Sunday, September 30, 2007

When heroes fall

The unbearable rarity of truth.

As a small child I was much more self-conscious than my peers, very easily embarrassed at the slightest misstep. It was a great mortification to be caught speaking something untrue. I learned early to think carefully before speaking. The result - I was a quiet child, a keen listener, a sponge for information.

I was eager to please. I made friends very easily but despite popularity I had a great tendency toward solitary activities. I rarely sought out my playmates. They came to me. In isolation I often played a sort of mind game with myself. Logic games - though I'd probably never heard of the word 'logic' yet. It was very much an obsessive compulsive instinct. I would string observations together and arrive at a conclusion. Normal thought pattern, right? But then I would audit the thought. I would take the same start and end point - that is - the same initial observation and same conclusion but find another route to tie them together. Even when the initial conclusion seemed obvious, I would insist on proving it to myself through a second train of logic on a separate track. I had the impression that this was not a normal pursuit but I didn't care. I obeyed the compulsion whenever it struck.

I learned quickly that other children were full of shit and could not be relied upon for factual information. And then learned that even adults were not always reliable. And as I grew into young adulthood I realized that worse still, adults were indeed too - full of shit.

I spent my youth trusting almost nothing from anyone but I tried to act normal, keen to fit in, to be accepted.

When I stumbled into writing as a hobby I discovered I had a knack for it. Then I discovered the capacity for writing (and other arts) to act as a tool in search of truth. It was Allistair MacLeod, speaking of his stories being born from his asking, "What if...," that finally enlightened me to the function of writing as a laboratory. As I turned my writing pursuits more toward the search for truth I began to feel a marvelous sort of peace, like I had come home after an eternal absence. I felt like I was doing exactly what I was meant to do in this life. My lack of interest and investment into normal things (career, marriage, material accumulation etc) has left me with nothing to lose, free to throw myself into this search with rigorous integrity and fearlessness.

I won't describe the journey thus far. You wouldn't believe most of it. You wouldn't want to.

It began a solitary journey. It's only deep in the works of certain poets that I find common observation, assurance, verification. One such poet is not dead. In the year we've associated closely his mentoring has been the single greatest influence on my life. I've evolved incredibly in one year - finding remarkable peace, freedom and clarity into my existence.

I'll call him 'MG'. He's the only man I ever met who appeared to demand the same integrity in thought and reasoning, the same dedication to pure logic, the same passion for unvarnished truth.

Last night, on the first anniversary of our association, it all fell apart.

We partake briefly in 'normal' conversation before and after our work sessions. The subject of homosexuality came up for the first time. My assumption was always that he'd find the subject mundane and irrelevant. He would have to, considering the bland truth of the matter in the light of pure logic.

"I can't believe what a strong voice we've allowed these people!" he said. I was taken aback. In this year I'd never heard him subscribe to an uninformed opinion. To do such would be sacrilege to our pursuits. And just as I did on the occasion a Reform Party candidate was inclined, in my confidence, to cut loose with his opinion on the evils of immigration and the societal repression of white males, I stayed perfectly quiet, not wishing to deter the speaker from spilling his true colors nor to fake approval in order to goad him into embellishment. I wanted the straight goods. And here too, I wanted to hear everything MG had to say on the matter of homosexuals.

"They get drawn into this thing around eighteen or nineteen," he said. They go to bathhouses all night. It's nothing for them to have sex with twelve to eighteen guys a night! And they think they have the right to marriage! Can you believe that? And I'm considered a dinosaur because I'm against homosexuals. Because I dare to call a perversion a perversion. It's bestial! They call me homophobic. Afraid-of-gays. I'm not afraid of them! They think they're accepted because they're on TV now. What's that show - about the gay one and the girl?"

"Will and Grace?"

"Yes. The TV networks are exploiting them because they're a peculiarity. But they think it's acceptance! It's insanity!"

I was stunned. I was horrified. The man I respected above any other, for his integrity, his enlightenment, suddenly from nowhere vomited up the most vacuous of testimony, stolen from idiots. The one vile offense we both despise. Immediately I mourned the treasured collection of poetic testimony I'd gathered from him. Immediately the entire vault of it fell in standing - from 'useful' to 'suspect'. The one man alive I thought to have evolved beyond all primitive tribalism has done nothing of the sort.

Today I had a long talk with excellent pal, Doctor Lock. He said something like this:

“You know it’s okay to accept the teachings while rejecting the teacher. It’s been done before.”

Thank you, Doc.

Rejoice in your heterosexuality, MG. I'll retain your teachings gratefully, though without reverence. You're still my Morpheus. But I'm not interested in hanging around in the matrix with you. If you ever escape, look me up. But for now, I go on alone.
[photo ungratefully ripped from]

Friday, September 28, 2007

Steve-o and the Chocolate Factory

In case you're new here, the following are recent random murmurings of the roommate. His songs are in italics:

I am Captain Baconaire of the Baconville Express - coming at you - with... the bacon juice...


Do you shave your pillow in the morning?
Do you shave your pillow in the night?
Do you shave your pillow in the afternoon?
A shaved pillow is a ghastly sight!
OHH! Shave my pillow shave my pillow,
Shave my pillow shave my pillow…

Crayfish boil time, Crayfish boil time
Crayfishboiltime! Crayfishboiltime!
Crayfishboiltime! Crayfishboiltime!
Cray-cray-cray-cray-cray-cray-cray-cray-crayfish BOIL TIME!

I hope she's cleaning up one day and her vagina snaps shut and breaks her finger off.


They call me Cuban Pete,
I'm the king of the Rhumba beat
And when I shake my maracas
They go chica chica boom!
Chicca chicca boom boom!

He has to learn to keep his trouser snake in his - ah - trouser village. You know - with the trouser village people.

I couldn't care less about O.J. Simpson. I wouldn't even care if he was shooting gold bricks out his ass.

Have you seen my Contagious Penis medicine?

The preceding sentiments are not endorsed by anyone respectable. We deeply regret such gratuitous references to vagina, ass, penis and trouser village people but we are committed to truthful reporting. Wait a minute. What the hell are trouser village people? Don't tell me it's three musicians dressed up like a dong and two - oh never mind. This blog is going to hell in a handbasket. [Image maliciously stolen from]


Thursday, September 27, 2007


Remember the Aquisition Manager who had her cubicle transformed into a haunted house? Well, revenge was swift. Next time "JH" does some uninvited makeovers he shouldn't then go on vacation himself so soon.

I took this opportunity to empty five years worth of old files out of my cabinets. My name and my clients' names are on thousands of sheets. I hope this doesn't put me on the hit list...


Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Job interview

Not fair

I'll make this quick.

Yesterday... I spy a hornet taking a brisk walk across my bedroom carpet. I'm busy. In a hurry. I have an engagement to get to. No time to negotiate with this trespasser. And no desire to risk getting skewered later that night - should we inadvertently cuddle in bed.

I grab an expired phone book off the desk; one that is destined for the blue box. I hold it well above the strolling hornet and release.


"Take that, hornet! I'll deal with your flat little hornet corpse later."

That's right. No remorse.

Fast forward - this morning...

Brilliant sunlight floods through the blinds and pushes me from the bed. Looks like good weather. I have the day off. Coffee on the patio appeals. I grab a short sleeve shirt from the closet, a pair of shorts off the floor, gallop down the stairs and out to the patio to sample the temperature. Warm. A tad muggy actually. As I step back up through the doorway, bending my knee I feel a sudden sharp pinch in the hollow behind the knee. Feels like a bee sting.

Listen to me saying "pinch" eh? My dentist has brainwashed me obviously. He always says, "This'll pinch a bit" before he drives a long thick needle into my flesh. Sounds so much more civilized than, "I'm going to stab you in your gums a bit", doesn't it? Can't say I blame him.

There's little question I've been stung. Trapped a stinger-bearing critter behind my knee for just an instant. That's all it takes. If they think for a moment they're in for a squishin' they sting. Happens every time. I mock a covergirl pose and look back at the offended area. No sign of the culprit. Why was he behind my knee in the first place - right there at the hem of my shorts?

Wait a minute.

The shorts had been laying on the bedroom floor... The hornet from the night before... The phone book...

No. No way. Not possible. I jog back up the stairs, into the bedroom. I stand above the phone book, looking down at it, filled with a sense of omen. I crouch, reach out and lift the phone book and discover beneath it - nothing.

No hornet - dead or otherwise.

I'm very unhappy about this. This isn't fair.

Self-proclaimed poets in ardent study of the nature of life and the human species should not be forced to ponder the possible existence of vengeful undead zombie hornets! This is NOT acceptable, dammit!

New rules, people! And these rules supercede any decreed by your state, church or landlord:

Rule number one: Self-proclaimed poets in ardent study of the nature of life and the human species must not be led to ponder the possible existence of vengeful undead zombie hornets.

Rule number two: No undead zombie hornets allowed! Anywhere! Vengeful or not!

rULE NUMBER THREE: aGGGH! Rule number three is - put the friggin caps-lock button some-bloody-where else on the keyboard where stupid poets won't keep hittin' it by mistake.

Rule number four: No car stereos allowed in Streetsville.

Okay, that's all the rules I can think of for now. Anything else goes.

Image ruthlessly stolen from

Canada Post mail service is not a toy!

I'm pleased to declare that the Sylvie Ruel/Reliance Home Comfort Crisis appears to have been resolved. I haven't recieved any mail for poor Sylvie in a few months now. It may be going to Pluto or the Hockey Hall of Fame thanks to my efforts, granted, but at least it's no longer my problem.


Who's responsible for this?

Mrs. Cheddar Sneeze?

Come on. Who did this? 'Fess up!


Tuesday, September 25, 2007

FYI: Fwig is still alive

I apologize for my dreadful absence of late. Although, from what I've heard through the grapevine (out there in the physical world) few of us in my demented little circle of blog buddies have been very active of late. I hope Claudia Supermom is the exception. She's a trouper. The rock. Reliable. I trust there are many chapters in the kidlet chronicles to catch up on and doing so shall be a treat as always.

I know what my problem is. Too many commitments and not enough motivation. Why can't I maintain a doable agenda? I've got a calendar and a wristwatch. What am I missing? Why is it that the further I get behind in life the lazier I get? Is that how it is with everyone?

I know what Poetry Coach would say. 'Universal forces...' 'Retribution...' 'From he who hath little much shall be taken...' Veiled references to a malevolent super power...


Why does everything have to boil down to the unbreakable grasp of the Devil with him? Why can't it just be as simple as a tweak in the work-family balance equation?

And who coined that hopelessly inadequate phrase anyway? Who the hell has work-family balance issues and not work-family-other work-art-spirituality-charity-societal bullshit-balance issues?

What in hell have we done to ourselves?

Thank god for technology though. It could have been worse. Technology, miniaturization, information sharing, robotics, mass-production... Thank god we can now accomplish everything we once did but with a fraction of the human effort. Thank god for all this extra time it's given us. Thank god for this life of leisure. All this meditation and learning and creative pursuit and sharing of ideas. All this freedom! All this transcendence!

Thank god we didn't just create more work for ourselves and bigger, costlier needs. Thank god we didn't just fall into mindless consumerism, materialism, social posturing, keeping-up-with-Joneses. Can you imagine if we cared about all that? Acquiring Lexuses and bigger homes and fantasizing that such would make us admired and not merely despised? Could you imagine what kind of hell on earth that would be? Wouldn't you just want to kill yourself?

Thank god we're a smarter beast than that.

Thank god.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Bourne Ulti-made-dumb

Note to director Paul Greengrass:



This film is a triumph given it was filmed entirely inside a washing machine during the spin cycle. This film will be enjoyed by anyone fond of regurgitating their dinner and few others. It might also be tolerated by those with Terminal A.D.D. or those who for whatever reason love non-dimensional movies that begin and end with a single exhausting two-hour climax and nothing else.

I personally survived it by training my eyes on the dark corner of the theatre just right of the screen - much as you watch the shoulder of the road when some jackass approaches with his high-beams on.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

More fun at the office

Our I.T. Acquisition Manager took a week off. Her last name is Romano. She came back to find 'Romano Manor - Population 0'.

I confess I took no part in this.

I did however take full responsibility for my boss's welcome-back present. Last time we covered his desk in thousands of goodies. This time we kept it simple. I took his page-per-day desk calendar titled 2007 Daily Aspirations. We all have one. Our company produced it. It's full of inspiring quotes - one for every day - and most of them break down into utter nonsense, quite frankly. It runs from March 1 to February 28. I sat down with my pen and modified every single quote in the boss's calendar from August 13 to Feb 28.
Some examples:
Be the change you want to see in the world. Myself, I am two dimes and a penny.
Mahatma Ghandi
A friend is a gift you give yourself. And so is masturbation.
Robert Louis Stevenson
What lies behind us, what lies before us are tiny matters, compared to what lies within us.
Ralph Waldo Emerson speaking of his ass, nose and spleen.
If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I would spend six sharpening my ax. That's a euphemism by the way! Tee hee!
Abraham Lincoln
If you don't have time to do it right, do you have time to do it again? And what's with the locks on the toilet paper dispensers in public bathrooms? It's like they don't really want you to wipe!
Jerry Seinfeld
What you do speaks so loud that I cannot hear what you say. But my, that's a handsome jackhammer you got there.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
You will never find time for anything. If you want time, you must make it. For extra creamy time use milk instead of water.
Charles Buxton.
Knowledge is power. But being dumb is pretty OK too.
Francis Bacon
Bite off more than you can chew, then chew it. Then stick out your tongue and show people what you have done.
Ella Williams
Women hold up half the sky. So they should wear deoderant.
Chinese saying
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. Except for Darcy Tucker. For he is a thorn.
Albert Camus
It is by acts and not by ideas that people live.
Anatole France
It is by a river in a van that people live.
Chris Farley
Be not afraid of growing slowly; be afraid only of standing still.
Chinese proverb
Man going sideways through metal detector going to Bangkok.
Another Chinese proverb
It ain't bragging if you can do it. eight times in one night.
Dizzy Dean
Act like you can get into the end zone. and then do a silly dance.
Joe Paterno
To infinity and beyond. and then a little bit further. And then Greenland.
Buzz Lightyear
I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship. in the bathtub. Meet Captain Ducky. Quack Quack! Aye aye Captain!
Louisa May Alcott
A vision without a plan is a hallucination.
Ron Kirk
A... VISION...! Without... A PLAN...!! IS...! A...! Hallu... CINATION...!
Captain Kirk
Okay. I think we've had more than enough of that. So who the heck is Dizzy Dean?

Monday, September 03, 2007

The Crackberry