Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Urban Vignette #45-A.

Having suffered some memory damage due to a severely dehydrated brain, I just recalled a strange thing that happened on my way to getting hammered with the illustrious Sheena last night. Two guys in a white Cherokee pulled up to the curb beside me as I walked up the street and said "Hey dude. Do you want a home theatre system?" I said "what?". The guy reiterates his generous offer and points to the back of the truck. I said, "uh, no I'm good". Dude tried harder. He says "seriously dude, do you want this home theatre system? We just scored it from work".

WTF? Brilliance seems to know no bounds in the city I love.

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Friday, September 21, 2007

An Environmental Treatise

Warning: The following blog post contains excessive use of foul language. Proceed with caution.
RATED: "R" for Retard.

If one more luxury fossil-fuel burner-driving, pin-dicked Forest Hill cocksucker honks incessantly or makes obscene gestures or comments to me while I am legally waiting in the middle of a fucking goddamn intersection to turn left on my environmentally-friendly fucking bicycle, I am going to:
  • Leap from my hybrid onto said cocksucker's windshield.
  • One-fist punch a hole in said windshield and in one motion rip the keys from the ignition, jamming them in his motherfucking mocha-choka-latte, country clubbing, pasty white thigh.
  • Pull the vehicle to a stop as he screams and writhes in pain and his own urine.
  • Pull the asshole from his polluting penis substitute by his Blackberry.
  • Force him to his knees and duct tape his mouth around the tailpipe.
  • Put the hammer to the metal and leave him to choke on his own toxic fumes.

Motherfucker goddamn cock shit!!!

Thanks. I feel a lot better now.

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Thursday, September 20, 2007

New Political Landscape

Apparently, there is a New Political Landscape in Canada, in the wake of the Quebec by-elections. But for those who fear change, the great news is that we still have the same old unimaginative, clichéd TV journalism you've been enjoying for years. Joy! Notwithstanding their common overstated generalization, the fact that these identical taglines ran at exactly the same moment on CTV Newsnet and CBC Newsworld two days ago, is, well, puzzlingly coincidental. Or is it? (cue undead Michael Jackson Thriller face and insane laughter):

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Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Atwood, Plath...Step Aside

A friend pointed me towards THIS. It's a collection of love poems by Leonard Nimoy. I loved it so much that I approached the publisher and was asked to write the following review, to be included on the back cover of the next hard cover edition:

Wow! I'm blown away by the profound sensitivity, introspection and unique, masterful use of language that Leonard employs. "We are the dreamers. We are the dancers. Life is the music. Love is the song." I mean, I never would have thought to say that. Who the fuck says that? I'm humbled. I'm shocked. No, I'm spocked. Holy fuck.

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Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Ella and Me

This one is older, but I can feel that double-edged sentiment of romantic isolation increasingly re-occurring these days. Contrary to what that connotes, it's actually a welcome change...

Ella and Me

Gazing through a glass eye in the face of a solemn room,
to cobbled sidewalks, spattered with autumn rain.
Real live people are out in this damp October rush hour.
Well-dressed soldiers of industry marching through chilling drizzle,
shielded by a New York Times or an umbrella;
headed towards coffee houses and warm dinners.
Coming in wet and cold, to clean, freshly washed robes

and hot, naked arms.

They seem so glamorous down there. As if the cameras were rolling.
As if Woody Allen were re-making Manhattan right here on Bloor West.

From down on the streetscape they don’t hear
Ella's soulful warbling, questioning: Where Or When?
They don’t savour sharp peppers in a pasta for one.

They don't breathe the earthy fullness of the Nag Champa smoulders.
And if they bothered to look up --
just a few stories --
they’d see candles dancing shamelessly,
like Amsterdam whores, in my screenless window.

By the thousands they pass this anonymous window every night, like ducks on a wheel.
I’d do anything for their attention, but they walk on, expressionless;
unaware of the similarities between us; unconcerned with learning they are kindred.

Nevertheless, I am comforted by the fact that, forever, Ella is here.

If I were Rick Blaine this would all be much easier.
I’d resolve to send Ilsa's ghost on a one way flight
and resign to the end of the bar, content in my bravado.
However...the days of the steel heart are no longer mine.


Monday, September 17, 2007

Chrétien Foreshadows Book Content

When I asked him this morning at breakfast** what manner of dirty secrets would be exposed in his upcoming book, Jean Chrétien lifted his drunken, drooling head off the pillow and murmured "A book is a book. What kind of a book? It's a book. A book is a book. And when you 'ave a good book it's because it's written."

**In response to an offline questioner who asked "What would you be doing in bed with Chrétien " I thought I should clear things up. Hey, everyone knows how easy it is to get into the Chrétien bedroom. Last night, I drunkenly stumbled into the wrong house, and when Aline attacked me, some kind of sexual chemical reaction occurred. Next thing I know, the Chrétien's and I are entangled in the throes of a sweaty ménage a trois. Hey, one should never look a gift former PM's wife in the mouth...mwahaha.

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Massaging the Dead

I’ve spent a lifetime massaging the dead:
Worrying and fretting; making them coffee;
bringing them groceries; cutting their lawns;
making them come and dumbing down the universe.

But all they can do is expect:
Expect the tickle to be careful;
expect to be soul-fed sugary lies like baby birds;
expect me to breathe meaning into love
that is brain-dead, frozen blue and far past the point of resuscitation.

They are unable even to lift limbs, but expect my sincere inspiration,
and heartfelt submission to their impossible ideals.

And what does it leave me – this hamstrung marathon?
Nothing but a tied and bound conscience buried in the backyard with dream bones and rotting table scraps, whose skeletal middle digits pierce my spine when I’m drunk.

There is no peaceful place for me in a life where the smallest shreds of honesty
embarrass the dinner guests and equivocation is a virtue.

The dead are harm in my arms, though my arms find it hard to let go
for fear that I’ll slip from the greased edge of their cold zombie love
into the wild blue.

Parachute packed, I now understand that freefall is the best redemption.

So I’m jumping.


Thursday, September 13, 2007

Crumpled Beauty

I took the subway today because I have drinking plans after work. Something about the anonymity of that human herring-packed metal tube always gets me thinking. It's crazy that one can be surrounded by so many humans, yet you can't help but feel if you just burst out in tears no one would notice. Sure, a few may momentarily glance over the tops of their Metro tabloid news round-up, but you'd still be crying alone. And once you got off at the next stop, they'd forget you, like that crumpled up tabloid left on a seat for someone else to pick up, peruse and dispose of, once again.

People do this to people. I have come to realize that. Even the most trusted, intimate people in your life crumple you up and leave you on a subway seat. But you know what, there is beauty in it. It's a natural occurrence, like a force of nature: A devastating flood or an earthquake. Everything dies and is reborn, as do friendships and loveships. But there is beauty, always, even if it sometimes is hidden under ash and silt. Even ash and silt can be beautiful- depends on your depth of perspective.

What I have learned -- no, what I am learning, is that the only way to ameliorate your own suffering is to lessen the suffering you cause others. Although I believe suffering is an inescapable part of being human, causing others to suffer is a choice -- an act of will.

I am now searching for beauty even though many of us tend to "give bad names to beautiful things". I am searching for beauty in love; beauty in pain; beauty in nature; beauty in thought and perception; and beauty in expression. And from now on, I will try to choose subway cars filled by other beauty-seekers, so they, too, can see the value of my tabloidy crumpledness.

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Wednesday, September 12, 2007

The Nipple On Our Souls

If North American society is sexually schizoid, the US is a whiskey-throated blonde cheerleader dolled up in slutty make-up, who faints at the slighest prospect of intimacy. Witness the current debacle facebook has created by banning pix that breastfeeding advocates have posted on their pages. Facebook recently deleted the account of a Canadian woman who posted pix that apparently violated their standards. Feministas and boob supporters alike are understandably pissed. Although, groups like La Leche League are still up and have pix on their pages showing acceptable depictions of breastfeeding. Of course, "acceptable" in this case means NO NIPPLE.
What the hell is wrong with this society, when barely pubescent girls can writhe in fucking g-strings and oil while firing submachine guns on TV, yet the sudden flash of a single goddamn nipple at a violent sports match can summon on the four horses of the apocalypse? Moreover, what is wrong when natural women feed their children naturally with the natural NIPPLES that they were naturally born with and repressed nutbars can punish and chastise them for being inappropriate and dirty? That is the true sexual perversion in our society and tears us even further away from our HUMAN roots.
Now don't get me wrong. I know that when you open a facebook account, you sign on to certain terms, including not posting pix containing nudity. There is a very good reason for this, as anyone who knows anything about the naivete of children and the slyness of pedophiles will understand. But holy fucking jesus christ North America: Get over your insane NIPPLE fear!!!
If you don't the terrorists will have won.

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Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Electionitis Hits Inner Blogolia!!!

Holy shit- a quick scan of ProgBlog land last night, and it was clear to see that, not even 12 hours after the writ dropped its pants, some political nutters had already dropped to their knees. Oy vey: Get ready world for a frantic, billion-post month of jumping to conclusions, over-thinking, childish whinging and torrid speculation. It's like the start of hockey season when people are already blathering into City TV street mics about whether or not the Leafs have what it takes to go all the way - before the first puck has even dropped.

Take deep breaths, put down those six packs of Red Bull and get some sleep kids. It's going to be a long, long month.

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Monday, September 10, 2007

Writ Drop Fever

4 years ago, around this time, I was flexing my democratic biceps, working hard behind-the-scenes of a campaign to help end 8 years of tyrannical neo-con rule. A tangible sense of excitement hung in the cool autumn air, as that red meteor hurtled towards the blue terra firma to eventually cause the extinction of those Harrisite dinosaurs. That election changed my little piece of reality in ways I can't really get into, but suffice to say, things got much better in my beloved province for many people I know.

Today, Ontario's future will once again be plunged into uncertainty as the paperwork is filed and we offically kick-off a new campaign period leading up to election day on October 10th. I implore you to really listen to and question what candidates in your ridings are saying. Don't succumb to the popular cop-outs that other lazy-ass citizens use to explain their democratic abstinence: "Uhhh, I don't like any of 'em so I'm not voting". I can't count the number of so-called intelligent people I've met who have used some version of this lame-ass excuse to explain why they don't vote. It makes them no better than the average drooling idiot who doesn't even know there is an election going on.

People DIE in less fortunate societies to be able to vote. But here, we die because we gourge ourselves on junk food, play video games and let our childish brains decay in dormancy. Too many of us only exist to consume, yet maintain a smug sense of self-entitlement. We love to blame politicians in a knee-jerk for everything under the sun that irks us, yet we don't get off our fat asses and make our society a better place by becoming democratically active.

Don't be one of the ignorant mASSES this time - make your voice heard. Vote for someone on October 10th - anyone!!!

Please visit Elections Ontario if you have any questions whatsoever about where to vote, how to register to vote, etc. You can access the web site HERE. And try to pass on a little bit of your knowledge to everyone you know over the next month!!!

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Friday, September 07, 2007

Oh, Rock Slut!

As promised to my friend LC yesterday, and in honour of F-Day, I am lightening up on the heady discourse and shifting to a more air-heady theme. Here, now, is my ode to the more glitsy, gutsy and gobbley of the female persuasion- the rock tramp.

Oh, Rock Slut A Poem, by K-Dough

Oh rock slut, when you held my spiral-permed locks to keep my head out of the toilet, I knew that there was love inside of you- or would be imminently.

But I made the mistake of licking your face, in the heat of a steamy hotel bathroom,
and ended up with a foundation-caked tongue.

I will never forget the sweet words you sputtered as we met in the small town arcade:
"Heyyyy, Yer in that band playin' over at the hotel, eh? You from Turanna?" Or as you looked up at me in that room full of onlookers, pulled the gristlehunk out of your face, and queried: "Can we kiss first?": The memory is like a balloon angioplasty to my weiner.

You giggled, drunkenly as I scrawled "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, shit out your spleen" on the filthy dressing room drywall.

You snorted, and Dr. Pepper squirted out of your perfect little model nose, when I pulled out my dick and stuck it in our stupid light tech's ear as he slept - unawares.

You suffered my childish tantrums about how my art would suffer if the bar owner wouldn't give us a free case of Blue.

You helped me spray and tease my do, and let me borrow your zebra-stripe shirts and spandex and rubber bangles.

You bought me cheeseburgers and made me bottle-tokes and let me stay at your passed-out Step-Mom's house when I was in town.

You introduced me to all your local girlfriends, who also dropped to their knees at the flick of a fly, thanks to your expert tutellage.

But most of all, my little rock slut, you masturbated with a giant carrot and then let me put it in your ass after I fucked your sister with it. It brings a tear to my pants even now.

One thing I gotta say sweet little rock slut: You're special - and I mean that.

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Thursday, September 06, 2007

My "Self"

Yesterday's discussion flushed out an impossible age-old question: What is self? Can you lose yourself? Is there really any true, enduring intrinsic self to speak of? My feeling: Don't try to quantify the qualitative or you'll end up a mathematician- or worse- a psychiatrist!

I'm not sure what self is, but I think I have a pretty good idea about how it is expressed. A forensic map leading into our skulls and souls can be found through our preferences, acts, desires and what makes us happiest. They are the ontological footprints of our impermanent being. In light of my current saga of self re-discovery, I thought it might be useful to me, and perhaps of passing mundane interest to you, to list a few personal loves. So, in the spirit of Julie Andrews (OMG- did I really just write that?) here are a few of my favourite things:

I could go on forever. Well, until I die at least. To be continued...cross your fingers.


Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Amsterdamned Forever

Days like this are some of my favourite. The smell of coffee wafting along Bloor Street as the rain mists my face; Chris Isaak's Wicked Game soothing my iHead while limousines shuffle Hollywood-type pre-film fest sojourners to their booked-a-year-ago suites. Though this is present day Toronto, on days like this I am time-shifted back to damp Amsterdam, where I once lived for a short time.

I could barely control my urge to stride past my office this morning and find some comforting place harbouring warm croissants and earthy koffie creamed with sweet, vanilla-y koffiemelk. But that kind of spontaneity only comes in small bubbles these days: The casualty of an important, responsible workaday role. Pfft.

There may be nothing better in this cruel world than the feeling of carelessly wiling away hours at a canal-side cafe, by yourself, thumbing through Camus and eyeing some gorgeous blonde beauty from behind your desperately sweating pint of Oranjeboom. Or cradling a hot mug of Turkish java in the open window of a Dam coffee shop, with the thick incense of sweet hash in your throat and nostrils and Burning Spear gently massaging your soul from the smokey womb of dark wood floors and panels.

The depth of such experience is only measurable by the state of relaxation it inspires. The head room for introspection cannot be bought or sold. It can only come from abandon. And for the first time in years, I feel that reaching that depth is once again a distinct possibility. I am renewing the lease on my soul -- on my terms.

WARNING: Over the next while, (well, for as far as I can see from this limited vantage point) you might want to visit my archives - or the COMMENTS section for each post- if you are looking for the regular blasphemous, foul shite. I am in a deeply introspective mood lately (in case you haven't noticed), so these pages may make you want to puke, fall in love with me or leave me forever. All options are not only understandable, but encouraged.


Tuesday, September 04, 2007

I Remember Now

I remember the crisp, new feeling of rebirth on the first day back to school. Every electrified nerve in my body bristled against that skin tight, fresh pair of unfaded Levis. Every ghostly kilojoule of my soul hurled me towards those smooth-bodied tender gifts waiting to be unwrapped on cool autumn nights by clumsy, sex-drunken hands.

I remember the all-encompassing hormone induced narcossis, in which the key to control of the universe lay in a hastily scrawled phone number on a crumpled note passed in class, or understanding what lurked behind a coquettish smile in the hall. For a short time, those moments possessed the romantic urgency of a first burning orgasm or a first sweet tongue tracing braces on a Friday night.

Now, I am at a crossroads. I am once again entering an ultra-excited era of optimism --unencumbered by the soul-sucking shackles of matrimonial underachievement. I am once again becoming that teenage heat-seeking missile of a kid. I am once again a free spirit on the hunt for the fair exchange of kindred human comfort.

Problem is, I am scarred-over and bruised by a year of previously unimaginable turmoil, deceit and betrayal. I am now more fully aware of the sullied, drab reality of adulthood; the profound disappointment in those you thought were friends; the redirection of energies into rebuilding the heart and soul; and the burden of memory. I am now gun-shy at wasting precious thoughts and touches on the unworthy.

You know, I've always welcomed change like a long lost lover. But I have to say, my heart could really use a syringe full of teenage naivete plunged inward right now. Who knows, perhaps the fall winds will blow a suitable opiate my way?

Thanks for listening, K

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