Special Discount

Sometimes the best way to get your point across is to employ a little self-deprecating humor, because we can't seem to help walking away from a conversation without thinking, "Do I do that?"


Beginning with German morality plays in the 14th century, Death has been winning all the arguments, only to engage us in a feverish dance as the curtain falls. I haven't been able to determine, however, if the dance is a celebration, a victory lap, in response to the shedding of our skin, or cruel treatment designed to mock our gravity.

I'm drawn to the celebratory aspect simply because I'm, essentially, optimistic. The notion that after death we will become re-associated with our true nature has become a standard belief throughout most cultures and religions, even in psychological forums after Jung's re-assertation that the cross, the tree of life, represents our vegetative and therefore unconscious state. That's something I would dance for.

However, the phrase "Dance with Death" has a decidedly rancorous feel to it, even though most cultures claim that Death is an Angel of God, with the Archangel Azrael, most often assigned the duties of rubbing your name out of his little black book. All the promises of an afterlife can't compare, I guess, with the smell of K.F.C. and that damned dipping sauce.

Whether we're dancing out of his way or dancing with joy or dancing just because Death gets a kick out of making us look like a fool, dance we must, it seems. I'm going out with my best shoes on, frankly, because there's nothing I can do about it. I just hope the music's good.

Fetch

I got talking to Ikkyu Sojun the other day. At first I was a little confused by his strict nature, until I realized that what I mistook for a strong personal code of conduct was simply a very intense joy in being here. It's very intimidating to be in the presence of someone who doesn't think about anything. I offered him a beer and he accepted. I was a little surprised until he said, "I'm not breaking any precepts, this is your hallucination."

And with that I was struck dumb. I sat for a moment considering the idea of living words. Words that do not remain on the page, but instead cause a mild explosion of images, sounds and emotions in your imagination. You can no longer feel the book in your hand nor the pillow under your head. Time is a consideration for others and space is infinite. That's a good book.

Ikkyu sat quietly while I reflected on this, drinking his beer. I snapped out of my reverie and apologized for leaving him alone, like that.
"I wanted to ask you about Mori.", I said, "I wanted to ask you about love."
He looked at me for a long time and answered, "Love is a topic I know nothing about. It's neither here nor there. It doesn't come and never goes."
"But you loved her?"
"Thank you for the beer."

I thought about the love I have for my friends and my family. I thought about everything I have ever said that I loved. A good cup of coffee, hot summer days in the park, hot summer nights at the pub, rolling around with a pretty girl and driving a nice, fast car. I realized that 'Love' is a dead word, unless you're feeling it, unless you've forgotten where you are, what time it is and don't give a shit what anyone thinks about it. It's not a dog you can teach to fetch, it is a dog fetching.

I grabbed my jacket and followed Ikkyu out. He can move fast for a guy who's been dead for 500 years. I laughed to myself as I thought about how much I love the feeling of 'going out.'

Before Ten

1.
Kicked out of the pool at 9:30?
A parking ticket for being ten minutes late?
A lecture for swearing in public?
Bad service for complaining about bad service?
Nervous looks from people who pass by when I'm on the porch?
The finger in response to passing someone?
"I wouldn't, if I were you."?

No wonder I never grew up.

2.
The illusion of self perfection is a cracked and wobbly vessel. It sits in a room, drafty and not quite dark. The door doesn't lock and the stairs aren't all that safe. There is, however, a bully hanging out at the bottom of the stairs. A guard dog, of sorts, trained to retaliate in kind when someone points to the flawed structure and laughs. He'll make a comment about your hair, tell you your shirt doesn't match your pants, ask you if you've gained a few pounds or if things get tough he'll make a run around you and try to find where you hide your illusions and ransack the place.

3.
I spent a good part of my Monday learning how to play "I want you back" by the Jackson 5. I like to think that I'm learning but I suspect I'm just forgetting other things that might come in handy some day. On my way to band practice it was confirmed when I backed up the car four feet, wondering why I wasn't moving forward. The skill set might be full.

4.
I've been contemplating moving to the country and starting my own commune. Well it wouldn't be "my" commune. The fabulous Bee says she wants part of the barn for a woodshop and I want the rest for a kick-ass jam space. Space is limited so apply now. I'm also wondering if we should start our own religion or something. We'd need guns, though. Or, at least some pamphlets.

5.
Excerpt from a letter from the Ontario Court of Justice:
"You have been convicted of the above offense...if the fine goes into default...costs incurred for any civil enforcement...imposed upon conviction..."
Stupid parking ticket.

6.
Every morning, beginning at seven a.m., I hear the renovation crew next door yell and scream at each other until lunch. I'm wondering if the owner knows how much these guys disagree about what's being done. Who's right? Who wins? What will the place look like when they are done? Do they undo each others work when no one is looking? I should make a mental note of the name of the company so that I never call them. The power of advertising your shitty personality is persuasive.

And They're Off

The Sumerian civilization hit the scene, at the mouth of the Tigris, on the Persian Gulf, just a few short years after the Egyptians filled the tub and got in. With irrigation systems, a written language and complex social systems, including a class system and built in slavery, the Sumerians almost had the land speed record for earliest to sit around enjoying leisure time. Second is still pretty good, considering my ancestors were still a few thousand years away from picking gnats off each other at that point.
There comes a time, however, when you just have to say goodbye to your brothers who, through no fault of their own, opt out of a little evolutionary advancement. No one wants to be voted off the island for coming in second.
John Wyndam, of Chrysalids fame, had his own idea of where we were headed, if only those pesky Normals had left the kids alone. The Boys from Brazil, an eerily prescient look at human engineering, those kids from the Next Generation, who are left to die on some alien planet, and the X-Men, all threats to their creators, populate the mind of evolutionists who know our days are numbered. Do I look worried?
The religious factions will all weigh in on this debate to tell us that the next phase in our evolution will inevitably come through death and ascension to a higher plane. The Buddhists will eventually stop being re-born, the Christians will be hanging out in the New Jerusalem, and Pauly Shore will finally stop making movies.
That's probably for the best because the planet I call home will undoubtedly be in the hands of our evolutionary replacements. Most of the people I know probably wouldn't adjust all that well to the new routine. With the built in belief that we're on the top of the heap, we'd have our noses out of joint until we finally go extinct.
Now, just imagine some Sumerian fat cat, sitting in his Lazy-boy, some seven thousand years ago. He had all the amenities we have (and don't try to tell me having a computer makes us superior) and wanted nothing. I think he might be disappointed to know how long it's taken us to go pretty much nowhere since then. He was probably of the mind that human advancement was at an end and was wondering what kind of species might pop up and take his chair away from him. I'll bet he didn't think that all these years later we'd still be here trying to solve the issues that were plaguing his people then. War, devalued currencies, shrinking trade, class crisis and poverty. Of course, he had no way of knowing that Kraft Dinner, American Idol and a re-make of Starsky and Hutch would be all we could come up with. I bet he'd be crying in his beer. I'd cry in my beer if I thought that seven thousand years from now we'd still be here, inventing new flavours for Pringles and still trying to stomp out our neighbors for believing in a afterlife that includes them.
Evolution is a slow moving train, however, and I suspect we'll be waiting at the station for a while yet. And unless we hurry things along, by killing ourselves off, we'll probably see Pauly resurrect his career and one day become President.
As Cicero said, "It is fortune, not wisdom, that rules man's life."

The Back of My Hand

Weigh in or go home. El Jefe would agree with that one. As the steady stream of the curious came by to inquire about the "Toodles Pussy" t-shirts, he told me in a quiet voice that he couldn't lie. It's true. He can't lie.
I tell my lies from behind the pen, quoting a writer's liberty with the truth. The kernel is the key and the chaff is pure fancy. As a side note, Webster's has a second definition for chaff, which is, "Anything worthless." Christ, I can't even trust what I say sometimes. El Jefe, on the other hand, is as honest as the day is long.

We roamed the crowd, The Fabulous Bee, myself, Kimmy and El Jefe, and I encouraged everyone to come up with their own version.

1. "It's the name of our band."
2. "We own a catering company."
3. "It's a pet store."
4. "We're honoring the memory of our pet cat. He died last week." ( My personal favorite)
5. "It's only rain! You're leaving? Oh well, toodles, pussy."

According to some of the people we talked to, there were hundreds of us. The truth is, there are four of us. We just walk fast. So, go buy a shirt, stencil on the words "Toodles Pussy" and join the revolution. Make up as many explanations as you like. Just remember that El Jefe is out there following you around, cleaning up your mess. God bless him.

Lower the Remote

At a time when the world seemed hollow to me, devoid of content, emotional connection and meaning, I prepared myself for a vision quest. I bought a bag of chips, a bottle of Coke, a pack of cigarettes and settled onto the couch. I opened my mind and began to surf channels, stopping randomly, allowing the brief messages I saw inscribed there to enter my mind and become part of a whole, which I presumed would stew and coagulate into cohesion.

Nothing of the sort happened and I began to wonder if maybe my methods were flawed. I got dressed and wandered into the heart of the city, hoping to see there the random acts of humanity seamlessly zip up into a meaningful unitard I could wear, like faith, into comprehension. Again, nothing. Although, a prostitute on Gladstone was pretty sure she could show me the ever loving face of God.

I got in the car and drove into the blackness that surrounds the city, blanketing our anxiety, the flashlight barely visible. The air was fresh, the stars glistened in the heat and I got lost near Arnprior when I missed the turn for highway 17. After turning too many times I gave up and let my intuition drive. My intuition got lost, too, and refused to speak to me anymore. I pulled over and decided to sleep until morning, knowing that pressing on without direction was foolish. I thought about that for awhile, then decided that maybe what I really needed was to drive straight at the unknown to see who would chicken out first, me or the world.

I left the car there, and set off into the woods. For three days I ate only berries. Unfortunately, I have no idea what kind of berry is safe. I learned quickly, however, which kind of leaves to use when the call of nature must be answered. The native Americans tell us that sleep is antithetical when pursuing a vision and so when I got tired I poked myself with a stick to stay awake. Sleep is like a woman who wants to know what you're thinking. It just won't leave you alone. In the end I fell asleep, ass in the air, face in the dirt, and dreamt I was a mechanic working on a car that had no motor. I looked under the hood, in the trunk and finally the glove box. No motor.

I woke on the couch, an empty bag of chips on my chest and the television glowing it's bluish green radiation at me. The pillow under my head was soggy with sweat and my hand was cramped around the empty bottle of Coke. 'All in a dream, the loading had begun.'

All in all, my first vision quest was a failure. I understand that I'm lost, can't find the engine, don't know which berries to eat and that my intuition is not transmitting, but I'm hopeful.

Next time I'll try milk and cookies.

Untitled

The long day sauntered into night as I wandered from place to place. Exhausted by the ceaseless rattling of my brain, too tired to listen, I set my back to it and just watched. Strawberry flavored girls drifted by in groups of three, a cat poked his nose into every doorway, bypassing mine and actually hissed at Henry, playing guitar with a cup jammed on to the stump of his left arm.
I didn't think about it, I saw it. The distinction is something I have missed, in my life.

Chase your muse and it disappears, but ignore it and walk away and you can hear, coming behind, faint footsteps that house no body. Ray Bradbury gave me that one.

Today I paid some bills and was discouraged to see what it costs me to be me. Troubling, that I pay for this kind of existence. Troubling more, that if I want to break even I'll have to do what I know will kill me. Time to disappear. Time to fade into the background and wait for a strawberry flavored girl to come by and offer me a ride.

Sometimes, I just close my eyes and stop breathing.

110%

Great change takes great fortitude. And, as a ritualistic person, the pomp, for me, should be bigger than the circumstance. And with that, let's get down to business.

1. Thou shalt not smoke an entire pack of cigarettes in one day.
2. Thou shalt not eat chips, M&Ms, Nibs, salted sunflower seeds and those sour candy things all in one sitting. Oh, and popcorn and a bottle of Coke.
3. Thou shalt not spend money on workout gear you never plan to use.
4. Thou shalt not lie on the couch all day and night.
5. Thou shalt not put the bike in the back of the car because that first hill is too big.
6. Thou shalt not spend another night at the pub, telling the same old stories.
7. Thou shalt not quote The Simpson's to cute girls at said pub.
8. Thou shalt not hypocritically laugh and point at other fat, lazy, slobs.
9. Thou shalt not exalt not caring to the level of a personal philosophy.
10. Thou shalt not call adherents to the previous commandments soulless cowards.

'To talk goodness is not good, only to do it is.'-Chinese proverb.

Deep Inside

I saw a very different city last night. As Kimmy said, "Some shit is going down here, tonight."
There is a revolution going on, and it's name is Kid Rock.

The park was full, but not over-stuffed. The crowd was made up of an interesting mix of young girls in mini dresses, bikini tops and go-go boots and shirtless guys, proud of the fact they couldn't see their own feet. Mullets waved gloriously in the evening breeze and the confederate flag flew on stage and made me think of simpler things, like tail gate parties, cars up on blocks and hucking beer bottles at each other's heads, just for fun.

West Coast Chopper, Fubar, the Trailer Park Boys, the Dukes of Hazzard and Kid Rock. The show was slick, the musicians were the best, the pyrotechnics were stunning and in the middle of it stood a man who has claimed his birth-right; the right to speak his mind, carry a gun, indulge in strippers and beer and will kick your ass for getting in his way. He had me at 'Fuck, yeah.'
He reached into my liberal soul and shook loose the arrogant, loud and dirty pride I feel at rocking with my head down, smoking pot when I want and pissing anywhere at all.
It felt good, for awhile, to reclaim my heritage, to be proud of the struggle of my forefathers, the fight against creeping political correctness, and stand tall against the pressure to globalize, institutionalize and compromise.

Then I noticed the people in front of me dumping everything from empty beer cups to baggies to food wrappers on the ground. The women were squat, loud and went for beer whenever their men ran out. The men were proud of being fat, ignorant and dirty. They don't realize that Kid Rock has packaged their lives and is selling it to a western world that is becoming afraid of change, diversity and multi-culturalism. These are my forefathers, who held rallies at the Orange Hall, intolerant of blacks, Jews and the English. They've circled the wagons in an effort to protect their right to beat their wives, torture their kids and destroy the environment that allows them to prosper. Their heroes are bigots, religious zealots and closed-minded politicians who are trying frantically to stop the changes they see in social evolution and global thinking.

And they love Kid Rock. I can't blame him. He's making a living and he's found his niche market. He's tapped into the culture and used his business savvy to recreate the feel of a bush party, and, while he claims to speak for those too stupid to string together a coherent sentence, he's taking their money and spending it on twenty foot columns of fire that shoot skyward every time he yells, "Kid Rock." They see him as one of their own made good. He sees them as a gravy train.

But like the Fabulous Bee says, "If I pay good money for it, I want that monkey to dance. Dance, monkey, dance."

A Truth Revealed

In the dream I was looking out over a beautiful grassy knoll, from the vantage point of my bed, which I was nestled comfortably in. The sun was shining and the birds were singing and I was at peace. I could see something stirring in the grass across the field and watched it as it became more distinct. It was a two hundred pound, black, hairy Newfoundland dog and she was coming towards me. It was Boon. Boon is a beautiful dog, with a warm disposition and a slightly detached sense of happiness which she radiates outward, expecting only the same in return. She had seen me, I knew, and was coming closer. It was then that I remembered a story Ted had told, all those years ago, and I began to doubt the feeling of serenity I was immersed in. I tried to remember the details of the story. Ted had been out drinking, as had I, and passed out. He had dreamt of Boon, too, and I intuitively understood that the reason for Boon's presence was not a friendly visit.

Her head was all I could see of her as she cut a swathe through the field. Her tongue lolling, her ears up, she moved with more grace than I imagined she was capable of. I felt a feeling of panic rising from my stomach, or maybe it was bile and stale beer, and I tried to move my hands and feet, but as is so common in dreams I was frozen in place. The sky was beginning to cloud over and the wind had picked up, but it only seemed to push Boon towards me, helping her in her nightly ritual. 'What happens next?' I tried to recall Ted's words on waking, but the fog of the dream was becoming too thick. Was this some sort of payback for drinking all that draught myself? Was I being punished for telling the same story over and over again?

Boon was at the foot of the bed now and she sniffed the air as if to identify me by scent and happy with her findings she climbed up on the bed. I was frantic now, I struggled to turn my head to the side, to unlock my eyes from hers, but she held me fast. "Why are you doing this?" I cried, the sound of my own frustration ringing out over the now darkening vista. Boon paused almost as if she'd heard me and suddenly I could read in her liquid gaze the reason for our meeting. She bore me no malice, she just had a job to do. She was a part of the fabric of the cosmos. She could no more stop this than I could. I felt the tension ease just a little but it was a ruse, for then she moved up the bed and I let loose a cry, which opened my mouth wide, and I remembered, in a flash, what Ted had said when he woke from his dream. A part of life, if you want to enjoy an evening out, with your friends, drinking more than you should, will be a visit from Boon. As the dream faded from my mind, I awoke in my bed, the sheets wet with perspiration and uttered the words that every drunk has uttered, upon waking, since the dawn of time.
"Uggh, Boon shit in my mouth."

She's out there, even now, roaming the earth, visiting thousands each night. Tonight it could be you. If you spend the night drinking you can expect a visit and when you wake up you'll have an awful taste in your mouth.

And now you know why.

Death From Above

The sky opened and loosed upon us its fury in the form of rain. Gauging the reaction of the crowd I assumed it was some sort of acid-rain, laced with bits of debris from a satellite or that there were nails hidden within those clouds and I began to run for shelter. I was a little embarrassed when I realized it was only regular rain.

Oh, for a ring like Solomon wore. I understand he had 700 wives and 300 concubines. Ain't that something. Wisdom comes to me like sleep these day, in short bursts that do me no good anyway. Like a nail-laced raincloud, my thoughts promise redemption and deliver pain.

When I got to my car, the windshield wipers wouldn't work, and I had to wait until it stopped raining before I could drive it home. The lightening was stunning. Brilliant flashes coupled with terrifying rumbles of thunder that made me realize no amount of wisdom can protect you from the willfulness of a sudden summer storm. I'm learning, I'm just learning slowly.

My Big Mouth

Cicero, while not a big fan of Caesar, was horrified when the senate assassinated the dictator in front of him, calling on Cicero as their inspiration. As the warrior was attacked from all sides, he shouted when Brutus stepped in to deal him a fatal blow, saying, "You too, my son?". Cicero, had anyone been listening, said, "Every time I think I'm out, they pull me back in."
Now, he of the biggest mouth in Roman history, was a political animal. He could go on for hours about what was wrong with the empire, but when it came to being accountable to those he had pissed off, he was a bit wishy-washy.
No police force.
No investigation.
No commitee to examine motives.
No public forums until after the fact.
Politics with teeth.

Terence said, "I am a man. I count nothing human foreign to me."
Bryan Adams said, "Everything I do, I do it for you."

The Voice of God

I had to make a hard choice tonight. Z.Z. Top or Buckwheat Zydeco.

On one hand, saying no to a sold out show from the long-lived Z.Z. Top would be like saying, "No I don't need to know the truth behind the Kennedy assassination." You have to.

On the other hand, Buckwheat Zydeco has been touring for years as one of the king's of Zydeco music. The musical inheritence of Clifton Chenier is playing here. Mmmmmm

I hate these kinds of deciscions. Luckily it was made for us, when the Fabulous Bee and I hit the Z.Z. Top field and found about twenty thousand people standing in our way. I yelled at them but they refused to sit down. Then a friend told us that the police had directed the festival organisers NOT to ask the bikers to remove their colours.Mmmmmm

Buckwheat was awesome. I thought he had fallen asleep at one point when he bent over the B3 in front of him and didn't move for a few minutes. The Fabulous Bee fell in love with the guy who played the washboard thing. I thought he looked like Forrest Whitiker but nobody paid any attention to me.

Choice. Our gift. In order to appear gracious before the giver, we promised to use it, and He told us that if we came back complaining he was going be mad about it.
I complain anyway. I've made some right choices and sometimes you end up paying more for it.

I think Buckwheat could do a theme like that justice.

Episode Seven

There are times when you just have to do it anyway. You've been advised against it, seen the looks that people throw at you, and had someone try to steal it just so they wouldn't have to look at it again. But I love that hat. When it's on the top of my head, the world seems right. Guess you'll just have to get over it.

The locomotive histrionics we see on television, when Jack left Isabel for that slut Vicky, or when Jesus was abducted by the cartel ( his apparent suicide and subsequent resurrection aside ) stand as a low-brow morality play in which our worst nightmares can be digested as a sweet and palatable cookie. Unfortunately, they give us no clue as to how to react when something truly nasty coalesces between us, in the real world. Sometimes it is hard to serve up a home-baked reaction and instead we run to the supermarket of human emotion and buy a processed retort. I've been there before, trying to think clearly when the adrenaline is flowing and the best you can come up with is, "Yeah? Well you're a....a..."
Oscar Wilde, I am not.

The best thing about that hat is the wide brim, perfect for pulling down over your eyes. It can hide the embarassment of verbal incontinence, and left in place it will convince everyone that you're deep in thought instead of retreating to a dream in which the cashier at that supermarket is smiling at you, suggesting you meet at the end of her shift so you can both run off to an island somewhere in the Pacific. You know the one. The one where that plane full of contraband went down; the crash that the pilot didn't survive. Or did he?

The Real King of Rock and Roll

"The Father himself willed that the path of tillage be not smooth, and first ordained that skill should cultivate the land, by care, sharpening the wits of mortals." Virgil-The Georgics

Tonight. Well, wasn't tonight an interesting night. You all know the story of Icarus. In order to rescue his father from the maze in which they were trapped, Icarus built wings made of feathers and wax and, discovering the beauty in flight, soared higher until the heat of the sun melted the wax holding together the feathers and he plunged into the sea and was drowned.
Imagine that his father was witness to this extrordinary event. His father who had devoted his life to raising a son who would, in time, celebrate this understanding by reaffirming his father's thoughts, by taking what he believed to be the crux of that instruction and adding to it his own unique experience and use it to bring to his family the redemption they required to uphold the system which had allowed Icarus to grow into adulthood. Instead, Icarus, a wilful and selfish child, was beguiled by the understanding he had, half sown and never fully reaped, and wondered, 'If I do not fulfill this, my destiny, what would be the harm? I have learned these lessons, I have trod in the metaphysical shoes of my father and he's a sour old bugger to boot.'
To watch him drown must have filled his father with shame, because all a father has to do is teach his children the consequences of living for uninspired happiness. I'm sure he thought he had failed, brought this senseless death to visit and being wholly unsatisfied with the moral, he must have railed against the God who built this machine in the first place.
My answer is, of course, fuck you. Icarus didn't know shit about the wind, or the updraft present in harmlessness and didn't know that trust is a sacred cow.

Quiet Time

According to the Talmud, it only took Adam twelve hours to get himself kicked out of Paradise. That guy who pissed on the patio on Canada Day didn't even get ejected. Things are getting lax around here.
The Fabulous Bee is headed my way tonight and I think there's gonna be trouble. There is nothing more disturbing, to my mind, than a beautiful young girl who kicks up the kind of fuss she does. Makes me crazy. But it's summertime and in this town that means festival after festival. Long nights on the grass listening to music, the smell of pot drifting over the crowd, bitching about that really tall guy who just stood in front of me. The Fabulous Bee owns her world, though, and yeah, she owns you too, so you might just as well move.
"That don't go on all fours", you might say, but there are stranger things on this planet. Just take a deep breath, hold it in and everything will be alright.

My thoughts, today, are in London.

The Ninth Wave

Your lidless, all seeing eyes tormenting you when you try to sleep, convinced me to point the car south and into the night. You need the wind to howl and the darkened silhouettes of the trees pointing skyward to remind you of a heaven that's too far and remote to you now. I call you the Prophet but you can't see what I see. So now sleep and dream a better place for you, for us all, and what you dream will be real. That's what I see.

Oh yeah, don't forget to include a comfy chair for me and some Wilcox tapes.

A One Ana Two

Yesterday I tripped over a wrinkle in space/time. Doesn't anyone clean up around here? Anyways, I landed at my own seventh birthday party. There was one other kid there. Man what a geek! I ate a sandwich and played with some G.I. Joes for a bit....on the way out I took twenty bucks from my mom's purse. Tomorrow I'm gonna call her and confess.

I better not visit me again or I'll kick my ass.

Nothing But a Hound Dog

Cu Chulainn, the hound, sat on his haunches, in the darkness. He reflected for a moment on the promises he had made, and wondered at his own naivete. The hissing of the grass became a voice in his ears and he answered, "I am here. You have nothing to fear."

Modern physics points to the vibration. Ancient Chan points to the One Bright Pearl. The entire universe points at me, and you, and we say, 'Who me?" The methods we use to understand these things are varied, and the struggle is wearying, and almost all of us will give up. Life is too hard to understand and the work is thankless. I use the magical peanut butter sandwich to balance it all. Tired and hungry? Trust me, tried and true is the peanut butter sandwich.

Peanut butter and jam
Peanut butter and honey
Peanut butter and bacon
Peanut butter and cheese
Peanut butter and mayonaise
You be the peanut and I'll be the butter
If I had a peanut I'd butter in the morning
Hello peanut my old friend

The night may be dark, but the Hound is out there. And me? I'm in here where it's warm and the smell of toasted bread hangs around my shoulders. First the peanut butter and then the...........

Untitled

I am beyond the pale. The Prophet can sometimes reach me here, but even she can't see me through nights like this.

I should write the answers on some leaves and throw them into the wind. It's called botanomancy. As good as any form of divination I can think of. To follow my fate, given to me by the wind, the trees, the earth itself might ease the distress I feel.

I was married six months ago, on this day. She died three days later. I am beyond the pale.

Dharna

I watched the Jesus bug skitter across the water and paused before I threw the rock. I was skipping stones with Claire and this one was perfect for it. Thin, flat and light, it was made to be be shuttled over the surface of the river. But the Jesus bug careened right in front of me, and I didn't want to disturb its jittery progress.

The New Army is off, rolling across the hills and about to sweep into the valley. Now, I'm not one for joining things so I'm going home. The myrmidons of the new world scare the shit out of me. Still you have to admire their faith, the single-mindedness with which they see the world. 'I am right, you are wrong.' Sure.

I threw my rock and watched it sink without even jumping once. Claire laughed at my spectacular failure. I think even the Jesus bug had a chuckle, as he skitterred on, not entirely sure which direction he was headed in.
Stupid rock.

1979, Thursday, I Think

"There's a road, that keeps on calling me...."

I may never forgive Coombe for wanting to do that song.

I was fourteen when I told my mother to 'Fuck off'. Sorry, mom, I was high. Despite her lightening quick reflexes, I made it past her and out of the house. There was a party going on and I had no intentions of missing it. Come to think of it, I haven't missed a party since. I'm sure that will explain a lot to some of you, but let's talk about it later.
At that time, and at that place, I wasn't about to miss the hours of brutally mangled Neil Young tunes, the smell of stink weed and the allure of older girls who might flash us if we acted cool; like we fit. Maybe things don't always change as much as we think they do, but I'm pretty sure if Lachapelle gave his cat acid today he'd be charged with something. Bachman, Turner Overdrive was blasting out of the back of someone's Chevette and the summer night wasn't getting any cooler. Rudy was there, pencil thin moustache, More cigarette and a Bradore in his hand. He was talking to Bob about music. I walked into the living room and then backed out when I realised everyone in there was a couple. Hand up her shirt, Jim had said, "What the fuck do you want?" 'Christ', I thought, 'you can have that one, Jimmy'.
Nephalim descend, to live among us. They are destined for slaughter. God finds them offensive, apparently. Half human, half angelic, they are cursed from birth. If you think He's forgotten about them, think again. She was dead and didn't know it. I knew it, when I asked her to go for a walk with me. I just wanted her to know what a beautiful night it was, to know that she'd had a chance to see it. I've always been a bit of a romantic.

Fifty has my soul

With the Jeff Coombe classic, 'Full of Fifty', stuck in my head and my innards tied into pretzels, the Fabulous Bee, the Prophet and myself headed south for the monthly roadtrip. Poor townies, now we're going to punishing you for what you've done.
After spending a gruelling day before, making eye contact and then laughinghard at the revellers, we decided this roadshow must move on. This is a list of the things we forgot:
1. To use the bathroom.
2. Food.
3. Our sense of direction.
4. Our sense of responsibility.
5. Cats to throw out the window.
Five classic rock albums later we found ourselves in a dollar store in P***********. A lovely man behind the counter, who didn't like the cut of my jib, sold us some batteries for the camera that never did have a charge. Good for him. I hope he remembers who I am when his house is burning. No pictures, though.
We stopped for lunch and twleve beers, when we remembered we also forgot to tell anyone where we were. The couple who invited us over for sex and debauchery were quite nice, but the Prophet sensed something wierd about them. I noticed that the bathrooms here are also guilt free zones and I peed where I wanted. The Fabulous Bee was halfway down the conga line when someone grabbed her ass and all hell broke loose. Ah, the feeling of hitting the streets at 1:00 a.m., not a clue where you are and four or five hillbillies looking for a tight ass, saying, 'We can party at my trailer.'

'Jesus has my heart,
Jesus has my soul,
Jesus has what a young girl wants,
Jesus yer too old.'

The Prophet doesn't like my songs. The punch lines just don't make her laugh.
Breakfast was burnt, I was burnt. The Fabulous Bee said, 'Get in the car, Fuckers.' and we left them all behind. I was still wishing we'd remembered the cats when we passed the seventh blueberry hut, on the long ride home.