Sun, Sand, Poop.

This weekend, so far, has been quite agreeable.

The weather has been rosy; my pallid tone of blue, mottled with fleshy pink striations and patches of outright translucency has been replaced with a healthy near-white thanks to the sun’s warming rays. I have had no bill collectors come to my door, wielding bats, wrenches, large frozen cod or any implements of torture whatsoever. In fact, I was told on Thursday by my accountant, who I will have sex with thanks to this windfall, that I will be receiving a near eight-thousand dollar claim. Butter up your pock-marked back end, Angelo; you deserve the kind of love only I, a jolly claimant, can give.

A friend has lent me a car as I await mine from the garage. So, I am mobile. The engine I am restoring will be done soon, and I will have my 1972 Charger back within a week or so. It doesn’t end there, I have found an online business that actually sells fiberglass replicas of 72 charger parts… and they have both fenders… for a good price. They are a killer on eBay, even in poor shape. Hell, a box of corroded metal filings, congealed into what can only be described as a ‘rust nugget’ is often bartered on eBay as ‘a 1972 Dodge Charger fender. In need of TLC, but still workable’. I’m not about to plunk down 1000 bucks on a fender only to be told the pitting and rust is out of control, that I was better off with plywood, rusty nails and three rolls of duct tape. So, happy the man, I got me new fenders.

Also, this weekend, I actually had some leisure time and did laundry, which is not only momentous, but outright miraculous. No longer do my pantaloons stand on their own. Now, I have to actually make the effort to search for my underpants, gone are the days of merely following the malignant stench in order to locate a near-usable pair. Oh, and business is going all right. Looks like I’ll be doing some cool dinosaur stuff again, and that makes me happier than Steven Harper lying in a vat of brownie batter.

…And lastly, since you asked, my bowel movements are smooth and enviable, with a consistency both material and timely that one hopes to set standards for within the breadth and scope of their lives. Nothing else matters when you cannot crap properly, time stands painfully still whilst pulling at the seat front as you prepare to pass what feels like a deck chair, unfolded, from a hole no larger than an eye socket. Because, when you boil it down (no mental images, please), it’s all about the poop. Nothing says 'bad day' like a ceramic dish of bloody offal and cold sweat.

So, good day all 'round.

No Happy Ending

Well, I was mildly disappointed today concerning a massage. It was one of those places that stay open late, and all that that implies. well, i guess implications are not enough, as the place turned out to be a bust on all fronts. Let it be said at this point I was not interested in more than a massage, I'm not that type of bloke, and I can get 'it' very well on my own, thank you verily... But this place confounded me.

All the signs were there when i went in that this joint was 'that' kind of place. the non-english speaking masseuses, the showers within the rooms, the late hours, the signs that say 'no sex' (they only place them there as a conversation starter and to throw off the cops). The biggest giveaway was the horrible and untalented masseuse (massage therapist I think not) who rubbed my back like she was trying to get a stain out of a prom dress, with a desperate aimlessness. When her unable hands violated my aching joints I grew nervous and weary, that the final 'happy ending' would be impending as i lay helpless upon the slab, like some poorly tenderized loin, so much so that my tension spoiled the weak affair even further. But it never came. She just left. And now, as I lay here in my bed, typing this, I am conflicted.

The massage was so awful, it only seems fair to recieve said bonus, as unwilling as I was to recieve it. I think, perhaps, teh offer alone would have been satisfactory, then I could decline and make sense of the situation. How can they stay in business with such poor service? Perhaps I am supposed to initiate? What the hell was that all about? What an odd affair.

You can Run, You can Hide, But You Can't Escape Enrique.

Enrique Iglesias in Concert. The sound tech recorded his voice as he was lip-synching. Well, at least he wasn't just moving his lips. Has he become tone deaf due to the volume, or is he just simply a no-talent with a raisin-sized wart on his face? You decide.

I laughed until I didn't. See if you can get all the way through. It's painful.

The Bizarre World of Don Waller

I have been fortunate in my days to accumulate a bizarre assortment of friends; artists with élan, panache and vision so bizarrely skewed that one suspects a pod somewhere, hidden in the far reaches of their attic, from whence the current oddity oozed forth...

One of these fellows is the grand wizard of weird, the one and only Don Waller. From his abode in sunny California, adorned with Harryhausen artifacts, Monster paraphernalia, odd knick-knacks and severed heads has he toiled in the film industry and imbued it with his energetic, tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek sensibility. This seems to have had an effect most bizarre on his mindset, and the most glorious ideas burst forth... after all, this gentleman was responsible for some of the most wacky imagery on television, the warped and wonderful 'pee-wee's playhouse' claymation. Yep, Don worked on that. He also Toiled on RoboCop, Dinosaur, Jurassic Park, The Last Samurai and The Addams Family.

It's only fitting that he worked on the Addams clan, as Don's artwork most reminds me of the sublimely baroque pen of Mr. Chas. Addams himself, like perhaps Don is channeling his ghoulish soul. However, the similarity goes beyond eerie and twisted content, but even technique, as the brushstrokes are quite similar (though Don, I insist, is more accomplished in this arena, see, especially the Casper image below). The images are striking, tongue in cheek and quite humorous, but in a cocked-eyebrow-and-low-chuckle kind of way. It is like Halloween lives on daily in his heart, with a bowl of candy corn left out for all of us to partake (but watch out for the hidden spiders!). There is a feeling of nostalgia, and oddly, innocence in his earnest strokes. He takes the icons of yesteryear and allows them to be affected by modern times, but they do not lose their souls, oddly, they transcend the times. They do not feel like modern day is tainting them, but rather, they are strutting their invincibility to us. Heckle and Jeckle, though now gay, still retain their integrity, though they hold placards that are most definitely modern. Like the Mona Lisa, the characters are universally recognizable, timeless, endearing, enduring. I love his paintings. Here is a sampler:

Save Me a River... 'The Rupert, to be Exact'

The Quebec Government is at it again. Even though there is an initiative to start developing alternative energy sources, such as wind, that grabby publicly owned, but privately run monopoly, Hydro-Quebec is up to it's old tricks, massacring and poisoning the water tables and diverting rivers up north.

Out of sight, out of mind? Sign the petition to announce your displeasure with the spoiling of this pristine gem, the Rupert River.

I'd love to think this will make a difference, but I'm not stupid enough to believe it will. Accountability in Government is at an all-time low. But, at least make your displeasure known.

To paraphrase Bruce Cockburn:
"Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight
Got to kick at the darkness ’til it bleeds daylight"

"Oh Long Johnson", and other Brilliant Observances by Felines

Once, My ex-wife had taught her cat to say 'Mama' for a mouthful of fishy, kippered snacks and I was stunned (mostly stunned that she took the time to teach the frigging thing, to be honest). Little did I realize that this was no fluke. Cats are developing the tools for speech. Take a look. Cat lovers rejoice, cat haters, you may retch and heave.

Now, if they could all learn to stop pissing everywhere, if they're so damned smart.

For the politicos out there: click here to see a man with serious balls.

At First I Thought it was an Aneurism...

After about ten minutes of head scratching and ponderance, I realize that this riddle will be left the ages to solve. This is a particularly horrid example of English being mangled beyond recognition in Asia (in this case, Korea).



Well, at least they are trying. No need to raise their voices at starangers in strange lands like we North Americans in hopes that, magically, the decible level will act like some sort of pant-soilingly frightening translation device. Personally, I'd prefer a polite "Solly, we rike to make eating on today's. is Hamburger here for to take away with?" rather than "CHANAGARNARGHHHHCHOO-CHOO?!! ...KAKALAKAMAKKADAKKA?!!? GEARRRRGHARRRGHCHANKUPUKU"

We have much to learn from those Asian people. Bless their tiny, midget hearts.

Beep Beep Zoom

Nice day today. Took out the 'ol ’72 Charger. Put me in mind of the other night when I was taking pics at the Tariq Khan show.

Picture, if you will, a dark and cold night. The music was hot, but the ambient temperature outside chilly and dropping. I was car-less, and the subway was shut down. Night buses would have taken me more than an hour to get home. So, here I am, out of the goodness of my shrivelled heart, taking snapshots for the band, and why not? I’m a good Samaritan. I’ve passed coin to the begging poor, and given reason for hope to many a young, wayward lass...

So, here I am, burdened with equipment, looking for some charity to make its way to me in the way of a lift. That’s the way karma works, right? Because I’ve given lifts so often, my middle name should be ‘Otis’. Was I ever wrong. There must be something way amiss in the karmic heavens, because I’ve never had to sift through so much eye-rollingly obvious horseshit in my lifetime. The band, understandably, are car-less. They’re artists, for Pete’s sake, they’re lucky to own pants. It’s the supporting staff... they’re acting like their cars can only drive in one direction or something. Ten minutes is going to kill them?

“uh, sorry man, I, uh, left a roast in the um, oven and... (trails off and skulks away.)

“shit, I’d love to give you a lift, but I plan on, er, giving, uh, birth, on the way... home...”

“I live too far from you. Huh? Three blocks? That’s too far.”

“I’m... sleeping in my car tonight. Yeah, just outside, here. I plan on vomiting the whole time.”

“I can’t. my car is filled with bees.”

Ah, bullshit. This town is fucking tiny and they’re acting like I want a lift to Alaska. Now, I will still give a lift to my friends, because I’m not a GREEDY CAR DRIVER, but I want those who have cars to realize what assholes they are being when they won’t carpool and give a person a lift. One day, karma is gonna visit you, my insolent little friends, ring your bell, pelt you in the nuts with a well-aimed kick and run off sniggering. You’ll be laying prone in a fetal position, with one nut leaking your vital fluid into your soiled trousers and in need of assistance.

...and I’ll probably still give you a lift to the hospital, though I shouldn’t. but don’t expect me to slow down when I push you out of the car in front of the hospital.

End of transmission (and not just the one in my Civic).

Tariq Khan and the High Breed

Went out the other night and took some pics at the Tariq Khan show. Interesting ensemble. Nothing is rehearsed, they just sit down and pull every tune out of their asses as they go along. The results are often astonishing. Then, they record it all and put it out on a disk for sale the next week. The band leader is the multifaceted Tariq, he plays drums as he sings. He's Kashmiri, so this week he broke out the Tabla. I'll be editing pics for some time, so I will toss a few more up here soon. He's also into some heady charity work.

I suggest you hunt down the disk. Their Myspace link here..

Domo Arigato, Officer Roboto

This made me laugh when I traipsed across it.



...It would, wouldn't it?

Yes, I have a soft spot for old ironloins here. More funny posters here. Good clean fun. Well, if you consider 'Try My Semen' good and clean. If you do, I would like to invite you to my wholesome sleepover on friday night. Bring mouthwash.

Car.

Well, I have officially had it with my god-damned Honda Civic.

What the hell is it with ‘modern’ cars? In addition to my Civic, I also have a 1972 Dodge Charger. Not the big gas-guzzling Hemi version, but the slant six version, with reduced emission standards. This monster is 17 feet long, green, and bizarrely beautiful. Full of character, she is. The engine is 34 years old and still runs, but is in need of a rebuild. It’s a tank. The body is holding up nicely, with a little rust, but it’s still in wonderful shape. Nothing a little love couldn’t handle. She’ll outlast me.

Now, the Civic, what a money pit. It started rusting three weeks after I got it, the bastard. Everyone said they were worth it, really reliable. Reliable compared to what? A hot-dog cart? I’ve been screwed at the garage so often with this steaming mound of cow-pat I'm starting to wonder if i should be offering flowers and chocolates as I enter. I have nightmares where the damned thing is laughing at me and running off with my wallet, with acrid black clouds in its stead.

Since I got the ‘remon’ (Japanese for lemon, seriously) I have had to:

Replace the engine
Replace the transmission
Replace the starter
Suspension went
Scooter slammed into the side two weeks after I got it
Brakes died twice in three years
The rear bumper nearly fell off due to internal rust
The automatic starter died
The car got stolen and stripped, lights and all
Oil pan damaged during theft, had to be replaced
Bearings replaced twice
Radio stolen
Antenna broke off
Midsection fell out
Got ticketed for the muffler, had to replace it
Transmission died a week later (two days ago)

Now, I’d love to buy a hybrid, but if the problems I’ll have to put up with come even remotely close to this, I’d rather buy a fucking bow-legged camel. Nobody should have to put up with this. Greenhouse gases aside, the turnover on these rusting hulks has got to be addressed. The scrap piles of four-year old cars that have fallen apart must be an awesome spectacle indeed. They should put out a reliable re-useable car that you can buy a new motor for instead of having to pitch the entire auto; which is safe, cheap, customizable, modular and efficient. Pitch that in a meeting in Detroit or Osaka. They’ll look at you like you have a fucking hand growing out of your face.

I’m going to set the Civic on fire, drive it off a cliff and beat the smoking remains into the ground with a garden trowel.

What the hell happened to 'Quality'? Refer to the ‘slow life’ post a while back, if you truly want to know my thoughts on this (and Mr. Sinky's as well, though the entire 'putsch' originated with yours truly, ME.). Quality is on a beach somewhere in Acapulco, and who’s 'temping' in his absence? Profit-driven bottom lines.

News You Needn't to Know

Proving she's as dumb as a bag of hammers, or at least suffering from a slight stroke or trickling aneurism, Sex and the City's resident neurotic stick-insect was recently quoted as spewing:

"Sometimes I read an entire book in my head in an upper-class British accent," admitted the former 'Sex and the City' star.

You needed to know that. (Hell, I wasn't even sure she could read, but this informative tid-bit has quashed my preconception.) Personally, I feel the best way to enjoy literature is to read aloud at bus terminals wearing nothing but a hat made of tinfoil and orange peels, whilst perched upon an oversized replica of a pomeranian made of wadded paper and cat vomit. It's a lot more sane than mysterious inner voices reading aloud like a constipated John Cleese.

Oh, by the way, ONE more woman tells me to watch that damned show in order to 'understand women' and I'm going to go underwear-on-the-head, eyebrow-shaving, axe-swingingly mad-koo-koo-go-nuts. People, you gotta start turning off the idiot box and start talking to one another.

Look where it's gotten Sarah Jessica Parker, mumbling idiocies, believing her banal chocolate-coated epiphanies are worthy of print. Uhmm, not... unlike... this blog... (Insert sheepish grin here.)

Wallet.

Got my wallet back, finally. It was found in the 'shitty' part of town. Coincidentally, the same borough I grew up in.

Why does it seem that all roads lead back to that place?

At times, I feel like I will turn a corner and find myself mysteriously transported back to the old neighbourhood, like all of my efforts at growing and soaring well beyond its confines were in vain. I suppose in adolescence we all have that detachment fantasy, wherein those who grew up in some state of poverty or misery (and even those who suckle a golden teat, as well, I suppose) conspire against fate to ‘make it’ and leave that den of teen inequity, that barren schoolyard behind, never to return. I feel, though, sometimes, the further away I travel, the closer I get, like I am circumnavigating my life in such exactitude that the closing coordinates are similar in nature to those of the initial onset.

So far, I do not see my footprints leading to the horizon, I see no signs of crossing my own path. Hm. What happens if I catch up to myself? I know I should be happy to get my 'identity' back... but, why there? Why must my 'Identity' wind up in the last place I want it to be associated with? Mind you, that was my initial thought, second was 'I am happy to get it back' (and I am.)

I certainly hope that it is merely my fears playing out in order to maintain my focus and not a realization. If my lot is to be transported back to the crippling confines of my hometown, to sit ineffectual on some lopsided porch, jealous of the horizon, cursing its rejection of me, well then, end it now and spare me the effort.

Won’t stop me from pushing on, though. Better to try to live the dream than to stand idle before a nightmare.