The Lost Works: Part One

Pretexters
I have a nose for nostalgia so it is not uncommon for me to sift through drafts of writing from my former computer. This evening I present to you, my loyal and ever-so-daffy blog readers, two works: the first being a letter written to Dalers, that I do not recall writing, during the U of T depression of 2005/6. The second work being a vile short story written at age sixteen.

Forgotten work #1: The Letter

Dale,

Toronto is a busy place with many cars, and even more people. We all try to live in inter-racial harmony and we are fairly successful. Occasionally gangsters will shoot-up the streets, but usually this occurs in poorer regions of the city. Fortunately, I live by Bloor, which is a prosperous street, so I don’t typically deal with gangsters. Although, sometimes on my ventures down Younge, I’ll see groups of hoods loitering in front of the adult movie theatre.

The other danger you must be aware of are the homeless. Some are under the influence of extremely dangerous and terrible drugs. [Editors note: this previous sentence is clearly under the influence of a Hunter S. Thompson obsession.] Others are sober but are crazy. Do not go out late at night by yourself, even on Bloor. I’ve had the homeless stalk me demanding cash.

Once you learn some street smarts you may enjoy the city. A great thing is transportation. For the most part, if I have time, I can walk anywhere I may choose to go. If not, I take the subway. I really like the subway for some reason. It’s just great - always a fun ride. And it takes you anywhere in the city.

Now, where in the subway do I go? What is there to do in Toronto? A lot, unfortunately my life’s a little boring but here’s what I’ve discovered:

Much Music – Hilary Duff to Ashlee Simpson, what more could you ask for?

Food – Many restaurants to discover.

*Walking around – this is the most interesting option. Just wandering around up Younge or other streets that may have interesting sights.

Actually, the point is, you have to make your own fun. If you’re with a few friends then whatever you do will be entertaining enough.

So really, I don’t know what’s going on in Toronto, but that doesn’t really matter.

If you’d like to come down with Jim sometime, you really should. You can check out U of T and we can wander around Toronto.

All right, there you have it.

Bryan

Forgetten Work #2: The Short Story

It started like every other night. The weather was constant. The stars beamed down and reflected from my oversized minivan into oncoming traffic. It was not a night to rely on faith at first. The front, left hand side of my Taurus seemingly had no warning when it collided with a classic dark, heavily tinted large automobile and sent me in a 720-degree rotation. My initial reaction was panic, nothing out of the red there. I saw my reflection in the windshield as I spun and my thoughts were somewhat questionable. I saw my sunburn and wondered that if I died would my face still go white? What a horrific last thought to have before death, surely something about love and less sadistic would do. Thankfully before my brain processed more thoughts my joyride spin had reached its conclusion. I was startled yet relieved that I was still alive. I unbuckled my seat belt and sat in a non-deathly silence. A phone was ringing. With unease, I slowly climbed out of my van. The sleek black car had smashed into a hydro poll and had become a part of it. I walked closer, nervously and unsure. The phone kept ringing. Bloodstains were on the pavement now as I inched closer. Fresh human blood, and it was dark red. The wounds must have been deep. I came right up beside the car and the wounds no longer mattered. The driver, a woman, was dead. She had been nearly literally torn apart. I thought I would be sick, and I gagged trying to find some air. Finally, I regained some composure. The phone continued to ring. I wondered who could be calling her. Was it her husband? Maybe her child? I saw a cell phone beside her arm, anxiously waiting for her answer. For a reason that I couldn’t comprehend then or now, I decided to answer the phone. The phone was pale and cold to touch, suiting the female rather nicely. I raised it to my ear. “H-hello.” I stammered. The voice was deep and sounded dark.

“Wha.. Who’s this? Put Mary on the phone.”

“Uh..” Thoughts were pouncing every which way.

“Hey buddy, what you doin’ answerin’ her phone anyway? She didn’t fall asleep did she? I’m gonna kill her if she fell asleep. She has a job to do, once its done she leaves. I don’t care if your lonely you cracker jack. So what was it? You or her buddy?”

Frantically, I fumbled with words. I looked into Mary’s eyes and they were haunting my soul out of me. Her eyes were cold ocean blue, staring hard, as if looking for something. The voice in the phone continued.

“...I’m gonna come get er’ buddy and man, I’m gonna be crawling out of my eyes if I don’t see some satisfaction.”

I tried to make some sense out of this mess that surfaced faster than a U-571, another widowmaker, like maybe I had become.

“Look, it’s really...not what your thinking,..s-somthing has happened. Mary...”

The voice cut in, “ Alright...Mary...so you're at 2 Dudley Street West, that right wise guy?”

I wasn’t sure where he was pulling these addresses. I was on Dudley Street, but I was on the East end.

“How, how do you know this?” I asked fearfully.

“I think you know who this is. Clarify your location, or I’ll be clarifying your death.”

“We’re on the road...” I began. Interruptions were appearing common now.

“What? Say here buddy, gimme where you are.”

“I’m East on Dudley, side of the road, like I tried..”

“Fine,” The booming voice cut in, “I’ll be there in some minutes. You better have some cash filled explanation and don’t call the cops, Mr. McGregor, or you’ll be going down too.” Click.

At that moment I felt eternally destined for utter ruin. Mary continued to stare at me as if she was trying to communicate from the beyond. I tried to look away from her, maybe climb in my mini and escape. I should of just left, I knew that, but for some reason I was compelled to stay. Mary’s eyes would be too lonely if I left.

At last, a car’s beams lit up Mary and I as if an extra terrestrial force had come to save us from the impending doom. The door blasted open and without any thought I knew it had to be him.

“What the crap is this?” He demanded, storming out of his car. I slowly inched away from the car and the voice, in person now, inched towards the car. “Mary? Mary’s...dead. Why is Mary dead McGregor? And why are you not dead with her?”

Still slowly backing away, I managed to squeak out a light answer, “I...I wasn’t in the car.”

“Why? This is a sick game McGregor.”

“I’m not playing,” I replied while still tentatively backing off.

“Stop,” He commanded, and I did.

“I’m not who you believe I am, I’m not McGregor.” I was becoming delirious and this large dark character in front of me became fixated with the car. He began to walk around Mary’s automobile slowly, looking for...I wasn’t sure but somehow he found something, something that continued the eeriness the night had brought.

“What the...” He was standing near the trunk of the car and sticky, once foreign blood ran off his hands. He pulled open the trunk. “Oh, what has that devil done?”

I knew escape was still a quick option but once again, I was fazed, my head wasn’t operating right. I walked around to the trunk... The trunk had become a small pond of sickly blood. A man, with his hands and feet tied in knots, was in the midst of the puddle. Once more I gagged and figured this must be some sort of hallucinate dream but I was never so lucky. The dark character looked disgusted but it seemed like this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this. He reached into the blood and pulled out a wallet. He flipped cards for an I.D. and he discovered it was no one other than Timothy McGregor. “Holy blazes... that.... that whore double crossed me, that filthly nightwalker.” The man moved towards the front of the car glaring more death into her eyes. He yanked open the door and grasped her arm and threw her limp body to the ground. “You got just as you deserved, just as...” He stumbled, “as you deserve.”

Mary’s eyes told me my time was up. But my watch ticked untimely when the dark man grabbed me by the collar and began beating his fist into my flesh. At first my face stung and throbbed into severe pain, but after I was on the ground with his foot smashing my life away, I lost the feeling of pain. I gained a feeling that cannot be explained. I was lying next to Mary staring into those life filled eyes. She whispered something softly and smiled. Sirens began to fill the air and Mary and I walked away in our own kind of silence.

In Loving Memory...

An excerpt from my posthumous autobiography The Spoken Word, Dead and Still Speaking:

My career took off in a sleepy little deathtoll town on December 13th, 1995; the night of the Psychedelic Spoken Word Battle of the Bands at Uxbridge Secondary School. I warmed up my vocal chords with peppermint herbal tea, looked at my zinc-plated record hanging on the wall, and decided that, yes, tonight is my birth into the spoken world.

I arrived at the school donning a zebra furred coat, a beaver tail scarf, and a Cheshire cat grin. I took the stage and performed my chilling remembrance of endless spheres in the psych-sw anti-hit "Howl". People were moved, but none so much as me. That night I realized my ego was as inflatable as a cannonball.

Following my performance PETA converted me to animalism and I did a spread. I used my minor celebrity to pontificate my views that ice cream dealers should start tapping nursing moms, not cows. The backlash from women across North America hurt the sales of my first LP "Hey Mothers, Leave Those Cows Alone". My ego, rivaling that of Dirk Digger, had difficulty accepting the album's failure.

After being pushed from the spotlight I became a recluse in Thalia. I drove a '52 Chevy pick-up along the dusty roads and began an affair with an older woman named Genevieve. After these nothing years, I picked myself up and prepared for a comeback the size of a Buick. I went back to my roots and re-mixed "Howl" and began preparations to speak it in early 2005.

2005 was a rough year for me. I died. USS offered me the opportunity to play a reunion show and I eagerly accepted. As I sat on the stage and entered my psych-trance, I was divorced eternally from the spoken word by Genevieves husband's two-gauge shooty. Everything catches up to you in the end, but a bullet can make it seem real fast.

Remember.

Does a wish fountain feel like a whore?

My shitlist - 08
An ode to the worst this year had to offer:

"Nagle Speaks"

Arguably the worst linkster name for "Misomusy". Ever since the inauguration of "Nagle Speaks" the traffic on this blog has plummeted. I give you "Emerging Iranian Voice", maybe the greatest linkster name ever created, and this is how you repay me. Congratulations, you've been shit listed.

Kenny vs. Spenny

This show has ruined my life.

Ralph Nader

I had constantly plugged this populist since early June because I believed Nader was capable of organizing a coup d’état against the current administration. He has proved himself to be a hollow Hugo Chavaz.

Leon

You are a piece of shit. I wish you had been stolen alongside Goliath and sold off piece by piece in an alleyway on the outskirts of Harlem. I ask you again Leon, what is your major malfunction?

58,343,671 Americans

This mitten full of intellectual bankruptcy voted for a ticket with the name "Sarah Palin" on it. No one looking through a prism of reason would vote for a category five moron who believes that the Iraq war is a mission from God and that global warming is occurring independent of human activities. Conveniently, this number also covers the Christian Right and its army of flagsuckers who worship the state.

Breakfast at 66 Maddie

Most hyped breakfast in all of Toronto. The residents will tell you that the sleeping conditions are poor but that's okay because they have "the best breakfast in town!" All talk. Dystopian toast burns, an under supply of dairy products, and the realization that you've just been sleeping on the w--- pillow will have you sliding down the grimy fire escape before you can say "liars."

Redeemer

You breed super Zionists and uncultured robots. Could someone please send Redeemer some Canadian assimilation packages? Also, I know I signed up for Liberal Arts but this is getting immoral. I have now dissected a fetal pig, a sheep's heart, and some bovinian's eye. I am now qualified to withstand long periods of unpleasant odours and use a scalpel like Vince Li. You made me say that Redeemer.

Candy

My glucose levels are always in flux. You give me two minutes of a beautiful high and then drop me to the carpet and make me drool and reach for the bag again. I will break my addiction from you. I'm just not sure I can handle the withdrawal. I need supervision. Perhaps Thursday and Friday.

"Canadian Elections

What was this about? Asides from Layton proving that he could run a campaign on the strength of two words “Kitchen table” and “Corporations”. At least we got to see Dion play hockey and now we have some Green party memorabilia."-- Everything said in this goes for me too, especially the part about Green Party because I now run entirely on solar energy.

Hollywood
Perhaps your civil right causes will be taken seriously if you stop turning California's garbage into films.
Goodnight everybody!

A few excerpts:

Hunting For Beauty

I hop out of my ’94 Chrysler and climb a fire escape to the side entrance of an apartment. I pick the lock and, as the door opens, I am engulfed by the noise of a rhinoceros or some other horned mammal devouring a transmission tower. No, not an alarm—something else. Tentatively, I enter the apartment. The place is a pigsty: books, vinyls, and half-finished sketches scattered across the floor, but most conspicuous of all is the lone piece of furniture—a coffee table—because it is fused together with jujubes. My ears are still ringing when my shirt becomes damp—the climate is tropical here! Appearing from this wilderness, also known as 66 Madison Street in Toronto, are its residents, Ferdowsi and Paul, with drumsticks in hand banging on everything in sight. They both have giant grins and speak garrulously but I cannot hear their voices over the clamour. I look confused. Ferdowsi turns to me and I hear the tail end of his speech: “Get flash, get flash! It’s time to rock out!”

Biology Lab

Introduction

For this experiment, we are trying to answer the question of how soil type affects the growth of seeds. This is of interest to us because of our deep curiosity of soils and someday we may wish to grow a vegetable garden. We chose to compare pea and bean seeds. We chose these seeds because they were the freshest and least likely to be duds. We have little experience with soil and growing plant matter in general. Our hypothesis is that the richer and more nutritious the soil, the better the seeds will grow. If our hypothesis proves correct, then seeds will germinate faster and in greater quantity in Promix; then vermiculite and perlite; and the least amount of success will be met in the insalubrious sand and paper towel. Further, we believe that both seed type will germinate with similar success or failure. The null hypothesis is that the soil-type or condition will have no bearing on whether a seed germinates—or that the seeds will have greater germination with fewer nutrients. Therefore, the seeds will germinate faster and in greater quantity in the paper towels and sands and less so in the vermiculite, perlite and Promix.

La Nouvelle Vague

An auteur, or author, takes complete creative ownership over the filmmaking process, and makes a series of films with a distinct, recognizable style that is original to the auteur. Jean-Luc Godard claims that “there are no works, there are only auteurs” (Bordwell 487). The auteur develops a string of works that could be called a “body of criticism”—works that are not identical but clearly express the author’s voice coherently and continuously from film to film (Staples 4).
David Lynch is an example of a contemporary North American filmmaker who is considered an auteur. Lynch has created a body of works expressing similar themes and executing a similar and uniquely Lynchian technique. Films that are distinctly Lynchian are noted for their unique and chilling use of ambient sound, the use of symbolism in the mise en scene (everything seen on the screen), the use of parallel universes or extended dream sequences, and the sense of a prevailing dark force that governs an industrial and desolate world.
Lynch took inspiration from Truffaut who further developed and pushed the auteur movement in a 1954 Cahiers du Cinema article “Les Politiques de Auteurs,” which has subsequently been hailed as a call to arms against the cinema of quality (Staples 1). Truffaut demanded filmmakers exercise a distinct creative vision with personalized trademarks that carry over from film to film (Staples 1). Andre Bazin, co-founder of Cahiers du Cinema, expanded on auteur theory claiming that traditonional cinema of quality films have an auteur also—but more importantly traditional films have a subject which defines a piece of work (Staples 3). Truffaut’s auteur theory, Bazin argued, removed the subject entirely by defining the work as the auteur. Eliminating the subject might create a cult of personality of the auteur, and this is a necessary risk because the goal of auteur theory is to create a personalized art piece where the “distinction between author and director loses all meaning. The auteur writes with the camera as a writer writes with a pen” (Marie 32-33) Therefore, everything in a scene, the mise en scene, including the voice of the actor, is essentially the voice of the auteur. Moreover, the auteur’s voice should speak to the audience. Films should connect the audience with the auteur, as if the two were experiencing an intimate conversation (Monaco 8). This is requiring more from the viewer, asking them to participate in the filmmaking process. Auteur theory worked against the norm of the cinema of quality, where the studio would override the authority of the director—and the filmmaking process was not truly unique to the filmmaker. Truffaut did not “believe in the peaceful co-existence of the Tradition [cinema] of Quality and a cinema of auteurs ” (Staples 2). Eventually, the critics had the opportunity to put auteur theory to the test and compete with the cinema of quality.

The Conservative Blues

Bursting with mock-solicitude, the re-elected Prime Minister waves his cold-blooded hand from a balcony. Below, the partisans, cold and hard, chant "Harper! Harper!" Blue balloons, shaped as missiles, are waved patriotically.

Meanwhile, an aging Anna Karina dines at The Truffaut Cafe with her latest lover. "Proportional representation is the only thing that could of saved them, Doug."
The haggard gentlemen shifts uncomfortably in a stone chair, taking a thoughtful toke, "It's a beautiful country: the mountains, the ocean, the rivers..."
Anna, scrunching her nose, "I don't want them to get stuffed"
"...The glaciers, the forests, the-"
"Doug."
"Sorry; I've always had a nose for nostalgia."

Around this time a girl paints restively in a prison in Ontario, pulling her hair in despair. The adolescent, 14 years old ,will remain here for 25 years. During this time the Antarctic shelf will drop. The greatest catastrophe second only to nuclear war will begin. Illegal environmental refugees will soon mope in the girl's cell as well. The prisoners sit parched as the Great Lakes are privatized.

Water, 100 bucks a liter. You can't do that. Why not, we need to profit because gasoline is expensive and I need to fuel my Jaguar. The day of the corporation. The government asks for a cut for the people but that goes against the ideology: laissez-faire. Everyone for themselves. Why not conserve us, cry the citizens.

Some time before this, a girl in extreme poverty collapses and dies and 30, 000 follow suit each and every day, dying quietly in remote villages far from the Western conscience. The cries are muffled by Christian-sponsored bombs.

Somewhere a broken man philosophizes: it's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.

Turn the tape off howler.

The drug man lifts his nose to the drifting haze of marijuana and aggressively pitches Mobsies: his unwritten screenplay revolving around a mob and zombies and debris in a post-apocalyptic setting. Chemicals in his narcotics-friendly mind suddenly shift to:
"Einstein's Theory of Relativity: that's something. That's..."
An impregnated pause--broken with a spasmodic shrill: "Time actually moves slower on different planets in the universe. Literally, clocks--clocks would move more slowly."
"Ginsberg should of been an astronaut."
"Endless spheres."

Unreflected

Dreams burn down. A Winter Semester in a less odious province is highly unlikely. Multiple obstacles have proven immovable. This is a rotten First World deal.

My sister is now an adherent to Oprah-sponsored New Ageism--"The Secret." Its theory is based on the pseudo-science of attraction.

But things are not all rotten.

Ralph Nader is coming to town on August 11th. I will soon be empowered to fight White-Collar crime.

And

Radiohead is soon to arrive in heaven-sponsored glory.

And

I have launched an additional blog.

Consolation Prizes

It is a fine afternoon for footie in Toronto. Our footie field is a large, pebble-infested driveway with green weeds spurting sporadically across the grayish court. A small red net is leaned against a beat wooden shed. I am appointed keeper. The web designer and the Persian are appointed strikers. Everyone is excited. The Persian, being of a jocose disposition, resolves to frighten me. The animated fellow strikes the ball confidently, intending to bounce the ball off the shed a mere two feet above my venerable head. However, the ball launches far above my head, far above the shed, and over the rickety fence, far into forbidden territory. The Persian, no longer in a festive mood, cusses and grumbles. The designer and I laugh.
"You'll have to hop the fence, man", I advise. The errant striker's countenance changes rapidly, and his face broods, as he's affronted by the eleven foot fence. He's so unnecessarily hesitant. I'm suddenly struck that he might of never scaled a fence before, being a foreigner and all.
"You go", the frightened young foreigner pleads.
Being raised in suburbia, I've been climbing up walls since I've been mobile; thus, I promptly hop the fence with much deftness. I land in firm soot. I beckon for to the Persian to trespass some, thinking it would be good for him to engage in this small, insignificant act of rebellion to retrieve his ever so sentimentally valued football, that is increasing in sappy value every subsequent minute of its lostness. Finally, he comes crashing over the fence in the most maladroit manner imaginable. The designer stays behind.
The Persian and I find ourselves in some unruly, trumpery-filled side yard. The ball--not in view. We sift through the strange, abstract junkyard searching deeper and deeper into its heart of darkness. A crescendo of pressure amounts when a bourgeois appears from the adjoining yard. We pose as fellow residents and bid him "Halloa".
The search is a hapless endeavor (save the discovery of a volleyball, which is promptly booted out of its home territory) and us two raiders retreat back over the fence to consult with the design man and, eventually, with the errant striker's girl.
"You two followers of Galileo," I begin, speaking to the forlorn striker and his girl, "calculate the height of the ball and its velocity to discover the ball's travelling distance."
Contrary to logic and reason, a scientific investigation is deemed unnecessary. Further, I suggest posting images of the ball around the city, and I'm accused of a Hunter. S. Thompson impersonation.
Perhaps the ball has been reunited with Goliath? Unlikely.
Resigning to defeat, the Persian raises his glum eyes towards me, and murmurs, "You better blog about this."
Consider this your consolation prize.

It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die

The (provincial) government gave me moneys today. Who's eating this week?
Speaking of which, the frigger heading Canada's government is receiving colloquial beckons from a stupid little rich kid.
The summit for elites and afternoon tea is coming to Huntsville in 2010! I miss the smell of teargas. I miss the fear of getting beaten. Man, I miss the '60s. Nowadays everyone's a bona fide flagsucker.
If I were an American, I'd be a corporation. Great welfare system, legal immunity--seriously what more could a person want? It sucks to be a citizen these days. Typically citizens are only free from the bondage of the constitution when they're chained to the ceilings at Guantanamo. Or registered in the military. Corporate personhood is clearly the way to go.
"This is a full-blown state-sponsored disaster" -- Kowalski, in response to Goliath being stolen from his own room.
Response: "State-sponsored disaster" is now my new catch phrase. But really, I sympathize with your maladie du coeur, a most natural consequence from this act of terrorisms.

L'envoi (the crux lies herein)
The drug man of truth, Hunter S. Thompson, is the object of study in the documentary, Gonzo. I am throwing a hissy fit of delight.

Turtle Island

I /finally/ completed reading /The Portrait of a Lady/. It took me some time; but pet grief! Henry painted so very much! Mind you I read a plurality of books at once. The aforementioned title is much more epic and conventional from what I usually acquaint myself with. I /almost/ desire to engage in conversation with another in regards to the novel (only with a fellow daffy dreamer, however) but I'm quite content to keep Isabel Archer to myself for now. I really have no time for conversation as I must pound through another six or seven books and beat out four essays within a month and a half.

To pay homage to web design wonder DH, I have created a Twitter account. I really cannot grasp the full functionality and entire purpose of Twitter, but apparently it's worth looking into. As far as I can see, it's just a manifold of follow-the-leader games. And there always appears to be too many "tweets" about the site. And I don't like the epithet "tweet" either. Anywhoers follow me.

Now I Can't Disappear.

I'm not dead; I merely encountered the most devastating disease known to humanity: Irukandji syndrome. I writhed in physical agony and moaned heinous expletives: "Sweet Condi Rice-John Maaaayer! I think Albert Camus described my condition in a novel.
On the same night as my plight Marissa Nadler was to invade Toronto and I was to absorb a gloomy hum outta El Mocambo. Turns out, Nadler cancelled the performance ages ago.
Nadler. Nadler. Nadler. Nader. Nader. Nader. Ralph.

We're the heirs to the glimmering world

Last week I purchased a mobile that is not broken. In my subsequent careless days I lost said mobile on an adventure down in the valley. A few gloomy gloamings later I receive a call: "Come collect your phone. West Ancaster." I arrive at some swank country abode with much land. Much land. The lady of the land hands returns my phone. Further the lady laments: " My land. I'm seeking someone to tend my land. Mulch. Cut. Hoe." Such a blatant slap-in-the-face blessing, I am obliged to tend the land. I begin to maintain the estate this week. Beat.

Today is celebratory because Anne of Green Gables was published a century ago. Children were drag racing in the streets of Uxbridge in honour of Montgomery's tenure in our quaint township all those years ago. I say this because my Mother essentially dined with Sarah Polley on a silver afternoon earlier this month. I really say all this because someone once told me a story about Polley: in short, in the era of the first gulf war, she attended some banquet adorning a large peace sign. Disney demanded that our heroin remove the controversial sign, which was clearly in conflict with Mickey's and Daisy's political posture. The Golden One refused and the Disney Company became quite miffed and she left Road to Avonlea. Beat.

The Fall Semester
Western History: feel pain.
Biology: morphine cannot alleviate the symptoms from this one.
PED: Irukandji syndrome epitomized!
French: my God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
I cannot continue! Death would become of me.

For the winter semester, I am tentatively planning to study elsewhere other than this odious province I now inhabit. Likely a more agreeable province. Europe is stale and I've imposed sanctions on the States. But this would be my fourth Letter of Permission from Redeemer and the Registrar is a bona fide frigger and he may not allow me to pursue the courses I desire. Ideally my degree will be completed in December '09. A degree attained in three years. Only one thing stands in my way: the very school I am trying to graduate from.

Spit out your lies and chewing gum

Chrystal is not very receptive to my fm transmitter these days. Regardless of the channel I choose the radio crackles over the auditory delight I am desperate to absorb. To make use of the dissonance I resign to playing My Bloody Valentine and make believe the soft radio buzz is yet another droning guitar. Or if the interfering channel is more "talk" then I play Brian Eno & David Byrne and make believe the chatter is part of the dynamic duo's odd eclectic sound.

The moments I am not plagued by this "First World Problem" of fm transmitter malfunctions, I listen to bad asses from a semi-affluent Parisian suburb of Versailles: Phoenix. Only unfeeling robots would hold their foot steady for "Consolation Prizes."

One cannot be truly indolent unless absorbing Beach House's dream-pop melodies. My transition into nature's incubator has been smoother than anticipated.

And when you're holding me, we make a pair of parenthesis. There's plenty of space to encase whatever weird way my mind goes.

The bowling alley is happening tonight. Intense flashes enlightening Hope's striking features.

Here's how I will employ myself today:
8:15 - Rise. No, seriously rise.
9:00 - Chiropractor. Resist temptation to contemptuously sneer "get bent".
9:25 - Sobey's. Buy something appetizing or at least salubrious.
9:45 - Eat something appetizing or at least salubrious.
10:00 - Call Stacey at Good Shepherd. Inform her of my availability for Friday.
10:04 - Stumble to find the Optometrist's digits.
10:07 - Call McMullen. Friday is a no gooder. How about early next Monday.
10:13 - Attempt to pay Union Gas bill online.
10:16 - Call Mother at the library and ask her to elucidate all this complex online banking business.
10:24 - Pay Union Gas. Won't work.
10:32 - Cash Adom's and Tubb's checks to fill account.
10:45 - Pay bill. Successfully, if I dare.
11:00 - Call Lacie. Express frustration in an offensive manner. Order new external hardrive power chord.
11: 15 - Finish that book.
11:15 - Hell, start that book.
12:15 - Eat something solid.
1:00 - Resign to temptations to play shinny.
3:15 - Shower, stretch, vigorous workout.
4:30 - Now, with your endorphins dancing like Phoenix, gather your resume, assume your business countenance, hit the pavement.
4:35 - Realize this hour is not the most agreeable hour to be hunting poisoned game.
5:30 - Endorphins settle.
6:00 - Eat.
6:30 - Die a little.
7:00 - ? Celebrate Adom's perennial birthday.
? - Let mellifluous harmonies seep through my headphones and rescue princesses.

Emil Falls Into...

Sad, sad news to report. Loney, dear's progressive falsetto pop symphonies (if you will) are being used as an instrument of propaganda by a corporate clothing party monster. That's right; Loney, dear plays the Gap. A close compadre who witnessed this calamity described it as: "horror". What a close compadre of mine would be doing at the Gap is his own personal decision and conscience.

Keep Me Cryin'

All my virtual memories are locked away in a black box. I misplaced my power chord for my Lacie "Deskop Hard Disk". Ordinarily this is a minor interference in one's life I'm told. Simply order a new one. However, Lacie has lousy customer service. I've sent a plethora of emails pleading to purchase a new chord but these emails have been neglected by their Redeemer-like staff. And, conveniently, the company does not have any affinity for telecommunications. JUST ONE REPRESENTATIVE IS ALL I ASK. Superfluous suffering. I may be forced to trot to Future Shop and demand their supplier's number.

I misplaced the USB chord for my camera. Virtual memories are locked away in silver things too. Hopefully this requires a generic USB.

The chord for my printer is also misplaced.

Public skating at Dave Andreychuk Arena is not an agreeable pastime. The arena is comprised of lisp-y, balding men vicariously being Kurt Brown and smiling their Crest Striped smiles that would send Andy's Pa screaming towards the Jamaican hillside.

The most missed feature on Leon were his "Clever Keys".

My lease concludes in eleven months.

You Can't Steal A Gift

Due to further complications with Léon, the Misomusy Enterprise is so, so disappointed to announce that the quota for the month of May will not be reached.
A tidbit to hold you over:
I nearly went to Cutting Corners for a haircut to suit my inner city relief worker persona; however, this would conflict with my purple-hue-tie-dye-t-from-AA persona. Never ending conflict here.

Cosmea Rot

Every summer school course is Monday and Wednesday at 6:00-9:00pm, which is awfully inconvenient for students seeking to attend multiple classes.
After fiddling with my heart, McMaster admitted me despite Redeemer's Admission Office upholding its reputation as wholly incompetent by submitting my paperwork in a tardy manner. Obvious scheduling conflicts limit me to enrolling in a single course, and thus I must endure online filth throughout the rest of the summer. Lectures are for daffy daydreaming anyway.
A result of this schooling madness that has plagued me all week is that I now require part-time employment. Perhaps I could find a gem of a shop in Hamilton to lend my servile obedience -- maybe an ancient used book shop like Seekers: a dusty pit with cement walls that ooze moisture and intellectuality, with a skinny dystopianist owner who babbles of Jewish conspiracy theories over a cup of Irish specialty tea.

I had never been caught theatre hopping. "Can I see your guys' tickets"?
"Non Anglais".
"I just heard you guys talking..."
"Oh, is today not two for one picture show day"?
We showed ourselves out.

Leon has developed a major malfunction and will be shipping off to an HP location in the States for a rester, while restive Bryan types air.

Coming Down The Hill

All I wanna do is listen to greasy funk from Guyana with a Jamaican bass line that jolts me like a Beaver Buzz. And see the Dog of the Sea. Even if the Scandinavian's latest record is unexceptional and grease-free, we gots the classics: go forth and buy her some candy now. Of course the former record being melancholic from Sarah's depression, whilst with this new record, she comes out into the sunshine. What happened to the nadir, my dear? Also I'd communicate in Godardesque eloquence, drifting in the Mediterranean with Odile, complaining about sunshine and spinach. If there is a time for happiness -- this is not it. You're not from a golden egg, you know, so stop acting like it. All I wanna do is toss a candy cane towards the stage on a Saturday night.

My Family And Other Animals

66 Madison is a funhouse.

This Boy

Fame can no longer be eluded. Become a hit on my confrere's website and be prepared to endure a massive attack.
Click the "members" linkster to read a subjective Dutchman's synopsis of me. Further click the "bands" linkster to hear I'm From Barcelona featuring Loney, dear.

Rechargeable Batteries (Bunny)

By now I'm sure you've all noticed that Steve Harris' acclaimed blog Theological Journeying is on a moratorium. I know many of you were avid readers of Journeying and enjoyed his keen insights on Scripture, and on his coverage of subterranean church movements. His academic banter on New Monasticism was always a splendid and favourite read of mine.
You counterbalanced my Reformed indoctrination Steve-- if I turn into Kuyper I blame you.
Please, confrere, return someday.
Side note: I intended to endure an upper level history class at McMaster this summer to suffice for my Western Civilization core at Redeemer but Facebook Richard vetoed my intentions because this would be pursuing too high of an education.

Optimistic

Look at me: I'm an optimist! And by 3.6 points too! Not that I wish to preen of my healthy mental state but perhaps you'll learn something from these reflections from an optimist:
1. I contact acute coryza, and blissfully pronounce this "a most strange and deadly pestilence" and diagnose myself with chronic death.
2. I rosily prepare my Missions presentation absolutely positive that I will self-destruct like Inspector Gadget.
3. Lose my camera battery (with a memory card chalk full of pictures), and become embittered yet happy that I will never receive negatives.
4. Blithely rent a picture that unbeknownst to me I have already viewed (and thus reflect on how memory will surely improve with age).
5. Damage a cardboard box due to excessive joy and bright future.

Shannadee- ah dee ah dee

Stumbling out of my dorm this morn'in, I was engulfed by a wave of sultry air that reminded me of a handshake with carbon monoxide. If I desired to live in a jungle-like climate, I would move to Burma. Why has the Northernly breeze and permafrost abandoned me? How does one prepare for the upcoming foliage (safe word) and the pounding sunbeams saturating the pale and fleshy?

Perhaps my journey into the chick incubator was a dreary dream; my senses have abandoned me too. I am afflicted with some strange pestilence that is massacring some of my favourite blood cells. Accursed be you acute coryza or Irukandji Syndrome! or whatever you are. I adore suffering and you fill my heart up like a landfill. I would elaborate on my plagues but that would maudlin and I've no desire to babble about Radiohead B-sides or Luc Besson.

My only bandaid is Marissa Nadler, and oh, she is a butterfly bandaid! Ethereal and dreamy her neo-folk heroin injects me with profound pleasures like these:

I know that I'm glad to see you
Even though you're comin' home
In a box of cedar
Shannadee- ah dee ah dee

No, Nadler, no; please don't be my undertaker.
I'll just wait for the train to the other world.

Uffie

Redeemer has screwed me over yet again.
I abominate this school more than anything.

Sharp Piano Key

Fyodor Dostoevesky and I are very much alike. Well, not really, but I resonate profoundly (with what I irrationally and erroneously) determine his magnum opus -- Notes From Underground. We both spit upon utopians and superciliously oversee their construction of the Crystal Palace, and yet we are unable to elevate ourselves from this ridiculous society and thus feel strangely inferior. Further, our feelings and ideals trap and oppress us, rendering us into idle anti-heroes.

Part One of the novella babbles on metaphysical philosophy, which demanded me to re-read a few a parts and become mildly confounded. Part Two -- while carrying the same existentialist themes of Part One -- is narratively focused and structured as such. Two parenthetical notes here: 1. Dostoevesky apparently influenced Jean-Paul Sartre -- notably, Nausea -- a favourite read of my dear confrere Kowalski. 2. The read has eerie similarities to Taxi Driver, with, you know, all the contempt for society and authority, themes of alienation, and a myriad other parallels -- but most acutely with the merciful prostitute jabber. If you are not cultured enough to understand this reference (happyfrappy, Kowalski), we weep for you. [Snaggers] I'm sorry, how obnoxiously arrogant of me.

Notes, in actuality with my academic situation, is a hindrance. I'm performing subpar in Global History (I capitalize with utmost disdain) and so I must jot down some semi-intellectual thoughts regarding the-turn-of-the-century Africa described by the infinitely dry Chinua Achebe and connect that dry story with sordid class themes ad nauseum.

But for now, I peruse the Dostoevesky forums and smile upon my thought: those humans behind their machines are merely keys on a keyboard, pulling their hair in despair, trying to be more.

Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself

My eyes refused to open this morning at the designated time dictated by society. I am conscious, but in no mood to present myself to the my chopped up portion of world. And thus, I allow nature and time -- not artificial clocks -- full interaction with my sleeping/waking waves.
When called upon, I arise, and shamble into the kitchen to prepare a quaint breaky. I catch my haggard reflection in the frying pan and become bored. Languidly, I return to my bedroom to collect Leon with musical intentions. I pour my eggs symbolically on the fryer, and they sizzle and hiss in ecstasy -- The Acorn are best served hot. "Glory Hope Mountain" -- folksy stuff, sprinkled with spasmodic computer beeps -- is rising out of the kitchen alongside the delectable whiffs of my dynamic omelet. This brief bliss is interrupted by a dystopian-toast-burn. I sigh deeply and curse this ominous foreshadow.
Nanny enters the kitchen. Salutations, salutations. He is keen this morning: he notes my stripped shirt is inside out. "Zeut." (I'm distraught not because my shirt is inside out. Rather, the piercing eyes of the world are returning). Further, he inquires, "What is this? He just sang: 'I bit your tongue so hard, and now I can taste your blood'". Ah! Clearly Hundurian romanticism!
Now Steve saunters into my once serene bubble and moans, "Your subpar music is disturbing me." I flip my colourful omelet onto a piece of charcoal and sardonically apologize that I'm not playing Hilary Duff or Hillsong United. He likely calls me a frigger. I stumble for orange juice and tell him how I'll blog about this ruptured morning.

Colourful Man In The Sky

Sometimes in the sunshine my beard sparkles an orange hue. This beauteous anomaly is typically noticed with: "YOUR BEARD IS ORANGE? WHY?" After a pregnant pause, I reply: "Because tangerines are delectable".
Chinua Achebe's narrative has failed to intrigue me, and his writing style is very mundane. I've pounded through two thirds of Things Fall Apart, and I'm like: "Ugh. Just give me Heart of Darkness; it may bigoted and and overtly Western chauvinist-like, but Joseph Conrad was a master of his literary craft and layered enough esotericism and symbolism to satisfy any reader hungry for substance." How Things Fall Apart has become the magnum opus of Africa is a sham; I regard it as a minor work, much like Dickens' A Tale of Two Cites. "What is about high school? You read all the worst books by good writers." -- The Squid And The Whale
The fact that Roland Emmerich is spewing out expensive crap on film and has not even received death threats demonstrates the indolent repose that our society has settled into.
Jacy's Tempest has hit Basia Bulat and she's withdrawn from playing Hamilton. Misfortune is leaning on me but it can't afford the ticket. Bowie actually duets on the Kashmir's track "The Cynic", eh?
We appear to have a stranglehold on a humble abode for next year. I will inhabit this home for the summer, and will take Hamilton's sultry season by storm. I've never actually wandered through Hamilton before (perhaps for good reason) but, surely, between all the industry and poverty, there is a poppin' Beat scene with poetry jams and... Frig. I need to engage in other pleasant fiction; I've been digging this Beat nonsense long enough.
I'll suppose I could emulate Okonkwo and thus excel in wrestling in my youth; become a war hero in my 20's; and become harder than most rocks as an old timer. Oh wait, that's John McCain.

Ashes of American Flags

Starbucks. Economic imperialism has never tasted so good.

There Will Be Blood

We got into a tussle with some local farm boys over a golden pond. Some words were exchanged and some fisticuffs materialized. It was a solid rumble for myself until some dehydrated, blood-thirsty fellow speared me in the chin. My blood sprayed artistically into the cold winter air -- like a Tarantino flicker -- and I fell into the snow with my arms flailing, effectively making a red snow angel. My attacker then vampired me and headed back to Avonlea.
I received several stitches, and my bloody humanity personified Humpty Dumpty. My doctor threatened that he would of sliced me up himself had he been playing hockey with a Toronto Maple Leaf-wearing anti-hero.
According to wiki-How, I can remove these stitches myself and thus defer an annoying journey to Uxbridge to see my family doctor. All I need are tweezers, a small pair of scissors, hydrogen peroxide or alcohol, and a magnifying glass. The latter will be the most difficult to obtain; I am not a scientist, nor am I a sadist who torches ants (for more information on ants see Tom Waits).
There is a warning attached to this page, relating to the danger of removing your own stitches but, hey, Leon does it.

Ripe, almost rotten

The other day I was attempting to set-up Mouse Trap with a bunch of younglings. They were setting this puppy up far more efficiently than your anti-hero and so I remarked, "Wow, you guys are much better at setting this up than I." And one younglings responded: "That's because we're kids; we're good at setting up games". In this moment, I realized I am no longer a child.

In an unrelated announcement, I am using an agenda for the first time since grade seven. The madness of my life was paving way to a coup d'état against myself. This movement towards organization should deter the rising internal forces from conquering me. However, this whole organization business has illuminated me to the oncoming pestilence that may sink my rowboat anyway.
*Warning horn*
The nadir of the semester (and likely life) is coming. Work now, or embrace the plague and the woes that accompany it.
Frig! I even forgot to mention that I must find summer schooling now! Oh!

MGMT

How does one put aside time for studies these days? Between pounding pavement, improving my foreign relation deftness via settlers and dangling on soft pond ice, I may conclude that there is no time! Laura Dern! Sometimes I think I am just the most trivial existence under my personal observation. Other times I think I should purchase an aglaonema and care for it like Léon.
Thanks for the reminder to pick up my police background check, blog.
Remind me to study now.
Irukandji.

On The Road

We're roaring up the freshly paved road to the nation's capital at first blush tomorrow. With Dean Moriarty's rapacious desire for incessant 80 miles an hour in his beat green jalopy, we'll arrive quickly and dangerously. When fatigue overcomes us, we'll crash some sordid character's sleazy apartment in the Red Light District to rescue some princesses.
Nextly, we'll pour down Quebecois Avenue to Montreal and emote care for the French heritage and likely emulate Jean-Luc Godard for kicks. We'll subsequently dig the streets for ripe antelopes and enigmatic dharma bums until the ebbing of the sun --when we punch into poetry jam sessions and gone jazz blasts.

The Horror! The Horror!

Upon writing my typical two thousand words-a-week for missions class, I noticed some strange consistency in my writing, and then I realized: I'm so reformed and I don't even know it!

Ol' '55

I've been injected with four gigs of beatific tunes. My auditory system is working overload and inhaling some weird spasmodic noises. The best on the bunch is Tom Waits, obviously.
Some day I'll shoot the breeze with Waits: we'll converse about peculiar topics like mutated insects or how to properly dig the streets. Afterwards, we'll hit the road and hang our hats at some beat jazz joint in Denver and rendezvous with our dear old compadres Jack Kerouac and Dean Moriarty. After a brief amiable reunion, with Nick Cave serving up some cranberry juice from the bar, we'll roar out to California and slave at a southern vineyard for a while -- you know, for heck of it -- and eventually save up enough cash to head back out east to New York where Waits is playing a gig at the Blowing Tavern at eleven. Of course, we'll need to accumulate enough green to bring back Marylou -- a totally gone Mexicali looker I encountered in the fields.
By Jove! That was a futile digression. All I desired to say is that I've got some pleasurable new tunes. Also I need more Tom Waits; two albums is deficient. Also I wanted to say that sometimes I feel like a dead car battery and I need a boost. Of course that boost being Tom Waits.

A Dull Lustre

My life is incessant loitering.
I wish to immerse myself in this black and white fiction: I pity a young and slightly retarded fellow who wanders down the middle of the road, sweeping dust frantically. He doesn't realize what he is doing is frivolous, nor does he care; for the sweeping gives him purpose. I envy him for this. I pass him by in my filthy '32 Chevy pick-up with this strange ambivalence. I call him back to town. He briefly glances up --his face so pale and unaware -- and the wayward breeze blows his cap from his head. He turns and chases his cap, broom-in-hand, and I can't help but notice his peculiar run: he prances from side-to-side, with very short and robotic leg and arm movements, and again I think: so unaware. I stare at him a while, then carry on.
I approach the Danny Shakes joint to collect my pay. I climb out of my truck and I'm met by a wall of thick, sultry air that engulfs my entire body. I languidly push my way through this natural incubator, and pull open the door to the beat burger joint. But the air inside is just as relentless and unforgiving as it is outside. Danny had to pawn off his air conditioner a month ago. "It'll get 'em buying more Coca-cola," was his frequent defense to the complaints. Naturally, he couldn't tell them that he couldn't afford it -- even though everybody knew.
The place was empty and desolate, save two kind eyes. Guinevere wiped her brow with a red handkerchief and sighed, "Hey Duane, here for ya pay?"
"Yass, ma'am".
Slowly, nudging herself from her indolent repose, she arose and shambled toward the back, where the money was secretly kept in an old vase. Guinevere didn't say "vase" like the rest of us; she said "vase" emphasizing the "a". Some folk thought it made her sound snooty, but I quite liked it. Guinevere had a difficult life: barren and uneducated, she had married a drunk who beat her with his leather belt. She used to show up to work with bruises and a contrite face. She unsuccessfully tried to divorce him four times, until finally when her deadbeat husband attempted to rob a corn farmer and it was a 12-gauge shotty that divorced them eternally. "Here ya go, Duane: 3 dollars and 40 cents."
"Thanks, Guinevere."
Neither of us could think of anything more to say. I turn to leave the sullen Guinevere behind, and exit into the street, but I'm left with a malaise that had been making a home of my stomach lately. I'm about to climb back into my truck when a red convertible passes through town. Aboard the fancy jalopy is Jacy Farrow: an ingenue with a delicate face but eyes wild as an antelope. She frowns in my direction, and I bashfully raise my hand to acknowledge her. Her head may of nodded, or it may of been the wind blowing her hair -- I don't know. Some had labeled her: The Golden One. But not the aforementioned slightly retarded fellow; his swept so blithely that she was just another mere person to sweep around.

Complaint About Time

If my time were cookies, then the cookie monster would be starving.
I even schedule out my week beforehand and I still cannot even fit in classes.
Of course the re-freezing on the pond may influence some modifications to my pencil-dressed sheet of paper called "Schedule From The Abyss Of Stygian".
I need a sabbatical.
But I'm not burned out.
I'm timed out.

Back in my heyday, I could punctuate time, now time punctuates me.
Dean Moriarty emphasizes that we must know Time. Dean knew it, and he was beatific. I do not know it, and I am glum, and just wanna make my wayward hum.

Lah Lah Lah

When I play Settlers, I am North Korea and my aim is to piss off as many other nations as possible. I do this by making illogical decisions, isolating myself (or if I do trade, I demand excessive resources in return), threatening other nations, and delaying time (slowing down the clock so I may bask in my supremeness). The one major drawback is my lack of nuclear missiles; I lack muscle. Anywhoers, if everyone despises me after the game, I've done my job.

Sometimes I pretend I see everything in film -- and depending on my mood, sometimes it's highly saturated modern era film (when life is beatific), or sometimes it's starch black and white film from the 50's (WHEN I PRETEND I'M 1950'S TEXAN DESERT). Or sometimes it's in technicolour but it's grainy (mundane life)

I'm as busy as a bee; school has been the death of my pleasure time lately.

I'm flying to Toronto to see The Airfields on Saturday. It's like poppier shoegaze, of course accompanied by those penchant melancholic overtones.

On Monday I start the social gospel. I hit up the Hamilton po-lice station to apply for a criminal background check. I must return a month today to pick it up. Remind me, blog; I will tag you as such.

I have nothing to say these days. I need to splash myself with relaxation and wine.

A confusing birthday.

Heath Ledger dies.
Bryan Nagle lives.

When You Wake Up Feeling Old

It has come to my attention that another imminent birthday is looming over my head like a guillotine. But I am not a cake-eating Marie-Antoinette, I am a fit and humble man. Take a moment for the resounding irony to hit. *Splatter*

My greatest fear is to become a victim of ageism, like Michael Scott. Perhaps I will need to revolutionize my wardrobe, style, tastes, and language to avoid this form of hate-crime against the aged. Here are a few examples to colour in my agedness:

1. I do not comprehend text messaging; I have only performed this progressive communicationary technique twice -- and this was under the supervision of a teenager.

2. I nearly have a scheduled napper time to rest my decrepit body.

3. Nearly all the tunes I listen to are as soft as lullabies.

4. My feet are incessantly cold.

5. My memory lapses more frequently than the Maple Leafs.

6. I spray the children with the hose when they trespass on my verdant lawn.

Enough! I cannot continue on any further... Funny thing is: I don't even know what to do with my life.

Orange Juice

"Give me two hours of activity, and I'll take the other twenty-two to daydream." I read something like this recently; I resonated.

My jalopy is ill and requires medical attention from the car hospital; as a result, I now drive a swank Epica and I recieve contemptious looks from envious louses -- you friggers.

Life is awkward.

They let Lisa go blind

Blue is the quietest colour. Blue is the colour of silence.

Blue hues.

*Thrashing through blue*

Today I worked out. No kidding. I straight up hit to the gym and pumped iron. My schedule is such that routine outings to the gym (three times a week) will be realized. And I have a gym buddy -- and we will cap one another if things go awry.

My classes are infinitely boring. Life is terribly insipid. And my curiosity is stifled by shyness.
What the hay? Life should be beatific and gay.

Assertiveness required.

My Own Face Inside The Trees

If you are bored on a sunny Sunday afternoon I strongly advise that you view Juno: An absolutely delightful picture show featuring the witty and sassy lead "Juno" (who knows her real name? Though, I heard through the breeze that she's Canadian) of who after the first few minutes you'll be wishing will walk out of the silver screen and into your chair. Typically, I would be ashamed to admit I enjoyed a flicker like this but, I don't know, the director just got the job done. Moreover, the soundtrack features Belle & Sebastian! Yes, yes! An incredibly pleasant surprise, which enhanced my auditory circulation ten-fold -- but the soundtrack belonged to The Moldy Peaches, who I have never even heard of, let alone listened to. The Moldy Peaches have some really swell stuff but at points is far too boorish and explicit than I am comfortable with. Speaking of music, The Clientele are ace! I have long ignored them on my iTunes, but finally, I have discovered their mellifluous tunes and I am wholly beguiled! (Too many big words in a row: that's a nono; I'm sorry).

Anywhoers, today I return to the arena of academia and I have little desire to return. My life is shrouded in white snow clouds, and I could daydream all day long. Or, until I realize I must accomplish something mildly productive 'else I feel daffy and bad. I hear girlfriends are solid instruments of motivation, but I have yet to find a young lass at Redeemer suitable to my needs (and desires).