10,000 Days

So yesterday, as many of you may or may not have known if you are regular visitors to this blog, was the official release date of Tool's latest album 10,000 Days. As you may have guessed from my semi-regular countdown leading up to the release date, I was the kind of Tool fan who had to make his way down to Best Buy the day of to get my grubby little paws on the new offering.

After having listened to it I can say that, musically, it's unlike anything else I've ever heard. You know what? The texture of their music seems to only get richer with each album. The massive sound that four guys can produce never ceases to amaze me. I do think that from my first experiences with this disc that the song structures are the most non-traditional song structures they've ever done. It's just amazing to listen to.

I'm still on the fence as to whether or not it tops Lateralus, if it will top Lateralus, or if it even should try to top Lateralus.

You should definitely check it out if you get a chance. It's a powerful piece of music.

Also, before I forget....

Happy Birthdays Nadine, Darcy, Ian, and Cory. See you soon, hopefully.

Peace out folks. Will post more later.

Confessing The Miracle

10,000 Days is tomorrow!

I thought for a change we would take a trip down memory lane. It's also somewhat of a confessional for me so that you can get a better idea of the kind of man I am.

Now I wasn't always the metropolitan cultural demi-god that regularly updates an internet blog with stories of donkey punching, mushroom stamping, and Cleveland steamers. Once upon a time yours truly found himself growing up in a very small town in Alberta that shall go nameless for the purposes of this post. Why nameless, you ask? Really, this is a story that could come out of just about any small Alberta town, so keeping my hometown nameless makes it just a bit more universal. Secondly, by "universal" I mean "universally shameful." Many of you who know me on a personal level know which town I'm from and can probably remember this story. For those of you who absolutely have to know the name of my town and if there are any corroborating photographs documenting the following you only need to ask and I will most likely provide you with all the answers I can give (well, not so much with photographs because that would just be sick on so many levels as you will soon see).

In my high school days I was quite a scholar. As such I earned a lot of credits toward my high school diploma early on, which meant that I didn't have to take as many courses in my later high school years, meaning I ended up with gaps in my school schedule, which we called spares, all the time. One year (I can't remember which year it was exactly as it was, indeed, a long, long time ago and seemingly in a galaxy far, far away), during one of my spares, I found a source a secret shame, not so much for me, but for my hometown. I didn't really realize how profoundly it would affect my life from there on in.

I want to tell you about the Miracle In Stall 1.

See? Now while many of you out there who visit this site might not get an instant mental image of where they were when the Miracle In Stall 1 happened, I bet there are probably a few of you out there who recall it like it was only yesterday. It's funny how some things just become a part of your identity that you never thought could become such a defining moment in your life.

Back to my spares. So there I was sitting in the school's student lounge. To give you an idea of how big my school was, it was educating 248 students from grades 7, through 12. A lot of graduating classes in urban areas were bigger than the entire student population in our dinky little backwoods school, but that's more of a descriptive aside. And I was sitting with Larry and Martin, a couple of buddies whom I was fortunate enough to have spares with at the time and Larry excused himself to go to the washroom as he was wont to do when he had to perform bodily functions because even though he was from a dinky little Alberta town he wasn't incontinent.

After a minute or two an exasperated Larry ran back to the student lounge to inform Martin and me of something he had discovered floating in the toilet in one of the stalls in the washroom. He had found what would later be referred to in hushed tones of reverence and marvel around my town from then on as The Miracle In Stall 1. Now, when I had first heard of the miracle I actually could not bring myself to actually go and view it, but from how Larry described it, it was, indeed, a piece of human fecal matter that was about the size of a baby's arm, and thick like a deli salami. The reason why I couldn't bring myself to go and view the miracle was partly because staring at somebody else's shit makes me want to gag and, more importantly, it was a piece of shit and really not something that should be held in such high regard as to turn it into a public exhibition.

So anyway, I could overlook the fact that there were already a few people who were gathering yon washroom to take a gander at the huge log left behind by some anonymous gargantuan of a man, but it got to a point where classes were getting interupted as kids just had to go and see this huge piece of shit that everybody was talking about.

That's one of those moments when I decided that I was going to evolve into somebody rather scholarly. Because there I was, a resident in a town that would, in all likelihood, bronze a large piece of fecal matter, mount it on a plaque, and turn it into some sort of point of interest for locals and tourists alike.

[insert town name here]: Home of the Human Miracle in Stall 1!


Larry talked of giving sober consideration to rescuing it from its toilet prison and preserving it for posterity. The school janitor spoke of how badly it clogged the toilet when at last the novelty of a huge piece of shit in a toilet had worn off and the curious bystander traffic to the boy's washroom had diminished somewhat. I suppose it doesn't matter what actually happened to that huge, huge turd. But it was kind of an earth-shattering moment if you think about it. If it had never happened I probably would not have been as put-off by small town life as I was in the aftermath and you might never have seen me move to the city. If that had never happened I might never have really learned to do something with the English language (sure, I wrote a lot back then, but not nearly as well as I can sling words now), and, if that had never happened, I probably would not have started this blog, or if I had it would probably be some kind of internet shrine to a huge steaming turd that's been bronzed and mounted on a commemorative plaque over the toilet in Stall 1.

Somewhere in a parallel universe that is exactly what happened in my hometown. In that parallel universe the town stopped championing cartoons and it started championing fibre diets, staying regular, larger toilets, and distended rectums. Elsewhere, in some other parallel universe that piece of shit was flushed successfully, got lodged somewhere in the sewer system and became a sort of niche for millions microbes, becoming, in essence, a living organism unto itself, maybe kind of like the Great Barrier Reef of shit, or maybe sprouting legs and evolving into some sort of entirely new organism, making the man who took the giant dump in the first place a sort of catalyst for new life forms to emerge.

And sometimes, and this is in this universe, you can sometimes go to my hometown and utter the words Miracle In Stall 1 and somebody in your vicinity will not only know what you are talking about, but they will probably acknowledge it with their own tale of where they were when they first heard that it happened kind of like people remember where they were when they learned JFK was assassinated of Lady Di died in a car accident. Except it would all be about somebody's giant B.M.

And, begrudgingly, I owe a lot of who I am to that lump of human misery. In a way it made me who I am today.

So whoever you are, mystery layer of said baby's-arm-long, thick-as-a-deli-salami, piece of shit, you have my gratitude for making me want to flee to the city all those years ago.

Thank you.

Thank You

4 days until 10,000 Days.

This is just a brief post before I go to bed. I just wanted to quickly write a note to all the people who have given me their support during the latest reading series put on by the Raving Poets, "Rock The Kasbar." The series finale was last night and it was one of those rare instances in which a cash prize of $300.00, known as the Golden Fez Award, was up for grabs to the best poet of the night according to a panel of celebrity judges.

In the weeks leading up to the finale the top two poets of each reading, as voted by the audience members, were given guaranteed spots in the final show with a choice of where on the reading order they wanted to appear. I secured my spot on the first night of audience voting. The other poets who secured spots were J.D. Lavender, Phil Jagger, Aaron Evringham, Jadon Rempel, and Michelle Rempel. I got third pick of where I would read in the order and, seeing that the last spot, a spot that has been notoriously lucky for me through the years, was open, I took up my favorite spot. It was actually very intense for me to sit through the rest of the reading order because every poet was bringing out these amazing poems. In my mind I was pretty sure there was no way that I could possibly win and in my mind I still can't figure out how I did it, but I did it.

So, thank you to everybody who showed their support of my work. It has meant a lot and always will. To the other poets who were part of that show, it really could have been any one of us receiving that generous cash prize at the end of the night. Like I said, I was pretty sure that I was beat even before I got up there behind the mic.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you all.

As for the poem itself. I have to do some brushing up on it and my plans are to put it up on my little corner of the Raving Poets website. The title of the poem was "King Handlebars" and it was about a man and his moustache and so much more (or at least that's what I was trying to do with it).

I'll resume my normal posting schedule. Thank you once again.

The Bottom Ten, April 2006

8 days until 10,000 Days.

10.) Kissing Time Limits- In Tangarang, which is this city in Indonesia, city officials have imposed a time limit on kissing. Why the fuck would anybody want to do that, you might be asking? Well, it's all part of an effort to curb prostitution in that particular city. Now, if you look past the obvious problem of police officers timing people as they kiss when they could be preventing incidents of rape and murder what you might see in this measure is innovation. So now when you are in Tangerang and you hire the services of a prostitute you can rest assured that she will only kiss you for the allotted time limit, then you can get down to the blowjobs, donkey punches, and bukkake. It streamlines the whole prostitution process, making transactions quicker and more efficient. This could revolutionize the whole industry. Prostitutes everwhere could learn a thing or two from the industrious city officials of Tangerang.

9.) The Mullet- I feel like I've talked about the mullet in The Bottom Ten before. It's like deja vu, but I really have to talk about how perplexing it all is. I think that the mullet is now nature's most confounding hairstyle. On one hand it's the do of choice for rednecks, hillbillies, hockey players, and the illiterati. On the other hand, it's quite possibly the most ironic look that can be worn by somebody who knows better. Now when I see somebody sporting the neck blanket I have to ask myself if I'm looking at an ignoramus or a clever hipster. I hate having to bring a slide rule with me when I'm walking around in public.

8.) Ticket Presales- I get more and more presale offers for tickets to concerts and major events than most people. It stems from the fact that I sign up for all of these different services that offer presale opportunities. That being said, I've found that as more and more presale offers come to me the shittier the seats to these events available in the presales are getting. It leads to a huge dilemma for me. Do I go in on the presale and take advantage of getting to sit in a seat that is less-than-ideal, for lack of a better word to describe it or do I wait until tickets go on sale to the general public for a chance, a slim, slim, sliver-thick chance at getting a seat that won't make me pass out from being at such high altitudes without an oxygen mask? Or maybe I just pay four or five times the face-value of the ticket to a broker to get exactly the tickets I want. What the fuck is a sucker to do?

7.) Carpet Lawsuit Bombing- The RIAA is definitely an organization I've alluded to before, though maybe not in a Bottom Ten list. So welcome to the Bottom Ten, assholes! It's no secret that the Gestapo of the RIAA will sue anything that moves, but, come on, a family that doesn't even own a PC? How the fuck are they pirating music, retards? Do you guys even do any research into the people you sue? Just draw names out a hat? I think it's time to just hold a press conference to apologize to the world for being a bunch of assholes and ruining the music industry.

6.) Star Power- If you read this little blurb about the upcoming release of Clerks II you might notice the little bit about Harvey Weinstein insisting to Kevin Smith that at least one "boldface name" appear in the movie, leading to the casting of Rosario Dawson. What irks me about this is that Clerks II is a sequel to a huge cult classic. It can cruise just fine without any boldface names. It's predecessor is proven. Why the fuck tinker with a winning formula just to incorporate celebrities?

5.) People Cashing In On Controversy- Somewhere a man names the restaurant that he is about to open The Pink Taco. What happens? City officials get angry because it will offend people. Sure, people who get offended at the combination of the words "pink" and "taco" placed side by side in a restaurant name are probably the kind of people you would want to move out of your city, but you just know that the man behind the name is using the name to make a few bucks. I don't see why anybody would have a problem with naming my pizza shop The Festering Ass Boil. It's from the old country; it means "great pizza." Meanwhile, there are probably really good, if not better, Mexican restaurants that will fall by the wayside when The Pink Taco opens simply because they aren't named after vagina. I can understand why somebody would go out and intentionally cause controversy like this, but it still seems kind of underhanded. Damn these ethics!

4.) More Pink Taco- David Roderique, the economic-vitality director for Scottsdale, also giggled when asked about the restaurant. Then he regained his composure.

"While there may be some people who have concerns about the name of the restaurant, we've got a younger crowd who appreciates more diversity and finding ways to slap the establishment," he said.
Yeah, there's no better way to "slap the establishment" than by eating at a restaurant with a name that the economic-vitality director of Scottsdale seemingly finds amusing. Take that establisment! Yep, I can see the militant anarchists lining right up to eat at the Pink Taco already. The Pink Taco: Come For The Controversy Of A Sexual Name, Stay For The Nihilism!

3.) Summer Home-Reno Projects- Say what you will about the nipple-crushing cold of winter at least it didn't inspire your neighbors to start revving up the table saw at 7:30 a.m. Sunday morning as part of garage renovation project.

2.) Putting The Snow Shovel Back In The Garage- Holy fuck! Why the fuck did the garage have to built all the way back there? That's a long fucking way to carry a fucking snow shovel! Fuck it, it's Canada, we'll probably have another blizzard in a week, trust me.

1.) Logic- Logic is such a bitch! Seriously, in an effort to curb piracy of movies in China, Warner Bros. is releasing some of their movies at severely reduced prices minus all the fancy packaging to compete with pirates. You can buy The Aviator for a dollar fucking fifty! Here, though, you have to pay upwards of twenty bucks for the same movie, but at least we get that eighteen dollars worth of packaging, which, as we all know, makes it all worth it. And then Warner Bros. wonders why there is so much piracy going on. It's because people are pissed off that they have to pay $25.00 for a DVD when you're willing to sell that same DVD in China for $1.50. Fuckheads!

Classic Michael Appleby

11 Days until 10,000 Days.

Here's the poem that I performed this week at the Raving Poets show. It was written back in September of 2003. It's one of those poems that was written, performed maybe once or twice around the time of its construction and was kind of lost in the shuffle. It was nice to have a chance to dust it off for the RP audience since I had no need for their votes this week, having secured a spot in the six top vote-getters going into next week's big finale show. Enjoy.

italiana
she’s letting down her hair in dark curtains
a perfect contrast to the stark white of her skin
and the skinny skeleton she makes
becomes more woman
and she’s whispering to me
but i can’t make out what she’s saying
and that’s okay
because it’s a triumph of intimacy
over any need for coherence
the nape of her neck thrown behind a veil
the smell of her jasmine ripe on her wrist
telegraphs from rho in her hip pocket

and

i

don’t

even

speak

italian

the curl of her tongue as she’s mouthing the words
slowly deliberately

i

don’t

even

dare

to

speak

because i might miss the glisten
of the soft act
of wetting her lips
or a quick almost undetectable spasm
in the musculature above her right knee
the lazy preoccupied dangle of the tip of her foot
and the silent speculation of

wondering

if

she’s

as

nervous

as

i

am

Still Believes In Posting

12 Days Until 10,000 Days.

Walking back to my car along Whyte Avenue after the poetry reading at Yianni's Taverna I found myself looking into the various storefronts that I was passing along the way. As I passed some shop that sells bath and beauty supplies I think (you know, one of those shops that if you walk into it your olfactory will explode) I noticed a sign hanging in the storefront window reading, and I quote verbatim: Still Against Animal Testing.

And a couple of thoughts came to me just then as I read that sign.

First of all, when the fuck did they start doubting their position regarding animal testing? To hang a sign stating that they are still against it means that at some point they probably held a board meeting of some sort to see how they felt about animal testing. At that meeting it was decided that the company was still against it, but I think that there had to be a moment of limbo or two in which the decision could have gone either way.

Secondly, a sign that reads: Still Against Animal Testing is clearly hanging there to characterize the store. Sure, you could shop at those other bath and beauty product stores, but we're the one that is against animal testing. And this kind of made me angry because it's rather presumptuous to set yourself apart as the store that's against animal testing. How do you really know that all the other stores are lining up to club puppies and throw kittens against brick walls in the name of bath and beauty products? You don't. In fact, I think I would make it a point to shop specifically at a store that hung a sign reading: Still Believes In Animal Testing just because it's the unpopular position to take. Fuck, I would even tip every staff member at a store with a sign that read; So In Favor Of Animal Testing That You Can Come Right In And Test The Animals With Us Just For Shits And Giggles If You Want because places like that probably don't make a lot of money and if society is ever going to conquer the plague of corporate imperialism we have to start by supporting mom and pop opperations like Seal Clubbers Inc. and the Rabbit Eyeball Injections For No Apparent Reason Other Than We're Totally Fucking Insane Footwear Boutique And Buffet.

Finally, I came up with a edit for that sign that would have clarified things considerably: Still Against Animal Testing, But Still In Favor Of Deforestation To Make Stupid Fucking Signs To Make Our Moneylust Look Ethical. I suppose it's thinking like this that has kept me from being a successful entrepreneur.

And I suppose that if we chopped down all the forests to make stupid fucking signs to state the obvious then the animals that we're saving by not performing inhumane tests on them won't have any places to live, which means we'll have to keep them confined and overcrowded in cramped cages. If that's the case then we might as well just perform the stupid-ass tests because what the fuck else can we do with them taking up all that perfectly useful room in our cages?

The Return Of Placenta Chic

14 Days until 10,000 Days.

Reading Fark today I came across a couple of interesting articles with one thing in common: placentas.

First off, a story out of Hawaii. A couple is currently embroiled at odds with state officials over a law that prevents parents from getting the placenta from their children after the children are born. Apparently the law does not currently allow for parents to have the placenta. The couple in question wants to plant their newborn's placenta with a tree because it represents some sort of spiritual symmetry.

Plus it's been scientifically proven that there's no fertilizer like human placenta. It's an old farmers' trick of the trade, really. Everybody in agriculture knows that if you want high yield on your crops what you have to do is take a one ton truck down to the dumpster behind the hospital and load up on placentas because for some reason crops just love that shit. The first job I ever had, in fact, was placenta wrangler. Yep, those were some good profitable years, elbow deep in fleshy sacks. Yum.

But seriously, folks. Why the fuck is this even something that gets legislated? If I worked in a maternity ward and somebody wanted to keep their child's placenta I'd have no trouble with it whatsoever.

Say, mister, we have this kooky thing where we're making draperies for our apartment out of the placentas of all of our children. Do you think you could find it in your heart to let us have our baby's placenta so that we can carry on the tradition of having really smelly curtains that make people not want to visit us ever?

Sure, I was just going to throw it out into the dumpster out back for the placenta wranglers to have, what the fuck do I care if you want to take what is ultimately garbage to me?

But no, in Hawaii, they have legislate that kind of thing because somebody in that state really likes to collect placentas.

The lesson then is that if you're pregnant and you have some sort of plans to make a cardigan sweater out of your fetus' placenta, don't give birth in Hawaii. If you give birth in Hawaii and you're desperate for that placenta sweater you might want to log into eBay and start bidding like crazy because Hawaii sure as fuck isn't going to give you any placentas for free. They don't care who you are.

And then you have Tom Cruise. Now, most people, when they think Tom Cruise, they think picture of perfect mental health. In keeping with his spotless record of not looking like some sort of superfreak, Tom Cruise has stated that, as per the church of Scientology's rules about placentas and umbilical cords, he will eat the placenta and the umbilical cord of fiancee Katie Holmes' soon-to-arrive baby.

What does this have to do with anything?

Well, I bring this up as part of an elaborate entertainment news headline. Katie Holmes Will Not Be Giving Birth In Hawaii. Now that's a scoop, Entertainment Tonight! Take that!

Because, surely, if the state of Hawaii won't let you plant a placenta with a tree they probably won't let you douse it with ketchup and tartar sauce before chowing down on it either. So put away your fork, Tom, if you're planning on jetting your fiancee off to Hawaii for a Scientology sound birth process.

And don't even get me started on eating placenta. I may have been a placenta wrangler for many profittable years, but never once did the thought occur to me, "Damn, this shit would make a good casserole!"

Finally The Proof That Religion's Been Waiting For

Before I begin, 15 days until 10,000 Days hits shelves

Click here.

I've broached the subject of religion before, but never with a lot of depth because it's a difficult subject to get into really. It's nothing short of enthralling watching the world evolve around scientific advances and seeing the evolution of religion to accomodate those scientific advances. Just when you think that religion has had the last nail driven into its coffin, they adapt their stories to keep themselves relevant to their followers. What's more is that organized religion is still a powerful force in this world despite all of the advances we have made as a species.

Anyway, enough bullshit. The big head-to-head battle in the world with regards to religion is spirituality versus science.

Now, for me, the big problem is that religion's heavyweight champion, the number one poster boy has never materialized to disprove science once and for all. What's odd is that God, the heavyweight champion I allude to, is omnipotent, all-powerful. If God wants to put the smackdown on his opponent it's no big deal, he just bats his eyelash, if deities have eyelashes, and kapowza, you're a corpse! All these years, though, science has been making with the trash talk and the God camp has been pretty much powerless to counterattack because God has never actually materialized long enough to say, "Hey bitches, stop talking smack before I turn your mamas into newts!"

So, then here it is. The WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment for the uninitiated, has plans for God to not only materialize, but for him to face WWE President Vince McMahon in a match.

What gets me, though, is that the religious leaders seem to be against the prospect of God stepping into the ring against Vince. You see, for years science has wanted proof that God exists. Well, there you go, assholes! He exists and he's going to kick Vince McMahon's ass! You'd think that anything that shows God as being capable of wrestling would be welcomed by the church. But nooooooo... Some guy could see a burn mark on a burrito that looks like Jesus if you tilt the burrito just right and the church is all over that saying that it's definitive proof of the the existence of God, but when God wants to beat up Vince McMahon suddenly it's sacreligious.

Is the church afraid that God can't beat up Vince McMahon? Could it be that wrestling is fake? Naw, that can't be it.

But here it is, folks. What I really want to say, if the people who write the storylines for wrestling want to have Vince wrestle God, what's the real big deal? If your god is going to smite anybody who makes a mockery of him what's it going to do to hurt you? In fact, if God did smite the wrestling writers for having him go toe-to-toe with Vince wouldn't it be a great way to say, "I told you so." Secondly, having been an avid viewer of pro wrestling for the better part of my life I can't see God's appearance being a regular thing. As a wrestler, God will probably go the way of the Gobbly Gooker (look it up if you must). 98% of sane people acknowledge that the goings-on in wrestling are scripted for entertainment purposes. Are you really concerned that those 2% of people who believe it's completely real are going to believe that Vince could take on a deity in a wrestling match? Are those 2% the kind of people you want to have in your religion? I didn't think so.

So just let them do what they want to do and if they get smited, roast some marshmallows over their burning carcasses.

Gnawing My Way To Freedom

Gnawing My Way To Freedom
If I had known back then what I know now

I would have double-bagged it with you,
triple-bagged it with you,
sealed the base off with a length of duct tape
from my department of homeland security home starter kit,
established a thirty-foot perimeter of razor wire,
anti-personnel mines,
guard dogs
and short-tempered security guards,
who, in essence, would just be paid to deploy tasers first,
ask questions later.

I would have thrown it in a safe,
hid the safe in a concrete bunker
buried down deep with Jimmy Hoffa bones
and any shred of dignity that I had left.

I would have crossed my fingers,
kissed a mangy rabbit’s foot,
swore to a higher power,
become the devoutest of Catholic sodomites,
praying for you to not breathe on me so much
while we made love
the way zoo animals do or
PCP-crazed chocoholics might,
me, doubled-over, in a pool of my own sweat,
you in your leather harness
and monogrammed rubber gloves.

I would have lopped it off with rusty pinking shears
and made confetti of it with an angry wood chipper
and closed eyes.

Something.

Anything.

There’s a reason why the surgeon general warns against huffing paint thinner with maneaters.

And, trying not to wake you as I escape into the morning,
wondering what my shoulder tastes like
and if I will ever actually need my left arm again.

An Email That I Should Share With You

Today I received an email from the grand poobahs of the Raving Poets that I feel I should share with you, gentle readers in case you were interested in making a trip down to the Kasbar to see twenty kick-ass poets duke it out for a chance to win $300.00 in Canadian money, which, by my calculations, is enough for 7 good lap-dances or approximately 150 really, really shitty lap-dances (not including medical charges for a broken lap and/or emotional trauma). Here's the email...

First, the Raving Poets invented the "Cheap Scottish Bastard Poetry Award".



Then there was the "Golden Fez Poetry Prize", recently awarded in Edmonton, Canada.



Topping those amazing prizes in one fell swoop, and upping the ante to poetry crews everywhere, the Raving Poets are proud to announce "THE RAVING POETS ROYAL FEZ POETRY PRIZE".



Not content to close our spring series with a pathetic, despondent whimper, The Raving Poets (a notorious, financially unstable organization) are giving away 300 clams to one poet. You read that right. And we're not kidding.



Interested? Here's how this cash prize deal is going to work:



The Raving Poets highly successful spring reading series, Rock the Kasbar, comes to a close on Wednesday, April 26, 2006. On that night, we give away 300 big ones to the "best" poet of the evening as voted by our celebrity judge panel.



Simple you say? Not so fast. JUST TO MAKE THINGS EXTRA INTERESTING, we've thrown a little curveball into the mix.



Each Raving performance consists of a 20-reader open mic with readers placed on the performance list on a first-come, first-served basis. At the end of EACH Raving Poets performance in April (April 5, 12, 19), the Raving audience will vote for their favorite poets. The top TWO poets from each Wednesday evening in April will automatically advance to the FINAL EVENT on Wednesday, April 26th, 2006. Those six lucky poets will have "performance priority" on the final night (i.e. – they get to choose where they are placed on the performance schedule). The remaining spots will be filled on a lottery draw basis. And at the end, our "Celebrity" judging panel decides who walks away with the 300 bucks.



Where does all this happen?



The Raving Poets Experience

Open mic spoken word/poetry

Yianni's Taverna – Downstairs Lounge

10444 – 82 Avenue, Edmonton.

8:00 signup; show @ 8:30.

20 readers only; no cover.



Bring your friends. See you there.

Something To Watch

For those of you who appreciate a little synchronicity in your lives, you may want to keep your eyes open for this unique chronological event that will be happening in just a matter of hours.

At two minutes and three seconds past 1:00 a.m., Wednesday, April 5, the time will be:

01:02:03 04/05/06

But you have to appreciate it really quickly because it will be over in just a second.

Stay Away From My Daughter!

Click here.

While browsing on Fark today I found this amusing little story about Basic Instinct 2's own Sharon Stone.

While shopping in Britain one day Sharon Stone happened upon a young girl trying clothes on with her mother. The girl was trying on some rather provocative outfits and her mother was visibly apprehensive of the message such outfits might send about her daughter. Anyway, the mother stepped away for a few moments and Sharon Stone, being the superhero that she is, took it upon herself to approach the young girl and talk to her about sex, advising her to just dispense with blow jobs if she wasn't comfortable having sex yet at that stage in her life.

Now, I admit, I've never been to Britain. I'm sure that in the streets of London it's perfectly normal for 48-year-old milfs to approach complete strangers and just talk about sex. I guess that's what makes Europe so damned progressive. Bam, you're walking down the street one day and some strange woman approaches you to ask if she can shove a dildo up your ass and hang her hat off of it. Those crazy Europeans! Here in Canada we're just a tad on the more conservative side when it comes to talking about sex with total strangers. If I approached a young girl and told her that giving out blow jobs is definitely the way to go in life I'd be updating this blog from jail.

I think that the lesson here is that if you see any sexpot celebrity approach your daughter you should probably just mace him/her first and ask questions later because before you know it you're daughter will just blow some guy who's just walking by. Sure, she might be more popular with the guys who are walking by, but think of her breath at the very least. Is it really in your breath mint budget to have a blow job happy daughter?

Now the other thing that I was drawn to in this article is a comment that Sharon Stone makes about Sienna Miller possibly stepping into the role of Catherine Tramell, Sharon Stone's role in the first two Basic Instinct movies, for a possible third installation of the series. In essence, Stone says that Sienna Miller isn't even woman enough to get sodomized by Catherine Tramell let alone play her in a movie, or words to that effect. Notice I didn't use quotation marks in case you're planning on suing me for libel. In actuality, she called Miller a "silly girl" and incapable of handling a character like Catherine Tramell.

What gets me about that statement is that Basic Instinct and Basic Instinct 2 are not movies that are going to be regarded as classics years from now. Sorry to say it. Ask yourself, if the producers of the series were to remove all the nudity would the movies be as successful with audiences? If you answered yes to such a question, get yourself sterilized because you owe it to the human standards for generations to come. Oh sure, Basic Instinct had that famous scene in which we see Sharon Stone's cooch in an interrogation, but can anybody tell me what the hell happened in the plot? No? That's because the whole movie was built around the crotch shot.

So to say that Sienna Miller is incapable of handling a character like Catherine Tramell stupid. It's the equivalent of saying that she's not able to flash her cooch or her rack in a movie that will ultimately wallow in mediocrity with or without copious nudity.

You know, and maybe I'm wrong about the Basic Instinct series. I just didn't think that the first one was that good to warrant a sequel. Given that I just don't think that a sequel to a movie could be so good that it would warrant a third movie. Which means I could very well be wrong here since the sequel is about to be released and now there's talk of making a third one. If I'm wrong I apologize and I welcome you to defend your beloved movie in the comments section.

The Bottom Ten, March 2006

10.) National Holidays That Just Don't Seem Right- Click here. Terri Schiavo Day? Ahhhh, nothing will make the members of the public stand up against euthanasia than a national holiday. Why is it that when special interest groups want to promote awareness of their cause the plan of attack they seem to always come up with is to petition for a national holiday? Newsflash special interest groups: national holidays are viewed by most of the working class as another day off for drinking and partying and not having to go to work. If you want people to believe in what you believe in petition the government to take away a Saturday as a day off and make it a work day until people start voicing their support of your cause. I guarantee that they'll all be on board after year one of that fiasco.

9.) Competitive Eating- Click here. Okay, I'll admit there is a sort of mild fascination I have with watching gluttony at it's most professional level. But do you ever think when you're watching these guys dunk hot dogs in water and eat, like, 40 or so of them in one sitting, Hey, I wonder if they ever broadcast these eating contests in those countries where Sally Struthers goes?

8.) Those Anti-Piracy Public Service Announcements They Show Before Movies- Okay, sure, it's cool and noble that the major film production companies want to protect their profit lines with brilliant PSA's with awe-inspiring informative missives like "Stealing is illegal." But one obvious thing that those PSA's fail to address is the coolness factor associated with being a pirate. Because if illegally duplicating those intellectual properties is piracy, the people who perform such deeds are pirates. They need to make PSA's that let the public know that pirates aren't cool, but everybody knows that's just a flat-out lie.

7.) Ty Pennington- He's the host of ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and he is quite possibly the most obnoxiously enthusiastic person on television. Which is odd because pretty much every family that gets a makeover for their home is some sort of tv-movie-of-the-week tragedy. I think the guy is doing some sort of drug behind the scenes to make him that hyper.

6.) Larry The Cable Guy- A source of pride in my life up to this point has been the fact that I have not been familiar with the work of Larry The Cable Guy. People would come up to me at parties and such and ask, "Hey Michael, did you see that Larry The Cable Guy in concert DVD yet?" To which I would reply, "No. No I did not." Now I still haven't seen that hillbilly comedy DVD yet (another source of pride in my life), but now I have been made somewhat more familiar with the work of Larry The Cable Guy because now he is appearing in a movie named for him! So much for my sources of pride. I used to be able to say, "I don't know who Larry The Cable Guy is, but he sounds like a flash-in-pan lowering of comedic standards if ever one existed." Now, though, I have to say, "I know who Larry The Cable Guy is. He's that flash-in-the-pan lowering of comedic standards that now has his own movie." Why is this so bad, you ask? Now I have to change my business cards.

5.) People Who Park In Fire Lanes- Lazy people in general piss me the fuck off, but I hate people who somehow justify to themselves, and to the world, that they're not lazy; they're just parking in the fire lane because they only have to be inside a given building for five minutes, tops. Ladies and gentlemen, five minutes is never five minutes and parking in the fire lane when there are perfectly good parking spaces that wouldn't block a fire truck trying to get through in an emergency like 10 feet further back from where you parked makes you an inconsiderate, lazy douchebag.

4.) Exploiting Hard Luck Cases For Ratings- Yeah Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, I'm looking at you.

3.) The Opening Of The First Upscale Walmart Store- Wrapping a turd with tin foil doesn't make it candy. If you haven't heard, they've opened a Walmart store in Texas where they serve Sushi and have a selection of fine wines, high end electronics, etc. etc. If there's one thing that I know about rich people it's that they would absolutely love to be able to say they were caught shopping at Walmart. I think that if your niche is a cesspool of savings then you should just stick to what you know instead of trying to dress it up by serving sushi. I think that Walmart has bigger fish to fry right now than trying to find a way to appeal to the upper class.

2.) Nude Photos Of Britney Spears Being Bought By An Online Casino- Click here. In a shocking bit of news, nude photos of Britney Spears not only exist, but they've been bought by an online casino. Now the whole world could potentially see the last remaining 3.7 square inches of her body that haven't appeared in photographs made public yet. What I don't get is why she's so angry about the matter. She been pretty much nude in half the stuff she's appeared in, so what the fuck is left to show that would come as some sort of surprise to people? A nipple? Gasp! Oh god! No! If the public saw Britney's nipple the whole perception of her being an overhyped skank would be tarnished!

1.) Ineffectuality- Do you know that the guy whom Dick Cheney shot in the face with birdshot from a fucking shotgun did as the result of the now infamous incident? He apologized to the vice president. That's what he did. There, that ought to show him. Sir, anybody who apologizes for getting shot should just surrender his testicles because clearly they're only there for decoration.

Hug A Rich Person Day

Cynicism today is so easy. I mean it's easy to be cynical. It's especially easy for me to be cynical of rich people. Why? Because there are so many rich people who are bent on becoming richer. It's no secret that there are greedy rich people. What does seem to be a secret, though, are those rich people who are actually taking measures, throwing their money around and what not, in a manner that benefits not just themselves, but the people around them, the less fortunate, the people of the world.

Click here.

Reading this story actually made me feel good. It's nice to be proven wrong about your cynicism sometimes. I just thought I would throw that link at you. Next time you see a rich person being nice to somebody go on and give him/her a big hug because their income bracket is all-too-often misunderstood.

Roll Call or: Why I Never Went To Many Parties In New Sarepta

Here's the poem that I used to wrap up the Raving Poets show on March 15. It was one that was constructed largely on my lunch break at work that day. It's sort of list poem I guess you could say. This is just a collection of hyperboles of redneck archetypes that I suppose you could say exist, although not so exaggerated as they are here, in many of the small prairie towns in Canada. It also gave me a chance to name drop my old home town of New Sarepta and although it's a poem that probably paints a rather negative view of New Sareptians (?), it was a great place for me to grow up and I wouldn't have changed it for the world. Still wouldn't. New Sarepta, don't you ever change. Ever.

Also I apologize for the formatting here. The lines should be broken in a sort of hanging paragraph format, which is hard to render in HTML.

And remember, none of these people actually exist. I just wanted to work with caricatures of character types I saw around me.

Roll Call
or:
Why I Never Went To Many Parties In New Sarepta
irradiated spermbag walking hard-ons following the weatherveins [sic] in their cocks in
winds of perfume and feminine hygiene products.
slopey foreheads, hairy dragging knuckles who call their lovers "bitch," "slut," or "sugartits."
5'6 mall creatures made 6'3 by baby blue lycra push-up bras, whale-tails indignant at you for staring at their breasts even when their nipples are poking you in the eyes.
militant homophobic single helix primates, lower echelon bottom feeders, testosterone bulls who call their friends "dude," "dudester," and "dudeness." Conversely referring to strangers and enemies as "fag," "faggot," or "cocksucker." Nary a shade of grey to be found.
greased mullets who spit when they talk.
razor-knuckled STD banks in their budweiser thread bare halter tops, masks of near-clown make-up and running open sores threatening to extinguish their home-rolled cigarettes on your forehead for even suggesting you have no desire to have sex with them.
mouths full of chipped chiclets looking for a fight, looking to score, knowing that in a place like this fighting and fucking are one and the same.
puke-stained flannel jackets floating almost disembodied through throngs, wildly gesticulating at this group or that group, tossing out beer from plastic cups until it becomes pale, golden rain.
overbearing glad-hands, complete aliens really, people you can't recall coming at you with "you old son-of-a-bitch" and not knowing if it's a term of endearment or some sort of redneck throw-down.
five ounce brains rattling around in 10 gallon hats.
shitkickers actually used for kicking shit.
belt buckles the size of pro wrestling championships.
wolf whistles punctuated by friendly gropes and innuendo as thick as sledgehammers to the face.

yeah you.
i'm looking at you, new sarepta.

where are the numerators
in this crowd of denoms?
the red-blooded humans
among the cromags?

my mind is starved
and this is a feast of crumbs.

Michael Appleby
March, 2006

What Motomaster Gadget Are You Going To Use For This One, Biatch?

The other day Nilos emailed me a link to a story that he happened upon...

Click here.

That's right folks, the Canadian Tire couple is no more! Canadian Tire has decided to go in a new direction with its advertising, opting out of the "demo-mercials" featuring the smug, condescending couple Ted and Gloria.

I've written about the terrible twosome before on this blog so it's very gratifying to see their trail of destruction come to end.

But you know what? I think that the end is too abrupt.

When I found out that their television days were numbered I thought that it would be best to sort of have a finale for their series of commercials. Over the years one got used to Ted's, "You stupid fucking idiots. If you had just bought Motomaster's [insert marginally useful gadget name here] you would be in such a fucking mess right now. I mean look at me. I'm doing this shit with ease thanks to Motomaster. How many fucking times do I have to tell you, just sell your soul to Canadian Tire and it will take care of the rest. You stupid, stupid fucking idiots." Or something like that. Ted probably didn't actually curse so much, but, hey, if you're going to be a smug condescending bastard to your neighbors all the time, why not be a smug condescending bastard with a potty mouth as well?

Anyway, what I thought Canadian Tire should do with regards to phasing out Ted and Gloria from the pop culture landscape would be to have a demo-mercial where Ted and Gloria are getting a divorce and they're in a meeting room with their lawyers hashing out the conditions. So anyway, throughout the meeting both Ted and Gloria start being all smarmy and smug, talking about Motomaster divorce kits or Motomaster briefcases. And, get this, they keep talking like they do in the fucking Canadian Tire commercials that their lawyers decide to team up and screw both of them in the divorce. So that in the final scene we see the two condescending assholes that are Ted and Gloria living in squalor, having been fucked by their lawyers, and fighting almost to the point of fisticuffs because they couldn't successfully get a divorce. Ted could say something like, "Yeah, I'll start with you, bitch!" putting a spin on the Canadian Tire motto before some more spousal abuse. Then fade to black forever on a dark chapter in Canadian television history.

Knowing how important the past decade of depicting Canadian people as being self-fellating, holier-than-thou jerks, Canadian Tire would probably have to get the rights to run a song like "Time Of Your Life (Good Riddance)" by Green Day or one of those other songs that always gets played when a long running television staple reaches its finale. It's probably the broadcast rights for such a song that is keeping Canadian Tire from actually putting together a demo-mercial for the Motomaster Divorce Kit and thus providing the closure that Ted and Gloria sorely need before they are officially history. Might I suggest to Canadian Tire that they just do away with the whole emotional song nonsense and just show the stuff that the people who despise Ted and Gloria salivate for?

Birthday Wishes

Happy belated 29th birthday to Lori. Your party was a blast this year and all of us should definitely get together like that more often.

The Scourge Of White Earbuds

I am an iPod user. As such I own a pair of white earbuds. The white earbud is the way that iPod users and iPod pretenders identify ourselves to each other. It's similar to a tiger having stripes or a leopard having spots. We spot each other grooving in our own little universes, sporting the white earbuds and nod because we know how fucking cool we are. I mean if you have an iPod you are coolness defined, aren't you? The commercials don't lie, but then again commercials have never lied to anybody, EVER!

No, no. Stop cursing me and calling me a heretic. You can put away your burning effigies of me for now. I admit, I was being sarcastic.

But I do want to talk about the earbuds, though. Those white earbuds. I pay attention to the media around me as much as I can. Sure, sometimes it gets muted to a sort of drone that can easily be tuned out and forgotten, but I do my best to see what's shaking and shaping our world insofar as what goes out into the ether of public consumption. Or something like that. Rereading that sentence even I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about.

But I have a bit of a beef with the whole phenomenon surrounding white earbuds. You might not realize it, but they are, indeed, a phenomenon. They're everywhere! You can't escape them. It's not just iPod propaganda anymore. The commercial world seems to have latched on to the iPod staple and turned it into some sort of coolness calling card.

I was flipping through a recent issue of Rolling Stone and noticed that the ad on the back cover was for the Acura TSX, which I discovered with some quick research stands for Toronto Stock eXchange. So there it was, a picture of the Acura Toronto Stock eXchange (worst car name ever!) and its seeming owner, this smug yuppie son-of-a-bitch with, yep you guessed it, white fucking earbuds connecting him to his car, parked somewhere, oh say about 30 fucking feet behind him.

The ad reads: "Your life. Your car. Connected. The Acura TSX is compatible with you. Your mp3 player. Your Bluetooth-enable phone. And just about every other part of your digital life. Man and machine never had so muchin common. The TSX."

And I'm not bringing that up because I'm trying to suck Acura's dick or anything. I just want to point out that I don't want to be on the road with any guy who's plugged into his mp3 player, his Bluetooth-enabled phone, and just about every other part of his digital life. Do you want to know why? Who the fuck is paying attention to the road? Seriously. The yuppie bastard is wearing his earbuds, can he even hear it when I'm honking my horn in frustration, stuck behind him at some greenlight he hasn't noticed yet because he's perfecting his Tiny Tim mix and jabbering at his yuppie scumbag wife on the old Bluetooth? Probably not.

I suppose if there were ever an ad that needed a disclaimer it would be this one. It could read: Warning, do you really fucking need to listen to your mp3 player and talk on your fucking Bluetooth every fucking minute of every fucking day? Wouldn't driving your car when you're behind its wheel seem more appropriate? Don't be a douchebag.

But now I've kind of gone off on some sort of organic tangent because I meant to talk about the earbuds.

So anyway, this Acura ad isn't the only place you see people sporting the white buds. Every time I notice somebody depicted wearing them I cringe. They're becoming a crutch for characters to be seen as hip and contemporary. These are people with modern day crises. They wear white earbuds.

The reason why I cringe is because in my experience with white earbuds so far (they make me a contemporary man, don't you know) I have found them to be really uncomfortable. At least the factory ones anyway. They're too big for my fucking ears, which either means I have freakishly small ears or I bought the iPod For Giants version.

This being said, if I'm a human of average dimensions, then why the hell are so many people sporting uncomfortable white earbuds that pop out of the ear canal every two minutes? Wouldn't people look more hip and more intelligent if they sported listening devices that were more carefully tailored for the human form?

I don't know. It's just a thought. I suppose that it's easiest to depict people in "modern" times if they're wearing white earbuds.

And Now, Michael Appleby Answers Some Hypothetical Questions...

I have a few books from the If series. The premise of these books is to just ask a bunch of hypothetical questions if, when read alone, will lead you down a path of self-discovery (or some kind of bullshit like that) or, if read in groups, should spark a heated debate that will either end in heated fist fights or copious amounts of jizz stains. So anyway, when I feel like the creative well is dry, which it seems to be of late, I'll flip through the books I have and see if I can find a few questions to answer for you people. Feel free to debate me (though you would probably be wrong) in the comments.

Q: If you could decide what will be written on your gravestone, what would you have inscribed?

I should hope that when I die I will still be viewed as a sort of outside-the-box kind of thinker. That being said I would like something simple, yet profound. Hmmmmm...how about something like No Refunds? Yeah, that seems pretty cool. If I have a lot of fans of my work when I die I'm sure that one or two of them might make some sort of pilgramage to the old eternal resting place and if they saw No Refunds they might say something like, "Dude! That is so, like, thought-provoking! I mean, quick, like hand me the water bong for a second, I want to take a great big hit and then just try to wrap my head around that no refunds comment." Of course, my fans will likely be hippy-dippy stoner types. However, I am a bit of a joker, so maybe if my epitaph read, Post No Bills my rotting, maggot-infested corpse can laugh in the afterlife for years.

Q: If you were elected to be the leader of the United States tomorrow, what would be your first act?"

I think that my first act as president would be to make a formal apology to the international community for the foreign policy of the past number of years and promise to repair as much of the damage that has been done as is humanly possible.

Q: If you could pick one famous person to be your neighbor, who would you have next door to you?

There are a number of famous people I would love to live next door to. Certainly names like Maynard James Keenan, Gordon Downie, and David Cross come to mind with just a minimal amount of thinking. But the name that sprang into my mind immediately after reading this question was Chuck Palahniuk. It would be great to live next door to somebody who could talk shop with me as a writer, you know, give me advice and inspire me. Stuff like that for writers is invaluable.

Q: If you were going to turn to crime to support yourself from now on, what kind of criminal would you become?

A politician of some sort. If, though, we take into consideration that I would try to be a more diplomatic, more honest president from the question about being the president, I suppose I can't say that politics would be my choice for criminal activity. Since politics is now ruled out I suppose that I would sell marijuana because it's quite possibly the least morally reprehensible crime I can think of since pot should be decriminalized and/or legalized on the basis that, as a drug, marijuana kills far, far, far fewer people than alcohol or tobacco. I have a heavy conscience so selling pot would be something I could justify to myself.


Q: If you had to describe the single worst thing a friend could do to you, what would it be?

This is kind of a weak question I know. I mean, how do you descibe being kicked in the testicles repeatedly? Sure, it's easy to say, "Kick me in the balls repeatedly," and you can picture the repeated kicking and possibly me hunched over and in pain, but how do you really "describe" the pain of it? It's probably the worst thing that anybody could do to me, not just my friends.

At A Risk Of Sounding Unpopular

You know what really pisses me off? Television commercials.

Wow, Michael, how original. Somebody who is pissed off by television commercials. Why you haven't been nominated for some sort of award for insight is beyond me. Excuse me for being too moved by your revelation to applaud you, you mental giant.

Now, now. Hear me out. I should clarify a bit by saying television commercials that have disclaimers printed somewhere on the screen. You know the kind. For instance, if you're watching a car commercial and you get to watch all sorts of fancy driving, there on the screen, somewhere, it will read something like: "Professional driver on a closed course. Do not attempt." Lately, I've noticed a cell phone commercial with all of these supposedly average people jumping off of bridges and doing flips and shit, playing some sort of fucking, Hey look at me, world, I have a fucking cell phone, game of Marco Polo. There on the screen it reads: "Professional athletes. Do not attempt."

Do you know why I hate these television commercials with the shitload of disclaimers? It's a constant reminder of how stupid people are. Well, not so much everybody, more or less, it's you. You see, I know I sure as fuck didn't do anything so stupid that corporate lawyers felt it necessary to put disclaimers on television commercials to keep me from hurting myself. But somebody did. Somewhere along the way somebody watched a commercial and did something to hurt his or her self and corporate lawyers devised a plan for advertising that would wash their hands of any further responsibility for people's stupidity. Since I know that I have done nothing that was shown in a commercial, by process of elimination I know it's somebody out there reading these words. Maybe it's a bunch of you fuckers. At the risk of sounding unpopular I will say that I hate you people. It's because of you that corporate America treats me like a toddler.

I mean, fuck, did you just turn on the television one day and say, "Holy fuck, that guy doing all those somersaults off of that bridge is so fucking cool! If he can do it then surely I can do it. It's on t.v. it must be feasible." Never you mind that you're lugging around a 170 pound gut full of cheetos and your doctor says that your arthritis is so bad that you're lucky to even be able to walk thirty feet without snapping in half. You are fucking convinced that graceful somersaults off of a fucking bridge are in your immediate future. And then, poof, you're a fucking vegetable in some hospital bed for the rest of your life and your relatives have to sue the company behind the commercial to keep your damn stupid-as-shit brain operating at an even more abyssmal level.

Now, for the rest of eternity, I have to have some waiver flash across the screen every time something even remotely dangerous is being depicted so I don't actually go out and attempt shit by myself.

I wonder, though, if enough litigation goes on will more and more shit be disclaimed as it's being portrayed on the screen. For instance, if, say, somebody is shown tossing a Cheerio into the air and catching it with his mouth, then some asshat does the same thing except he chokes to death, resulting in a lawsuit, will there be a disclaimer about the actors who are throwing food into the air and catching it with their mouths? Why, with enough lawsuits, it'll get to be that depictions of people getting out of bed in the morning will be complete with waivers of liability. Caution: man getting out of a bed is a paid professional. Under no circumstances should getting out of bed be attempted by anybody without proper training and certification.

You know what, you people out there who hurt yourselves trying all this shit because you saw it on television piss me off so much that I wish that a disclaimer appears on everything shown on television. Imagine, a constant fucking disclaimer reading: "You stupid fucking people, don't try any of this shit at home because you're only going t fuck it up so bad that you're going to get hurt. Remember when you didn't have to be reminded that you are a bunch of fucking simps? We do. Fuck it would be great to just have entertainment without having to start spouting off all these legalese bullshit just to keep you morons from killing yourselves. But here we are. Shit happens." I think that a disclaimer like that should be the burden that all of have to bear until every last one of you stupid motherfuckers finally learns that, hey, if you haven't successfully done a fucking somersault off a bridge before in your life seeing that shit on television doesn't suddenly turn you into Mary Lou fucking Retton, you fucking idiots.

Then maybe some of us sane, rational people can enjoy our entertainment in peace.