Misomusy

The Drug Room

2010-04-28T22:07:00.004-04:00

Inside the flower shop, I walk upstairs and turn to the door on my left that is already nudged open; I push gently and I’m greeted by the most beautiful white cat in the world with large angelic eyes. The beat apartment is dusty with a toxic air that tugs at my throat; Goodfellas is playing on a television that rests on rotting brown shelves; a lone pull-out coach is in front of the television, the only furniture in the room. The apartment is shaped like a box, the kitchen has crumbs all over the counters.

“You don’t mind do you -- if there’s weed here and there?” My host Craig has appeared from the lone back bedroom.

“Ah, no man, it’s okay.”

“Cool. Do you smoke?”

“No, not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I did once but my chest got all congested and I got a weird cough.”

“Yeah sometimes you cough up black shit.”

I hear him incorrectly. “Cough up blood!”

“No, black shit; blood only the odd time.”

“Okay.”

“So what’s up Nagger?”

“Nothing I’m bored.”

“Me too, I’ve been on E.I. for a year now, busted up my shoulder, had a few surgeries on it so I can’t work.”

“That sucks, man. What do you do all day?”

“You’re looking at it”, as he motions to the sad couch and television. “I also get stoned. I’ve become a real pothead.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, like I do it every day, all day. People come my house all the time and all we do is get high: Dole, Brun, Brady”, he lists off the old road hockey crew from high school.

“Oh yeah, how are those guys doing?”

“Brun’s been to rehab twice now I think for coc.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and Dole’s a dealer drug dealer now.”

“Dole, really?

“Yeah man, where do you think I get it? But he at least has a head on his shoulders; he’s going to go to school.”

“And Brady’s going to school too, right?”

“Yeah, Brady’s Brady. They all come over here and get high.”

“Every day?”

“Yeah man.”

“Do you like them coming over all the time”

“No. I like my quiet. That’s why sometimes I just tell them all to leave and they’re like, “What you’re kicking us out?” and I’m like “Yeah”.

“Hmm”. There was a pause in our conversation. “Where’s your girl?” I ask.
“At her sister’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“By the railway tracks; it’s not bad”

“What’s she doing?”

“She had like three eye operations, but she works during the day, I’m not allowed to because of the whole E.I. disability thing, and she’s not my girl anymore either, we ended it, but we’ve been together five years and we still sleep together and stuff.”

“So what’s the probability of your shoulder getting fixed and you being able to go back to work?”

“I don’t know man, but I don’t really wanna go back to work. See, I have a physio appointment for 7:45 this morning but I missed it, screw it. You see, my philosophy is that I want to move away, just get out of here. I want to be able to open my door”, he gestures exaggeratedly, “and see the beach, the ocean. I don’t want to put on my coat in the winter, what’s that?”
I didn’t know. “Where are you thinking of going?”
“Thailand. I just want to go there and start over. Everyone says I’m crazy but I just want to go with nothing at all and walk around and get a job and everything.”

“So why not go now?”

“I’m behind on rent. I owe like a thousand dollars which isn’t so bad and I’ve been with Kate for six years. Six years. It’s not like high school anymore where after a month you can just quit.”

The cat rubs against my leg.

“Oh shit, excuse my language, I forgot you’re allergic to cats.”

“It’s all right man.”
“No. Mischa, get away from him.” He brushes her gently away from my leg; he treats her with great affection. He also has a monster lizard in a clear case that he says he can’t afford to feed anymore. I laugh until I realize he is serious.

“It’s three bucks a week for that thing, man, but I took him because my friend gave me him for free and I’ve always wanted a lizard.”

“I need a smoke now. Just stay there, I’ll go to the other side of room.” He crosses the room and fiddles with the lighter. “Oh sorry, I hate to do this, could you pass me the ash tray?”
“Sure”, I hand him a black ash tray.

Immediately as he lights the cigarette there is a knock on his door and he opens it to find a friend looking for a quick roach smoke.

Craig briefly introduces us and feels we should know one another from high school, we don’t, and he barely notices me as I introduce myself. Craig walks over into the kitchen and pulls a point off a shelf, with a bag a weed right up on the herb shelf as if it were a seasoner. “Mind if we smoke a little?”

“No, go ahead.”

Craig’s friend has a deep toke, Craig tells him to blow away from me. I ask the friend a question as he is exhaling and his face moves inward and his face is stone and he blows out and his slits rest on me and he is now intrigued by me because we know some of the same people from high school. Turns out he’s a dishwasher for a restaurant I dig in town, Frankie’s. The door shoves open again and another person walks in, I recognize him from school, Trevor Cakes, and Craig makes sure that we know one another.

“Got a stick”, Cakes asks.
“I thought you don’t smoke”.

“I don’t” and Cakes inhales on a tobacco cigarette.

“See,” Craig says with a smile, “People just come in and leave whenever they want.” I couldn’t tell if he was in his element or not. He takes a bottle cap, puts some weed in it, and somehow makes a bong out of a plastic Nestle bottle and they take turns inhaling. Before the friend inhales Craig asks if he’s walking, and he answers yes. “This will make your walk better.”

As smoke began swirling around the tiny apartment my eyes began to water, my contacts were drying out and I was afraid to smell of drugs. I told Craig that I had to take off but that we should get together some time for hockey. “Cool man, see you soon.”

She Hangs Brightly

2009-07-03T14:23:00.010-04:00

She was gone away and now she is gone here. Once thought the slight waif, the ethereal voice, had slipped into a warmer world, softer hues and shyer people, rising to butterfly mornings and absorbing silver afternoons... not genuinely otherworldly, you understand... but spirited away to a green meadow in among the blood orange trees: her imaginarium as penetrative lights revealed her to a black mass of frightening admirers... now... telling of a life floating, sometimes violently, Through the Devil Softly, singing perfume once the lights are dim enough... waiting to stand coldly, licking her dry lips drier and consciously emitting a tortured meeeeeeeeeeow to a new generation of rot.

Trois-Pistoles Blues

2009-06-16T13:52:00.013-04:00

Frosty hands, enveloped in froth, an impenetrable cloud that draws adverse reactions upon each introduction, reaches instead for a dulling pencil and immerses into a pleasurable sadness:

Pedals for fingers in her hands, a sympathetic smile acknowledging time,
Hunching over a wooden cross then moving from grave to grave distributing,
Until the end of her life with flowers enveloping her body, it taking twenty years for her cheeks to pale,
Fading into the land together and reappearing as a flower underneath a rotting cross.

A censored stream of consciousness

2009-03-25T22:43:00.007-04:00

The slothful beast rises late afternoon, ostentatious and obese; sizzling bacon topless, whistling between his teeth, an awful hissing noise that fills the house with douche. I stare emptily at a computer screen, begging my fingers to miraculously type out eight pages of literary criticism on Flaubert's Parrot. My ambition is limited to aging this evening, many evenings. Bad noise permeates drywall and my ears droop. Internally I am as complex as embryology, externally I am as simple as a goose flying north for the summer. Simile is seen as inferior to metaphor, but I ask you: are "as" and "like" really our enemies (or at least our lesser friends)? Is the phonetic of simile unforgivable? Nonsense. Simile is a horse! Forgive my attempt at recycled cleverness.

The computer screen remains white. Should I turn aside the literary criticism and open the latest product on my mental shelf: literary dreamism. No; not now. I cannot dream myself dying of plague under the supervision of Camus now. I imagine that black bubbles on my scalp, blown through the devil's wand, are a tad too distracting.

I peek at my circus calender: human salamanders blow fire upwards, either a nihilistic attempt to burn down the heavens and shower in the ashes of truth, or entertain the underbelly of humanity. A poetry reading is scheduled for Thursday. I have never thought Thursday particularly poetic. Patrick Friesen disagrees.

The cursor blinks at me repeatedly, like a confused child, awaiting an answer that refuses to reveal itself.

We're like the wild roses stoned in the backyard

2009-03-23T22:41:00.005-04:00

For Sebastian, the classroom is the place for sensual longing, or maybe even lust if the lecture is particularly vapid. Time for his PRESENTATION:

Professor: Sebastian, expound on the spiritual context that the relationship between Rachel and Nick is found in, then connect that with the theory of literary dreamism.

Sebastian: Interesting you should ask that, because I found...

Professor: Can you answer the question Sebastian?

Sebastian: Interesting you should ask that, because I found...

The deflection strategy is working well. The question is the launching point.

Professor: Okay okay. Now how do Nick's relationships in the work impact his psyche and relate this to Freud's theory of pyschosexual development. Also relate this to the whole of the work in its ethical and religious context.

Sebastian: Quite frankly, Ibsen, is a homo. I mean, why bother pontificating his views on morality when those gnarly sideburns could have put him in constant revelry?

Professor: Sorry?

Oh shit, Sebastian thinks. Not again.

Sebastian: The Nordics produce pretty girls and bad literature. What was Myrdal's excuse? He was well positioned to pick up a rush of Swedes and become a sextextual in the classroom. Instead he became an out of words intellectual in the junk yard of shitty lit.

Professor: This has gone far enough Sebastian

Sebastian: Maudlin monsters [sardonic voice] Poem dedicated to Johanna:

Peeling back her mandarin hair,
revealing the pulp of her neck;
quietly smiling,
inviting the freckles to dance
on soft ashen skin

A long and tattered French pop skirt
resting beneath knees,
but a consolation of
naked toes curling under
her soles

Sentimentalism is the end of genuine emotion.

Professor: Leave the classroom Sebastian.

Sebastian: And that's not all. Back to Ibsen: that guy had the balls to hire out his own personal Ibsen scholar.

Professor: That's not true. Leave.

Sebastian: Fuck that.

I've seen the future, brother: it is murder

2009-01-26T22:11:00.016-05:00

Segment One

The shades come down and the room begins to darken for the final time. The light fades from a man's prematurely aged face, firm and frowning. The man locks the door and moves slowly along the terrace, thinking of his wife; the woman is lying prostrate in the corner of an aging apartment, eating cheese and slapping herself with a tasbih. "Ferdowsi Ferdowsi, it's my fault my fault my fault." Ferdowsi wishes that he could console her; he wishes that he did not loath her. He turns away from his thoughts, away from the ninety-nine bruising beads, away from the great bruise in her stomach; Ferdowsi wishes not to remember.

Ferdowsi chooses to walk the long way to the apartment, through the tattered neighbourhood south of the subway line. Along the way he sees a blue girl with ashen skin and pink ballet shoes strung around her shoulders slouching along a set of stairs. Ferdowsi vaguely understands the melodramatic nature of young girls but he speculates upon her sadness anyhow; is it that she cannot elegantly perform a chassée in front on her more advanced peers? Ferdowsi's thoughts quickly return to him memories of which he wishes not to remember. He is now thankful that the girl will only remain in his vision for a short while longer.

"Please, sir."

Ferdowsi is startled. He stops and turns towards the girl and meets her puffy, bloodshot eyes.

"Please, it will be dark soon."

Ferdowsi looks away; a tear escapes from his eye and it moves slowly along his cheek, over the crevasse of his upper lip, and into his mouth. The salty taste reminds him of his boyhood days along the Caspian Sea. After his parents had been killed in the revolution, Ferdowsi clung to the coast where a local fishery fed him their daily waste and expired bottles of doogh. He often slept on the shore, buried in the sand to keep away from the cold breeze that came in off the sea at night. As Ferdowsi grew stronger the fishery hired him as a hand and Ferdowsi learned the art of fishing aboard the MarjAneh. Ferdowsi's work ethic impressed the captain, and Ferdowsi's humble and quiet nature impressed the captain's wife, Farah.

Farah dreamed of a more fulfilling existence than that a of fisherman's wife and, before Ferdowsi joined her husband's crew, she would often stare out the window praying that her husband's boat would not appear on the horizon at twilight. Ferdowsi himself found life at sea a lonely existence and he resented his haggard shipmates who enjoyed low brow humour and only saw the rials when the sturgeon were brought up from the sea. Ferdowsi and Farah's common misery brought them together at the light house at night. Ferdowsi said that it was their love that blasted a light across the sea, and Farah would smile longingly.

Ferdowsi's nose for nostalgia has lead him away from the present and has caused him to momentarily forget about the little girl slouching before him. Ferdowsi moves his thumb along the right side of his face, wiping away the evidence of his reflection and softly asks, "What can I do?"

"Some food?" The girl's puffy pink eyes match the hue of her ballet shoes. Ferdowsi always has been a keen observer; it was this qualification that got him employed at the lighthouse at night when he could no longer bear to sleep in the captain's spare room, away from Farah.

"Is no one coming for you?"

"No."

End of segment one.

Blood Oranges

2009-01-22T19:18:00.023-05:00

"Twenty-two may not be the start of maturity but, in all conscience, it's the end of youth."

The only thing that could of saved his brief legacy: assassination. But the blood would of stained the First Lady's gown and it was nonrefundable from designer Isabel Toledo. The blood stain would not fit the chief's motif anyway, because a blood stain is tangible and impure; his soaring rhetoric is perfect because the people cannot criticize Lockean political philosophy and the meaning of post-Puritan freedom. These were indoctrinated in them upon their exiting of the womb with a recitation from the sixth edition of Liberty or Death followed by a slap on the ass. Even more, his cold face would be splashed across the cover of tabloid magazines like Time, and a public mourning for their fallen Napoleon would always be compared to that of his predecessor, Jackie's husband Jack.

Assassination saved Jack's legacy. The hero's moral death, birthing the Vietnam War, is now never spoken of. Perhaps this is because one cannot blame him for producing a murderous child. He could not raise her, lest the child could raise her father from the dead. His shiny legacy is lauded across lands everywhere because planting a seed to destruction is all right so long as one does not water it.

The current chief is not so fortunate. The seeds are being watered. How are you doing old chap, my fellow, dear old corporation! Why certainly, full immunity for all telecommunication corporations for eavesdropping on Sylvia asking Mary the proper technique of knitting. Why hi there Israel! Yes certainly, continue new wave apartheid in Palestine! Of course, destroy Alena's school (she was always a slow learner anyway). Do you need some matches to burn the bodies? No no, I still go by Uncle Tom, not Uncle Jeremiah. Please continue the hegemonic wars, we will just withdraw some combat troops, all the other non combat troops and corporate troops can stay.

Domestically, well, admittedly, I can do very little constitutionally but my vagueness will prevail; inadequate environmental policies wrapped up in gold are the wave the future; a stimulus to an unregulated economy is practical; an increase to the military budget is necessary because we must fight rising temperatures by building a giant ice gun; and I will proudly carry the torch of hyperliberalist tradition to free us from our responsibility to the people! Because we can.

Speech speech! The people cry to me. I am not a man of the people. I look away. I am not a poet-in-chief. I can only speak the truth: my youth is gone but my maturity is in question.

Endless Balls

2009-01-12T22:19:00.004-05:00

I pull my jalopy up to an isolated, industrial building. I leave the whale shark behind and enter the rotten rectangle through its grimy double glass doors stained with dirt and mucus. I flash my blue card to the lady in the glass box and enter a narrow room with a beat bench. An aging man rests there comfortably. I place my blue knapsack on the far side of the bench away the man. I begin to undress. The aging man turns towards me and I figure that it is time for a pisser. Half-dressed, I pull out of the urinal to return to my knapsack on my side of the bench only to see that it is being violated in the most grotesque fashion imaginable. The aging man, now naked, decides either unwittingly or molestationally to hang his towel on the wooden hook on my side of the bench and, in that process, allow his hanging balls to perch on my faithful Dakine knapsack. A pregnant paused fills the moist air. I turn my burning eyes away from the sac on sack action. I stare at the rusty tiled wall that is oozing moisture and anxiety. What is the appropriate response to this uncouth man who has demonstrated such hostility to social etiquette and hygiene? I peer back to my side of the bench: the affair is over. I totter back to my side of the bench. I avoid any sort of social interaction. I finish undressing. I pull on my dark blue trunks. The aging man is, incredibly, still naked, with his eyes shut. Is he meditating? Oh, the eccentricity of the naked man. I resolve for a ballsy move. I march into a stinky stall, wrap an inch of toilet paper around my hand, noisly return to my side of the bench, pick up the tainted knapsack, stomp to the garbage can, turn around, establish eye contact with the perpetrator, and tomahawk slam my knapsack into the garbage. I dive into the blue.

Mockcast

2009-01-09T20:59:00.002-05:00

Part one. Part two. Part three.

The Lost Works: Part One

2008-12-22T23:31:00.010-05:00

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...

2008-12-09T11:37:00.006-05:00

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?

2008-11-25T21:38:00.006-05:00

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!

2008-11-12T22:55:00.007-05:00

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

2008-10-15T14:13:00.008-04:00

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.

2008-08-26T22:23:00.007-04:00

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

2008-08-08T15:06:00.007-04:00

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

2008-07-31T17:05:00.011-04:00

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

2008-07-08T21:42:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-02T22:47:00.003-04:00

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.

2008-06-25T23:03:00.005-04:00

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

2008-06-14T17:42:00.003-04:00

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

2008-06-12T00:18:00.007-04:00

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.

2008-06-09T00:23:00.005-04:00

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...

2008-05-29T20:09:00.005-04:00

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'

2008-05-28T10:59:00.005-04:00

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

2008-05-19T16:33:00.005-04:00

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

2008-05-05T21:14:00.006-04:00

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

2008-04-26T22:47:00.007-04:00

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

2008-04-19T20:41:00.002-04:00

66 Madison is a funhouse.

This Boy

2008-04-12T23:10:00.004-04:00

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)

2008-04-11T22:01:00.012-04:00

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

2008-04-10T12:00:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-03T19:23:00.007-04:00

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

2008-03-28T17:13:00.002-04:00

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

Sharp Piano Key

2008-03-22T14:26:00.006-04:00

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

2008-03-17T10:32:00.005-04:00

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

2008-03-13T09:10:00.010-04:00

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

2008-03-06T21:20:00.003-05:00

Starbucks. Economic imperialism has never tasted so good.

There Will Be Blood

2008-03-03T22:04:00.006-05:00

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

2008-02-27T15:51:00.006-05:00

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

2008-02-23T23:48:00.003-05:00

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

2008-02-15T18:48:00.005-05:00

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!

2008-02-11T22:25:00.000-05:00

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

2008-02-07T18:12:00.000-05:00

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

2008-02-01T21:50:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-28T23:42:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-25T19:32:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-01-22T22:29:00.000-05:00

Heath Ledger dies.
Bryan Nagle lives.

When You Wake Up Feeling Old

2008-01-17T14:41:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-15T13:25:00.000-05:00

"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

2008-01-07T15:10:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-02T13:25:00.000-05:00

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).

Burning Trees and Buzzing Bees

2007-12-27T22:57:00.000-05:00

Obviously, the promises of the former post will be ignored for the sake of discontinuity throughout this blog. Incongruity is next to spontaneity, and spontaneity is next to fresh, and that is what this blog is: fresh.
I am not wholly beguiled by Keren Ann; I have deemed her "too poppy and radio-friendly"; however, she is not the abomination some make her to be. Anywhoers, Dean and Britta are playing with KA (the affectionate initials) and D & B are a solid duo: certainly not a concert that will garner five "K's" (according to the Kowalski rating scale) but nonetheless has the potential for some auditory pleasure.
My camera does not receive nearly enough use: my first Facebook album in months features a mere seven photos -- but seven is a very biblical number so things could be worse.

My life needs structure.
Without structure I flounder around like a lost duck.
An indolent imposture is for the uninspired.

Oregon Girl

2007-12-19T21:52:00.000-05:00

I have concluded the arduous examination period; the horror and terror were merely temporal. Now what? I shall voyage homeward tomorrow in my fancy jalopy, blaring B&S tunes and daydreaming of better things. I will connect with some old confreres and we will reminisce about older days and speak fondly of our futures. Perhaps I will even venture into terrible Toronto, and see an old Iranian buddy and chant Persian idioms such as: "Marg bar Amrika! Marg bar Amrika!" To prevent this blog from becoming be too esoteric I will translate that affectionate chant into English: "Death to America"! Of course, we do not actually wish death upon the lovely Great Satan, but we -- or at least I, like to understand and interpret other cultures by privately participating in their sordid activities. On the topic of America, and the notion that I have nothing to do, I will offer a brief insight into the coming Democratic and Republican nominations. Ladies first, so I shall begin with the Democrats. That previous sentence may come across as an insult, but I was merely alluding to Hilary.
Uh oh. Things have come up. I must depart this post immediately. Stay tuned -- you have 70 billion reasons to. If you caught the significance of that number, you deserve 4 political-hipster points. I must go... they are waiting.

Between The Flatland And The Caspian Sea

2007-12-16T14:36:00.000-05:00

Church was canceled this morning due to snow. Through my window I see a pleasant tempest outside.
Four exams over the next three days. Tough break.

Remember when I desired to see Klaxons and Voxtrot, but decided I only had enough resources to venture to one show -- so I chose Voxtrot and they canceled on me.
You know, I cannot even recall the last concert I've attended. I have been desperately searching for shows, like a rabid dog hunts flesh -- and finally, I have found one: Keren Ann is playing circa early February in Toronto. Now, she has not cracked the top fifty on Last.fm, which is a touch concerning; however, I have faith that with some more listening, and in respect to her ethereal persona and Israeli/French ancestry, I could fade into a soft shade of love before today's end. She'll never be Hope Sandoval, but you gots to work with whats yous gots. One particularly salient con of KA (the affectionate initials, obviously) is that one of her lovely tunes was featured in some lame television show. Oh, well, even Mazzy Star has been reluctantly exploited by terrible pictures and small-screen series. At least she's not like Wilco and sells her soul to a car companies. By Jove! Wilco needs a shot in the arm. Anywhoers, this is quite the digressive tangent, so I will halt.

Study, study, or fail, fail. Although, if I study I will likely die and thus fail. Paradox. Fox in the snow.

This Side Of The Blue

2007-12-12T22:33:00.000-05:00

I am unequivocally disenchanted with life today. Time is dawdling in the flowery fields, ignoring my desolate cries to hurry on.
In short, I am mildly bored for the first time in ages. Thankfully, I know the remedy to boredom a la Dorothy Parker: The cure for boredom is curiosity. What to do with this remedy? I don't know.
I have altered my schedule for next semester. After a meeting with the fine folks in the registrar's office tomorrow, my schedule should appear something like this:

Global History (Core)
Theatre (To stretch)
Philosophy of Religion (Core)
Reformation Theology (Gateway to better theology courses)
History of Missions (Because missionaries are hipsters: thin, arrogant, and they listen to obscure tribal music)

The forthcoming semester is churlish. Of course, school has always been churlish. Why should next semester be any exception?
Although next semester I have those grand volunteer plans which should integrate some immediate (if not temporal) meaning to my existence save studying and succoring my fellow confreres with their struggles.
Thomas Mann was brilliant, if not demoniacally possessed.

If You're Feeling Sinister...(Which I am not).

2007-12-10T23:42:00.000-05:00

The basketball courts, through some meteorological phenomena, have turned to ice -- and it is very, very skater-friendly. We played hockey last gloaming and was likely the grandest gloaming, ever -- or at least for some time.
It is a poor time for such inexplicable beatitudes, for exams are nigh. I tapped one today. As they say around here, I pwned that sucker. I wrote for a longevity and a half, which translated to like ten pages and my print is rather small. Essay exams are relatively splendid insofar as exams being splendid are concerned. The forthcoming multiple choice exams will be deathlike. I have a flippin' week off, then I write four exams in three days. What a daffy sched. May be my downfall.
Is there a connection between Belle & Sebastian's "She's Losing It" and Cat Stevens' "Sad Lisa"? Good question. I don't know.
By Jove! I am beat: the soul, the root, of beatific.

Mary of Silence

2007-12-08T18:08:00.000-05:00

This American election is tainting my Google news feed. The religious exploits are sickening -- and by Jove! that credulous mob is maddening! It's just one fantastic asylum with hordes of patients, scheming attendants, and a corrupt superintendent. The patients would organize a rebellion but they have been drugged with hallucinatory propaganda. But there's always that one patient; that patient that spits out their meds and finally sees. That patient -- Hope Sandoval.

Put on the kettle and mull over this beatific article.

Bavarian Fruit Bread

2007-12-07T23:28:00.000-05:00

I passed.

To celebrate:
Being bashful in one's room
In a beatific state
with mellifluous Hope
harmonizing his soul
With the outer extravagance
of tangible noises

L'envoi
You may punctuate, but you cannot change
lanes.

Shine or Die

2007-12-07T00:51:00.000-05:00

Today is the day I either prove my driving deftness or have my license rudely plucked from my hand rendering me doleful and car-less, which would be a Laura Dern shame 'cause:

I love my car
I'll admit today I've gone too far
To enamour myself with my little motor car

I wish I could say the same for you
The day will come soon when I look you in your eyes but
I won't see you

Ten hipster points for naming the artist of this catchy number.

Redeemer Intruders

2007-12-05T15:35:00.000-05:00

So, I presented my little convoluted spiel on the Beat Generation and nobody was overly impressed. My public speaking skills are stagnant apparently. The very first thing Mike says after the completion of my presentation: "Wow. How many words of the day did you use?" Yass, I think the class got lost, but this gig was not meant for everybody -- particularly philistines and a man with a grade book. Some lad read a Trainspotting monologue and I forgot I was at Redeemer. Another fellow read a Death Cab For Cutie lyric and I desperately attempted to conceal my inner laughter.

I have class now and one tomorrow -- and then this semester's course schedule is complete. About time.

I changed my homepage from BBC to GoogleNews. Now I filter the news... sort of. The Israeli press usually offers some deep laughs. The world is dumb.

I forgot the friggin' crux

2007-12-01T22:32:00.001-05:00

I've been pleasuring my auditory system with borderline female this-is-almost-pop-so-I-feel-guilty tunes lately, and consequently I feel rather guilty. I am just beguiled by Sarah Blasko and to a lesser extent, Leona Naess. Screw you both.
My hockey knowledge is extensive and perhaps I should cut back.
Tomorrow I am attending a legitimate church.
Frig.
I had a purpose to this post but my mind is blank. It does this often. I need a new mind.

Here come the lonely ones

2007-11-29T17:44:00.000-05:00

On Sunday, I headed to church like a good, small town Christian boy. I attended a church I had never been to before -- a nondenom. I thought the Call to Worship thing was weirdly individualistic. Then I felt a demonic presence. That's when I realize: this is no church. This is a Unitarian Universalist centre and they basically desired for me to toss out Jesus and accept a bright ball of light into my soul to gain higher spiritual understanding. I attempted to flee but some angry-looking bandanna man slammed the door. Then some lost soul grabbed my hand, swayed, and sang. And, loneys, the preacher woman: so savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent! Her insanity impressed me but her denseness destroyed her credibility to even a credulous individual. But she made these lost folks impressionable -- on a lesser scale akin to Republicans harvesting Evangelicals into little fascists in the States.
I manged to shamble out during some New Age witchery while they had their red eyes closed.
One of them flung itself on its hindlegs and begged me to stay but I am no sucker.
What a let down. Someone needs to crush that pagan palace into the ground.

On the run with a loaded gun, fun fun fun, let me tell ya about it hun

2007-11-24T23:05:00.000-05:00

After completing the arduous process of writing ten profound albeit convoluted (writing lucidly is for boring folk) pages on the historical analysis of Acts twenty-seven, I am wholly knackered. My deft ability of punctuating time will be tested with the following annoyances: memorizing some queer's poem and preparing an elaborate and eloquent presentation of the Beat generation; completing an eight page lab on sordid scientific extraneousness; catching up on like six mission journals; trying to organize handwritten notes in class because my friggin' laptop battery is moribund; order a new laptop battery; and prepare for my G test.

The latter is the ne plus ultra of aggravation. I successfully completed my driving test circa five years ago, why must I endure another? Has my driving adroitness lapsed in this five year frame? I despise my government, wasting my time. God willing, I will place an exclamation mark on this nuisance and move on with my life -- otherwise, I best get out my winter boats, as I'll be trotting through the snow wherever I go.

Flying a Kite

2007-11-21T14:28:00.000-05:00

So, I am in this incredibly churlish class -- public speaking -- and I needed to pre-record my presentation so that my inferior superior may critique my style and offer suggestions on how to improve my presentation come gig time. Since the class is a gong show, I delayed this until the final minutes of the deadline. I madly wrote an outline, and considering this entire thing was concocted in fifteen minutes, I think it's dece. Aight, here you are, TAH-DUH! (I wrote this to the Scissor Sisters):

My heroic theme is the Beat Generation. This was an anti-culture movement in America circa the forties and fifties where a group of writers essentially wrote about their lives and labeled themselves the Beat generation -- now affectionately named beatniks by adoring fans of said literature. Two salient beats for this generation are Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. I will read from their respective magnum opuses –- Kerouac’s novel “On The Road” and Ginsberg’s poem “Howl”.

(I now read some Kerouac -- part two: chapter three; beginning with "It was the saddest night" -- and so you may turn to this and read it yourself as I assume On The Road is on your shelf next to your Bible).

(Then I read some Ginsberg -- perhaps with a lisp -- and I need to have this memorized. Daunting)

(Now I have a sort of reflection type deal, which is essentially a stream of consciousness written against time. Forgive the solecisms -- a brother has other things to accomplish too, you know).

These readings certainly offer a very vivid and sordid taste in your mouths. This was a bohemian hedonistic lifestyle that rendered its abusers into whirlwind manic mania and soul dropping anti-climatic lows -- all this created by frustration and boredom and pure resistance towards to what they would consider an inferior and sadder culture, where folks are fixed labels and brands and deathly devoid of soul, profundity, and introspection. They desired challenge and truth to determine “time”; to determine what “it” is; but in the interim, indulge in debauchery and fall deeply into a strange and fantastic cosmos that ultimately destroyed their very souls that they desperately attempted to enliven and enlighten. Their libertine-esque ways drove stakes into the very hearts of the ones they desired to love, as their incessantly restive states could never be satisfied, until everything was known and all joys experienced.
This movement was particularly salient in the 60’s and 70’s as it served as the fundamental ideology of the explosive free bird hippie movement -- but with classic hipster snootiness, they repudiate such claims.
So what does all this mean? Why do I bother speaking about these pagan vagabonds? Well, this is not mere persiflage, there are truths and non-truths to be learned from this sordid bunch: 1. Debauchery and hedonistic propensities may offer some mirage of happiness but you’ll end up street-ridden and poor financially from hookers and poor spiritually -- also from hookers. 2. Everything feigns fecundity when one is hopped up on hallucinatory drugs. Maybe nothing is learned t’all. 3. Aight, here’s a truth: Our culture does blow chunks. It’s materialistic; it pressures justice negligence; it’s sour; it offers happiness through dumbing oneself down and accepting the gloomy quotas as normal; and there is a corona around everything that the media shines it black light upon.
(now note the classy Christian tie-in)
What does one do? I joined an irresistible revolution in Christianity, attempting to live as a rebel for Christ. But it is a struggle with external pressures boxing me in. But I aspire to delve profoundly into Christ, as the Beaters dug into pot and women.

(Class is wholly confused, and I smile and leave them all behind -- they'll never see a bad guy like me again).

Doldrums

2007-11-14T19:43:00.001-05:00

Nothingness.

L'envoi:
The sun never reaches here.
The shadows have won.

Frigger

2007-11-09T08:23:00.000-05:00

My frigger glasses snapped into two pieces. It wasn't even my fault this time; it was my weak motor skills and lackluster coordination, aight listen: I was holding my glasses in my hands, exiting my room when my hand proceeds to smack itself off the corner of the wall. Frig. I have attended my first class without glasses -- mathematics 101, the most primitive class ever -- and I was wholly confused. The "professor" was blathering on about something and scribbling on the chalk board madly. Due to my inadequate vision, I could not even acknowledge the presence of chalk on the board, save those audio aspects of writing on the blackboard. After two minutes I realized I would never learn anything and thus entered my "high school zone" and began to woolgather and write down odd thoughts and sicko pictures. Before I knew it, the class was over. No wonder I never learned a thing in high school. Ideally, I will order a spanking pair today from Costco but the situation is already dire, and new glasses will take ages to arrive. Friggers.

My lab partner refuses to meet with me and hence our compulsory lab is now four days late. Oh mys, seriously, what the frig? Group projects result in nothing but frustrating failure.

By Jove! a venture to Costco will result in skipping yet another political science class. I despise attendance more than my this course itself. Wait, no I don't. This course is ridiculously vapid and offers no succor to this semester's pseudo-education. Maybe I just don't like learning.

This privileged ingrate from Barcelona offers these semi-related words to my first paragraph:

Don't want to wear glasses
Though I know that I should
So I have to take chances
When I walk through the hood

Forgive the solecisms and I will forgive you.

I'm a love letter away

2007-11-06T18:15:00.000-05:00

Stay tuned for Bible lesson.

I'd get angry with athletic ease, break common laws in twos and threes

2007-10-27T22:45:00.001-04:00

"How did you get home so fast? You must of been speeding".
"Uhhh..." (holds up ticket) "Yeah, I kinda did."

The Darjeeling Limited

2007-10-26T15:04:00.000-04:00

My long, flowy hair is no more. It has been shaved away like Richie Tenenbaum's. Or in other words: the former me was akin to Gilbert Grape, but now my appearance resembles that of Dan Dunne. If you have received these references with ease, then likely you'll understand the stupidity of this conversation:

Anonymous daff: (blah blah) ...My favourite actor is Johnny Depp!
Hero: Yes, yes! Oh, Ed Wood is amongst my most coveted pictures!
Anonymous daff: Who's Ed Woood?
Hero: Umm... I mean, how about that Pirates of the Caribbean picture?
Anonymous daff: Omg! POTC is my favourite movie, and I loved him before POTC too!
Hero: Philistine.
Anonymous daff: What? I'm pro-Israel.

Perhaps this was mildly critical but someone needs to put this anonymous daff in her place and who writes about beatniks and other happy things when an environmental science essay is lingering over one's head like a guillotine.

Continuing the film motif: I must view this "Control" picture, which deals with that Joy Division guy who liquidated himself at 23.

Rainbow River is running low this year, and that big fish is a slippery bugger

2007-10-21T12:16:00.000-04:00

This semester is wearing on me. I pretty much despise half my classes. Let's attack each of these pseudo-educational classes individually, shall we?

Mathematics 101: This class is essentially a dumbed down version of grade seven mathematics -- and yet, some in the class malfunction and thus look silly. My teacher -- who incessantly jabbers about her new lover Bruno and her punk kids -- dares to call me out in class: "Bryan, I don't see any light bulbs going off in your head; you probably know all this don't you? Why don't you teach the class -- here's the chalk." Despite The Libertines and Cat Stevens efforts telling me not be shy and Floyd telling me to stick it to the man, I become somewhat of a recreant and say nothing, but direct a "screw you" stare at her. All I do in this class is doodle, while my confrere Reuben chows on a burger and completes his physics homework -- "real math". By the way, there is no homework is math 101 save writing in our journals regarding the "cool" aspects of mathematics.

Environmental Science: Carbon cycle? Phosphorus cycle? Convoluted labs where I roam about like a beatnik -- extremely confounded and despaired -- and yet pull off an eighty percent? Yee. Seriously though, this class has no benefit save Redeemer's ability to claim of producing well-rounded students.

Political Science: The biggest let down of the year. We learn some nuanced definition of a nation and then the teacher asks: is Canada a nation? -- and half the class neglects to raise their hands, figuring, "No, I do not believe I live in nation -- merely Canada". You nebbish folks! Sickening.

I should mention that my other three classes are rather pleasant, but I see no reason to dwell on good things.

Life has been this low, since I don't know when, since I don't know when

2007-10-18T22:56:00.000-04:00

I previously forgot to give a screw-you-shout-out to Voxtrot for canceling their show -- and so I'll take the opportunity afforded to me here: screw you Voxtrot -- I hate you.

In other news I read this on my grand confreres Emil Svanängens' website: "for the moment i am looking for a bass clarinet and a double bass. ps. i might even make an album soon, need time and space." I promptly purchased a bass clarinet today and will practice twelve hours-a-day in a dreamy hope that Emil will bring me on board and we'll play mellifluous shows all around the world whilst eating Swedish meatballs, mingling with Mats Sundin, and fetching Swedish femmes with golden hair and eyes with the bluest of hues.

If you don't like Loney, dear then you are a cold unfeeling robot.

I'm a cloud of moths, who just wants to share your light. I'm an insect who wants to get out of the night

2007-10-11T18:06:00.000-04:00

All sorts of weird things happen around here. For example(s): Two days ago we happened upon a skunk outside our dorm. Obviously, we chased it with a stick until it bolted for refuge underneath our mini wooden deck thing -- actually, it is more like a crate, which functions as a weak deck -- anyway this is digressive -- back to the point: the crate is lifted by one intrepid soul and the other fellows chucked walnuts at this sucker (these other fellows had walnuts because they previously been attempting to hurl walnuts at a raccoon who had stolen some of their garbage). The skunk was becoming pissed and thus it was decided to liquidate it before it begins to spray us with heinous gases. So they grab spears and begin to rocket these spears, like you would to hunt a whale, at our poor little anti-hero. But this little bugger refused to die and sprayed out pungent, toxic fumes and we fled like mad in fear of this poisonous mist that would cause even Cal Dewitt to lose some of his charismatic charm. Our entire living room reeked of old moribund monks- I mean skunks. The skunk had won. This is until five minutes later when some creation-hatin' folks returned with cherry bombs and fried that little SOB.

In other news, the referendum was rejected by nebbish Ontarians and the Liberals maintained their majority despite four years of worn rhetoric regarding every salient issue one could think of. If the referendum had passed the NDP and Green Party would have more seats and the Ontarian population would of been better represented; but John Tory -- the perennial loser of the Progressive Conservatives -- dissuaded enough of populace from doing so.

On to more important matters: Radiohead released In Rainbows to much praise from your own anti-hero. It sounds more lush to me, almost akin to some of my shoegazing heros. The lyrics are melancholic as always and listening to the album more than three times-a-day will result in a bout of depression.

Pale blue light along the coast

2007-10-06T23:16:00.000-04:00

I am Nik Antropov from the 00-01 season -- the epitome of second tier. I swear I used to have mildly impressive hockey skills but they have dissipated deeply. You may be able to stretch this mediocrity struggle into a life motif: my life ambitions seem to hit the ne plus ultra territory lately -- but I do cannot elucidate these ambitions -- and they seem so grandeur, I need to crack 'em. ...but I cannot even crack Photoshop -- what chance do I have at life cracks? I cannot bring up cracksforsordidhackers.com and scroll down to life crack: 1343 2343 2343 2343 2343
If I were not so gauche and shy, things would be ineffably (word of the day last month but forgot her in the hat until now(notice I used "her", you vexing feminists)) easier. For example: Science class -- my environmental science professor mentions some sinister Australian jellyfish that liquidates people. He could not recall the name of the jelly and just stood there for a moment. Now, my knowledge of jellyfish -- particularly this Australian jellyfish -- is impressive and I immediately knew he was speaking of the Irukandji jellyfish, of which a sting results in Irukanji syndrome -- my favourite illness at the moment -- but I bashfully remained behind my laptop, feigning ignorance to my ability of specifying jellyfish.
After remaining silent, I desperately needed to speak out due to by suppressed voluble nature and thus I headed off to public speaking and delivered some ridiculous speech regarding my navigation struggles in the made metropolis of Hamilton and receive laughs a dime a half-dozen. Then, after naively believing I came across as a comical Clive Owen, my teacher stigmatizes me as "very Woody Allen like" and I return home frustrated and pick-up the paper: provincial elections are here -- like I wasn't frustrated enough. They all present nebulous and not even well crafted promises and I'd just rather see a junta come to power. Perhaps I'll refuse my ballot.
Thanksgiving is here and I am very thankful for many things -- except turkey. Actually, this is a pleasant break from school and I am quite content.

"Did you get the memo?" - "Yeah, it was kind of harsh."

2007-10-02T18:51:00.000-04:00

Memo to stingy Iranians:

Persians who neglect their own blog and yet still demand free advertising for aforementioned blog are daft and destroy the credibility of this page as I promise my fans that my links will be fresh and stimulating.

In other news, some intense folks just stopped by with a dish in hand and pressed me very firmly on this issue: is this dish a bowl or a plate? I determined it was a saucer.

Black Sunday

2007-09-30T13:47:00.001-04:00

Remember that time we were traveling to Trinity Baptist Church but then learned that Google is mendacious and thus Trinity Baptist does not even exist in Ancaster at all. So we hit the church strip to find another church but it was eleven and the only church that began around then was some Catholic church; and we thought, hey, Catholics cannot be that different; and then once inside we realized that Catholics are that different; and communion was about to be served and we thought, hey we're Christians too, may we not partake in communion?; and then we realized that we knew nothing of Catholic tradition and I had essentially plucked Jesus' flesh right outta this woman's hands and began to walk away with it when she sternly advised: "sir, put it in your mouth, now." -- and I ate it really quickly because I was scared of the woman; and then she stared us down because our actions were seen as turpitudinous; and then we booked it outta there before 'cause we were so terrified to spill Jesus' blood. Remember that time we basically defiled the Catholic church and chuckled cause they had a framed photo of Benedict and then had to finish communion at Tim Horton's?

Lassitude

2007-09-25T00:32:00.000-04:00

I pretty much have the equivalent of Irukandji syndrome, except this plague has manifested itself as a common cold; regardless, I languidly wander about the dorm, drawing criticism from my dorm mates who do not pity the sick. I need notes for the classes missed today. In a few hours I must write a Lab quiz, followed by three hours of lab loitering and unsuccessfully feigning scientist status.

The other day whilst cruising through some Hamilton ghetto, I passed this really sketchy and worn apartment (likely a brothel or some other sordid thing) with the words, "Yuppie Condos" spray painted on the side.

Loneys, five hours until second tryout

2007-09-18T22:44:00.000-04:00

The original aspiration to become a Redeemer hockey hero has fizzled for the following reasons: I have no endurance; I've lost skating ability like nothing else; my once booming shot is now merely average; and I am pathetically weak. Regardless of these salient anti-attributes, I will likely attend the second tryout. Once again the following thoughts may run through my head as I struggle to simply perform a figure eight around a dot (each phrase is presupposed with a "loneys"): "Everything feels so heavy and burns ever so painfully; cut me now; my soft and inaccurate shot is akin to Nazi soldiers; I am getting beat as morbidly as a Nazi soldier", and so on. This may sound like a no gooder situation -- and it is -- but I am not overly concerned about my whilom abilities. Side note: Whilom is the word of the day.

Some of my classes are offering some intrigue, which is a pleasant. Further optimism: We have solidified a ball hockey team for intermurals.

L'envoi

Life is cold; but not hypothermia cold. No, no, I am content for the moment.

I Loved Them Until They Loved Me

2007-09-16T21:48:00.000-04:00

Chanson: Ballade At Thirty Five
Written by dear Dorothy Parker, and mellifluously sung by dear Carla Bruni.

This, no song of ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever the natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me.

Decked in garments of sable hue,
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
Through God's acre of memory,
Marking stones, in my reverence,
"I loved them until they loved me."

Pictures pass me in long review,--
Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender, and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us -- hence
I loved them until they loved me.

L'envoi

Princes, never I'd give offense,
Won't you think of me tenderly?
Here's my strength and my weakness, gents --
I loved them until they loved me.

Landmark

2007-09-13T10:28:00.000-04:00

Today, Tim freely listens to Carla Bruni. Is this for her mellifluous chords or her strikingly luscious exterior? Perhaps both. None-the-less, the maudlin John Mayer is losing playing time--and this, my daffy little readers, is a salient point of conversion from mob behaviour to an ear searching for truth; not immediate gratification from trash blowing in the wind.

Regardless, Tim has auditory ADD; therefore, switching songs about every fifteen seconds and arousing cholericism within my soul.

Oh, he plays The National now! Loneys! The world is not so cold.

TERROR

2007-09-11T00:25:00.000-04:00

There are hordes of tiny black insects hovering about my room; they are stygian and harvest my flesh! There are millions of these things on my walls! TERROR.

My dear fellow sufferer Marianne:

Posted by Marianne on August 01, 2007 at 00:43:24:

"Please help me identify these little black bugs. I recently found them on the ceiling of a light and that is where most of them were. They also were on the walls. These things are tiny but there were a few bigger ones on the wall. I am so freaked out I wont sleep in that room. Can anyone tell me what they are and how to get rid of them. I am going nuts. I killed a bunch of them last night and now there are more in the same spots. Any help??????????????"

No one answered her! NO ONE. DOES NO ONE CARE.

IT IS 12:30, I SHOULD SLEEP--BUT I WILL NOT! OH, THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.

Daffy Dances, Misplaced Misomusy

2007-09-09T19:26:00.000-04:00

This "decade dance" bled lameness. Dancing is a weak justification to socialize, yet no one actually socializes due to blaring sound waves--and mostly I would rather listen to music than mingle with the mob. I attended this charade as a more stylized version of Jack Kerouac--but I appeared to be your atypical illicit drug abuser. Kerouac was actually a heavy drinker and this played a salient role in his ultimate mortal destruction. I substituted liquor with orange juice -- everyone was sipping on OJ -- and we rebelliously tossed our empty bottles onto the grass. Immediately, of course, we placed them into the recycling bin after this feigned hooliganism. I wore shades and everything appeared inky and blended and I was thoroughly confounded. I danced gauchely and cursed the ancient folk who created this morbid pastime.

Mondays will be deathlike this semester: I have four day classes followed by a three hour night class. Furthermore, on Tuesday I have a three hour morning lab and By Jove! do I have absolutely despise labs. Monday and Tuesdays are a one-two punch that may only be compared to Nistelrooy-Ferdinand of Manchester United.

Life is cold.

Killer's Creek

2007-09-07T17:14:00.000-04:00

Redeemer security has no compassion; they are unforgiving and choleric. Perhaps this is because their employment sucks--but I was always amiable towards Shell customers and I despised them all. I must now pay twenty-five dollars to this tyrannical institution. HAVE I NOT DONATED ENOUGH MONEY TO THIS SORDID PLACE. I am embittered as few will ever be. Adding on to my destruction, my glasses are broken. I cannot see; I cannot take notes; I cannot drive; and I cannot live!

I am not fine with this! Oh, inverted fractions.

2007-09-07T00:08:00.000-04:00

I am a criminal. I illegitimately parked my jalopy outside of my designated parking zone. I will appeal this ticket to the highest court possible--the Redeemer parking counsel. Other than this holy terror and a plethora of other issues burning my mind, I am stellar.
The other day, your hero and his confrere ventured off on an intense exhibition to befriend newsters. For some odd reason, we seemed drawn to freshman female dorms. This exhibition was pretty much like the Sable Island exhibition in '05--when a team of scientists headed to the island and solve the enigma of the slaughter of innocent seals, but winter came early and thus results were inconclusive--and the awkward moments on our befriending adventure could of confounded a seal so intensely that it would die. Furthermore, the RA's of these first year dorms were suspicious of our intentions, thinking maybe we were sordid characters on the prowl to pick-up venerable youngsters.
My math teacher called me out in class to answer a question while I was busy woolgathering and demanded I invert and multiply; she made a fool of me.
More so, a compulsory science course inclusive with a three hour lab is an overt anti-blessing and I resent it.
I believe I told Hendy I would blog about important matters like my brand name clothing and how I'm a hypocritical corporate whore, but obviously I chose not to.

Say Something New

2007-08-28T23:19:00.000-04:00

Unemployment feels swell. The path to Redeemer is like the Underground Railroad.

A spanking new email has been conceived via hotmail. I will begin the arduous process of adding contacts shortly. I anticipate this MSN list will be much shorter and efficient; there are a myriad of contacts on my current list that I never talk to anymore.

Packing sucks.

My chiropractor has been moderately successful; but for the green he commanded, he should of restored my deviated spine and financed an exhibition to the Arctic. According to Canadian scientists our Arctic passages are melting at an alarmingly quicker rate each year come spring. As the ice melts quicker, our northern passage route will become an ideal route for oil tankers to use year-round; and with temperatures rising, it will become realistic to drill for oil in our vast Arctic area. In this Arctic area is like one quarter of the world's oil. Loneys! I hope Shell's parent company gets in on this action!

I would like to thank you, the mob

2007-08-25T23:52:00.000-04:00

Upon my arrival at Shell today, there was about forty-five cents in the "give a penny/take a penny" tray. This was amble change for me to purchase some gum. Thank you.

Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying

2007-08-24T20:32:00.000-04:00

If this summer lasts any longer I'll need to revise my will. I am on pins and needles awaiting my education. First semester I will receive some very undesirable education in the forms of environmental science and mathematics. I'll likely need to enroll in biology next semester too--what a crock. Upon further review of my first semester I am not over-the-moon about any of these subjects. I'm basically still taking Redeemer's cores. After I suffer through these compulsories, I may enroll in higher education.
Furthermore, I am not even mildly eupeptic about these ongoing social activities during the first week or so. To cap off these fatuous social gatherings a decade dance will take place: I'd rather be moribund with Irukandji syndrome (Wiki that; it's an interesting way to approach possible death). Despite my reasonable apprehensions I will attend these death-functions because I am sociable and even voluble when properly enticed.
Despite these grievances I am very eager to commence my second term. I'm thrilled to see my dear confreres once again; I am rooming with Tim. This should make our room a social mecca.

She Hangs Brightly

2007-08-21T22:08:00.000-04:00

Mazzy Star. Yes, yes! If only I were born twenty years earlier in Southern California, I would of wooed Hope Sandoval and we'd been introspective together; if only this were so. Furthermore I'd be confreres with My Bloody Valentine and The Jesus and Mary Chain and we'd shoot the warm, sultry Californian breeze. Per contra this pleasant fiction, I suffer through sub-par indie pictures like Down in the Valley just to hear Hope's mellifluous tones. Mazzy Star, like Radiohead, is allegedly bleeding a new record but they're recording with a dull knife. But unlike Radiohead, MS (the affectionate acronym) play gigs at very humble concert halls with inky lighting and self-conscious bashfulness; they will neglect the audience and play only a short while and only encore if the audience has behaved -- been respectfully quiet and not photographed -- and of course all this business occurs after a few hours of waiting. The consequences of such a performance may lose them a fan but this fan is a daff for he not know how privileged he is to hear euphonious chords from the ethereal persona that is Hope Sandoval.

On a non-Mazzy note, I viewed some X-Games -- BMX Park -- and By Jove! have none of those athletes viewed the Lords of Dogtown picture. I mean, Dave Mirra, is a corporate whore. How does he garner any respect? But then I saw other athletes and they were all corporate whores. Skip would not be impressed; Skip would not call any of these sordid punks "bro".

This is my final weekend with Shell. A shame. I was becoming accustomed to my duties and becoming adroit and handy. A shame. I was functional and borderline competent and they will sorely desire my abilities while I am off becoming learned. A shame.

Brief brush with a Nationalist

2007-08-15T17:11:00.000-04:00

I was puttering about in my jalopy when I noticed a fancy roadster desperately attempting to merge into traffic; being the altruistic individual I are, I allowed this swank car to merge ahead of me. Then I noticed this automobile was that of a nationalist -- a Florida license plate with a "Support Our Troops" sticker -- and needless to say, I was sickened and realized why no Canadian was letting him merge. Considering my love-everyone yet dislike-most policy, I did not regret my decision; but I received no thank-you wave -- NO THANK-YOU WAVE! Loneys, the things I did for this Neo-Conservative (in Liberal Canada) and he neglects or refuses to acknowledge this courteous act --shame on you, ingrate!

Loomer

2007-08-12T19:16:00.000-04:00

I viewed this picture, Stardust -- not for cinematic value; but to heal my sore eyes on the toothsome Michelle Pfeiffer. By Jove! she has aged; not the Pfeiffer I fondly recall from The Fabulous Baker Boys. TFFB (as "fans" call it), was filmed way back in '88 and that was -- whoa! nearly twenty years ago! Well, I suppose, she is the most delectable forty-something my eyes will ever lay upon.
After the picture, we -- my confreres and hotnags (I) -- headed over for some grand family fun at Boston Pizza. I ordered an Italian pasta dish, which was a far distance from ambrosia but good enough for me and the contemporary Michelle Pfieffer. The conversation shifted to music and exuberantly I began speaking of My Bloody Valentine and other shoegaze artists who have made life worth while lately. Not one confrere had heard of this foreign sounding "shoegaze" and despondently no one cared to expand their listening propensities. The conversation turned to The Peppers and some chatter about Flea. I mentioned John Frusciante and confusion ensued: "Who is this John Frusciante that mad Nags is mentioning?; a man from some indie band no doubt". I looked ruefully at my plate where I had been carefully dissecting my dinner with my fork functioning as the instrument of exhibition.
Aight, I have Big Brother lined up on CBS now; a shame really as I intended to speak on my most pressing global concern at the moment: hitchhiking. Upon reading "On The Road" my opinion of hitchhiking is quite clear: It's wikid. But where, oh where! are the hitchhikers today? We'll discuss this later.

Update List Five

2007-08-09T15:43:00.000-04:00

1. I have a Sociology examination tomorrow. Loneys.

2. A new spanking email will be unveiled shortly.

3. I've been hitting up shoegaze/dream pop lately. After falling for Asobi Seksu, I thought it appropriate to venture back into the beginnings of these genres so that I may respect the foundations -- otherwise I'd be akin to a Muse fan who neglects Radiohead; thus, I'm allowing my ears to pick up the sonically-ambiguous soundscapes of My Bloody Valentine, Slowdive, Mazzy Star, The Jesus Mary Chain, Cocteau Twins and what have you. At first, I was uneasy listening to Mazzy Star because their song "Fade Into You" has played on virtually every "hit" Fox teen TV show. But after some careful research, I discovered that Mazzy Star repudiated their fame and were notoriously difficult in interviews, frequently responding with monosyllables or no response all; this gave me peace in my Mazzy Star listening endeavors.

4A. I will learn advanced photoshop skills and improve upon my lacklustre photos.

4B. I will learn rudimentary web making skills and design some below mediocre blog so I'm not confined and censored as I am here at Blogspot. Plus, everyone has blogspot or some other high profile blogging source and the unoriginality of it all is tragic.

5. I contritely watch Big Brother three times a week. No matter what you think I will continue to do so and cheer on my favourite reality stars. Is it ironic that I despise the three Christians on show? Or is it just natural because Christians are misrepresented socially and politically?

Nothingsevergonnastandinmyway(again)

2007-08-06T00:04:00.000-04:00

Today some geezer handed me a counterfeit twenty and made off like an Arab.

Also, a man purchased condoms yet his wedding finger was bare. Nevertheless he was grinning madly. Maybe he was playing a prank. I was confounded (Nah, I am not so naive; obviously his intent was sinful reverie with some confused girl).

I was blasting Asobi Seksu as a mating call; no dame responded.

A daytripping negro swaggered into the station and asked for some rolling papers. It would be reasonable to hypothesize that this stoner is living in the controversial low income housing project in Uxbridge.

To conclude: I was mulling over The Economist -- a magazine situated in the middle of US Weekly and In Touch (a mere centimeter separates intellectionalism and idiocy) -- and in walks some ditz.

Ditz: "When do you guys close?"
Stud: "We're 24/7."
Ditz: "Everyday?"

I'm guessing this ditz character is reaching one centimetre in the wrong direction. Unless, of course, this apparent dumbness is due to extreme social consciousness; in which case a judgement call cannot be made.

I was swimming in grey, swimming in grey

2007-07-31T12:11:00.000-04:00

My youth may be summed up like this: I was a wanderlust with an unhealthy beguilement for bunnies and gas huffing. It was a youth fraught with disturbing dreams and lugubrious days.
I reminisce on my past because my sister is applying for a position in which she needs to submit a page of creative writing; thus she turned to me to provide her with that page. I have not written anything remotely creative in the past year save a short screenplay with my confrere Dale; therefore, I had to scavenge through my prolific high school era (and to a lesser extent the U of T depression of 05/06) and uncover something worthy for Jena's submission. I logged onto my old computer, dug up some graffiti stained notebooks and was overwhelmed with material.
Now, my grade school days were met with much chorlericness, cynicism, and an anti-everything attitude. These adjectives may not be entirely obsolete towards my current persona, but I am nowhere near the dark abyss I was treading years ago. During this dark period I prominently wrote screenplays. I found circa thirty screenplays on my computer; half of those incomplete and with themes and ideas so peculiar and convoluted they have become inexplicable to the author. The material that is comprehensible is black and incongruous and by no means appropriate for any official submission. Thankfully I no longer resonate with these drafts; however, I must commend myself for such creativity and motivation to write as much as I did. I lived with thunderstruck fantasy and dreams with chimeras skulking about my mind. Whatever happened to those days? I was flooded with ideas daily and was forced many-a-time to ignore lessons and scribble furiously at some spanking idea which would become my magnum opus. I found a certain but limited blithe with these ideas and escaped into a woolgathering world. Looking back I see my writing wasn't so terrible and maybe my self-deprecating fastidiousness was unfounded. But I have not seen this old world for some time. I am now purely confounded. I have nothing left to say now except this: Everything is just far too real for a fabricated man.

By Jove!

2007-07-25T23:32:00.000-04:00

The other day I ventured into the smoggy and dreary city that is Toronto. Having been country confined for a month, I felt like a foreigner. But if you've ever been to Toronto, you'd realize everyone was a foreigner. I rather loathe Toronto, as the mecca of Canada is an unfavourable location for a simple country lad such as myself. Mind you the country is fanged and blood thirsty with stygian mosquitoes and other sinister insects. This is maybe a paradox: Nature and I are opposing ends of magnets, and my curiosity and infatuation with nature leads me deeper into Her heart; but in this heart lies a skulking darkness, which ultimately swarms and repels me so I rapidly scatter to re-trace my steps back towards humanity escaping this feigned utopia. We're drawn together but we destroy one another like a celebrity couple.

Anywhoers I met up with a dear confrere with the noble intent to browse secondhand bookstores and recoup forgotten literary works to revel in. After I indulged in a everythingonit veggiedog, Cajun spiced fries and an Evian, I informed my amie that I was nourished and hydrated for the body, but not yet for the mind - so our trek began. On the way, we bypassed some toothsome Irish dames - think Dolores O'Riordan of The Cranberries (from her good angle)- and as the hobbledehoy I am, I shambled around them so they wouldn't be caught under my shadow; primarily so they wouldn't be deprived of sunbeams they unequivocally craved (they are Irish after all: the milky skinned, freckled type).

Ah, there it is - our desired location - "Seeker's Books." Eagerly, we tottered inside this ancient subterranean shop with rickety shelves and cement walls oozing moisture. And there he is - the epitome secondhand bookstore owners - an anti-Zionist Jew with a passion for conspiracy theories and a penchant to ramble on about these theories to every unsuspecting soul entering his little shop.

Not long after we began digging through forgotten arts, brosif cried victoriously, "Ah, will you look at this!" (he holds up a forgotten work, which remains forgotten to me) "In high school I read this in French," he adds superciliously. Delicately, he opens this novel and feels the pages and I think: this is either an avid book collector or intellectual snobbery; I remain undecided.

After much mulling and mock chatter I decided to purchase a novel by beat generation author Jack Kerouac and a collection of novellas by Thomas Mann.

These events should of been documented with photos but my failing memory failed me; my camera was forgotten unlike Sal.

The Golden One

2007-07-24T20:39:00.001-04:00

I received an informal complaint from Mehran The Persian. He is indignant that his "linkster" has been changed from "Mehran's blog - it's a gooder" to the more simple and efficient "Mehran The Persian". I apologize confrere; however, your feelings are of no importance to me and thus your informal complaint has been repudiated. Your "linkster" will receive a spanking new name for no other reason than I live a vapid existence and it would likely highlight my day.

Last.fm neglected to update weekly listening charts. This is an non-act of war. Though I've become strongly attached to last.fm catering my musical pleasures, I will not hesitate to log off my last.fm pink sphere thing for an entire week in protest.

The other day Mats Sundin purchased gasoline from me. Then Mother informed me there is a deranged man in town that physically resembles and pretends to be Mats Sundin. This is logical, as this imposter was wearing a Sundin t-shirt, driving a lousy automobile and isn't in Sweden.

Asobi Seksu is the greatest Jap-led New York shoegazing/dream pop band ever.

Shoutout to you cats who voted for a spanking email. The turnout was higher than the 2004 Presidential election, yet lower than the atypical American Idol vote. I'm still ambivalent towards a decisive email address; rest assured, the process is ongoing.

Oh, a feeling of lassitude is creepin' up on me... so long.

IndecisiveNags

2007-07-16T17:49:00.000-04:00

The time has come for a spanking new cyberspace mail address; below is an exhaustive list of nominees. Please select which address you feel would do me justice. I've sorted the prospects into categories to ease this task; and of course this address will be activated through Hotmail. Note: some of these prospects are ascribed to Rattnarcotics.

Japanese:
Nageisha
Nagsamauri
Nagosaurus

Religion/Spirituality:
Nagentile
Naghoul
Nagnostic
NagsScientologyCauseJohnTravoltaTomCruiseAndThatBlackGuyFromSouthParkCannotBeWrong
Naglevitation
NagSaintHot

Music Related:
Nagloaming
Naglamrock
NagScissorSisters
Nagrekerna

Seductive/Bewitching (the preferred category I'd say):
Nagazing
Naglaucoma
Naglissade
NagsShags
NaglutenFree
Nagsalad
Nagloaf
NagleyPuff
HotNagsMaids
FinagleTheNagle
Nagleeper
iamforlovers
Naglistens
Naglagoon
NagLust
Nagsicle
NagLoansHisHeartWithoutInterestExceptInYou
NagsInABox

Self-Righteous/Ostentatious:
Nagland
Nagsaga
Nagalore
SwaggerNaggar
Naglegacy
Naganator

Unclassifiable:
NagLethalInjection
Nagscathe
Nagale
Naglock
Nagauche
NaglegitimateChild
Rottenags

These flies don't sting, but stab

2007-07-12T22:25:00.000-04:00

Allright! shoutout time.
Shoutouts to: Ed Harcourt and Joseph Conrad.
That concludes shoutout time.

According to Last.fm, my number one song is "I am John" by Loney, dear (note: only the Swedes know whether the 'dear' should be capitalized). I thought it appropriate to post the lyrics. Having these lyrics available is a luxury, as Loney, dear lyrics are rarer than Woolly Mammoths being found frozen in God-forsaken continents.

Johnny and I, we got lost tonight, we got carried away.
It takes someone like me to lose track like that, to be troubled down,
got a heart full of plans but nowhere to run.
There were seventeen dogs out to track us down
and I got some bruises and I got a scar but now,
never gonna let you down,
and I got it wrong like I knew I would, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
I must never let you down,
never gonna let you—

And everything must start from here,
in a sunshine with ease with somewhere to go,
with no sticky feeling of going wrong,
no heartbeat asking where you're gonna go.
With the trouble you wear, you want to wear it down,
you want to make something new of this but
never gonna make it (home), never gonna make it.
Someone I want now, somewhere I want to go, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
never gonna let you down,
but I will always let you down.

I said Johnny and I, we got lost tonight,
but we doubled our chances, we've got somewhere to go.
We've got devils chasing us to hunt us down,
and we know we can't go like this from now.
I've got a feeling of you, and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me, said
never gonna let you down, was never gonna let you—
Someone I want now, somewhere I want to go, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
never gonna let you down,
but I will always let you down.

I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let—
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.
Johnny and I, we got lost tonight, we got carried away.
It takes someone like me to lose track like that, to be troubled down,
got a heart full of plans but nowhere to run.
And everything must start from here,
in a morning with ease with somewhere to go,
with no sticky feeling of going wrong,
with no heartbeats asking where you're gonna go.
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.

A rather vapid post regarding insignificant events

2007-07-10T20:31:00.000-04:00

After many sleepless nights and zombie like days, I concluded the only suitable and heroic email for myself would be: hotnags@hotmail.com. As I went about securing this account, the most unlikely and tragic thing happened - hotnags@hotmail.com is unavailable. Some daft punk claimed it first. Or maybe it's not some daft punk, but a person of high class and esteem; after all, this individual has demonstrated impressive tastes selecting such an address. Attempts to contact this (daft punk or esteemed) person have failed. Maybe the account is closed. I've notified Hotmail authorities trusting they will resolve this matter.

I viewed a musical picture show today--Dancer In The Dark--and it's the most gloomy musical ever. It's like classic MGM with blood and capital punishment; a Dorthy with a gun. But it's not relentlessly stygian as brief roseate musical interludes shed some light on the darkness; without those interludes, it would of been, well, Dogville, I suppose.

Today was hot. I miss winter.

I prefer to chase deer rather than cars.

The Quest

2007-07-06T23:25:00.000-04:00

Virtually any email address would mark profound improvement upon leaf_fan29@hotmail.com. Yet my quest for a new address has left me depressed (aside: I did not intend for a rhyming blog). Anywhoers, I've finally decided upon an address to sleep on: shiveringgreen@hotmail.com. AH, BUT THAT DOUBLE G. Do I insert a period or an underscore such as: shivering.green or shivering_green; that period is annoying and that underscore is blantantly inapt.

Tomorrow, slaving on the rig, I will ponder this quandary.

Oh, just common unpleasantries really

2007-07-05T00:46:00.000-04:00

It's recently come to my attention that blogger.com sucks. I mean, it seriously blows. I hate the inability to befriend people. If this were Venezuela or China, only one blogging website would exist and thus the entire blogging community would be unionized and blissful. I glower at capitalism and non-centralized governments.
If I so desired I could subscribe to others' blogs, but I'd rather be subjected to left winged Michael Moore propaganda. That man suffers from a toxic case of megalomania, whereas I suffer from something completely different - I am gauche, folks. Or I lack social polish and I'm awkward. It is an appropriately unpleasant word to pronounce.

I need a brand spanking new e-mail address! This is such a conundrum for me. I've set a deadline. By Friday, I will have a new address for the first time in eight years. This is a most daunting task.

I pity the daffs who viewed that Transformers picture. And I pity Steven Spielberg for involving himself in such a picture, which bring opprobrium to his classics. Shame on you, man.

Also, Architecture in Helsinki has a song in the Sprint commercial. I have mixed feelings.