michael, George W. Bush is a very religious man and, in all likelihood, did have a conversation with God and if George W. Bush said that God told him to go to war with Iraq, amassing thousands and thousands of casualties then obviously it's what God wanted because George W. Bush is a very religious man and he would never dream of lying to the American public. Michael, take your head out from between your taut buttocks and listen to reason.

No, you are right, my buttocks are rather taut. I've been working out. But seriously, what? You can sit there with a straight face and tell me that you actually believe George W. Bush got instructed to invade Iraq by God? And Clinton was almost impeached for a cum stain in the Oval Office?

Here's my problem with all of this. You just know I have a problem with this because I'm writing about it. My problem is that a vast majority of the time when anybody says that God told him/her to do something and then, in turn, that action leads to even one death we tend to, as a society, label that person as insane. Why do we do that? I think it has to do with a fundamental belief that God loves the world and probably doesn't want to see us killing each other off. Most, if not all, religions have a "Thou Shalt Not Kill" clause somewhere in the deal. So, naturally, if God is telling somebody to kill people we just automatically assume that the person is certifiably crazy.

Shouldn't that mean that George W. Bush needs some quiet time and some meds, at the very least? Shouldn't he get a padded room and a staight jacket? Did God tell him to lie to the American public about WMDs to get them to rally behind his call to war?

There's so much that just isn't adding up here. I really hate getting political because before you know it I'll have a thousand right wing nuts coming in here and accusing me of trying to undermine the current administration because I'm some sort of left wing hippy. Really, the Democrats didn't offer up that great of a candidate and it cost them the last election so I really wouldn't go so far as to label myself a Democrat. I'm not even American.

Really, I just thought I would bring up the whole whacko idea that God's going around telling George W. Bush what to do. What I hate about it is that if things should ever go horribly wrong as a result of his executive decisions he has God as a scapegoat. If you want to go to war that badly go to war, but make it just and make sure that you're the one who's going to take the blame when all those people die. I'm not a religious man, but I hate it when deities take it on the chin because somebody has to be an ass-clown on the planet.

I'm just saying is all.

One From The Vaults

INTERNATIONAL ROPE SHORTAGE!

Officials Somberly Consider Legalizing Pot In Hopes Of Stemming Crisis

In my travels and daily activities I will, on occasion, encounter people who are staunch supporters of legalizing marijuana. When I do meet these people it is usually at parties where many a joint is being passed around and, get ready to be shocked into shitting your pants, these people are high when I meet them. You can change your pants now. You can tell which people I am talking about if you just bring up the topic of legalization around a bunch of pot smokers. They’re the ones who cough uncontrollably for a moment or two like they’ve just been asked to take stage and they take stage and have no qualms about launching into a 30-minute tirade on the virtues of weed.

Now, don’t misunderstand what I am about to say. Really, I am in favor of legalizing pot because over time it has demonstrated more benefits than drawbacks. The way I see it, tobacco and alcohol have demonstrated more drawbacks than benefits, and yet those are drugs which society has deemed safe enough to be legal. So why not make pot legal? I believe I know the answer to this question now and it came to me over a number of years of listening to these soapbox speakers. It’s the fucking legalization activists themselves who are keeping pot from being deemed perfectly safe from a legal standpoint.

I mean have you ever really listened to somebody who is really, really high try to make a sound argument as to why he should be allowed to enjoy mary-jane without the man coming to bust him? Try to piece together a coherent sentence or two. Sadly, these are the same kinds of arguments that are thrown around at pot rallies too. Why? Because everybody is fucking high!

Dude, let’s like totally rally to extol the virtues of weed!

Sounds good. How do you propose we do that?

Let’s like go to the Legislature and get totally fucked up. That’ll show them!

Keep thinking that, hippy.

And the worst, the absolutely fucking worst reason why marijuana should be brought to the realm of legal acceptability in society has to be the fact that hemp is capable of producing a mighty fine rope. That’s right, you heard it straight from the horse’s ass, you can make some great rope from hemp cord. Wow. And you know what else? That’s considered one of the best virtues of weed. Meanwhile, the person who is most likely spewing on and on about how pivotal rope is to the stability of the free world is Tommy Chong high. That’s really fucking high.

That’s right, dude. You can like totally make some great rope out of hemp, man.

Okay, so you readers out there must be dumbfounded like me by a statement like this. I mean, it’s not so much the fact that “some great rope” can be made out of hemp. That has, indeed, been demonstrated in the past and I’m sure they still make lots of great rope out of hemp in parts of the world where the growth of cannibis is not so tightly scrutinized by the government. What blows my fucking mind more than the puffs of smoke being blasted into my face during the tirade is the fact that the world must be in some sort of rope crisis if we have to consider the legalization of pot. When the hell did this happen and why has CNN not informed me of this international rope shortage?

The only way to find out just how devastated the rope industry is might just require me to take a trip of the vehicular variety to the local hardware store. I mean, wow, we are standing on the precipice of legalizing fucking cannibis to secure a more stable and readily abundant source for rope. I bet there must be the fucking apocalypse outside with all that shit being left untied.

Stay here, I’ll be right back. I’m going to scope the crisis out for myself.

[intermission]

Okay, I’m back. I sped to the hardware store like a bat out of hell. I tell you. I was expecting to have to be able to beat back hordes of shit-grinning fucktards who want to buy all the rope before me. So I asked the first store clerk I saw if I was in time to be able to secure myself some rope, precious rope. I was exasperated, frantic. He could see the manic look in my eye. And you know what he did?

He fucking laughed at me. He laughed and laughed and then he stopped to catch his breath before he laughed some more. Then he directed me to an area of the store where there were spools, I shit you not, of rope. Glorious rope on, honest to god, spools! There were all kinds of rope to be had and not one whacked out rope-crazed crack whore tried to beat me down to get at the prize. You can change your pants again. The apocalypse of ropedom was just a figment of the pro-legalization movement’s collective imagination. There was rope. There was even steel cable available. And chains, too! Fucking chains! I had to change my pants to be quite honest.

So, what’s the message behind this bullshit satirical article? The message is this: Potheads, our rope situation is good. Technology has us set for all of our tying-shit-up needs. It even has us set for all of our kinky bondage freaky sex needs as well. So what the fuck?

I would much rather you argue your point honestly. For instance, you might want to mention that the primary active substance in marijuana, THC, gets you totally high, man. At least you would be more true to your own reasons for wanting to see weed made readily legal. Tell me how it improves diminished appetites, reduces nausea in chemotherapy patients, or to treat glaucoma. At least these are qualities an average guy like me can look at and think: wow, this shit can’t be all that bad after all.

This whole rope approach to your arguments is moot. I saw so much fucking rope in that one hardware store that I’m sure the rope supply in many of the other hardware stores around town is healthy as well. If anything, there’s too much fucking rope! Somebody oughta make that shit illegal! Too much fucking rope and not enough shit to tie down with it! I’m like totally starting a petition, dude. Sign your name down below, you fucking hippies.

The Bottom Ten, October 2005

10.) People Showing Their Disdain For Gas Prices By Riding Horses Everywhere- Okay, yeah, we get it. Gas prices are high. The sky is blue. Grass is green. Where the fuck are you going to park a horse? If I go out to my car one day to find horse shit on the hood I'm going to be royally pissed off.

9.) Jessica Simpson And Nick Lachey's Will They Or Won't They Break Up Saga- How many different magazine covers have been besmirched by this long-running story? 1.7 million. I counted them. How many times have I had to be admitted to the emergency room for breaking my jaw yawning over such a non-story? 1.7 million. I should sue Nick and Jessica for medical costs and for making the "drama" of the world so fucking boring.

8.) The Comeback Of The Care Bears- Is this proof that evolution is, in fact, cyclic as opposed to linear? Does this mean that given a long enough span of time we're all going to be walking around dragging our knuckles on the ground and struggling with the whole making fire deal? A chilling thought. Maybe fads should just stay dead after they've died and I wouldn't have to sit around and ponder these things.

7.) Coffee Shops That Have Branched Into Selling Music- I just get weirded out thinking about one day going into Starbuck's to buy CD's. Can't CD's be sold in record stores anymore? Am I going to have to go to HMV to buy my coffee now? The whole world is going plum loco methinks.

6.) The Proposed Book On Fitness By Dick Cheney- Excuse me, Skeletor, but aren't you like a hard coughing fit away from a pine box? Unless your fitness advice to me is to do the exact opposite of you I'll keep my health and well-being in my own hands, thank you very much.

5.) Martha Stewart Opting Out Of Her Recent Trip To Canada For A Pumpkin Regatta- She must have heard my plans of waiting for her at the border and pelting her with rotten crab apples. It's funny how we go to great lengths to extradite working class criminals and how we would just about kill ourselves to bring a white collar criminal into the country. I would have prayed for her pumpkin to sink under the weight of the massive ego it would have been carrying.

4.) Fox Canceling The Simple Life- Okay, if I made top ten lists this would have been number 1, but since I only do bottom ten lists (for now) this will have to settle for number 4. Don't ask me how my ranking system works. I'm glad I won't have to watch rich, smarmy cunts treat people like shit for a living anymore.

3.) Turkey Leftovers- Turkey is good the day of Thanksgiving, but a week later it's like shoe leather.

2.) Beer Commercials That Remind How Sad My Life Is- Okay, you're the singer in a band, but whatever you do don't sing. I wish I was the singer in a band who wasn't supposed to sing. Sigh.

1.) Martha Stewart In General- So bad is she that I just had to bring her up for an encore. I saw a clip of her talk show while watching her interview on Larry King and all I can say is that the new facade of being warm, funny and personable is still just a facade.

As promised, here is the poem I performed at the inaugural Roar on 24th festival. This is a version of the poem that has been polished a bit more. This is, in fact, a second draft of the poem. The original was a prose poem. I think this version, while appearing to be more lyrical adds stresses to lines I want stressed and has some more color to it with regards to detail. Enjoy.

Ode To Frosty

"The mayfly lives only one day. And sometimes it rains."

-George Carlin
Napalm & Silly Putty

The worst.
The absolute worst
are the snowmen
of a mid-spring surprise flurry.

The kind that
leave a millimeter of snow
freckled green
with life coming below.

How fucking sad is it to be one of those guys?

Right from the moment of your erection---

“Erection”: a misnomer if ever there was one.

Mid-spring snowmen
being closer to one of those
sloppy seconds sex
floppy half hard-on’s
than actual throbbing cocks.

You look like shit
An upright melting tower of shit.
Your snow is half mud,
half dead leaves from last fall,
and some early lawn clippings
thrown in for texture.

Oftentimes
these sad-sack snow guys
don’t even have proper faces
when they are made
on that fluke spring day.
They’re given
these hollowed out pits for eyes
and a gaping, horrified pit of a mouth,
permanent silent shriek.

Like they took their broken tree branch arms
with crooked stick digits
and gouged out their own eyes
so they wouldn’t be able to see
how pathetic and short
their shitty stay in the world really is.

Tree branches for arms?
Jesus,
you can’t even masturbate properly
with a tree branch.
I know; I’ve tried.

There you are,
a droopy brown lump
on the side of a suburban yard,
spending your lifetime
wishing the weather had stayed warm all along.

Dying just a little more
as the lifetimes of shitty sandcastles are set to begin.

Everybody’s a fucking Picasso sometimes.