Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, in 1998, Jeff Bridges met Tara Reid, and she offered to blow him for $1000.  I fell in love with her and don’t care what anyone says about her.

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Published in: on January 9, 2012 at 10:41 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Let’s Go To Vegas

Seriously, let’s do it!

What are you up to, October 20th through 24th?  That’s the weekend after Canadian Thanksgiving, or the Weekend before Everywhere Halloween.  I’m turning 30 in October, and this is how I’ve chosen to celebrate.  I’ll be in Vegas for 4 days.

Some of you might be asking “Am I invited?”  Well, despite what you may have heard, I am not the boss of Las Vegas.  Not since Johnny Fourstroke managed to convince my boy on the Nevada Gaming Commission … you know what?  Never mind that.  I’m not the boss of Vegas.  So off course you can come.

Assuming you want to hang out with me, which is a far assumption, because I’m cool like a rainbow made of chocolate coins and gold coins, then come on!  Do.  It.  Vegas is such a cheap place to travel to, because they assume they’ll get your money from you with shiny lights and satsitically difficult to profit on games!  Flights and hotels are cheap!

I’ve decided I wanted to stay at an iconic hotel.  I did some research on which one would be best.  It involved asking S1 if she thought Ceaser’s Palace was cool, and she said it was alright but that the MGM Grand was cooler.  So…

BLAMO!

I’ll be staying at the MGM Grand.  If you wanna come, let me know.  All are welcome.

Except Johnny Fourstroke…

Published in: on September 5, 2011 at 8:59 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Been A While

Sorry to all those faithful followers who have been waiting to hear from me.

I recently started a new job.  It makes me much happier, and an aspect of that is that I don’t spend so much time feeling unfulfilled.  I don’t have a head full of blogs I want to get out, just to be part of the world.  I know I”ve been neglecting this blog, and I’m going to commit to having something up here bi-weekly.  Or fortnightly…  which means every second week?

For this weeks pleasure, I want to let you know about The Late Late Breakfast Show Moustache Ride.  It’s on this week, from Wednesday, August 24th to Saturday, August 27th, with shows each night at 8pm.  Friday has an extra show at 10.  It’s at the

I mostly want you to come, because I’ve got a script in it, and I think it’s awesome.  Other people are involved, and do good things, but let’s focus on me.

Published in: on August 21, 2011 at 1:22 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Vancouver: A Shameful Response

Picture from Edmonton Journal

That picture looks like some piece of Hell on Earth, doesn’t it?  You’d expect it to be from a war torn country, from the riots seeking freedom in the Middle East.

It’s not.  It’s people pouting after a hockey game.

Two days ago, someone told me they were worried about what would happen if the Canucks lost the Stanley Cup.  This was just before game 6.  This was the second person who had told me, and I couldn’t believe that the response to a loss would be that fierce.  I had forgotten what happened in 1994.

First of all, I don’t want to blame all of Vancouver for what happened.  Vancouver is the victim here.  It’s their property that is being damage, their cars which are being torched, their city plunged into chaos.  It’s not the city or it’s citizens who did this.

After all, can you really consider someone who throws a molotov cocktail over a hockey game a citizen?  Where does that disconnect come in?  You live in a city, and in that city is a company, because a hockey franchise is, and they have hired several talent players from all over the world.  That franchise plays incredibly well, and proves that within the league they play in, they are the second best.

“Only second best?” thinks this disconnected, inbred, asshat.  “Why, that’s unacceptable!  I need to burn down a store to show my displeasure at this result!”

Seriously?  What the fuck?  While I do not condone senseless violence, I especially don’t understand why that is what drives you to it.  There are so many terrible things in the world, so many injustices, so many wrongs, but the thing that stirs the anger in the hearts of some of the people in Vancouver, the senseless rage that burns out of control, lashing blindly at whatevers closest…

Is a group of grown fucking men who aren’t as good at chasing a piece of rubber with sticks on ice than another group of grown fucking men?  You didn’t even play the goddamn game, you just watched it!  How do you have such a fucking vested interest that you would go out and destroy your own communinty?

Is this going to happen everytime Vancouver gets close to the playoffs?  Honestly, if I was an NHL executive, I would remove Vancouver from eligibility to compete in the playoffs.  If I was an MLA or an MP representing the area, I would look at passing legislation to keep hockey franchises out of the city, as a matter of public safety.  This is completely and utterly unacceptable, and it has happened twice in my lifetime.

My heart and condolences go out to all the people who lost property, cars, businesses, and such in this riot.  For any innocent bystander who was injured, I am furious on your behalf.

For any rioter that was hurt, well, I wish you a slow and painful complete recover, so that you have time to reevaluate your life.

Published in: on June 16, 2011 at 7:10 am  Leave a Comment  
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The End of Illusion

I do not necessarily love often, but I tend to fall deeply in love.  The last time I fell in love with a girl, I was never able to tell her.  I knew I would have to leave her soon, due to circumstances beyond our control, and I didn’t want to make it harder for either of us.  That’s a big part of the nature of love, as far as I understand it; trying to make things better for the people you love.  I’ve travelled around the world for the loved that were lonely.  I’ve stayed up late, using everything I knew how to do, to help the loved in need.  I’ve spent hours, surrounded by books on terrible topics I don’t grasp, squinting through tears of frustration, for the loved who need help I can’t provide, finding a way to be what they need me to be.  I’ve made a fool of myself in public, for the loved who needed huge demonstrations of my caring.  I’ve made a fool of myself in private, for the loved who needed someone to forgive their quirks.

Love is finding a way to be what the people you need need you to be.  Not to say you should lose yourself, because anyone worthy of your love does not need you to do that.  You become more, you make yourself stronger, for their moments of weakness.

A woman I love passed away today.  My grandmother lost a long term battle with cancer, and there was nothing more we could do for her.  I miss her in ways I don’t comprehend yet, and it’s been a few short hours.  Someone, seeing me in pain, brought up the concept of a loving God.

And I am fucking furious.  How can there be an all powerful, all loving God.  How can a God who loves me, who can do anything, take her from me?  How can he have let her suffer like she did at the end?  That’s not love.

I can hear the objections, the “He works in mysterious ways.” Bullshit.  A mysterious way is not necessary for an all powerful God.  He’s either lying about what he can do, or lying about how he loves.  If he’s an all loving God, then my capacity for love is a lot greater than his, because I would have done something, changed something, relieved his suffering. 

Some would say it’s a test of faith.  That’s even worse.  Trust me, if I love you, and you need me, I will not be hiding in a fucking cloud, working on my mysterious ways.  I will be there.  You will hear my voice.  You will see me there.  I will move Heaven and Earth if you need me to, and I’m just a man.

If a human wanted to test my faith, if I was in a relationship, where someone did something horrible to me, to see if I would still love them afterwards, trust me, that’s the end.  I will not be involved with anything so terribly petty.  If you hurt me to see if I love you, you don’t love me, and I’m done with you.

So, if there is a God, he is a terrible, lying monster, more of a Lovecraftian horror, intent on finding the limits of our endurance, than a caring father figure in the sky.  If there is such a thing, congratulations, you win.  My faith isn’t strong enough to see us through this, you petty, selfish asshole.  Don’t call me again.

But I really don’t think there is.  I think we live in an immense amazing universe, and we are just reaching the level of understanding needed to realize it can be wonderful and terrible and there doesn’t have to be a point.  Everything happens.  Not for a reason, it just happens.  The meaning we find, that’s another amazing thing that doesn’t need to originate with a cloud wizards who needs to make sure we love him because he’s there.

And those who would say we need God, even as a social construct, to ensure the morality of people, I think you underestimate basic human goodness.  People are, in general, great, greater than any dream of omnipotence, and the terrible acts by a few of them don’t begin to amount to the terrible things I’ve seen credited to this all loving all powerful God. 

The God people have told me about all my life, I think it’s an analogy.  It’s from an older time, when we couldn’t explain all the superb and grotesque possibilities of limitless, endless space.  It’s from before we could see that, when the chips are down, people will find a way.

When you’re crying quietly on the train ride home, coping with loss, and a child you don’t know comes to hug you, that’s not the work of a celestial genie.  That’s the natural concern, the innate decency of all people.

I don’t have all the answers.  I can’t tell you where we come from, how we got to the amazing place we, as a species, are at, or what happens when we move on.  I can’t tell you why we are wonderful or terrible to each other.  I can tell you that God is a terrible explanation for any of it.  I prefer uncertainty to that monstrosity.

If you want to comment on this, there’s a couple of things I’d like to remind you.

1. You’ve come to my soap box.  I can edit and delete your comments, and you can’t do that to me.

2. I’m pissed off as all hell about the 30 years people have been lying to me about this fucked up concept.  Normally, I respect your right to your own viewpoint, beliefs, and recognize that God is your version of the basic human decency I treasure more than anything else, that makes the love no god has ever shown possible.  If you think this post is the right time to argue with me, you may find I’m in too much pain right now to be reasonable, and I’ll quite happily tell you to take your archaic superstitions and fuck right off, because I’m looking to hurt someone right now.

My basic human decency is on vacation right now.

Published in: on May 27, 2011 at 4:14 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Safest Place in the World

When I was ten or maybe twelve years old, my Grandma got me a dog for my birthday.  He was the brightest animal in the local pet store, and a few weeks old, he paraded in front of the window, to make sure he was noticed.  Knowing that such a clever animal would soon be bought, Grandma took him home a few weeks before my birthday.  She called him Storming Norman while he lived with her, but I renamed him Zipper when he became mine.

He was the perfect dog for me at that age.  He was incredibly smart and didn’t like most people, but he was fiercely loyal to those he loved, to a fault.  He understood life was bigger than the house and the yard he played in, and given any chance, he would bolt out the front door, to see the bigger and the wider world.  He couldn’t have been more like me.

When ever he ran away, he always headed in the direction of Grandma’s house, and if you lost track of him, you knew he would show up there.  I understand that too.  Grandma’s house was the safest place in the world.  When I was three years old, our house burnt down, and while it was happening, we hide there because nothing bad could happen to us if we were at her home.  She knew how to make everything right.  She knew that at breakfast time that you had to butter the toast while it was hot so that it melted, and she knew how to cook all the bacon so that it was soft.  Everytime it was time to be happy, when it was Christmas or Easter, and the whole family got together, we would go there when I was little.  As I got older, she taught me that when you love someone, you make fun of them, because you love them.  My sense of humour comes from her, and it’s one of my best qualities.

No matter how much of the bigger, better world was out there, the best place to go was Grandma’s house.  Zipper knew it, because he was just like me, and I knew it better than anyone.

Whenever things got too much, I would go there.  I didn’t need to tell her what was going on, just being there was enough.  It was peace, and it was happiness.  When I got older, and something terrible would come at me late at night, and nothing made sense, I could just drive by, and know it was her house, and everything was better, and I could go on.

Thirteen years ago, Grandma battled lung cancer.  She fought it, and she won, and she went back to her life as it was.  She didn’t stop smoking, or change the way she lived.  She beat the cancer, and she wasn’t concerned about it anymore.

Today, we found out for sure that it’s back.  She hasn’t been well, and it really doesn’t look good for her.  I am terrified that she’s heading into the hospital and she won’t be coming back out.  I’m terrified because I don’t know how to make things better for her.  I don’t know how to make sure she knows how much I love her, and I don’t know how to make her feel safe, or let her know that whatever happens, things are okay.  Things are always okay, because we’re stong, and we’re smart, and we know how to be happy, and she taught us all of that.

I can’t stop thinking about that house.  It’s the perfect, safe place, but it’s always been that because it’s always been hers.  Now she has to leave it, and I don’t know how to capture that feeling, and make sure she can take it with her, whatever happens and where ever she goes.

Published in: on April 25, 2011 at 6:50 pm  Leave a Comment  

Insidious: A well made retread

I feel like since I was given tickets to a pre-screening the movie Insidious, I have an obligation to review it. 

When I first saw that scary lady, she made me laugh.

Insidious does something very few horror movies tend to do: it doesn’t hit an extreme.  I tend to absolutely love horror movies because they do what they wanted to do well, or I think they’re terrible, although often to the point where they are still funny.

Insidious didn’t blow me away, but then again, it wasn’t a bad movie.

Horror is a strange genre: everyone likes something different.  So let me list my favourite horror movies, to give you an idea of my taste:

  • 5 – Child’s Play
  • 4 – The Ring
  • 3 – The Omen
  • 2 – The Grudge
  • 1 – The Exorcist

So, if they had put “the” in the title, it probably would have knocked Child’s Play off the list.  Seriously though, I tend to go for more of a quiet but epic menace over a slasher.  I liked the first Friday the 13th, but after Jason Vorhees became real in Part 2, I lost interest.  I enjoyed Halloween and Halloween 2, but after that they stopped exploring the mythology, and I stopped caring.

I seem to remember liking Scream, but not enough that I remember ever going back.    I also remember liking I Know What You Did Last Summer, but I don’t know if that was about the movie…

There's a killer in this movie, right? Something is happening to make her run? Meh, who cares. Run, Jennifer, run!

But this isn’t about how I feel about all horror movies ever.  It’s about Insidious.

So, there’s nothing really new or unique about the story of concept of this movie.  It is a mish-mash of Amnityville, Poltergiest, and The Exorcist.  Those are all great movies, and even Shakespere didn’t have original ideas.  I don’t really fault them for that.  For me, it’s not about how original the idea is as how well it’s pressented.

The visuals in the movie were top notch, and I’m not just talking about Rose Byrne.

Although she certainly didn't hurt the film

It looked good.  The shots were well composed, the sets were beautiful, and the monsters, except for the old lady, were great.  The Man with Fire on His Face was the best, and they never showed you all of him at once.  You got a good look at his eye, or his claws, or a quick shot of him, but never enough to ruin his mystery.

The sound design was great too, and one of the movies greatest strengths.  The movie kept setting the atmosphere with expertly composed and placed music and sound.  It could spin the mood like a bad feeling in your gut, or make the world seem surreal.  It was unobstrusive, and you had to almost be listening for it.

One of the best things the movie did was it showed you exactly how it was going to do its jump scares, those moments where it suddenly shows you a horrifing image to make you jump in your seat.  The first several were done exactly the same way, and you fell into a pattern.  You knew when the were coming.

That’s when they changed.  They would come sooner or later than expected, and it worked so well.  Kodie jumped, and he hasn’t jumped at a scary movie since 1985.

But if you are like Kodie, and you’ve been watching horror movies since VCRs were new and neat, then you may have limited milage in this movie.  You’ve seen all the individual pieces before, in better, tighter movies.  There’s nothing wrong with Insidious, but it doesn’t really add much to the genre’s landscape.  People won’t be talking about this for years to come.  It’s going to fade into the same sort of obscurity that Bless This Child reached.  There’s nothing about it that will stay with you.

If you’re a horror fan, you’ll enjoy it, but you may not remember it.

Too Cool Too Old

I can’t tell if I’m too old for this party or if it’s too cool for me.  The apartment is small, not dirty so much as ragged, and far too crowded.  In the living room they’re blasting bass infused music that I can’t pretend to like from that close.  I have been struck somewhat shy, so I stay in the kitchen, leaning in the doorway, watching the party.  I don’t go too far from my vodka, as it remains my salvation, and I fill my glass more often than I should.

She comes up to me, the sort of brave extrovert who can’t let someone at a party have a bad time.  She is trying to draw me out.  “What’s that girly drink?”

I look at my saucer shaped glass.  “It’s a vodka martini.  It’s not that girly.”

She scoffs.  It’s been a long time since someone has scoffed at my martinis, certain the glass makes it a weak beverage.  I’m definitely too old for this party.  But the girl challenged me, so I hand her the cup.  “Try it.”

She takes a sip and her face implodes.  She hands it back, and goes back to her Sour Puss and Seven.  She poured it into another one of the stolen martini glasses, and she drinks it through a straw.  We exchange names, and she asks me what I do.

I’m never my job at parties.  I’m a writer, and more importantly, I’m a drunk writer.  I start talking about what I write.  I’m not really talking to her.  I’m enjoying the sound of my own voice, at it goes on and on about what a genius I am.  She seems impressed, nodding and asking the right questions to keep me going.

She is standing close now, head tilted up.  She runs her straw over her lips as she listens.  She’s enthralled by my monologue, but eventually I tire of it and stop.  The music gets turned up.  She sees the change in me and puts her hand on my arm.  “Are you okay?”

“I kind of hate people.”  She looks at me in disbelief.  “In large quantities.  This place is way too crowded.” I glance at the door.  “I’m going outside.

She follows me, a bit to my surprise.  I’m drunk and I’m goofy.  I walk around with my arms stretched as far as they go, along the little wall on some little old ladies little yard.  She is a few steps behind, and she’s laughing.

We reach a park, and I scramble onto the playground equipment as quickly as possible.  She hesitates, and I insist she join me.  We climb as high as we can, nearly eight feet off the ground, and I start to stare at the stars.  I’m lost in their glow.

“I’m cold,” she tells me.  She wants my jacket, but I don’t want to be cold.  Instead,  I wrap an arm around her and she melts into me.  I point out all three of the constellations I know and then kiss her.

I’m not sure when morning got here, but the alarm clock klaxons away.  It’s a terrible sound and I hate it.  She wanders out of my bed and gathers her clothes from the floor.  “Bathroom?” she asks, and I point across the hall without really looking. 

She’s gone, and if I really cared, I could probably figure out her name in the next couple of minutes.  My head hurts and I’m embarrassed, because I doubt she is twenty yet.  I’m afraid to see her drivers license, or what my roommates will say about her.  I sleep till she gets back.

“You think it’s cold out?” she asks as she comes back in.  “Can I borrow a sweater?”

I don’t want her to borrow a sweater.  Borrow implies that I’ll be back in some awkward conversation with her, sober, and responsible for whatever happened in that blank spot last night.  I force myself to somewhere near awake and head to my closet.  I select a hoodie I can live without and hand it to her.

 I’m pretty sure I was too old for that party, but I still hope it was just too cool for me.

Published in: on March 21, 2011 at 12:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Statuesque

 

What does statuesque mean?  It should mean her, standing out on the balcony of our hotel room.  In just a pair of black panties, she smokes just outside the sliding door, to keep the smoke detector from wailing.  Her back is arched, and nothing about her moves, apart from her lips.  She breaths tendrils of beauty up into the night, and while I dread the taste, I’m enchanted by the dissipating swirls.

She looks like marble.  It’s not just her pale skin, brushed by the pale halogen lights from the city below, sneaking up to the twentieth floor to caress her.  The stars are hiding under the heavy clouds that threaten to weep, so only the angry manmade glows illuminate her.

She looks like marble.  She looks hard, immobile. 

She looks cold.  Her touch would sap the warmth inside.  For the moment, all I want is to watch her, bare to the world and uncaring.  Pale, naked, and too powerful for the night to touch, to diminish.  I want to watch her breath fire.

The clock, the ancient relic, clicks.  It draws my attention, a cocked gun, as every digit of 2:59 flips over to 3:00. 

I want it to be 3:00 forever.

The door slides open.  The nitrogen smell of the coming rain mixes with her nicotine poison.  She’s staring at me, and there’s a violence in her eyes, a terrible hunger.  I just want to watch her smoke.  I have no more need of her cold hands, of the ashy taste of her lips.

She comes no closer, the wrath in her eyes held back by marble of her flesh.  They smoulder, those eyes, catching the red of that alarm clock.  She stands there, frozen watching me.  She is waiting.

I hear the rain drop, the one that hits the small of her back.  The one that melts her, that dilutes the anger in her eyes.  It saps her hunger, and now she is a supplicant for warmth.

Already, I miss what she was.

What does statuesque mean?  It should have meant her.

Published in: on March 18, 2011 at 12:00 pm  Comments (1)  
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Writing for Depression

I read somewhere, once, in the sort of long ago that I’ll never be able to find the fact to back up what I’m about to say, that a large number of sucessful artist suffer from depression, manic depression, or are bipolar.  The percentage was way higher amongst sucessful artists than within the regular population.

And I have an entirely non-scientific, non-researched, pulling it out of my ass theory on this.

I think people create when it hurts.  I know I do.  If you have ever broken up with me, hidden away somewhere is at least fifty pages of poetry, story, and art created while I try to get over you.

No, you can’t see it.  If you think you’ve seen some of it, you are probably right.  Some of my best work has come out of that sort of frantic, pained place.  Writing doesn’t make it not hurt, but it … it postpones it a little.  It puts it aside, and you don’t have to deal with it when the pen is moving or the keys are clacking.

Which is all good and well when some cute girl is willing to break my heart, but that doesn’t happen everyday.  I’m begining to worry about my prospects as a writer.  See, at the end of a crappy day, normal things get me past it.  I can watch TV or a movie, or have a couple beers, or play some video games, and everything is okay again.  Which is all fine and good, unless you’re trying to develop a body of work.

My novels suffer for my well-adjusted state.  If it wasn’t for a half-assed effort to meet my own personal blogging requirements, this would probalby suffer more too.  Maybe I need to have a mental breakdown.  For the sake of my writing.

Published in: on March 14, 2011 at 5:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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