C - Oh my it's my MySpace blog

blog

I have made numerous, perhaps 5, 6, 7 attempts to blog in the traditional fashion... I don't know? Listen, I embrace the stream; that relentless daily news feeds style. I enjoy the regiment and the organization. BUT it really can be so freakishly demanding; a sucking hole that demands you get thoughts down quickly and paste them along the path that just doesn't stop winding down while you count the moments in that sequential march towards the moment when you suddenly realize that not a single freaking thing you've contributed... sigh, matters.

...Its all good, it is all...good.

I continue to contribute to the stream; in a my a-synchronous, more random fashion... AND, If you'd like to engage these contributions...
• For business related spouts; I contribute to the stream at Gordon Gower, I honor ALL friend requests; and if you'd rather, simply subscribe.
• For a more personal contributions, you my try me at Mashy GoGo, note Mr. Mashy honor all friend requests from people I know...

once open a time... I made an attempt to keep a blog... it was messy, messy messy. It had some moments I guess; after all, it did lead to some very good things... [more on that, elsewhere]

My how MySpace has changed over the years... I've recently had a mind to go back and resuscitate my profile there... whether I get around to that adventure is yet to be seen. In the meantime, if you ARE there, or plan to go there... I'm there as Uncle GoGo, The Craptastic Sap Master.

This is the view out the back window... It seemed an appropriate place to post this

That's write... here is my old myspace blog... every last single word! from it...
every silly word of it, reverse sequential unedited...
[if you get through it... you get a cookie]

starting, sometime in May, 2007...

We're Strongly Considering a Solid $60 Hand Cart and a Sturdy Cardboard Box...

...Full of Shreaded Newspaper as an Alternative to an $800 Baby Stroller...

...which of course, is not true.

As far as inner-city baby-gear is concerned, the stroller is item #1 on the list of things to be considered most carefully. I mean, mobility... We don't have a car; will not own a car in the very near future. This family is on foot; on the subway and in the occasional cab. Eight hundred dollars; amortized over the 4 or 5 years we'll be carting this kid around is a pittance. We have no problem wiping year old yucky-icky-goo off all the other used, pre-owned, pre-loved baby items we buy for our baby off eBay and Craigslist, but this babies gotta go good...

Sweet ride baby! - Comes with everything shown above, everything you need to convert it from a carriage to a stroller. The big ol' back wheel make it ideal for tacklin' the subway stairs. The 'basket' detaches in a snap; and weighs about 10lbs. We'll leave the chassi chained up to the stairs downstairs when we walk up the four flights home; and heck, the kid could probably live in the bassinet and/or seat for the next 4 or 5 years.

It comes with accesories; an undercarriage basket, a couple of different tops and baby coverings… We'll probably buy the add-on cup holder and travel bag that fits on the handle. I betcha, Robbie, with her years of 'street vending' experience, will have this puppy customized to the point where a weeks worth of groceries could be strapped, buckled, pinned, glued and/or clipped on in a blink.

So; although we still like the cardboard box solution… Hey, from what we're told; this COMES in a big ol' cardboard box. We'll probably end filling THAT with shredded newspapers and use it as a crib!

1:14 PM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

19 May 2007

Working on the Formula for the Perfect Day… Any Suggestions?

The thought struck me the other day; this is a city of magicians. Next time you're here; simply ask someone for anything; the object of your desire will be in your hands in moments; any object. Every last 'thing' known to mankind can be obtained, here in this city; simply by wondering if its available. I have been to other cities; many have their own unique conveniences; many have have a similar treasure trove of all things one could possibly desire… I challenge anyone in a race to obtain, say, a banana, a cup of coffee, a toasted bagel with scallion cream cheese, a pack of smokes, two bottles of wine, a bathroom floor mat and a bottle of beer from your favorite micro brewery. (OK, the bagel's not fair)

Convenience is definitely a key component to a perfect day.

This morning, a woman got on our train and recited the worn out old story of how she was collecting for her three daughters at home; that she was pregnant and had exhausted all options for assistance. At the next stop, another woman, quite young, and as my friend pointed out surprising beautiful and relaxed for a woman with two toddlers in tow; another in a stroller and yet another strapped to her chest in a pouch… We all got off at the same stop; I helped her with the stroller and Robbie held the hand of the youngest up the stairs; this city could use a few more escalators.

There is NEVER an open bar stool; our place for Chinese screws up our order somewhere in the one minute and 35 seconds it takes for the delivery guy to get to our door after we hang up the phone… There is nowhere to go pee outdoors anywhere… Every last single radio station in this city appears to be tuned to "All Hip Hop - All the Time". If you can find a place to eat outdoors; its almost guaranteed your table will be at a 15 degree angle from level. 6 out of 10 people are distracted by their cellphones at any given time, this advances to 9 out of 10 when you reach the checkout counter; 10 out of 10 people working behind the counter are on their cellphones.

…suffering in silence is part of the process; I'll have a brand new list tomorrow…

The other morning, I walked out of an appointment in a part of the city I don't normally find myself, I was faced with 6 options to pick up a coffee, banana and the paper to read on the train. I happened into a bodaga and found myself surrounded by a group of Sikhs eating Indian breakfast grub from a huge steam table multicolored with bowls of sweet smellin' glop… I joined 'em for a bite; grabbed my banana and coffee; forgot the paper, descended into an empty subway station to the almost cliche sounds of a lone saxophone; found the paper on the train and headed off to the studio with a nice bug smile on my face.

(Hassles/Conveniences) X Surprisingly Wonderful Unexpected Incidents = The Measure of a Perfect Day.

So far…

1:13 PM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

16 May 2007

Sailing Experience: The Long Winded Answer

I've been giving out the 5 second answer to the question of "how much sailing experience do I have" over and over again at the Sailing Club I joined up at, and started sailing at a few weeks back. Somewhat justifiably so, as a new member, my experience, is open to question; and suspicion, as apparently, sailing prowess is something that some people tend to embellish. For the record, and as reference for those new friends at the club who wish to know a bit more about the crew member they may be hosting on this weekends 4:00pm sail; I submit:

I consider myself to be a proficient if not accomplished sailor. I have been sailing for 35 years now; 35 years ago being I was first time I was "officially" tossed the tiller and left to my own devises to "make the boat go" at the age of nine. I was most likely first on a sailboat in June of 1963, at one month in age; considering that, being on the boat was something my father quite enjoyed.

My father taught himself how to sail when he was around 10 or 11 during the summers he spent at my grandfather's cottage in Northern Ontario. He caught the bug which subsequently infected his entire family for two generations. This infection will be discussed at greater length later in this submission.

I was enrolled in sailing school at aged 10. I will admit to not really liking it all that much at first; but it did afford me the opportunity to make a few life long friends… The next year I enticed a few non-sailing friends to enroll, which most likely enhanced the likelihood, I'd stick with it. I did stick with it advancing through the CYA Sailing School Program from White Sail, basic to Bronze Sail, advanced and Silver Sail, racing over the next four years. I lived on water from April to October each year; and in the water the months between taking swimming classes in the winter.

Somewhere around my 14th/15th Birthday, I became a certified sailing instructor and did a two year stint as the Junior Instructor at my club. By my 16th Birthday I became the Head Instructor; teaching both kids during the day, and adults in the evenings that weren't spent racing…

My 16th birthday also allowed that I get a driver's license; which expanded the schedule from club racing and the odd "parent chaperoned" out of town regattas to a full blown schedule of racing every danged weekend there was a regatta within 300 miles. I had bought a Laser with my previous years earnings; me and my cousin John [who factors in continuously from this point forward] and who was now MY junior instructor would load the Lasers onto the trailer each weekend; sail, drink buckets of under-aged beers, camp out and chase young female sailing schooler gals from club to clubs dotting the Great Lakes, St. Lawrence Waterways from Hamilton to Brockville and on up the Rideu Canal into Ottawa. We spent two glorious summers as notorious sailing bums…

And, we certainly were bums. No fancy get up or gear. We'd arrive in a broken down old Nissan pickup truck, two Lasers on the trailer, one on the roof… A box full of rapidly thawing meat; some cereal and a couple of cases of beer I'd managed to buy primarily as I had already grown to a gangly 6 ft 2 in height; AND the guy at the beer store was friends with my dad… We'd essentially, puke our gear, tent, boats, sweats, wets into a makeshift trailer park-like campsite onto the lawn of some of the toniest Yachting Clubs in Ontario. These days, I'm not proud to say that on the occasion we needed to do a little 'between' races driving on Saturday nights… the first year I'd hand off the keys to John, who being 15 the first year round; we figured wasn't subject to DWI prosecution. It got even better the second year, as although John had gotten his drivers license that fall, he'd had it revoked for, indeed, DWI prior arriving to teach that next year; our logic became, that he couldn't suffer two DWI prosecutions simultaneously… We weren't that bright when it came to certain behavior; but eh, it worked out just fine AND we didn't, thank goodness KILL anyone; we did almost kill ourselves a few times, but eh, what kid didn't?

Those summers sadly came to a close after the second year; John went off to become Head Instructor at his club; I went off to Toronto. I came back in the summer to teach the first two years, but eventually… I slowly sank into to horrors of the "lean" sailing years. Oh, I'd head home for a Soling Regatta on a borrowed Soling here; a club race on my dads boat there… Its horrible to say this, but I made a point of sailing at least once ONCE!?! each year… [I usually got more than that in, and those Soling regattas where a frikin' blast; sailing by the seat of my pants, with my father!].

On about 14 years ago; the infection I mentioned earlier surfaced after years of dormancy on the occasion of my father's 60th Birthday. Over the years at family gatherings, usually spurred on by semi-druken chest pounding by John and I trying to relive our competitive past; we'd challenge each other to a match race… Of course, every one of each of our 12 brothers and sisters, having had been in sailing school; wanted in… And on a hazy hot and muggy hungover drunken Sunday morning, the day after we celebrated my dad's 60th. The six of us, keen enough to drag ourselves the ten miles to the club, got out sailed three rabbit start races… John, won, my wife at the time built a trophy which we handed out that Thanksgiving, thus starting a family tradition that has seen continuous action since that hot and muggy hungover GREAT day of sailing… There are 50+ names on the trophy; my Dad's brother's boys from England, who have the bug are on there as are the various lovers, wives and husbands; and most importantly the names of 10 grandchildren of John and mines fathers and mothers.

Have I mentioned that enjoy sailing; and that this enjoyment comes quite naturally?

Although, racing is a passion. I'd have to admit that anytime spent afloat is: 'good time spent'. During the lean years; my idea of the perfect vacation was to 'steal' my dads boat for a week or two, after Labor Day, after all the pleasure boaters finished their summer sailing and left the entire Lake Ontario and St Lawrence to me and my wife, or whatever friend might want to sail these great waters, eat great food in the chilly night air; kick the ice off the hatches in the morning; perk a pot of coffee and head off for another early-fall blustery fresh aired out sail!

Last year I was afforded the opportunity to race ferociously with that fella who factors into my sailing history quite consistently. John has bought himself a Shark, is helping to build out the fleet at his club, which is now home to 10 Sharks; he campaigns the boat from Hamilton to Brockville and on up the Rideu Canal to Ottawa. He chases the hottie-deck-chicks and cougars [in his mind]… He calls his boat "The Trailer Park Bouys" and arriving at some of the toniest clubs in Southern Ontario with his rag-tangled crew; these days his twin and older brother… His campsites at the week long World Championships are Class lore!

I had a great year sailing with John last year… This year; I'll get as much or more sailing in, eventually my new pals will most likely agree, that I'm a proficient, if not an accomplished sailor.

The definitely know just how infected I am!

11:55 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

16 May 2007

Holy Freakin' Mama... HE MOVED!

Last night, mi amore comes running out of the bedroom... "it moved, it moved, it moved!!!" - I put my hand on the belly and felt a kick, then we cried ourselves to sleep...

It just keeps getting better!

8:13 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

16 May 2007

So Goes Silent Another Great American Voice of the Pathetically Ridiculous Nineteen Eighties!

I was first introduced to Jerry Falwell in a round about way in an episode of "WKRP in Cincinnati" back in, oh, probably 1979. A great American sit-com centered around a collection of cartoon likenesses of the cartoon characters of the day… Herb Tarluk, the cartoon cut-out of the morally challenged sales guy; Venus Fly Trap, the cartoon cut-out guy from the hood [who actually turned out to be a cartoon cut-out of a successful middle class black jus pretending to be from the cartoon cut-out hood]; Johnny Fever, the cartoon cut-out washed up stoner burnt out cartoon cut-out hippy… [and the Professor and Marian]. On this episode, this cartoon cut-out collection of fine people were being challenged with the loss of advertising revenue after a cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell had organized a boycott of companies that advertised on WKRP, companies like the one who made Red Wigglers…

The ever indecisive, lovable old Mr. Carlsen was about to side with the more traditionally meek cartoon cut-outs in his crew, Herb and Les Nessman… After a heated debate with the well groomed cartoon cut-out 80s prototype sensitive man, Andy, he chose to test the cartoon-cut out of Jerry Falwell… He presented the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell with the lyrics to John Lennon's cartoon like musings… "Imagine"… "Of course we'd put that on our can't play list"; "Imagine, there's NO heaven… blasphemy" proclaimed the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell in cartoon cut-out like fashion… Needless to say; the rolly-polly, jolly old cartoon cut-out of everyone's favorite dad on the block, Mr. Carlsen became determined, NOT to fight the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell; but alas, to simply weather the storm.

I seem to recall this storm amounting to not much more than a short squall that, in the end, outside of slightly helping to blow Ronald Reagan into the White House and a few "flag waving" "Righties" into the legislature; not amounting to very much at all.

If you examine it closely; Ronald Reagan was going to enter the White House one way or another. His collection of an additional 5 to 6 million votes from "Jerry's silent-moral majority" may have been the push he needed in round one; but did they really have much of an impact on him taking every state outside of Minnesota [or the such] in round two? America was sick of lickin' it's chops, and pandering to those who railed around the nations flaws as the Democrats had been doing since Nixon's little embarrassment. America just wasn't gonna put Mr. I HATE ISRAEL AND EVERYTHING IT STANDS FOR back into the White House…

I think a lot of people these days fail to see the ebbs and tides of American politics. Sometimes the great political tidal system flows, sweeping Americans up into a grand cause; at other times it ebbs, and FOLLOWS the opinions of the citizenry as they cower away from their responsibilities. Reagan was the swift moving tide this nation needed at a critical time when the crumbling infrastructure of the Soviet Union was about to implode; without a "strong" America; where would the world be? The Soviet system, suffering from the syphilis born from fucking itself for three generations was going to collapse; better to collapse into American arms than into, utter destructive chaos, OR say into the arms of China, or say into a Europe so socialized and confused that most nations couldn't hold a government for more than three days… except, hmmm… oh ya, right, the Germans.

Blah, blah, blah… my interpretation of history, which remains quite ridiculous, at this point usually results in the accusation of having drunken too many sips from one coolade container or another; lets get back to examining the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell.

It's really is quite simple, Jerry's Silent Moral Majority's hot button issue was abortion; AND they liked to railed against what they saw as a tide of homosexuality sweeping across the nation; destroying all that was decent in their extremely narrow perception of what American decency was… In reality, they were a bunch of folks who had been damned right pissed off since Johnson gave away the last broken down chicken coop to the, eh, hem, ni… blacks back in '68. The press coverage of the fake-flower-power revolution had confused and fooled them into believing that a revolutionary army made up of a hoard of GAY hippies was about to wash over the nation… They hid their agenda behind the cross, funny enough, pretty much the same way the hippies hid their agenda behind their "two-fingered", "up yours" peace sign gesture.

The plebeian tribes squabble as the Emperor Monkeys chuckles and takes all the bananas for themselves.

It's 27 years later; more states not only allow abortions but fund them. Abortions are more available than they ever were in Jerry Falwell's worst nightmares. The argument the 5% or so of American's who are gay, is no longer whether they should step out, speak up or surrender for psychological reprogramming; they are no longer the pariah; legislators no longer shudder at the prancing proud army, but rather sit and have relatively reasoned debates over whether or not we should call their couplings a simple civil union, or a marriage. Needless to say; being part of the 5% or so American who call themselves gay is a whole heck-uv-a-lot easier now than it was 25 years ago… or so.

Jerry Falwell's Silent Moral Majority DID hold some slight bit of sway in the rhetoric of American politics. Through basically what amounts to a scheduling error; they managed to force conservative Presidential politicians to genuflect and swing to the far right for a few months as they headed through the Southern Primary's on their way to Super Tuesday… This all changes this year with Super-Duper Tuesday being the first and final "Big Stop" on the ticket next year… Note the Republican front runner imploring that government "stay out of American's personal lives".

In the end; after the rhetoric, even the most creepy-right-religious of American politicians, supported by Jerry Falwell's silent moral majority failed to really bend the American tradition, to more or less live and let live all that far from the absolute dead center of the road… where it belongs.

A good American is one who stands up and struggles for what he believes in; if what he believes in matches a significant number of other American's beliefs; AND if he effectively leads these people, and gets their beliefs an audience before the government of the day he becomes a Great American. Despite what you think, or what I think, approximately 10,000,000 American's held the same beliefs as Jerry Falwell; and likely many more than 10,000,000 hold extremely similar beliefs. Jerry Falwell got these American's and their beliefs a hearing… now, that hearing didn't amount to much; but heck, THAT was not Jerry Falwell's fault; rather, maybe it is the proof that this system of government does kinda work, kinda.

We live in a country where, over a relatively accessible cable channel, one can now watch a cartoon show depicting small cartoon cut-outs of young children saying "fuck" at least once or twice a season, I saw episode, I think back in '05 where a cartoon cut-out likeness of everyone's favorite cartoon cut-out Paris Hilton is coughing up cartoon cut-out cum every five minutes… Companies like those who make the "Red Wigglers" regularly advertise on our cable channels. Abortion is relatively available; homosexuals can get married in Massachusetts and/or form binding civil unions in many states… The storm, she did blow, but, in the end I think, you, me and the good'n'stoned DOCTOR Johny Fever weathered the storm quite nicely.

I mean, just how moral would you like US to be?

6:16 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

15 May 2007

TCB, Baby-Love… and Mikey and Me

Clearing out the jumble after a long and cheerful weekend spent NOT doing the work I could have been doing but instead doing all the fun things I ended up doing; After a weekend of being the BEST damned dock whore I could ever possibly be… The Headline on Today's paper screamed at me the results of a poll that had NYers exalting Mikey Bloomberg as a better Mayor than Rudy "America's Mayor" Giuliani; AND a better candidate for Presidente. I think I'm starting to agree with these NYers.

Although my love and respect and adoration and devout worship of Rudy will never diminish, I gotta admit, Mikey's doing a pretty damned good job. OK, Mikey and Me don't see eye to eye on all this nanny-state crap, even though I'd really, really, really like to see a lot fewer incredibly huge fat ugly slobs chowin' down buckets of trans fat soaked burgers and fries, chicken, burritos, chips, ice cream cones etc etc etc at one damned sitting as their un-humanly fat butts melt so frikin ungraciously over the sides of the double wide plastic orange benches at the local McDeath outlet…

Despite this difference of opinion on the role of the state in keeping us idiots alive; or trying to make us more healthy; I think America needs Mikey B'berg to RUN and become President. His, "I bought this, it's mine and I'll take a dollar a day" approach to governing this "used-to-be ungovernable" city has been a breath of fresh air in a city where the air hasn't been all that fresh for some 400 years. I think America would be well served by someone who simply bought the Presidency out from under the Illuminate supported ass-jokers the so-called two party system candidates the 'star chamber's' been spitting out over the last few years. I mean come on, the lesbian wife of the guy whose TRUE claim to fame was being the ONLY President to get caught getting his dick-sucked in the Oval Office replacing the retarded son of the high priest of the Skull & Crossbones, class-o-'37… John Edwards! Barak-bin "I'm building my candidacy around some weepy book about my oh so interesting life growing up with a mother whose excuse for NOT being able to stick it out with my father is some weird, I gotta solid Liberal Arts education that forced me to abandon my son with his Grand parents in Hawaii so he could stick with his buddies, and learn enough about being black to fit into the South Side Chicago, oh lets hep the po' people of our left behind neighborhood" Obama!

People… please! More than a year to go and already the mess we call the press is starting to chuck it all and say; lets let the guy who plays that guy on TV be President; you know that bald NYC DA guy Dalton, Thomas, someone… ya, that guy…

I say, let Mikey buy the big chair! - He'll WIN us the war on terror; AND save us all a buck-fitty while we're at it…

But, oh, but it was, such a beautiful weekend!

Last Friday, me and my shrink dedicated this week to the new program, TCB. Yep, folks, I'm sticking my tail between my legs, completely prostrating my former position on the idea of putting my brain into the hands of someone who actually followed through on the ridiculous notion of becoming a therapist; someone who not only wants to help people, but thinks he might just be able to do so. Don't get me wrong; the fact that TCB is what we've come up with is DEAD ON proof that I picked the right guy! I mean, the last thing I would ever want to hear would be something nurturing… And the worst thing anyone could ever suggest was that I scour my past for some nugget of some wrong that was foist upon my younger me by father, teacher, priest… Nope; this week; its all ELVIS baby! Takin' Care of Business!

Happy Mother's Day!

6:43 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

14 May 2007

The Steven Laurie Project - Part I
FROM: The Internet Curmudgeon

Ok, it's the day after Sunday, butthe Curmudgeon is still in a bright and cheerful Sunday like mood. So-much-so; that he's about to embark on one of those ridiculous little Social Networking experiments of his... No, this time it wont be a crass and bald-faced product marketing experiments; this time, the Curmudgeons off to see just how much of a groundswell of support he can generate over his "Social Network" [uhg, I just tasted and had to re-swallow a bit of this mornings breakfast after that]... see how much "pump" he can swell for his NEW favorite artist.

I came across Steven Laurie on Flickr... For the life of me I can't remember how; I'm thinking most likely he was a contact on one of my contacts contact list that I came across while snooping through my contacts contacts lists. So, he' a friend of a friend; or maybe a friend of a friend's friend who liked what Steven Laurie was up to...

Take a look at Steven Laurie's photos on Flickr HERE

So, over the week, in 15 minute increments, I'm going to start shilling for this guy; because, well after 20 years, I think I've found the next ART artist I have a grain of respect for [There are DOZENS of artist I have respect for, just none who I put in that category of just "doing art for arts sake" anymore]. I'll document each step; and hopefully get in contact with Steven Laurie to see if there was any ROI on this little sweat equity project of mine...

BTW: I love my mother! AND, truly believe the soon-to-be mother I'm in love with is going to be one heck of a super-duper top-notch MOTHER. This woman is pure LOVE! [ah, Sunday's!]

11:12 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

11 May 2007

On Knowing, Its a Boy… Part III - The Capsizing of the Arrow
www.unclegogo.com

The Arrow was one of the number of smaller one man sailboats that came out of the 1970's to replace the aging Sunfish and challenge the Laser's growing dominance in the class. A cat boat; with just a little bit more sail area and a whole lot more beam than the Laser; this extra beam, provided a bit more stability for the less accomplished sailor; BUT added a lot more weight and one huge problem in-so-much as, if you went over, you were DEFINITELY going to turtle.

Turtling your dinghy is one big pain in the butt. For those who don't know what the frick I'm talking about… A well designed boat, when capsized will rest sideways on the water, the balance of buoyancy in the hull to the configuration of the rigging allows the mast and sail, now resting in the water, to prevent the boat from turning past 90 degrees. Righting a typically capsized boat is a snap; simply crawl out onto the centerboard, or dagger and and let your body weight bring the boat upright… most people can with very little skill or effort capsize ANHD right a Laser without getting wet.

Turtling is when the capsized boat tips beyond 90 degrees… Think, mast pointing straight down, centerboard pointing straight up… To right a turtled boat, you basically have to stand on the gunells, jump up and down and reef on the centerboard with all your strength… I'll give you a small tip her, for all of you trying to right your turtled dinghies, try positioning the boat in such a way that the waves will assist in the righting… I'll let you figure that out.

The Arrow we had in our backyard, was one of two my father was, trying out as potential boats to add to the aging fleet our sailing club used for its junior sailing program. I can't remember why we kept these boats in the backyard; but regardless, there they were at my disposal, and I used them best I could. Now, seeing that at the time I was nine, and not yet enrolled in sailing school. I usually used one of them, without sails as a swimming platform. My father would take me out under sail from time to time; I will note that my father is an exceptional; sailor.

Given the extra beam and the extra weight and extra stability of the Arrow; it really wasn't that fun a boat to sail for an exceptional sailor, definitely not so in lighter winds. In heavy air, it could be a good ride, probably even better for the little kid joyriding while his dad set out on a honking, planing reach; maybe catching the odd good wave and doing a bit of surfing [a point of sail tenfold more exciting on a Laser]… I don't recall too many time my father taking me out in a good fresh breeze but I do remember one time more than the others.

Maybe it was that it was a gloriously sunny day in late spring. Maybe my dad had had a few extra beers; I never concerned myself with my dad's beers, to me they represented that most consistent and enjoyable of assignments growing up… Forget mowing the lawn or shoveling the snow; "…get me a beer" was the call I could hear from anywhere in the yard, the call to grab a cold one from the fridge, run it over to him, or maybe struggle with three or four for him and his pals; get a great big thank you from the guys; get a big ol thank-you from that one guy who was ultimately the absolute dead center of my entire my existence, my universe…

The wind was blowin', the sun was shining; I helped best I could as my dad rigged up the Arrow. I most likely would have already squeezed into the old Kapok keyhole life jacket myself… LIFE jacket is kind of a misnomer for what they called life jackets back in the 70s. Look at it this way; for buoyancy, they used this weird shredded vegetable matter called kapok, which they theoretically sealed into plastic bags to keep this weird fiber dry and theoretically buoyant. These bags, which were usually waterlogged after the first year or so of use, were sewn into puke orange fabric; sewn into a shape that strongly resembled stocks used to chain prisoners up in the town square in medieval times. Putting on a life jacket in the 1970s was essentially similar to the sentence for stealing a loaf of bread from the baker in 1678.

I have absolutely positive memories of this sail with my father. Despite being hobbled in this puke orange bloated water logged torture device; I was having a blast. We were probably just sailing back and forth across the two mile stretch, shore to shore on this lake we called the Bay of Quinte. I'm sure my dad was just sailing reach to reach in order to maximize the fun; giving his boy a bit of the thrill of sailing…

Any good sailor can capsize a boat. Its not the end of the world; the boat tips, you get wet, right the boat and sail on. Heck, we'd do it ten times for fun later when we'd go for a sail after sailing school class or before the start or after the finish of a race.

My father claims that the hiking straps popped, and that he unexpectedly flipped off over the side of the Arrow; over we went. Now, this claim of a some part breaking; its happened to me, AND considering the chain of events that happened next, is an absolutely believable claim; one I support my father in to this day. He's made wilder claims about wilder accidents in his life; some, well one surrounding the events in which his neighbor lit his garage on fire just as my father noticed the ninny was using an electric pump to drain the gas out of the tank in his car in order to effect some repair or what not… That claim, which we all also support, resulted in my father's leg looking like a side of beef after 3rd degree burns and months of skin grafting surgery so professionally meted out by the medics at the Canadian Armed Forces in Kingston… My dad's not one to make false claims.

Over we went.

No big deal; 'cept for the Arrow being quite a bit worse a piece of naval architecture than expected… This probably would a fun little dunking in an otherwise blast of a sail. I'm sure my dad could have righted the Arrow quickly if he didn't first have to collect his boy, now floating around in the Bay of Quinte, bobbing around like the town drunk in the stocks after a good night of grog. Perhaps if I could have actually moved my arms, I may have been able to either keep hold of, or swim back to the boat on my own. As I was being collected by my dad, the Arrow turtled.

Again, NOT that big of deal. My dad being quite a burly man and "way stronger than your dad", could have easily stood on the gunells and yanked the Arrow back upright with little effort. Here's were things started going somewhat more wrong than would be expected.

First off, the mast step on the Arrow proved to be, well lets just say, quite flawed. The mast step on a Laser is a 20 inch deep hole in which you put the 'stayless' mast and tie it down with the cunningham which, working double duty as a devise to allow you to control the luff tension on the sail. The mast step on the Arrow, was a 'deck step'; a small pin held the mast to the deck, tensioned into place, theoretically by the shrouds and forestay… theoretically our mast popped out of its step, and although not separating itself from the boat, basically sank to act as an anchor helping to keep us, upside down.

Add to this the centerboard falling out; AND not being made of something that might float, sinking… I must have assumed we were in quite a pickle; AS a matter of fact I know I thought we were indeed in a pickle as, from what I've been told I did what any 9 year old kid would have done; even if that 9 year old kid weren't being held in bondage, strapped into the terror device now soaked through, weighing twice it's weight and probably no more able to keep me afloat than say, one of the empty beer bottles I had neatly stacked back into its case on the way to getting my old man and his buddies another couple of beers before we went out for this damned sail… what any 9 year old kid would have done; I started crying; AND, from what they tell me, I started crying out for help.

I've always counted myself lucky. I grew up with great friends in a great small town; surrounded by about 10 gazillion things to do and parents who basically not only let you do them, but suggested that you give them all a try. I'm sure I'm not the only boy who can remember his dad being the absolute center of their universe, but I think I am a bit lucky to remember the exact moment that center of this universe of mine was shakin', turned upside down, the exact moment I began questioning just how stable this bloody universe of mine was.

Here I was, wet, weighed down, crying and crying out for help while our disabled craft bobbed up and down in the waves. To me, the outlook appeared pretty dim. Our chances of survival, quite bleak; here I was, most likely assessing the situation and realizing the chances of ever enjoying Friday night's Mac & Cheese dinner to be pretty much… done. AND then, here's dear old dad… bobbing around with the boat, telling me to STOP crying, AND "stop calling out for help, ya ninny"! WHAT??? I'm basically a goner, and this crazy old fools using his last gulp of breath… his dying words, to call me a ninny! Some universe this turned out to be…

…in the end; indeed, me and my dad survived the ordeal. As my father well knew, we simply floated up on shore within' a half hour or so. He collected and stowed the various bits and pieces that remained of the Arrow, disengourged me from my 'life' jacket and walked up to the house of the folks on whose shore we'd washed up on to call my mom and have her bring the car around with the trailer to cart the whole mess home.

It was probably on my dad's recommendation that the club not buy Arrows for the Junior sailing program, but instead bought a fleet of six Lasers' six boats I'd grow up on, having a blast on, while screaming down the waves on a scorching plane on… Six boats, I'd capsize a hundred thousand times, 50,000 of which times, not even getting wet. Six boats, I'd later use along with the rest of the fleet when I ran the sailing school as head instructor for years.

The day after my dad and I capsized the Arrow; he went out and bought me a 'Stearn Life-Vest'. As it sounds, this was a snazzy little life jacket, zipper front, four small foam panels sewn into light weight nylon fabric, held together with light weight mesh. The back panels where black; the front red; there was a "Stern" crest on the front; all the hot sailors at our club wore stern vests…

The day after we capsized the Arrow, was perhaps the day my dad stopped being the absolute, rock solid center of my universe and became, simply the smartest man I'd known; and ever would.

I know I have enormous shoes to fill!

www.unclegogo.com

5:57 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

10 May 2007

Pricking my Ass on the Spire that Tops Out the Temple of Exquisite Mistakes

When you have made this many mistakes; you learn to cherish them. I totally agree with who ever it was that mentioned that you will learn a hundred times more from one mistake than you will from 100 triumphs [if indeed that was ever mentioned].

I have and always will take full responsibility, something my father ingrained in me with the gentle sole of his standard issue Armed Forces boots; AND have absolutely NO regrets. He who claims no mistakes; is no more than a ghost or even more likely an insecure lier. Some of the most interesting moments in my life have been been the struggles to overcome my biggest mistakes! I am nothing but the composite of my successes, failures and mistakes…

Feeling the hot and moist breath of 50 gently tickle the hairs on the back on my neck. Oh, there's a few years left before the ultimate "midway" performance review; but I feel it coming, it cannot be outrun… It will soon be time to turn 'round and embrace the old guy.

I could list a series of goof, gaffs guffaws and blunders that pock my life like the face of the kid who was so far out of the running for prom-king that they forgot to put his picture in the yearbook; there are a few that would warrant enough examination to afford a shrink's child two years tuition at one of the best prep schools in town. I'm trying to think what my favorite might be…

Would my favorite be one of those mistakes I saw coming; slowly ambling over the horizon as I simply dithered away waiting for the obvious decent and eventual cataclysmic impact and destruction of the entire foundation I had built, usually upon the wreckage of numerous previous mistakes; OR would my favorite be one of the spectacular sideswipes… Mistakes that appear initially as surprising unexpected events until some healthy personal forensics reveals that, at the source, as per usual is a tiny point of decision; a seemingly insignificant wrong turn down the wrong fork in the wrong road; perhaps a missed intersection or on-ramp. Perhaps I would have to pick a favorite from each category.

I'm assuming that over the next few years the amount of effort I spend untangling certain past mistakes will, be as great, or greater than the effort required to steer clear of the next big mistakes… My challenge for yesterday.

Happy Birthday to me!

8:23 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

7 May 2007

On Behalf of Myself, I Most Humbly Accept My Most Gracious Applause

I burned just a little less than about one fifth of a gallon of gasoline over the weekend… on six separate occasions I fired up the four horsepower motor on the boat that I borrow three times to get out of and and three times to get into of the harbor I sail from around a tight packing of sailboats in this tiny little harbor. Oh, I could have sailed into and out of the harbor; I've sailed into and out of tighter spots than this before; but its a rule I respect in respect for the feelings of the anxiety that sailing this close to the other boats may cause in the minds of the others who sail on the weekend in these small little boats from this tightly packed harbor.

I fired up the four horsepower motor to get through a lull in order to get my small little boat back into the small tight packed harbor on time… I've sailed through lulls before AND the wind was filling in from the south as per usual… but its not my boat I share it with others and I felt the need to respect the clock and make the boat ready for the next bunch of sailors.

I burned a little bit less than one fifth of a gallon of gas while sailing this weekend I thought to myself as I rode the packed subway to work again this morning… Last Friday I walked home from work and I boiled a few eggs under the light cast by the one florescent light bulb that lights the counter under the cabinets in my small but adequate galley style kitchen. I felt a bit guilty that the eggs weren't from free range chickens but then again after all I was just going to mash them up and mix them with Kraft mayo and spread them on whatever bread was left over from last nights lovely dinner that we made with ingredients bought from our small local grocer. I can do better.

Don't get me going!

I have to remind myself to find an alternative to the processed and prepackaged Kraft mayonnaise AND, I really should speak with my baker with regards to the source of their flower and the process in which they bake my bread in the late evening/early morning down the street from my tiny apartment. I should start walking to work more often; at least as often as I walk home. For after all, this slight decrease in the crowdedness may trigger the positive response which could get that one extra person riding the train rather than say, taking that cab that causes traffic congestion and leads to one more car caught idling in the intersection blocking the truck needed to cart that big bag of fair-trade coffee to the front door of my local coffee house. Cafe Collage not only serves up a fine cup of fair-trade coffee but posts signs to assures me that a small percentage of the change I drop into the tip jar does not go to top up the slavery like wages the proprietor pays his dread-braided student barristas; BUT that one penny from my fifty cent tip will be put into a fund that will go towards some cause they all can agree on at the staff meeting they hold every Friday. If only his monthly expenses don't all of a sudden catch up to him like they did a few months ago when he cut all the hours and had one less employee to serve me my fine cup of fair-trade coffee.

Maybe tomorrow I wont buy the paper hoping that this personal act of making a butter-fly-wing-flapping like gesture will resonate as a sound business decision in some boardroom the need to reduce circulation and save the bark off one of the trees in the acres of trees cut down up in Quebec that are required to print the 400lb Sunday edition of the Times that is chock full of stories about how we're all trying just so desperately hard to save this planet for our kids whose diapers we have no clue what to do with since we protested sending barge loads of garbage sailing down the east coast to one of a dozen or more closed open-mine coal pits that we don't know what to do with except definitely not using them as landfill sites where we can chuck all our garbage out of the site of the cameras that shoot all that footage for the six 24 hour news outlets we've all been watching…

Excuse me, I have to check on something.

I just looked out of the window of my office to find traffic moving well along the tangled ribbons of expressways that carry the single occupant SUVs that pour into the city looking for the ever more illusive parking spot at the foot of these bridges where they're constructing yet another tall building full of 1,000 square foot condos that'll be packed full of flat screens on which the owners can watch seemingly angry people bickering over whats the right answer to solve all our problem while wishing they had the time and energy to take out the bikes and ride past my building this weekend while trying to convince themselves they are making a difference.

Am I doing my part?

Apparently, I should be living completely differently being more vocal as I haven't attended any rallies which definitely brings into question my devotion to the service of all the causes to make everything so much more better… I routinely question the dogma, that I read in the papers which makes me a suspect of not truly believing that everything I do impacts the future. I walk without thinking, thinking that what I'm doing is actually taking step after step, the steps required to turn our society around before we coast at full throttle past this brink of disaster while the kids in the backseat watch "Happy Feet" over and over on the DVD player mounted to the roof of the Tahoe that they use to take them all kayaking. I'm a failure for not saying anything… while they continue to keep telling me over and over that they're doing everything they can to live there life better than I live without thinking of the consequence that impact their kids futures.

But while you're not looking maybe while you're reading your paper; I quietly keep doing the things that I'm doing. Not because I'm worried, nor because I'm trying. I could care less about your efforts, I laugh at your suggestion that I use less energy to do the things I am doing. Which of course is mostly walking around not thinking I could make any difference. I chuckle at the nylon get-up you wear on your bicycle as you ride up my street yapping and screaming about how wonderful it is you're doing all the things that are required to make it all better. After saying what I've been saying I'm sure I hardly deserve it, but I'll gladly accept my very own pat on my back for all the things I have and have not been doing. After all is this not what you are after when you put on that t-shirt and pack all those slogans into the back of the pick-up and drive over five hours to catch up with all of your friends as they try to get coverage to make sure we are all worthy of all this self congratulations?

I guess as they say, as per usual I could always do better but I think what I'll do is continue to remain quietly doing the things that I'm doing.

www.unclegogo.com

1:17 PM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

24 Apr 2007

Welcome to MY World

NOTE: Uncle GoGo has moved... NO, not to Facebook... www.unclegogo.com - My time experimenting with social networks will now be limited to experiments I perform for work... OK, sure I still have a flickr site... OK, OK.... you're right, I know; I know... Anyhow, for more on Social Networks, try my old employee/pals blog at: http://www.radicaltrust.ca/ ; he has definitely had a big ol' sip from the coolaid tub...

On with, what ever it is, this is...

-----------------------------------

Spring-has-sproooiiig-ed! - AND - once again, we find ourselves in that, these days, all too short comfort zone when "a cool morning" means a fresh breeze, sitting outside with the morning coffee in T-shirt and shorts; and generally really freakin' enjoying the start of the day. No more having to face the bone chillin' drizzle while I guzzle coffee and draw those last few puffs before heading up to the studio…

This morning also marked the arrival of "those other people"; the ones I haven't seen for months [feels like 18 months this year]. Those folks who give you that look of indignation as they walk by me on their way to get their morning fix of mocca-java-supreme-double-double-hoo-ha; The ones who formed the constituency to kick me out of doors, first from the restaurants, then from the coffee shops then from the bars in the first place.

NO, this is NOT yet another diatribe on indoor smoking bans; After years and years and years now, I've come full circle. I actually enjoy being forced out of doors. It's a bit grim some winter days, but really, I have found our winters aren't really that tough. I've come to appreciate those moments either alone in my own thoughts after escaping from dull drunken conversations; or moments with other smokers. There's a whole world of compatriot "suckers-in-arms" going on out here folks… This is OUR world; and we've made the best of it.

No, this is definitely not another tired diatribe; you've won, you own the inside. Me, I drink less, and spend less of my drinking money at the bars [sorry, Mike, Ralph and Helen, I hope your non-smoking customers are topping up those college-funds…]. Like my non-smoking friends, I suffer less from 'itchy-eye'; and my cloths ALSO wreak, OK, just a little less than they did in the days of "the fog".

Yes, you won; AND this is me thanking you. Thanking you for saving me from myself. Thanking you for introducing me to my "out door" friends; thanking you for the few extra dollars I now have to spend on better ingredients for the dinners I now cook for my smoking dinner guest as we share our cheaper drinks in the pleasant surrounding of my own kitchen table…

Its a beautiful morning this morning. Us smokers have made it through, eh, a not-so-tough winter; but an excruciatingly long period of April-drizzle. I'd like to say hello and offer a warm welcome back to our non-smoking friends as they come outside… AND no, I will not apologize for the occasional errant puff that lands in your face, as try as I might, I do not control the direction of the breezes… AND, I will NOT tolerate, NOR will I even acknowledge one single glare of yours. YOU asked for it, you got it… I'm outside, just as you had wished for for decades.

Welcome back outdoors! Welcome to my world!

HEY, THROW that damned water bottle in the trash! - I wouldn't have tossed and stomped a butt out on YOUR living room floor!… …EVER!

----------------------------

Remember, www.unclegogo.com for all those quiet moments when Craptastic Sappiness just seems so right 'ow kenn'it be wrong. BABY

8:42 AM
Like·Comment
Post a comment...

12 Apr 2007

Mackerel belly up, while Owl flounders

WOW! We're approaching the tenth anniversary of the demise of my first company! - Snif, it seems like it was only 8 years ago!

---------------------------------------

From Playback Magazine: Jul 14, 1997
Mackerel belly up, while Owl flounders
http://www.playbackmag.com/articles/magazine/19970714/16252.html?page=1

by: Cheryl Binning

Up and running for a mere six months under Gordon Haines' Combined Media parent company, Mackerel Multimedia has closed its doors for good after a nine-year run. Sister entity, 21-year-old Owl Communications, has laid off its 40-member staff, put its tv productions on hold and is in the process of restructuring and weighing its options, which include negotiations with potential buyers.

The announcement comes behind a January deal between the three companies which saw Owl drop its non-profit status and join forces with ex-Alliance coo Haines and a group of venture capital investors to form Combined Media, which owns 90% of Owl Communications and 50% of Mackerel Interactive.

Combined Media provided the working capital to embark on an ambitious business plan, projecting to double Owl's production slate this fiscal to 40 hours, up from the 15 to 20 hours produced last year, and break into high-budget family programming in the $800,000 per half-hour range. Mackerel was expected to expand as it twinned these properties with multimedia packages.

"Mackerel is out of business we're essentially bankrupt, we've been served our notice," says Mackerel president Gord Gower, citing hefty overhead, delayed production starts and cash flow problems culminating in Combined Media using up its line of credit.

The company had until the close of business Friday, July 4 to get an extension of its credit with its bankers. Negotiations failed, says Gower, because primary investor, the Working Ventures labor investment fund, refused to make a deal.

Gower says Combined Media and sister company Owl left Mackerel exposed to far too much debt to continue operating and the decision to shut down his company was made when the financial difficulties first surfaced. "At that point in the picture, Mackerel was going to be the last entity standing and, because of the way the deal was structured, Mackerel would have had to assume all the debt generated by the other companies," he explains.

"That's where we decided to close it off we could have shaken ourselves of the debt by collapsing Mackerel and finding other partners to reopen it, but there just wasn't the will to do this on the part of the partners."

Gower says he is looking for a job in the multimedia arena and is considering a move to the u.s.

"Owl Communications is not in receivership at this time," says president Annabel Slaight of the company she founded, which operates both a television and publishing division. As to details of its restructuring plan, Slaight is not commenting at the present time but says her mission is to rescue the company.

"My greatest hope is that Owl continues as a multiple-media company. There are tremendous growth opportunities for Owl in all the medias we are involved in publishing, tv and multimedia."

Owl was set to coproduce the 26-episode $3-million live-action kids series The Max Show with Saskatchewan's Heartland Motion Pictures. Heartland president Stephen Onda says the project was ready to go, with broadcast licences secured from tvontario, scn and Vision and Telefilm funding confirmed, when word of Owl's difficulties came to light. He says the project is not dead and all financing participants have agreed to give them time to work out the situation. His company is looking at various options while "waiting for Owl to sort itself out."

The second season of the Mrs. Cherrywinkle series for Family Channel was scheduled for a late summer shoot. Slaight indicates she expects the project to go forward.

Mighty Mites, a $300,000 per half-hour combined live-action/animated series, had been in development for CanWest Global, but prior to any indication of Owl's financial troubles, vp of Canadian programming Loren Mawhinney says the broadcaster had elected not to go into production on the program.

Although no broadcaster has licensed the show as yet, Phyllis Platt at the cbc confirms they had entered discussions with Owl to license the property and talks were also underway to develop a half-hour drama series for adolescents. Owl tv, she adds, has withdrawn both projects from the table for the present time.

Mackerel recently launched a $500,000 Mighty Mites site for America Online and had $500,000 worth of projects in production, including a farm/agricultural product Website for Monsanto and a deal to relocalize kids' educational products for Scholastic Canada. This work will be completed by the staff working as freelancers. Another $1 million worth of projects was pending, including a fee-for-service interactive project for The Max Show.

According to Gower, problems began when Owl Television and Mackerel failed to generate the cash flow they were anticipating and the working capital Combined Media brought to the January deal did not provide enough of a window to get their ambitious slate of projects off the ground. This was compounded by the debts Owl and Mackerel brought into the deal, the high overhead required to move into a new building, realign the companies and set up the revamped infrastructure at Owl tv, which included a large number of employees in administration and business affairs as well as a 10-member production team.

"There was infrastructure built up for tv production but the actual production lagged behind what was anticipated." he says.

The straw that broke the camel's back came when unexpected delays in putting the Cherrywinkle and Max deals together pushed back production starts and left gaping holes in their cash flow, says Gower. This also pushed back Mackerel's Max interactive project, taking another brick out of an already crumbling wall.

"If Combined Media had brought in another couple of million we would of had a much larger window to overcome these shortfalls," he says.

As independent companies, both Owl and Mackerel had run a lean ship, better equipped to handle these financial hurdles. On its own, Gower says Mackerel would have survived these bumps in the road, but adds he has no regrets about teaming up with Combined Media.

"It was the right idea at the right time and necessary for expansion," he says, adding that Mackerel missed some of its projected production targets. "We took a small interactive media company and put it into a larger organization with larger overhead and we just didn't hold up to our end of the bargain. We were doing well in terms of garnering new work but not enough to keep the cash flow going. "

Owl and Mackerel had numerous projects in predevelopment, says Gower, but could not come up with the financing, which included internal cash flow, to move these properties forward.

Slaight confirms that delays, common throughout the television industry this spring, delayed Owl's production schedule and cash flow issues were one of the many problems the company encountered.

Sources outside Owl tv say the company underestimated how long it would take to put their aggressive business plan in place and did not have the production levels required to maintain the high infrastructure of the company.

Owl tv was currently in startup mode on two series, a difficult period for any company involved in tv production, and without advertising revenue from its magazines, the company's profit margin has always been slim. Slaight indicated earlier this year that Owl had become a $4-million-a-year business without a cash flow.

[printed in its entirety without permission]

4:26 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

19 Sep 2006

Unfiltered Personal History

Long before the Internet Bubble bursted, my bubble bursted in much the same fashion... In 1997, my company, Mackerel an ineteractive media design/marketing company, definatly one of the first, went kersplat; mere months before the day we coulda slapped a .com on the end of it...

The following is the transcript for an article written by Cory Doctorow [boingboing.net] for Wired Magazine. http://www.craphound.com/nonfic/mackerel.html

I don't intend you to read it

====================

Gord Gower Interview

SIDE ONE

Tell me about Mackerel, how did it start?

(003) You have to go back to OCA. The story of Mackerel is the story of Kevin and Gord as well. Kevins a guy Ive known for 15 years now. I knew him at OCA, I worked with him at Colourization and then we did Mackerel.

Ive heard you called Dad.

(013) And Kevin called what, Uncle Kevin?

A genius.

(014) Yes, well I would. If Kevin is called a genius its because I made sure Kevin was called a genius every step of the way. Cause the man is a genius. Kevin and I met at OCA ages ago and developed a really good friendship, one of those friendships you expect to last 5 years. Kevin and I collaborated to some extent on one of the first things he did, on one of the first publications he did called FishWrap ___ publication at OCA. That was an interesting collaboration. We got to understand each others egos, way back when we were 20 years old.

Luckily the next time I worked with him, I was his boss. I was __________. The reason we started Mackerel was that we were working at Colourization on a pretty bogus product and we just had this opportunity. Kevins mother sent him a Macintosh computer - ________. I had a 520 Atari ST and immediately struck up a serious case of Mac envy, cause Kevin had a 512KE. Were talking 9 or 10 years ago at the start of Mackerel when you started getting into PCs. Kevins 512KE prompted me to trade in my Atari for a Mac Plus. Kevin was jealous as hell when I hooked a 20MB hard drive to my Mac Plus and ever since then its been one computer after another computer. The whole Mackerel story, I can do it in 15 minutes.

(040) Kevin and I worked in Colourization, we decide that now that the Mac is , people are doing typesetting with the Mac, lets just figure out a business to do with the Mac, lets get into desktop design, lets call ourselves desktop designers rather than desktop publishers because we dont want to fall into that big black hole that secretarys do, even though we fell into that big black hole that secretarys do.

First big contract we got was with a design firm in town called Woppington ____ MacDonald. They hired us as consultants to set up their whole desktop division, which was a good way to get linked with _______ in town. The way the whole interactive thing started was a complete fluke. I was playing around with hypercard making up databases to keep track of my wedding, just before we opened up Mackerel. I always talk about Kevin saying this was pretty cool stuff and Kevin always looked at it as this is the big black hole from which I never escaped. _____. Even at OCA Kevin _____. Kevin worried ___. People were really turned on about what he could do creatively with programming. Blah blah blah.

We carry on for a while. Kevin avoiding hypercard, Im not really doing anything with it. Were doing design for Royal Ontario Museum were doing design for this person, that person A client of ours we were working with in the ROM job, brings in Sussana ____ Emigre One stack. Kevin realized that he could do something really great with this stuff.

We decided to come up with a promotional piece for Mackerel called the Mackerel Stack. The first Mackeral Stack we released 70 copies of it at MacWorld in 1990(?), really wonderful scene, we got invited to present the Mackerel Stack to an audience at MacWorld, Kevin got up and talked a bit about it. He was on stage _____. I cant remember much, this was back at the turn of the century. After we presented the Mackerel stack to an audience of about 200 people.. Kevin was the last speaker and he mentioned that he had a number of copies with him and I have a wonderful image of Kevin standing at the edge of the stage with about 100 outreached arms saying gimme one, gimme one, and Kevin like the Messiah handing out this Mackerel Stack to this crowd of people who were really turned on by it. So anyway, he thought this is very cool, lets revamp it, because we werent quite happy with that particular version. We revamped it, Kevin working at the computer, me sitting behind in a big black chair. And we came up with what everyone thinks is the first version of the Mackerel Stack.

(Question)

(072) No. This is still a hypercard project. We sent that off to the MacWorld superstacks contest back in 1990. ... a couple of fresh young faces from Toronto, well see what happens. We got word back that we won two awards. We won Best Promotional Stack and then the something or other Honourable Stack that doesnt fit in any other category. Which we thought was funny cause we won in another category. We got a lot of press out of that.

Kevin and I flew down to San Francisco and started meeting a lot of people who we know for the rest of our life. Person named Hal Josephson sticks out. He was on our Board of Directors of Combined Media. And that basically started the interactive business. If you think about it, what that set up was a bunch of fresh faced kids sitting in a grungy office doing interactive media back in 1991, when there really wasnt interactive media.

There was a lot of other interesting kids doing multimedia like Jeremy Cook and the man sitting across from me (Cory!) but there wasnt any business. There was a lot of interest in it, there was a lot of talk about how it was going to change the world, which obviously excited Kevin.

Kevin and I being art school lackeys, always thought that our reason for being on earth was to try and change the world. I was an experimental artist - painting, video, sculpture. Kevin was Photoelectric Art. Computers and art, doing a lot of video and doing a lot of film. The course set us up perfectly to run our own business (cory laughs).

So here we are, we already have a reputation for doing really creative stuff in interactive multimedia, were an industry that has no industry. We lucked out, we got a job with Ontario Hydro, somebody got excited about putting an interactive (streetcar going by) power station. Kevin wasnt all that excited about the actual content matter, considering it had to do with nuclear energy but we did it all the same.

Of course that led to jobs with, cause it was in the Museum Visitor Centre part of the power plants, led to jobs with the ROM, it led to jobs with the Visitors Centre at Algonquin Park, which I would classify as jobs that were funded by basically stealing from another part of the budget and the amount of money that they were able to get was about 1/5 th of what it would actually take to produce these things. But, working with really creative content matter allowed us to build a really creative portfolio which in turn got us jobs with ____, jobs with blah blah blah...

the climate in 1993 was essentially, the newspapers were full of the CDROM, interactive media explosion everybody loved it - the next best thing. Everybody can do CDROMs which are going to become the greatest entertainment products and the greatest reference products. So, we were able to ride that little bit of hype and turn it into a little bit of work and essentially that got us into doing real work for real clients with real objectives. That led to insert client list here.

What that promoted was Kevin and Dave, or Kevin and a friend Dave (?), what it promted was that we were big enough and we were going to have to act more like a business. We actually did a bit of a search looking for someone to take over as President of the company and finally we settled on let me take it over for a while to raise some investment capital. One of the most important things we did was the four of us pulled away for a two day retreat which included a lot of cigarettes and two bottles of scotch and watching the meteor shower.

Question

(136) We drummed, we talked about our fathers. We basically decided that the company had two parts. A marketing division, which was for satisfying customers like Toyota and a content division which was for satisfying ____. We were kind of swept up in the whole idea in doing entertainment products that would be released on CDROM, so we said, lets build a business plan that has two divisons. Lets try and sell(?) the marketing division and find raise capital for the product division. That in a nutshell was the business plan for the last 4 years of the company.

I thought we could sell (?) the marketing division was suppose to generate cash flow and revenue to support the other side of the business. Unfortunately, the marketing side of the business never created enough cash flow to support the business itself, so the content side stuff always ____. I basically tried to help build the company in terms of corporate structure and also search for investors, I talked to 15-20 investors a year for the last 3 years of the companys existence. Talking to everything from Class 12 software limited partnerships, Ive had every former snake oil salesman from the film industry cross my doorstep saying this is how you raise money for interactive media.

The closest we came prior to CMI was we were doing work for Delrina and they came along and said lets talk about putting an investment and take an equity position in your company and we negotiated for six months with Delrina to sell 51% of Mackerel to Delrina. About three months before they got sold to Sun Magic, we said no cause we realized what they really wanted to do was make us, basically buy us, strip us of all our good people and quickly integrate us into Delrina.

Who were you dealing with?

(161) We were dealing with Howard Liss. Anyways, that didnt happen, Thankfully, it didnt happen, cause 3 months later they were bought by Sun Magic and basically disappeared off the face of the planet. So, we did another business plan,

I brought in Brian Kates, who was really instrumental in continuing to help turn, well not turn, but add a business element to the studio. Brian Kates had a ______. Brian and I went out and shopped it around for a year and a half. We were talking to people at Royal Bank Capital, we were talking to people who raised investment for animation company in Montreal,

we talked to various ___ and then along comes Gord Hanes and John Davidson talking about a structure that made a lot of sense in terms of the business plan, wanting and getting a consumer product which was adding Mackerel as their interactive media division to compliment their tv division and their publishing division. At the very core of it, it was an absolutely perfect idea. They had a market childrens - publishing for childrens television, lets basically expand on that to talk their copyrighted material and spread it around those two medias and interactive media. We struck up a really good deal with them just as the company was going through a really rough patch. When the deal was finally closed,

They bought what %

(181) They bought 50% with an option to take it to 60. At a certain point performance involved _____. 50 and 51 are basically the same. They basically had, with 50%, for all purposes, they had control over the Board, they had control over everything., so its all mute.

Pete Mosely told me ________.

(190) Thats not true. Not true at all, actually. We went through about ten drafts of the original options with Gord Hanes with our lawyer, she wasnt the best lawyer for this type of business deal, but she helped us considerably. Brian ___ experience was fundamental in coming up with the deal and finally when the deal was papered(?) up to everyones satisfaction, we brought it to Morris Rhodes, Rob at Legend(?) who was extremely good counsel at least at the planning and negotiating tables.

We were negotiating on a shoestring, you have to rely on your own wit and you have to bring the right lawyers in at the right time in order save enough money to actually get the deal done. When the options were sent up we all shook hand, we all had a whole bunch of beer and lets ___ go the next stage and raise a whole bunch of funds for CMI. I was involved in every step at every stage of raising investment for CMI, we again met with a whole bunch of investors, I introduced them to a whole bunch of investors.

The people who were first off the block were Working Ventures, which in hindsight, I would say that was the wrong choice, but they were first off the block. We did two months of doing the option agreement for Mackerel. We had CMI basically with the letter of intent to drop $2.6 million into CMI, which by cash flow calculations was going to be tight but it was we had to get this thing on the go. We said lets do it.

(215) The unfortunate thing that transpired after that was we got a letter of intent from them in August and essentially we didnt have the final deal papered up until October 1st, which put a two month gap in everything. All our cash flows ____ at that point in time and a lot of ___ investment went in to compensate for the holes that had already formed.

(218) We basically started the whole CMI gig in a, from a block behind and we were trying to play catch up. Quite honestly from October until about the middle of November it felt as if we were going to do something. It felt really good. There was a lot of good meetings going on but Mackerels cash flow and obviously Televisions lack of ability to get anything into production, it was starting to cause stress between CMI and Working Ventures, the investor.

If I look back in hindsight Id say that one of the biggest problems was that Gord Hanes didnt immediately set up a relationship with Working Ventures. There was always an adversarial stance between him and what was our primary investor, which I look back and scratch my head and say, seems like a bit of a mistake to me.

(227) Somebody who has put in $2.6 million, which isnt a great big number, but its still a number and somebody who owns 40% of your company, you basically want them to be your best friend, so if you do run into cash problems, theyre the first people who want to come running with money.

We tagged and toyed and stalled and played along with Working Ventures from probably about the middle of November until we actually moved into the new offices in March, quite honestly by the time we moved into the new offices in March, it was over. It would have taken a miracle to pull us out the situation we got ourselves into.

(234) You know I ve got to say this but, Gord Hanes and Annabel and myself, Kevin, Dave and Fred were always the type of optimistic people who, we didnt believe in miracles but we always expected, our experience was always that good things happen even at the last moment.

Youre always running your business on an optimistic stance.

CD: ... special philosophy of life?

(238) Im a the glass is always half full kind of guy. And its always worked for me and if I lose that then I lose a reason for living, right. You have to be careful, you have to get the CAs around you, you have get the MBAs around you that are always trying to pick holes in your business plan, but at the end of the day you trust your gut and at the end of the day if your gut fails you take a hint.

(244) Yeah, we moved in in March, which was already off to a bad start. We all talked later about the whole corporate culture, this and that. Essentially from that it was just basically, the adversarial position between Gord Hanes and Working Venture just exploded in his face. One of the first things they requested was to remove Mackerel from the CMI structure.

This is when I learned a lot about my business partners when they basically sat there and came up with no other course of action.

CD: You mean the other three guys or do you mean CMI?

((251) CMI partners. I stopped caring that much about OWL and Annabels dream when I basically sat in a meeting with Gord Hanes, Annabel, Bruce Wiley, from Working Ventures and myself and had them basically agree with Working Ventures that one way out of this was lop Mackerel off and saddle it with about a million dollars worth of debt which I know was completely unsurvivable for Mackerel.

I had no course but to go along with it, then get into negotiations with CMI as to what the actual amount of inter-company debt would be. I did exactly what I wouldnt do which was hand the company over to someone who had business experience, more business experience beyond mine, especially business experience in corporate turnarounds, a fellow named Peter Mosely. Uncle Pete.

At that point in time, when I handed the company over to him, I knew it was over. I knew that if he rescued it, it would be completely different Mackerel and myself, I gave it 3-6 months to see if I could put it back on its feet to some extent, that was reasonable and run it from there.

CD: ... before CMI... He was basically talking ...

(266) That was a logical way to go about it. Obviously that wasnt, like I said, Mackerel was dead at that point. That would have made it survivable and Peter would have had a multimedia company with the goodwill of Mackerel, being completely managed in a different style from which Kevin and I tried to build the company.

He did a really good negotiating with CMI, he did a really good job negotiating with the banks. If CMI had survived, We would have pulled away with a managable debt load and Mackerel would have been a brand new company, one a la Pete Mosley with me with some sort of guiding, Pete described it as hed be the General, Id be the Emperor. So, Id sit around, drink beer, make the occasional comment, like I dont like that.

(CD): ...a real job.

(275) I would have been happy with that for 3 months, then I would have moved on. Peter would have rebuilt the company and who knows where it would have gone. I would have been happy with that. Unfortunately, CMI went bankrupt and the whole thing fell apart and here I sit, 7-8 weeks after it, basically trying to wind it up as honourably as possible.

As Ive said in other interviews, we could have saved it, we could have pulled it out of the wreckage. We could have opened a new company, retained as much of the control as possible but for all intents and purposes, it would have been the Mackerel of 1994/5, it would have been the pre-investment Mackerel and I, Kevin, Dave, Fred and everybody else would have dedicate themselves to sub-standard wages and try and live on a dream whereas wed already played out that card. Wed already moved everything forward and there was no reason to roll back and start again.

We may start again in the future but it will be, well have to wait for the next forward step from where we are right now.

How old were you when you started Mackerel?

24-25. Learned a hell of a lot by doing this. The one thing is, to get back to the corporate cultures. You have to understand that Kevin and I were pretty idealistic but pretty, one of the fundamental things was to do something special, play by our own rules, because we werent business trained.

(290) I can go back to a conversation I had with Kevin way back in 1990 when we just imagined what the company would be like in the future growing and we just kept saying lets concentrate on the creative people. Lets have people come in, talk about cool things to do and then get them doing cool things. Really get them involved in the company. I think youll find a lot of people, although theres always problems, there is always incidents, youll find people felt they were as involved with Mackerel as we were. You know what I am , and Id love a copy.

CD: What sort of ...

(298) Kevin and I went through periods where we didnt talk much for two year stretches. But everytime we sat down and put our heads together and look in each others eyes and without saying anything, knowing that were right on track. Were both lined up with what were both trying to do. Honestly, today, we did it. We created a cool company. We had a lot of really cool people. We treated them with respect and gave them the opportunity to do something really creative themselves, and for the most part they did.

(CD): Tell me your favourite Mackerel story

(304) A lot of my favourite Mackerel stories centre around Oliver. It has to be pointed out that Oliver and Karl, Karl was the other genius that worked at Mackerel.

I can tell you about the people at Mackerel. Obviously Fred and Dave were the first two people to come onto Mackerel and they brought their influence along. Freds from another planet, brought his energy through acting school. Freds from a creative background and Freds got the gift of gab and Fred brought the ultimate in attitude from a place which obviously, salesmen are a breed apart. The reason were all annoyed with salesmen is because they come from a different planet, but watching a good salesman doing his job is a it annoyed you and b it makes you go wow. Hes a completely honest guy and he had a good thing to sell.

But Oliver, its got to be pointed out that Oliver, for the most part, hired at least 75% of our staff. Which, if you look what Mackerel was, a group of really cool and very dedicated people, you have to look back to say Oliver brought a lot of these people on board. Oliver interview methods, its been said, why did Oliver hire me? Is it because of my skill, my talent my expertise or cause you seemed like a good guy. He created a really interesting mix of people

What was his interview methods?

(331) It was more like, come in chat, hell take you out for your lunch, chat some more than Ill throw you at Kevin, wholl talk to you for 3 whole days about, who knows. He wanted to know what type of person you were. Hes very personable himself and he just had a knack for it.

(335) One story about Mackerel is, you have to understand that this is a company that worked together for 9-10-12 hours a day, then partyed together all night. There wasnt very many people who didnt drink. One fun story was, we developed, back in 1994/5, we developed a reputation for always being late, which of course was, we should have developed a reputation for always underestimating how long it would take to do things. About 12 to 15 of us were all up at Olivers for New Years Eve. Kats making some sort of oatmeal milk ice cream butterscotch elixir and Oliver is cooking up beans and were all sitting around having an introduction of the vodka with poprocks specialty drink.

Were getting completely loaded up at Olivers and somebody looks at their watch and says oh, my god, its almost midnight. Oliver starts scrambling around the radio looking for the countdown and we come across the last two bars of Old Lange Syne and Oliver looks up and says its the Mackerel New Years - missed another deadline.

CD: Whats your favourite day at Mackerel?

(350) The best day I ever had was when we got the commitment letter from Working Ventures. Essentially, youre looking at a guy who gave up his whole creative studio, dedicated myself to raising the investment we needed to do what we actually wanted to do, which was get a few products off the ground. Sat through one boring meeting after another, not boring but stale. Doing investor presentations for 3 years. learning how to speak investor-speak, learning how to put on the tie and shake investors hands and ask for a couple of million bucks without blinking. Finally, Im sitting there having gone through the investor stuff with CMI, gone through the investor meetings with Working Ventures, and finally heres someone with a serious whack of dough, had looked at our business plans, taken a look at our dreams, taken a look at our visions and said, well put some money in it.

It was the end of a three year job and the beginning of another two year job. I think I bounced around King Street for about 45 minutes. We all went out over to the OWL office and got completely shitfaced and then partied until about 3 in the morning at College Street bar. It was like a wedding, it felt like one of those family occasions that something really really good just happened, Something really really good is about to happen. That was the best day at Mackerel for me.

CD: What was the worse day?

(364) Id say the worse day was, we hit a rough patch in 1994/5 just before Christmas. It was the worst month, where just before Christmas, we werent going to have enough cash in the bank to cover our regular expenses at the beginning of the next month. A little bit of a la Jimmy Stewart Its A Wonderful Life, I sent a message out over First Class asking, who didnt need their paycheques this week. Of course, everybodys about to go on Christmas holidays and Im asking who doesnt need their paycheques. I needed about $20,000 to $25,000 to cover the expenses. I sent out the message, its the worst of times and the best of times, within 15 minutes, I sat there with my first class mailbox open and a spreadsheet with everybodys pay with the number that I needed to meet and within 15 minutes I gotten enough messages back from 20 people - Ill pass my paycheque, I only need 1/2 my paycheque, I only need this amount of money. Within 15 minutes, I had the first of the month covered.

Came back from Christmas, got some more cheques in and compted everybodys pay from before Christmas and two weeks later, had to sit down and have a staff meeting saying that I could only afford to pay everyone half salary for an indefinite period. Asking them to stay, because I was right in the middle of negotiations with CMI and I wanted the company to look like, there was that Altamira commercial going around where We did an evaluation of the company and we saw unused production facility and unused lines, so we didnt invest. So, basically, the idea was to keep the company looking a if it was up and running and going full tilt. Every person, and again, that was a really hard thing to ask your staff to do. As a matter of fact its completely uncalled for kind of irresponsible, but considering the type of people we had there, who were really committed, I went ahead and asked them.

(388) At this point we were around 27 people, at the end of 2 1/2 months we had secured the investment from CMI and we only lost 3 people. To some extent, Im not sure we really compensated people back for that, but there was always plans and promises to cough that up somehow and show them...

CD: Tell me about the wisdom, if I can call it that, of CMI saying lets take this company thats never turned a profit and take a company that s a struggling non-profit and put it together and make some money.

(393) Well, I mean, to say that Mackerel never turned a profit would be a mistake. We actually did turn profits, book profits. We ended up with $6,000 one year and $20,000 next year, of course that money had long been re-invested in the company and ended up in the general cash flow.

The wisdom of what Gord Hanes and, this is why I bought into what Gord Hanes wanted to do, it was a creative vision. It was more built on sound business principles which is choose a good idea but to see if this can work, lets generate copyright-able material. lets hold on to the copyrights as much as we can and be in control of the back end revenues as much as we can through the tv medium, the publishing medium and through the multimedia medium.

CD: Build brands?

(404) Actually branding was the big thing. Obviously the OWL brand held some weight in the Canadian childrens market. There was probably 5,6,7 million people who recognized it. The Mackerel brand, in terms of quality interactive media products had developed a pretty good reputation across North America. Something we can speak completely highly of is that everywhere Fred or I went in the States, people would recognize the name Mackerel. It infiltrated itself quite well.

CD: Whats your favourite piece of Kevin design?

(411) My favourite piece of Kevin design is the Mackerel Stack, but thats because of the impact it had on the business. and I helped with it. Heres where I talk about the mans genius. Theres nothing that he touched that didnt end up looking really really good. And when I say looking good, thats something thats a nuance that nobody could describe why they liked what Kevin did, but the reason why was the fact that he finished it off. His stuff looked finished. He would not settle for anything that was good enough.

When you look at a piece of interactive media designed by Kevin, you go , theres the whole package, there is a completely finished cohesive piece of design work that not only looks good but the user immediately knows how to interact with it. Thats his genius. I think he managed to spread that through a number of designers who worked in our shop, subconsciously. They might not even know that they have that talent. I cant say enough about Kevin.

(CD): How about Dave?

(425) Dave and I have a very interesting relationship. Dave probably doesnt realize how much I relied on him to keep my optimism in check. (Dave wasnt optimistic) Often times business ideas that I was working on had to go through the Dave Mill. Dave had a very pragmatic, if I was being negative Id say almost negative view of a lot of things that were going to happen. David always would remind me of the worse thing that could happen. It spoke a lot of the four way partnership. Having to vent everything through Daves personality, Kevins personality, Freds personality and my personality really made a lot of ideas thoroughly thought out.

In terms of Daves creativity, Dave held his own. Dave did some incredible wonderful pieces. He had a completely different flair and I think he consciously wanted to have flair from Kevin he wanted to justify why ____ Ill manage this aesthetic and Kevin you manage this aesthetic.

(CD): How would you pin down what Daves aesthetic was?

(440) Virtual BubbleWrap was Daves idea it was Daves baby and its a brilliant idea that was as equal to the Mackerel Stack in terms of what it did for us. I wouldnt say that had anything to do with Daves aesthetic, that was Daves ability to come up with brilliant funky ideas. Dave, on a lot of occasions really tried to push concepts that were pet to him at that point in time. Like the thing we did for Algonquin Park. He really wanted to push this concept that its a flat screen, lets make it flat, lets build no faux 3-D dimension to this. He pulled it off really well with that project. Its one great flat piece of interactive media that works just as well as any of the ample beseay drop shadows buttons that weve seen so far.

CD: How did Mackerel Link get started?

(453) Okay, Mackeral Link. Kevin was always on BBSs and I would play around with BBSs but I was always really frustrated by the ___ interface so I would go in and go on and ___ too much work. Finally Magic came around and I really liked Magic cause it was easy for me to use. Im not a computer geek, I can ___ basic DOS programming, I picked up SuperCard and kept forgetting it because I would pick it up and work with it for 3 weeks and then not use it for 3 months and then have to relearn it all over again, no brain for memorizing syntax. So everytime Id open up a BBS, Id have to remember what the key commands meant. How you got into the different conferences and different threads and whatnot.

I was really turned on by First Class, Kevin, Dave, Fred and I started to set up an internal BBS for communication. This is where Paul Evans started to interact with the company. Whole bunch of things were coinciding. They were always coinciding at the same time and we always had the influences of the four of us, the influences of Karl and Kevin and the influences of any new staff and the influence of Paul Levits at the right time and Pauls talking about semi-permiable companies where the company has a level of communication, what they allow other companies to feed into their communication system and you grow those two companies at the same time.

We started experimenting with this as a form to communicate with ourselves. It was really funny when it was just the three of us with a few investors or few associated companies, basically talking to ourselves, sending messages to ourselves when we were sitting right beside each other. Mackerel Link is an important thing to discuss. Its essentially on top the of the Mackerel Stack, it was probably the second big thing that defined what Mackerel was. It was a company that had a completely open communication system and 95% of the information would go our immediately which caused a lot of chaos and confusion but it also set up the ability to say we can only afford to pay you half, who wants to stick around because everybody knew exactly what the company was by being part of Mackeral Link. And feeling plugged in.

Cory?

There were a bunch of people who never really signed on to it. People who never really used it - Fred, Andrew Keyes, a lot of the sales people, people who were more business focused. Used it for running projects but never really got into it as the culture of Mackerel. And it was the basic repository of the culture of Mackerel. We have no access to it now.

Is it off line?

(485) You can dial in over a modem. We should give you a little broader access to it so you can try and dig up some threads of...

Id like that.

(488) It became the place where youd discuss projects, leads, discussions with friends of Mackerel and you were online anytime you wanted to be. The way BBSs can be effective is when, you know, Magic and good media are sort of fading away a bit only because theyve tried to become too much to too many people. Whereas if you have a little system, a relatively closed system like Mackerel Link, its talking to a group of maybe 100 people, who all have a really intense interest in the general interest of the sport. Thats another key thing about Mackerel Link, considering the fact that we only topped out at 34 employees, there were about 100 people who accessed Mackerel Link. You can tell that the company was influenced by far more people than those working for the company.

Tell me about the massage.

(499) The massage was just one of those ideas that probably popped up on Mackerel Link where somebody said that Shiatsu was cool and we thought, yea, lets do massage. Lets have a Shiatsu come in once a week, nobody said no. Then we decided that lets make this the first Mackerel benefit, lets pay half.

CD: I dropped in one day to have lunch with Adam and there was a half naked woman on the table getting a massage.

(505) I find that surprising, cause all the massages I saw were done fully clothes.

CD: I might have just been so amazed by it...

(508) It was ultimately I came to look at it as a bit of a marketing tool. it was mentioned in a couple of press articles. I think a lot of other companies have it, it wasnt all that special. I brought a number of clients in on Thursday and pointed out that oh, yea, thats our Thursday Shiatsu sessions with our staff and ____ said Im going quit my job and start working at Mackerel.

CD: Did the Shiatsu continue in the new office?

(512) Yep. It was still a Mackerel thing. Laurie Ward (the massage therapist) took the initiative and set up an extra day for OWL people. She basically posted who wants a second day of massage. Of course, OWL people wouldnt get subsidized but.

CD: A massage geek? With a modem?

(517) Basically. This all comes through the Michelle Gay, Rick Conroy, sort of tree hugging bare foot sandal wearing, computer using. Nothing in that whole being negative. That was another influence on Mackerel. The broad influences were that there was Mike Cornish and his gang of ultra cool hipster advertising agency wannabes, there were, in a nice way. There were the comic book artists, there was the Oliver and his I just love everybody I use to be a bartender socializing. Bones supposed to be called our webmaster but he was actually our webbartender. We brought in other influences like Marie, who everybody thought was harsh but she was just Im here to do everything for you and I expect a whole bunch of things back. There was the Andrew and Rob Disher were out to do business and make lots of money. There was the Fred Williams and I just think this is all great and Im going to do everything I possibly can to sell whatever it takes to get money in here attitude.

Tell me about the day they took the lights down at CMI.

That was. I didnt go into the post-investment worst days at Mackerel. One of the worst days when we moved into the new office. Of course, everybody, it was all we could do to lie through my own appreciation of the new building, i.e. I had to sell it even though I didnt like it at all, but I knew the pros and cons that it was a place to move and it was going to be okay. Moving Mackerel into the new office was basically like twisting your 3 year old son up behind his back and listening for the bone to crack because it was hell. Plus the people of hated the old office that hated the new office more, in the first three days of being in the new office we had people crying we had people screaming, people not saying anything, people just walking away in a huffs.

The whole meantime there was 3 day tornado as they rearranged every single last desk. They moved every last single cord, they put curtains up over doorways and one of the first things that happened is Rick Conroy was basically assigned to remove every last single fluorescent bulb from every space that Mackerel had. They next thing you hear is its too dark in here.

CD: I hear OWL followed suit.

(549) They did and they didnt. They took a few. OWL, there was the television camp, the Mackerel camp and then the OWLs camp, they were never more than the cult of Annabel Slate. They all, very timid people at OWL. Before we moved in, we were hearing all sorts of horror stories about how the television people, they zip up their pants with their balls hanging outside just to prove how macho they were. Being an A type personality, they were put into the situation with all these timid ___ people and we kept hearing horror stories about that and in March we were thrown into the middle of it and we were the wackos.

Question about Annabel?

(559) Hard to say, cause Annabel had a looseness even around her own shop. When we moved in, Annabel was off on some conference for 2 weeks, so she wasnt even part of what was one of the most spectacular and important moments in building CMI.

CD: Someone told me that within about a week or two of moving in you knew ____ but that Annabel would look at her own people, ...

(565) I dont know if it was that dramatic. I probably knew everybody that worked at OWL three months prior to moving to Mackerel cause I made sure I went to their office as often as I could. got to know the key social people who were ________. One of the good things about, right after moving into the new office with these new people, Oliver made sure that every Friday we had some social engagement that would bring as many people across the whole board out, quite honestly it was disappointing that, yes, it was your standard lot of Mackerel crazy boozehounds , there was a bunch of tv people and wed be lucky to get 1 or 2 people out from publishing.

CD: Had a wife and kids?

(574) They weren't even wife and kids type people. Talk to Trish and Karl about the OWL people. They did a lot of work ____.

CD: How about Marathon?

(577) Marathon wasnt quite my gig, honestly. I remember being anti-Marathon for a while only because its extreme addiction. My impression of it is, and Im not a video game player, but its ...

CD: Didnt Mackerel occasionally play other multimedia firms? Didnt Digital Renaissance come up once?

(581) Yeah, we had things going on with John Mark Hamiltons group of people, we had Ice people come over, I think we had some Sierra people come over. If I was anti-Marathon it was just anti- Marathon while people were trying to get work done. I use to get secret complaints from the people who were bothered by the people playing Marathon. Once we managed to get it to a post 6 thing, it was a really good socializing, computer geeks dont play golf, they play Marathon.

CD: How about the parties?

(587) The parties are too really good highlights. Getting investment into CMI through Working Ventures was a really good day but the reason for throwing those Mackerel parties was, they were basically lets treat our employees to an official night of getting drunk, lets have them invite as many friends as they possibly can and then lets invite as many other people working in the industry to come along to say wow isnt Mackerel a cool place, I want to work there, Im going to put my application in. Way down the list was lets bring clients over to try and do business. It was really an employee driven thing. The first one was a real good success.

CD: Question?

(595) Basically me and Olivers. Me and Oliver and Clair, to some extent. Coming up with the idea to do it and then bringing some other people slowing involved. Wed try to keep it a secret as much as we possibly could.

CD: Was that to avoid gate crashers?

(599) No, it was basically to turn it into a bit of a surprise, ie, were going to announce this party and by the time we announce it, its already going to be planned to the point where there are going to be a couple of thousand people there. Lets just make it happen. You just want to keep the planning, its just basically throwing a real party. A lot of planning, as it turned out, the first one was a major success. A whole bunch of people came through. We managed to work out the liquor licensing laws so we could keep the beer flowing until 4:30am.

The next one was a bigger success, of course Oliver and I were sitting around initiating the plans, getting a few people on board, like Mike and Cindy, who kept it going. By the time it was all planned and set to go, Oliver and I sat back and said, what are we going to do, at 2oclock. Within 3 days of the party Oliver and I completely planned organized the Mackerel After Party. Invested some of our own money into it. Got DJs set up for it.

Basically, one of the funnest moments was 2:30 at night sitting at 606 at the end of the official Mackerel party with John Davidson from CMI and Rob Krieger saying well, lets go to the After Party. Not knowing if it was going to work. Oliver and I were just announcing it by handing out invitations at the night of the party. We walked across the street, it was around the corner in this warehouse space, walking up to the door with this 55 year old man and a 48 year old employee of mine, opening this big black door and seeing at least 150 people going nuts to ____ spinning really good jungle music. taking the 55 year old over to the fridge and opening it up and going oh look, its full of beer and its free, take one. Then dropping E and carrying on. You could delete that - Gords drug taking experiences, I dont know if we want to get into that or not.

Do you want another vision of the company? Last summer,

SIDE B

So, Mackerel the untold story is like. So Ive been going to raves, Karls being going to raves, everybody likes that scene. Its comfortable, its relaxed, friendly ____ are good. The word started going around the office, yeah, Gords going to raves parties, Olivers going to rave parties. My accountant Brian Kates, a 33 year old man who never drank that much let alone smoked, smoked pot, or anything. But he was always inquisitive about these things. He said Ive got to come to one of these rave parties, are you sure? It ended up a whole tribe of us, I felt a little like a serpa guide. We all walked down to Nathan Phillips Square and got on a school bus, of course we all dropped before hand. We gave Brian his little alotment. Hes looking at, and looking at it.

Gel Caps?

rest of story.

CD: Tell me about the type of company you had.

(041) We worked the freelancer route for a long time, but we tried to make the freelancers feel that they were part of something. The outset of this, there really wasnt a lot of people who knew what they were doing., so you want to keep these people and work from the fundamental principle that you want to bring these people in and bring them up to speed on the Mackerel nature of multimedia and you dont want them to go somewhere else, at the same time you like them, so you want them to hang around. Its the whole do you do freelance or do you hire them on and give them benefits and try and give them some sort of ownership in the company. We just said, lets go the employee route, bring them in, always had the intention of giving them some choice and it was predicated by that. How do you keep these people around, cause theyre the people you really want to work with. Simple as that.

CD: Still doing art? Whens the last time you did that?

(053) Probably the last day I walked out of OCA.

CD: Whens the last day you did sculpture or

(054) Well, I doodle and I write down phrases and I draw little pictures and thats as creative as Ive been. Honestly, and Ive said this so many times, building a company, it wasnt just looking for investment, it was also a big part of building the structure of the company that we could feel proud of and happy with, that was a creatively stimulating processes. Now that its over, I might want to go back and start dicking about with images or writing things down.

CD: Tell me about the OWL memo.

(060) The OWL memo? That was just sour grapes. Thats silliness. Obviously when the whole thing fell apart, everybody ___ their own interest ____ and really started to carry on with their own myopic vision of what they had to do next. Id never ___ before and I did the same thing to a certain extent although beyond the impression of OWL, I did nothing to damage OWLs chances of pulling themselves out of the basket. There was an article in Playback. When it was first released, everybody at OWL thought I had just taken ___ blow at the company, then I sat back and said , read it, all it is is an epithet for Mackerel, I felt I had to write a small epithet and thats what the company deserved after 8 1/2 years. In the article I pointed at myself and Mackerel just as big a problem in the whole situation as anyone else. And here comes Dave!!

CD: One of the things Gord Hanes said this morning was I think if you ask around I think the guys will admit that having a new office was __ plus. It was a real professional atmosphere.

(076) There was pluses to it. Obviously the big glass boardroom right at the front. Just as a studio, it was one great big negative. The space was inadequate and didnt have what people needed to do their job.

CD: I got to ask a sensitive question. How much money did you take home from Mackerel? What were you paying yourself?

(082) I got some expenses covered, I got some nice trips out of the whole deal. I walked away averaging for the 8 1/2 years at Mackerel, I averaged around $25,000 a year if not less.

DAVE: Gord made what I made. Some years...

(091) Any money that I made over, on top of rent or personal expenses, a lot of it was re-invested into the company either by socializing with my employees, which was an important part of the business, or by bringing clients out to dinners or every waking, breathing hour outside of going to raves and the occasional attempt to pick up women after my marriage broke up, was spent thinking about doing stuff for the company.

CD: Got one more real sensitive question to ask. Can you tell me about the beer bottle through the glass wall?

(098) Absolutely. Here you are, youre pretty much, your days with the company was over. Of course, the bottles of scotch come out and people go down to the beer store and you start to have a little bit of a wake. There were a bunch of people left over there and we were getting drunk and getting a little bit crazy. We had pretty much promised the OWL people that we werent going to do any damage. We didnt really do any damage. We were just sitting there getting drunk and throwing beer bottles on the floor and getting a little bit crazy and basically being all sort of angst-y. I sort of wandered off to my office, I was really hammered, which I often was (you cant quote me on that) for those type of Mackerel do-s, I had a reputation for Gord Rubberlegs - Im a nice drunk though.

CD: You are. I think I collected about 9 kisses from you at the final Mackerel party.

(113) So I wandered off to my office to, Id sent out that memo for the last Mackerel party, see if there were any replies, there were about 5 replies to it. All of which were about how sad they were to see one of their compatriots go down, how everybody thought we were a good company. Quite honestly at that point in time I was just feeling really really sad, I was feeling really really hurt, mad, basically I would describe it more an anguish than anger. Marie came into my office and said something to me, I cant remember what she said, and I just launched a beer bottle through the window. I talked to Trish about the bottle through the window, she thought it was the coolest thing in the world. You know, Mackerel, fuck. Here we are, we get drunk, we make a big mess, were all sad and disillusioned and disappointed about the death of the company and what do we do, we make a big mess and spend 45 minutes cleaning it all up.

CD: What about the story that it was someone coming in and asking for one of the big contracts.

(126) No, fuck, no. I was reading responses to that e-mail I sent out. Where did you hear this story?

CD: I heard it third hand, so I dont want say from who. What I heard was someone saying I want you to sign off and give me some of the Mackerel contracts, so I can take them away.

((131) No. The bottle off the balcony? Nobody knows about that! This is part of the goofiness. We were throwing beer bottle on the floor, we were moving those great big wooden things around, we were having little office chair races around the hallway.

CD: Can you describe the sound the bottle made?

(134) It was a kershplonk. It really wasnt that big a deal.

CD: The other people say it was the best sound they ever heard.

(135) I think a lot of people sort of like, well, a few people have come up to me and said, you did a few things that I wish Id done but I couldnt do because that wouldve been irresponsible for me to do. But because you the ex-President of the company did it, made it all sort of.

CD: What are you doing now. What are you going to do next?

(140) You know, Ive been sitting in that office every day for the last 7 1/2 weeks watching the stupidity around OWL unfold and basically trying to wrap up Mackerel as honourably as possible. Weve covered our bank debt. Theres a small chance we may not even get forced into bankruptcy. Ive also been going in and looking for other work, Ive been looking for a paycheque. Im looking for a job for the next 3-5 years. Staying in interactive media.

CD: I hear OWL wouldnt let the equipment out the door. Not OWL, ___.

(144) Yea, thats where its, thats within their rights. Were in ___ we didnt pay rent, so they part of the leasing agreement, in any standard leasing agreement is that happens. They stop letting things move off the premises because that might be the only way they get to cover their money.

CD: Tell me about a smart thing to pay triple rent. Gord said you were saving money.

(151) Its still back to the pros and cons of that office space. There were a lot of cons about it but there were a lot of pros about it. We tried to bring 85 people from different backgrounds, the timid people from publishing, the A type people from tv and someone says lets try and get them all on one floor and see what its like, free flow of communication and you build up a relationship with people rather than having people parcelled up around town, like we were or having us split up between floors like OWL had in the past. At that point in time, it seemed like a good idea.

CD: What was the dollar figure, I heard $36K?

(157) About 30 thousand dollars, you go to understand, we were paying our portion of it was around 11 thousand bucks. Based on the amount of floor space we had. That was basically double of what we were paying.

CD: Anything you want to add?

(161) CMI was a good idea. It was a good idea for what Mackerel had done up to that point in time. It turned out to be the wrong people.

CD: If Gord Hanes had stepped down, would it still be afloat?

(163) Yep.

CD: Would it have been a good thing?

(164) Depends who he steps down in lieu of. Gord Hanes was pretty passionate, he wanted to do something. He wanted to leave a mark on the world. Gord had a bit of a pigheadedness to him that he has very poor leadership skills but doesnt know it. Very obstinate when it comes to control but doesnt know how to steer. Nice guy. I like him personally, but in terms of running a business, he didnt have it. He set up the adversarial relationship with Working Ventures and then didnt drop it in the end. If hed stepped down, Working Ventures wouldnt have walked away from the table, they would have backed the next amount of money we needed back into the bank. In some form or another, it would have survived, by that point in time, Mackerel was already lopped off. We had already negotiated a certain amount of managable, so Mackerel would have moved back into its old office space, wed be sitting there with a whole bunch of debt, Peter Mosely would be running the company...

Thank you.

3:21 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

6 Sep 2006

I Shit Upon The Romantic Notion of Exile

Princes, Prophets and young sisters of older bitches... How many times have we heard the tired old stories; life changing banishments into the wilds... Struggles with the unfamiliar as character grows; wisdom flourishes, petty obsession for revenge transform into righteous plans, the honorable pursuit of justice! The return, the triumph of goodlyness over badlyness. The people are unchained, rose peddles tossed on the dirty old streets as the vanquished ones parade freedom down, the dirty, dirty old streets...

Then there is the exile of our hero, the exile of a simple, plain old fool. Exiled behind imaginary lines that cross over some of the most beautiful countryside between two of the greatest countries in the history of mankind. Two countries designed with openness in mind... divided by perhaps, even just the remnants of a simple 200 plus year old lingering love & hate for Queen and Country. Meanwhile well over 17 rerun episode of Seinfeld run simultaneously daily on either side of the imaginary line...

Exiled not only geographically, but thrust seven years into his questionable past. Perhaps meant to find the answer to unanswered questions; Reflections on the choices and paths taken... Reflections; his face, face down reflected in the oily pool of muddy water after another night of stumbling and falling while sinking deeper and deeper into this childishly selfish moan of his. Oh, sure there are moments of self realization; the realization that he is nothing but a poor planning looser. Oh, sure there is inspiration; psychotically obsessive dreams of plans and schemes that one after another prove themselves to be nothing more than blind hope that kills the hours as he runs them through the loop in his mind over and over and over again. The taste in his mouth becomes the putrefied flavours of all the good things spinning out of control into conspiracies that keep him locked in the chains formed by the simple fact that he hasn't come up with one frikin clue of how to work himself out of this particular soaking wet brown paper bag of a serious problem.

You do NOT find yourself when you crash to the bottom of the pit of no hope; what you find is an ever diminishing group of hands reaching down to help lift you out of the pit prior to this crash. If you miss that last hand, you might as well... Well get used to a long, steady continuous fall... praying for the crash that will finally splatter that last bit of hope that has become nothing more than a big fierce set of dogs jaws placed firmly and with ever increasing pressure over your entire head, body and soul... the hand.

As our hero's luck would have it, that last hand in this particular fall was the hand that was always held out there in front of him... a steady, if sometimes desperate hand, an always loving hand.. Then another hand; and another... a The Firm but tenuous grip; an abruptly frightening jolt as the descent is slowed... Stopped... The hand tosses the blue rope, a desperate reach, a tug, pulling as hard as one can after the complete exhaustion of unbearable separation. A hug; A hug lights a flame that roars into the inferno that burns this whole silly story into ashes. Only the inflammable nuggets remain in the dust; some glorious; others so heinous, they'll hold them around if only to remind them of the places they will never return to...

Fearsome quarrels over Anti pasta... Reconciliations over a tiny one inch by two inch picture of paradise on their way to walk the only bridge in town. Almost conjugal visits that keep one alive between moments of absolute obsessive boredom. Visits that each carry joy and a piece of the puzzle they'll put together once back, back home. Visits that finally allow them to define that one final and crazy mission...

No rose peddles lay before them; the streets are however, wonderfully dirty. I shit on the romantic notions though... As it turns out, exile although indeed a bitch; and, although our heroes may still be in exile; they never really were all that far from home, after all.

And that's all you will ever hear about that!

4:42 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

16 May 2006

100% Rant Free Content - What is a Shark

The Shark is a 24 foot (7.34 m) sailboat which was first built in 1960 in Canada, where it was in continuous production until the early 1990s. It has become the largest and most successful Canadian one-design keelboat class. There are active Shark fleets in Canada, USA, and Europe, and this boat was recently recognized by the International Sailing Federation (ISAF) under the Classic Yacht Classes. Although the Shark 24 may not have all the characteristics of the latest go-fast designs, it allows sailors to get involved in serious one-design competition up to the World level for a fraction of the cost of other keelboat designs.

9:10 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

15 May 2006

A Sam Kinison like Scream

As I ponder and plan the most heinous crime I have, or will ever commit; I cannot help but wonder... What has become of the outlaw? Daddy was a bank robber, but he never hurt nobody. He just liked to live that way; AND, he liked to steal your money.

J walking across this life of mine, I find myself back in this quite insignificant place called Canada. For those of you [in Brooklyn] who did not pay close attention in 9th grade geography, Canada is the vast chunk of land just north of Watertown New York. Home to a simple bunch of folk, who much like yourselves are addicted to Survivor, American Idol and poly unsaturated fats. However, unlike yourselves, we continue to look to the Queen as the head of both our political and spiritual well being... Oh, and... we have your fucking oil. All the oil you will ever need! [look it up]

Do NOT roll your eyes back into the hole in your head... this is NOT about that most boring of subjects spoken in what you call America, Canada... this is about You, US. This is about the end of the greatest experiment in human history... this is about the end of that great entrepreneurial exodus from the open sewer that was, IS, and shall ever more be known as what Donald Rumsfeld calls, the OLD Europe. This is about US, US recently apologetic Indian killers...

What has become of US?

Was it really all just simply mythology? Did US really ever exist? I mean, I've been taught of the great struggles for greatness... The war of Independence, the war of the States, the fight for human rights, women's rights... Gay rights, oh for Gods sake let us NOT forget GAY rights? Oh and the rights of some oxyconten pumpin' right wing wingnuts right to spew, for advertising dollar, right to raisie sometime humorous opinions, but mostly just simple garble over the so called public airwaves. While, so meanwhile the so called smart amongst us smugly, use our rights in a just air of superiority to say, "Well, that's just dumb". As is our right.

Did we ever hold a monopoly on progress? After trading in our slaves for corporate run farms and the subsequent subsidies to counteract the deficits run-up while raising corn and cotton with PAID labor... did we manage to improve the human condition? Some might say what we managed to do was to invent a means to sell ourselves, a PR machine... television, the devise, oh so appropriately devised to shout our achievements before we achieved them. Witness Nadia Comaneci's perfect 10. Witness the Ayatollahs blindfolding the end of Jimmy's failed Presidency.

Eisenhower, a Republican warned... beware the industrial military complex; Nixon, a Republican, ended Kennedy and Johnson's poorly executed defense against global communism; Lincoln, the FIRST republican president freed the slaves, but more importantly re-stitched together a restless union of over zealous states into a union that would one day defeat the Soviet Union... Speaking of THAT, recall another republican, Ronald Reagan performing a stand up Comedy routine that exposed the Marxist farce and landed us where we are today... Right back where we were 500, 600 years ago. Trying to fight back that third incarnation of mono-theseilogy. Damn Jews! Why couldn't you just let the gods of Egypt well enough alone.

I have spent the last six weeks without television; So tell me, what's going on. I saw a fella asking people for change so that he could get something to drink on my street; AND my pal told me about a protest he attended to save a grove of weeping willows along the last stretch of public beach here in the west end of the city of Toronto; but, what's going on? What's the latest score in Iraq? Have the murderous Imperial hordes, US imperialistic Christian thugs moved ahead of the Islamo-Faciast yet??? Who holds the body count; which one of us too armed two-legged omnivorous bipedal kings of the food chain life forms are winning the game of killing each other in the name of fake words written by dead poets within the last 2000 years. Oh right, neither... the virus, bacteria, smoking, and car accidents as always, hold the winning cards. All hail Cancer in all it various omnipresent and victorious forms!

The invention of problems seems unstoppable. Our mortgages are too high as the black kid from up the street squeezes the trigger and sets off alarm bells all over the City of Toronto, which has for so many years so smugly enjoyed the blessings as Michael Moores poster boy for a gun free society. Hybrid cars get nowhere near the gas mileage they say they do. Peak Oil looms as we nonchalantly begin to, more frequently BUY our water in bottles rather than just filling a glass from the tap.

This is not a hue and cry. I beg you to do nothing. The Atlantic elevator that shifts the warm tropical waters from the equator towards the cooling influence of the northern icecap has already started to fail. There are those among us who honestly believe that considering that we caused all these problems that we actually have the were-with-all to do something about it. To those folks, I say bully, gdon ya mate, and oh by the way, dya know who won last nights match?

A Sam Kinison Scream... No surrender; but more a humorous notion that despite all these glorious FUCK UPS... some form of US will survive. I do truly believe this. I used to believe it would be some nuke soaked three eyed, sterile mutation of our current form; now I believe it may be some oil deprived refugee... struggling to find that last sip of potable water; water for which we all fought and died for in the next last of the that last wars, with Canada no less... that last of the last sips... somewhere just north of Winnipeg, the city where I was born... A city in a province of Canada that holds more fresh water than any other so called country on this Earth. I would tell you the actual location of this water... but then... sorry, my son would have to kill you.

6:10 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

15 May 2006

Uncle GoGo's Small Town Blog

Sometime this week I will be leaving this wretched city... For the next few weeks; or until the "plan" is finally hatched I have decided to park myself in Brockville Ontario. The genesis of the idea for this move was my freaky rooming-house land-lady kicking me out after deciding I gave her a bad vibe. If anyone has any thoughts on this bad vibe of mine, please fill me in.

Bad vibe, for criminey-sakes! What the hell is that? I mean if she had told me she didn't like seeing me wandering drowsily to and from the toilet in the middle of the night dressed only in my dirty old gich; OR if she had told me that the rotting half a roast of lamb left over from a wonderful Easter dinner with my folks she found in the vegetable crisper in the fridge had bothered her; OR if she had been offended by some offhanded political comments I may have made while she was ranting on in her oh so smug left-leaning never-ending commentary about her oh so interesting life in this oh so dreary town... I might have determined to try to rectify the situation; plead my case and tried to stay on. As it played out, she told me of my vibe problems; I responded simply "OK" and went about my normal business. I have decided that her "6 weeks of knowing me" critique of my vibe was about as meaningful an opinion on my "vibe" as say the opinions expressed by the cab driver who drove me home from one of any number of bars I frequented last month. I remain confident that my vibe is just fine but, perhaps over prudently, I will keep my mind open to the concept that perhaps my vibe could use a bit of fine-tuning.

Although I have played out a number of scenarios in my mind, I will not seek revenge for this attack on my vibe; I will not call the City of Toronto's Tenants Association to inquire on the validity of "vibe related" evictions; I will not seek out the services of the City of Toronto's building department to report an un-permitted renovation to her bathroom; nor will I flip her a finger and make some reference to the fact that she's just an old dried out bitch-hag who has sunken too deeply into this self-delusional idea that this house of hers is some kind of "international creative person's oasis in the sea of an uncaring corporate driven city of un-feeling doom"... I will settle on the best revenge being my continuing to live vibrantly.

So, I move out of the Baden Street room and into the small town of Brockville Ontario. The small town of Brockville has become my familys un-official hometown. I was not raised there, but my Aunt Sue the official Matriarch of my family raised her seven children there, we visited often. Also after an almost 36 year tradition of Thanksgiving dinners in the great old house by the river... Being in Brockville always feels like a homecoming. The fact that it's on the St. Lawrence River... I will not get into that here.

My last visit to the small town of Brockville was two weekends ago. Upon that visit I was reminded that my cousin Doug who sails with his brother, my cousin John had secured his own boat for the racing season and would no longer be sailing with my cousin John. An opening; at the time it was wishful thinking that I could fill it. After all traveling from Toronto to Brockville every Tuesday and Thursday and most weekends would not only be time consuming, but also cost me $188 return each time I did it. My bad vibe to the rescue! It would seem after this eviction, I could not come up with one single reason to continue to live in the City of Toronto. Yo, bitch Land Lady, thanks for the invitation to spend a few weeks sailing with my cousin John.

I'm pretty pumped about this move to a small town. I grew up in a small town, and it's been a while since I spent more than a weekend in a small town. Perhaps it will help in our future plans to live in an even smaller town. We'll see what comes of it.

Right now; I'm gathering up my gear here. I'll see if this experience generates anything remotely interesting enough to post here. At the very least, I will post our race results each Tuesday and Thursday and the occasional weekend we do the regattas.

9:49 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 Apr 2006

Ya'ever Wanna Kill that Friend Who Up and Died on You?

I've been a lucky man. I'm 43 and so far death hasn't really hit me too hard. My folks are still alive [albeit, scaring me regularly with tales of ailments and hospital visits]. Same is to be said for the close Aunts and Uncles. I lost a few, lets say people I kinda knew in high school to the typical follies of, mostly alcohol and automobiles... Ive been to two funerals; one that of the dear father of my oldest friend and the other, my Aunt Penny's; my dad's youngest sister. I loved Penny, but I remember that day NOT so much for the saying goodbye to Penny, but more for it being the first time I saw my "Captain in the Military" father cry. The pins, knocked right out from under me... The day your father becomes human... Funerals... I continue to count my blessings. Those are other stories...

This story is about Michael Prentice; a short story in so much as Michael was a very good but sporadic friend. He popped into my sphere of friends quite by happenstance, left the sphere then re-entered it again and again whenever that happenstance clock movements of friendships put his cog against the other cogs of friendship.

He was a good friend.

I met Michael thru Doctor Giggles... I was just back from my Central American, post business failure misadventure. Floating around Toronto after a series of failed interviews. Soaking in my remorse that perhaps no junior manager/human resources minion would ever look fondly upon the resume of a failed CEO, President, entrepreneur... with anything but fear. To waste the time of non-employment, I wasted my time, some nights, sipping beers and playing NTN trivia at the "Hoops Sports Bar" on Yonge; really, as always... I was just out to kill time... Enter Dr. Giggles.

A short balding stocky man; a self-professed wheeler and dealer. A guy who hated being whooped at trivia. I beat him a few times one night, he sidled up to me, we talked for a few hours; next thing you know I'm at a meeting with this Dr. Giggles, Syd Capp [whose story shall or has certainly been told], Michael and Jay Abrams... Jay Abrams, a co-founder of Alliance Atlantis films. In other words, beating Dr. Giggles at NTN trivia provided me a seat at the tippy-top table of the Toronto film and television industry. Not to brag, but firkin ho-hum. If there's anything I despised more at the time it was the Toronto film and television industry.

Syd and Michael had joined forces to do something spectacularly dull. Syd who came from the "Clause 12" world of Canadian Tax dollar sucking motion picture development had teamed up with Michael; who came from the "just barely better than industrial video" shoot it, cut it and sell it to cable bidness. They were going to as they said, "mine the back forty", i.e. grab pre-shot footage, remix it and re-sell it to the exploding specialty cable station market. They would use dollars made in this nefarious venture to fund their own, more creative endeavors. Syd was the money gatherer, Michael was to be the guy who would get it done. On an aside, Syd had an interest in interactive media; liked my history and the way I spoke business, and so offered me a desk in his and Michaels playpen.

It was actually kind of fun being with folks on the fringe of the most sycophantically ass kissing industry on the planet. An industry where name dropping, fables of historic non-deals made over great meal stories at fake restaurants was more important than actually turning revenue. I hung out there until I got a real job with another fake company out of Portland Oregon who were about to launch in Toronto. I left the playpen with Michael as a friend.

Michael was a big dude, taller than me and definitely heavier. A video production dude clich from the top of his conservatively not short, but not mangy hair to his stovepipe cut jeans and cowboy boots. He drove a Bronco and had the, "No, the best place for... this" AND the "best place for that is..." attitude down to a T. The type of guy who would, when told that you really enjoyed the risotto at Bar Italia last night, would say... "No, the best place for Risotto is...". Thankfully he wasn't one of those, "the best place for risotto in... etc etc etc" type guys. Nope Michael was Strictly Toronto.

Strictly Toronto... Upper Canada College, Rosedale, Forrest Hill... I won't get into it. Let's just assume that Michael was an Anglican [Episcopalian for my American friends]; his folks moved to the gentle northern, pastoral burbs; Michael, the Bronco driving black sheep who settled for trips to Thailand and film school over a life in finance. When I met Michael he had already parlayed the blue chips for a seriously entertaining list of stories of foreign miss-adventure; he had settled into the industry; he had socked away some dough; he had bought a house and was living with his wife in Forrest Hill. In other words, he had married a nice Jewish girl.

Outside of ALL the reason's I could have really disliked Michael. His humorous disdain for the war between the Goys and the Heebs in the city of Toronto was precious. He bargained with his wife to pass on their sons circumcision unless she was to allowed for their daughters to have the female version, all the rage in small villages in India... He won that battle; AND he continued to complained every time she forced him to donate that minimum $2,000 offering at temple; as for temple, he went every time it didnt conflict with a round of Saturday morning TV/Film golf/bidness... Michael and his wife had two girls in quick succession; neither was circumcised [as far as I know].

This story ends in death.

As I have mentioned Michael and I hooked up sporadically. After the film/TV bubble burst, and after he fell out of graces with Syd, we started to see more and more of each other. I was bouncing around from one pre or post public offering Internet venture to another. Alternately being wowed and bored by my 26, 27 year old employers who for the most part actually believed that the toilet paper they called stock was worth the millions that were listed on whatever penny ante exchange they had managed to list it on... From time to time I had easy access to you know what; Michael liked you know what and would ask me to set him up with you know what...

At a low point, I got Michael a job with an old business associate who wanted to add video production to her shopping list of media offerings... I left for New York. Michael seemed happy, working with this strong businesswoman associate of mine. Wed see each other time to time. Actually, we had drinks together at The BEST place for martinis in New York once while he was shooting a G-zero spot for some project...

Yes, this story truly ends in death.

Then comes the day I get a call from this strong businesswoman associate/friend of mine. Ive fired Michael; hes a fuck-up. Then comes the email from Michael saying he had just landed a 12 show deal with some cable specialty channel; then comes the day I get a call from Syd saying they had found Michael face down on the couch in his quite comfortable Forrest Hill home one morning apparently having suffered a, you know what, induced heart attack.

A nice upbringing with good parents that as far as I know supported every bronco riding adventure and business venture he ever entertained. Relative success enough to plant real-estate roots in one of the better parts of town; a wonderfully friendly, smart as a bug wife who adored and raised the kidlets; a new path, a gig back to past successes from what Im told YEARS of experience with you know what to know what you know what can do to you; I mean, he handle a serious binge of you know that other thing in Thailand for two years [or so the story goes].

When I got the call from Syd, I was in my cubbyhole at the underwear office, submerged in my own problems and dealing with my own monsterish friendship with you know what. I remember being a bit sad, but not surprised. It was close enough to lunch that I could wander outta the office and over to one of the Irish Pubs on 8th. I ordered a Guinness [no significance there at all]... Raised it in the general direction of Toronto...

Michael, you stoopid FUCK, next time I see you, I am going to smack you so hard up side the head, youll die all over again. All these things, good things! To hell with all those good things Michael; you gave up on two beautiful little girls and the mother you left in horror to raise them.

Suicide... has many a form.

1:20 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

23 Apr 2006

Reminiscing Around and About Clinton and Gore

Reminiscing Around and About Clinton and Gore

Ahh, the heady days of ecstasy fueled DJ dance parties, ecstasy fueled Friday friendly get togethers, ecstasy fueled Wednesday walk abouts... ecstasy. So much freakin ecstasy; I seldom found the chance to be happy. Oh, those indeed were the heady days of living at Clinton and Gore.

I have found myself walking past Clinton and Gore quite often these last few weeks. Not so much in an attempt to wander down memorys lanes; rather because its the shortest way home from the Dip. A reminder, that I am using the word home loosely; as home has become less a place than a mission these days.

My apartment at Clinton and Gore was a comfy place; two bedrooms, one of which became my Lego room when I was toying with the idea that I would entertain my mind by playing with Lego again. Did I mention, I was doing a lot of ecstasy. The Lego was eventually handed off to my cousins son and the apartment at Clinton and Gore was handed off to Carl.

That worked.

The apartment at Clinton and Gore was a small bit of punctuation I guess. It was from the apartment at Clinton and Gore that I ended my company and ended what I guess would be my first stretch of time in the city of Toronto. I left the apartment at Clinton and Gore to fly off on a disastrous adventure in Central America. Since then it has often felt as if I am always Leaving the city of Toronto.

Ive actually been leaving the city of Toronto since I arrived here a way back in 1980. Of course back then the concrete was mostly freshly poured and to a set of young and excitable eyes, heavily wanting to be involved in the punk scene that was later found out to be long dead before I ever really got involved; I guess it felt like I was arriving... Ah, the heady days of caffeine fueled angst ridden donut shop conversations that raged into the wee hours... beer fueled boppings at the Beverly when money was about... evening walks that sent me spinning through every last single one of these streets in the city of Toronto. As was the case with most of my young pals at the time, I had moved from somewhere smaller and was wowed big the bigness of this place.

Funny how small a big place gets with each year that passes. Funny how the walls start closing in after youve done every possible thing you could possibly imagine doing in the big place. Funny how you have to eject every last single item youve built for and around yourself before you can finally fulfill that pounding desire to leave the big place; funny how time after time after time again upon returning to that big place you can convince yourself that youre NOT really there; its a mirage, a temporary landing zone, a place from which you will bounce onto the next place. At least, thats what I keep telling myself over and over and over again.

I should note, that I really didnt leave the city of Toronto for NYC in search of a bigger place. I was quite happy to find little places in that big place that I could call home. OK, it was nice that there were a lot of these little places all piled in and around each other, and it was nice to walk from one place to the other, but it wasnt the bigness of NYC that attracted me, it was just some place different. And, yes, I do miss the place.

So here I sit, waiting to bounce. I would seem that, considering the velocity at which I hit the city of Toronto this time round, it should be one very big bounce. Unfortunately at this particular moment in time Im still kind of trapped in one of those ultra slow motion motion pictures showing the awesome compression and deformation of certain objects as they impact upon larger motionless objects; big hard cold objects; objects with no sense or feeling; objects that lack the ability to even recognize the fact that they are indeed being struck by an object traveling at extremely volatile velocities. Awesome compression and deformation indeed.

I have become more and more tired in all this waiting. Of course at lot of this was beyond my control as the pages of the calendar had to slowly turn; as I stared at the clock on the wall and watched every single second click past over the minute into the hour beyond the days and onto the months. Tired of constantly reminding myself that I am NOT here in the city of Toronto, that I am simply bouncing on through. Quite tired of each and every foot fall landing squarely within a chunk of land clearer demarcated as indeed a small, approximately four inch by twelve inch portion of land within the boundaries of the city of Toronto...

Im expecting Ill be walking on up to the Dip later today. Im assuming Ill walk on past the corner of Clinton and Gore. Ill probably watch where Im walking while looking at all the things I no longer see. I assume my mind will wander here and there and dig up the odd old memory... Memories of the days of concrete... perhaps. I expect, today I might pause a bit at Clinton and College; perhaps if I do pause, this pause may represent that frame in the film that marks the end of the awesome compression and deformation and the beginning of the awesome expansion and the natural, returning to normal. Perhaps if I just let myself be a bit more here, a bit more happily here, even just for a small moment, a quick pause; perhaps this pause will hasten this next departure. Well see what happens later today, and just exactly what is to be found, when I pause at the corner of Clinton and Gore.

8:20 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

22 Apr 2006

Here We Go Again

So it would appear as I have been suffering some form of mental laryngitis these past few months. Perhaps, or perhaps I've been suffering through yet another debilitating round of self-absorbed... Lost in my own head. Hit the eject button NOW or forever loose myself... I'm definitely not going to start this back up again to bore myself with tired old tirades on this so called predicament. I here, so there, move on.

Have you ever wished you could go back in time; knowing all you know... blah blah blah. Of course you have! Actually, I'd be willing to bet it's a common theme in of those 15 minute out of every half hour that your mind wanders down the corridor, out the door and into that place we go when we're just so bored of work we can't bloody well take it anymore.

Careful what you wish for!

Back in time is where I am now. Thrown back onto the streets I got tired of looking at years and years ago... Back to Yonge Street, back to Parkdale, back to Little Italy... flat on my back. What to make of this; all I can say really is, FUCK I am glad winter is over and done with.

Let springs dreams turn into plans, and plans into action. As I ramble on into this first shot, I'll let my mind wander about a bit. It really was all just a bunch of rambling moments anyhow. Rambling jumbled thoughts squirted out into words that we rolled around until they balled up into some vaguely coherent pitter patter. On occasion, this pitter patter had a nice ring to it... a tempo.

Perhaps starting with the staccato herks and jerks of poorly played improvisational jazz beats... nope, just a monkey pecking at the keys... desperately searching for the one that used to trigger the banana door... Perhaps I'm just trying to teach these fingers to tap dance again. Perhaps I'm trying to hard.

Careful what you wish for indeed!

I'm not finished yet. Not finished in the least. We have a long way to go and a huge pile of unfinished dreams to conquer. There are roads and paths we've never even imagined we'd walk down, AND there are places we've yet to rest our heads upon. I'm NOT finished yet! I have embarrassed myself; I've stood on my hands and spoken through the crack in my ass... I've walked backwards and bumped into folks whose names I have long ago forgotten and I have woken up in the ditch with my pants on backwards; but I am not finished yet.

Here we go again... another fine mess to be sorted, picked over and placed on these pages. To long a break... There are things needing to be said, projects to complete... Here we go again. You haven't heard the last of me.

7:14 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

16 Dec 2005

Wedding daze

It was a slow day the day Sally first walked into my corner bar. It was early on a Saturday, the day shift rummies had left, and the night shift rummies were, well, late again. Just me and Carlos... in comes Sally. She looked like she could handle herself, but considering Carlos, a no less than 250lb latino, prison tats all over the oak tree he used as neck, a neck that carried about 200lbs of gold chain I might add... Considering Carlos had done his 10 years on an aggrevated rape and assualt charge, I thought I'd keep the corner of my eye on her. I wasn't amused finding that he'd siddled up to her while I was in the back getting fresh ice. I didn't know Sally, I didn't know that within minutes she'd be commenting on each tatoo, and asking after each saint and symbol on each chain... "Is that Saint Anthony?" "What's DE-EK mean?". Within fifteen minutes, Carlos had out a picture of his 13 year old daughter and was almost sobbing to Sally about how much he missed his little girl. They carried on until the night shift came in, and I lost track of her... I think that might have been the first night I heard "the laugh". A few weeks later she was in again with some friends, it was busier, she pointed out JP as the boyfriend. I believe my thought at the time was "whose this bookworm?". I quit my job at the bar a few weeks after that, and didn't see Sally again for a while. One night, Jennifer was out of town and I was shufflin' about the hood thinking about going into the city. I popped into the corner for my warm ups. A young couple were at the bar, we said hello. She told me we'd met before, but I had no recollection. Sally had transformed somehow from what I recalled a bit punkettish, to a sweet bob-haired midwestern gal. I didn't recognize the bookworm either, as he seemed to have aged from my memory of him as some beany little twelve-year old. She convinced me that it was really her; the three of us chatted the night away... they asked me back home to play games. Games, games and more GAMES! - Friends it would be. How do you meet people? Work, school, the health club; I guess me being me, I do tend to meet a lot of people in bars; and well, very few at the health club... Doc, Steven, Jennifer, Henry to name a few have become good friends. Friends you see outside the bar. Sally and JP became even closer friends than most. It was great having new friends in a friendly nieghborhood. Most of our friends were Jen's former friends, these two felt more my own. I have hundreds of great memories with Sally and JP, more than a few Sally would KILL me if I even hinted upon here. More than the memories though, Sally and JP became "that" type of friend. The type you had no discomfort with, the type who'd laugh at you when layed out, sprawled all over the tomato plants they'd just planted a month earlier. The type of friends whose company alone meant a great time was at hand. Knowing Sally and JP went down that isle today makes nothing but perfect sense. Watching these two kids is like watching an old married couple; you know that ONE married couple we all know that seem perfectly matched AND genuinly happy in each others company. Oh sure they bicker, and JP often makes sally "cross"; but when they laugh, crimey when these two laugh, it's like that sigh of relief you had as a kid when you saw your parents make up... I mean, all is right with the world when Sally and JP laugh. I can't wait to visit Sally and JP and their 7 kids one day. I am certain that that trailer is going to be full of laughter! Sally's infectious cackle and JP's "father knows best" ca-juggle. Another certainty is that two these kids will make it work! Well, either make it work, or change the rules. I can't picture JP with anyone other than Sally; I can't see anyone but steady as she goes JP putting up with that level of torment. So, tonight, we wish 'em well and send them on their way. A way they've already been going for quite some time. Later tonight, I gaurantee we'll here them laugh. Tonight, most certainly all is right with the world.

2:53 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Dec 2005

You Cannot Save the Crack Hotel

Unfortunately I wont be there to watch... Wont be there to watch four new Mark Bars open each summer. Wont be there to watch coffee prices rise and people laughing about it. I wont be there as one by one the cheaper apartments are vacated by long local families, painted and rented at twice the price. I wont be there to see Elvis for the last time; or watch Frankie's mom get hosed. I wont be there to see Helen and Tommy, slowly and painfully squeezed out of the one last remaining local; Tommy's fault perhaps, but Helen's tanacity will only allow for a whithering, rather than a conversion... I hear they're closing the "Crack Hotel". I hear that they'll be booting out Patrick, Elvis and Fozzie... I hear that Greenpoint is becoming another moment in time, a moment in time us vagabonds have seen over and over and over again. Where is Parkdale; Queen Street; The West and East Villages... Where is Williamsburg and Dumbo... Bedstuy, Harlem and the South Bronx on the verge... Where is the Northeastern inner city; where is North America? I hear that rents are cheap and the sunsets are lovely. I hear that the people are warm and friendly; and that they are eager to build their country. I hear that the jungle remains untouched, and that you can drink from every stream up stream of the last toilet on the hill. We'll hear the blast of the steam whistle on this weeks arriving cruise ship... and we'll hope we'll be there at least ten years before the all-inclusive starbucks jungle island eco-resort lays waste another mini-paradise.

10:19 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

6 Dec 2005

A Fall From the Shit Shelf

You know, in Holland the toilets have these odd little shelves that sit above the main pool, just above the drain. The shelf is cup shaped and holds just enough water to barely cover ones droppings; i guess to keep the stink down. I was told that this shelf allowed the good people of the Netherlands to, well, examine their poops. I guess, they dig around looking for that lucky peanut... counting the number of undigested kernels from last nights corn chowder... I once had it in mind to take a look at my poops... living in the "land of toilet shelves" for a time; the urge to do so becomes overwhelming. Finally, one morning, after a quite satisfying movement; I wiped up, zipped up and swung around to, you know... to have a good look. Funny thing... all I saw was shit. I flushed, woosh off the shelf it went... and I went on with my day. I don't really give a shit about my poop anymore.

8:20 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

7 Nov 2005

America, my Beautifully Evil Mistress

I have come to, well somewhat of a conclusion. America is a country where if one plays by the rules they are considered a sissy; worse, if one is caught breaking the rules they are considered an idiot, a laughingstock. I draw your attension to the lillywhite with his name sewn onto his underpants standing at an open intersection in midtown waiting for the light to turn green! Witness the suit leaping out of the way of Joe Pakistani's cab after hurridly crossing on red... dufus! Maybe my crime was that I only skirted the laws, the weakly passive aggressive Canadian approach... Getting caught skirting... that however does, kind of make me feel like a bafoon! All is not lost, freedom of movement into and around ONE single country in this big ol' world, albeit one of the world's most wonderful, is not cause for total dispair. Separation from my friends is agonizing, one in particular, mortifyingly horribly awful... Being stuck in Canada, I face no juntas, no persecution other than that of being too freindly and nowhere near critical enough of my evil mistress. Fortunately you don't play Canada like a fiddle, you play it like a six note kindergarten xylaphone. All is not lost, temporary setbacks allthough perhaps not so easily, can always be overcome. The ol' bridgewalker has to become a bridgemaker, and I have a STRONG ally in this... Feeling fiesty this morning, fiesty focussed and dry; I challenege myself to the clear objective of coming home... as a matter of fact, my goal will be to make them beg me to come back. AND who knows... maybe, maybe at some point upon hearing this cry for my return... my answer will simply be NO THANKS. Agreed, a somehwhat dellusional self agrandizement; a bit of selfworth defence mechanism at play. But I am not a baffoon, just an unlucky sod who, after years skirting the rules just caught the subway grate draft, exposed his hams and got a great big ol' bite on the ol'... We'll see you soon.

8:27 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

1 Nov 2005

Exhile

My Brooklyn life is collapsing as I wait to undertake the next mischevious plan. I lay in wait, alone in my sisters basement here, in Communist Canada, waiting to make my assault on your oh, so presciou's border.

As I wait, I find ConEd turning off the power for my room mate friend... As I wait, I am certain Time Warner is scheming, and Keyspan has a plan... AS...

I AM YOUR ENEMY

I am the yellow hoard that will one day come one billion strong, screaming over your various borders... I am the world court decsion, saying you are wrong... I am the mexican houskeeper... I am CANADIAN! Yes, I am your worst enemy.

STUCK

Stuck at home? No, stuck in some place much like Cleveland, Bismark, DeMoines... JUST like you; STUCK in some dumb assed ol' place I love, but would hate to have to call home.

YO, my American friends... Imagine; just imagine if you needed some special visa to go from OH to NY... Imagine me Si, espaniola...

Am I that BIG of a threat? Is the money I make in Zurich, which I spend in Brooklyn THAT tainted?? Are my Canadian Clients who for whom I find NYC suppliers that EVIL???..

I AM STUCK BEHIND AN IMAGINARY LINE!

My politics, my world view, cannot rationalize this line!

In my world, it's one world, YET here I am... STOOPIDLY STUCK IN BETWEEN...

Toronto and Buffalo

Windsor and Detroit

Winnipeg and Bismark

Saskatoon and DeMoines

Vancouver and Seattle

Someone PLEASE support some frikin legislation that says... Our Softwood lumber is YOURS... you can control 80 of our oiln fields if you like; AND you can take our water.... BUT! ONLY if, ONLY, ONLY... if you take Gord first. I am the price of unfettered access to my former countries riches. Embrace me first, then plunder until your hearts desire.

Bitches [no] Friends

I love you... I dream of peace, ya... like my dad did in '67 and '68...

god bless

pray for my mad dash Saturday

8:49 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

16 Jul 2005

The Stories I Read...

Kenny Dryden's eight-foot leg slips out to stop the puck shot by some Black Hawk shooter that I will never remember… Wayne scores his ninety second. Yvan Cournoyer skirted the boards, slipped a pass to… we win. 1972

Phil Esposito, in the slot after Bobby Clark hacked the ankle off the top Soviet scorer… Bret Farve throws the winning pass. Old horse mouth finally wins the Super Bowl, then wins it again the next year. Ben Johnson didn’t steal no stereos… My team won the Gold medal in Utah, finally after, after all that after the Canadian ice-keeper froze a loonie under the circle at center ice.

The Bear retired yesterday after missing the cut… Tiger looks to win it; again… again on the day Jack hangs up his cleats. People who play the games I only watch as my cousin John beats me again and again in the boats.

Johnson, Bird, Dryden, Richard [both of them]… Lafluer, Gilmore, Jeter… Gladiators with an endorsement contract; heroes with a paycheck; superstars… I watch them. Lance with his yellow wrist band and one less testical… Ice skaters, curlers [the wrench], bob sledders, Olympians, golfers, rugby players Australian Rule football players… indoor fireworks…

The stories they write, are the stories I read.

6:19 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

5 Jun 2005

Commentary, It's Been a while

So, I find myself not having writen a damned thing for way to long, so I, what slide back into commentary... I promise you I will not ride this, AS I have pretty much abandoned my opinion on everything over the last few months. Oh sure, I wax the wax I used to wax when waxing with old pals who clean the same colored wax outta their ears as I do each evening... AND I'll argue with the pals I used to argue with for the sake of arguing only because the arguments make us feel, well you know closer to each other after we have made up after the argument... Commentary, why not, maybe it'll shake a few beans loose...

Shorter Waits for Women in New York Restrooms

The City Council of New York City passed legislation this week requiring new public venues and those undergoing renovations, such as bars, restaurants, theaters or concert halls, to create restroom equity by establishing a two-to-one ratio of women's to men's stalls. Schools, hospitals and prisons will not be affected by the legislation. According to the New York Times, Virginia, Texas, Pennsylvania and California already have similar measures in effect.

Council member Yvette D. Clarke (D), who sponsored this measure, told the Times that “there is something a bit degrading about standing in line to use a bathroom," and later called the passage “a women’s rights accomplishment” that “goes to the quality of life we are able to enjoy in the city.” Women in New York are pleased with the news, according to the Times, happy never again to face experiences in men’s rooms or outdoors because of the length of a women’s restroom line.

From the Feminist Majority Foundation - Feminist Daily News

OK, so it was only last night, I hit the can at the Hammerstien Ballroom only to find two out of the three stalls occupied by chicks [er, gals... er, sorry, women]. AND as I recall, at last years Belmont Stakes [the third leg of the triple crown for you non-sport types], I found myself in a line up to the men's room with just as many women as there were men. It would seem New York ladies [can I say that?], of all stripes, from Kraftwerk fans to Hourse Racing affectionados have busted through and have started to ignore those little international symbols of MAN [no skirt] and WOMAN [skirt] on the doors of our public washrooms.

I for one applaud this seeming intrusion on my space; AND, I enjoy when women wear [skirts]. I mean, on the subject of the rest room, it doesn't harm me in any way to share my hole with the women. Oh sure, they monopolize the stalls, and well [he says bashfully], I am well kind of a stall guy, long story... But, truly, no, if they don't mind the grunt plops, and the sound of Niagra Falls at the urinals, be my guest. Better yet, there have been dozens of article written about how women can actually contort themselves to use the urinals... I say go ahead ladies! Honestly, what's ours is yours; if you've learned how to use the tools while only spillin' say, the average "last three drops" we're currently allowed, the device is all yours. AND rest assured, we NEVER sneak a peak, EVER!

OK, we all may want to think twice when it comes to the antiquities, you know, the "troughs" we men still find at the odd ancient sports venue; a women could do some serious damage to that [insert designer label here] number she picked up at [insert name of trendy SoHo dress shop here] at one of those throw backs to the Holy Roman Orgy.

In the artical above we have venerable ladies rag advocating yet more legislation that denigrates the resourceful. Legislation that tells our women friends, our pals, our lovers, daughters, mothers and sisters that big ol' daddy Gov-Man [in this case, his poor retarded cousin known as City Council], is your only hope at a fare shake [the women who get that lousy pun, give a collective wink]. Yep, the women who currently love me, inspire me, or just plain old beat me up these days don't have a hope in hell of having a sweet pee unless we enact legislation; AND here's the rub fellas! Architecturely speaking, where do you think this extra space to ensure the 2 to 1 ratio is going to come from? Old Bill, the janitor ain't giving up his nap space; NOPE they'll be taking that 2 to 1 ratio right out from underneath our danglers... [can you say two to a hole boys, it's summer camp sword fights all over again].

I say lets drop this, and legislate that all establishments "tear down this wall" and create one big ol' pee-palace. Sure throw in a few extra stalls [as I applaud loudly], create a more "Lady-Friendly" urinal and we can all drain together! I mean, as my cousin Jebadia would say, it's all just "dicks and hootlies", an aint neither gots teef... The only problem being... I'm hearing the K'werk strike up "Radioactivity" and that bitch has been in there for, what 5 minute... man that's just not human!

1:09 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

25 May 2005

I'm here because...

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... stayed in Canada... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda, oh yes. I'm here because... well, it only makes sense... I'm here because... everywhere else bores me to tears. Well that's not exactly true, but honestly, I cannot comprehend my ever living anywhere else again. I'm here because... Man, these bridges are frikin' cool! I'm here because...this is where my friends are.

I'm here because... I ran the rope in the place I was last... I'm here because... it killed me to loose her. I'm here because... there really wasn't anyway to adjust after loosing everything I had worked for years and years and years... I'm here because... I made a good effort that did not work there, because there, that type of effort is wasted, completely wasted.

I'm here because... ever since '79 I always knew there was a chance... I'm here because... it always felt like home here; even after every change, even after each gap in visits that allowed me to see that this place grows like an Uncle who has been alive since the day your great great great grandfather started the chain reaction that ended up as you. I'm here because... because this IS where humanity has ended up. I'm here because... because my 10th, 11th, 12th, and 13th grade Art Class Teacher, Mrs. Colby, planted the damned seed and my Art School Profs watered it...

I'm here because... I was left with no reason to stay there. I'm here because... she gave me the excuse to follow her... I'm here because... I got offered a job at exactly the right and most wrong of times. I'm here because... 'cause I stuck it out. I'm here because... 'cause I fought to stay... I'm here because... I beat the temptation to jump the border or jump the bridge... I'm here because... because I haven't proved that I belong here yet, shallow mutha fucka... NO!

I'm here because... because I belong here... I'm here because... because this is the place I feel most comfortable... I'm here because... this is the greatest of greatest places on earth and in time. I'm here because... the bridges are indeed, lovely. I’m here because, again, this is the place my friends are…I’m here despite my most important family… I'm here because... I have thing I have to get done, and this is where I am meant to do them... I'm here because... because I would like to do these things with her.

I'm here because... well, I kinda know that this place love's people like me, as much as this place loves people like you.

6:15 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 May 2005

Roamin’ has come and he has gone

So, it’s a Sunday, a gray Sunday here in Brooklyn, feeling bad as the Roman girls are struggling with yet another overcast day threatening rain on a weekend when they’re ‘spoused to be selling the things they make, make with love. Sitting there thinking about all the things I should be doing but, ain’t ‘’cause I am hung over and lazy from the great night we had last night with friends in from Rome and VAG on the turntables. Lazy Sunday, hanging with the roomie, talkin’ ‘bout things we haven’t talked about yet… His, pals calling him about pills they give to kids because they’re doing just what kids do, spin, run, yell and pull each other’s pants down… frikin’ addies… what are we thinking when we give our kids these things my friends do when they want to do, the do do… Long stories not told here, now, that well makes me quite, well, makes me quite sad. Metz, Yankees game on… windows are wide open, no screens… conversations, then… BIRD, BIRD, BIRD… BIRD at, 3:00 o’clock, incoming, incoming BIRD!!!!… hands up, protect the face… here it comes… making a bee line for the open windows in the home that is becoming quite a nice home; a home Dylan and I are starting to make comfy; a place where our friends like to come and chill and do the do that we give to our ten year old kids only, because they are acting like ten year old kids; spinning, laughing, running, playing and pulling each other's pants down. BIRD, BIRD, BIRD in the house! Hey there BIRD, bird, welcome aboard, we'll assume yer a he as you've showed up in he-ville… Please don’t shit on my clean dishes; my dinner, or Dylan’s bed. Hello there birdie, num nums… I think, we’ll close the windows, keep you safe as you are NOT a black bird, not a brown bird nor a Robin… you’re a powder blue budgie who has somehow managed to escape; escape from someone who has obviously spent some money for you… If we sent you back into that rain, we figure you would most likely die as the person who bought you, spent that money on you, now, is the only guy who can get you the food and drink you need to survive, well, OK in the bird owner like manner you are familiar with… birdy… I NOW find myself putting posters up in the ‘hood on your behalf. In coming… BIRD!: is still there this morning, moved from her/his perch in the bookshelf that makes Dylan’s room completely privacy free.. Tweet he said… I’d like food, tweet he said, what the fuck you doing draping all the windows with mean girls so I do not know a way out… Tweet I said back, bitch/bastard I’m not having you fly head first into glass over and over again looking for a way to escape from me... me the guy whose now calling everyone he knows who have birds to advise him on how to keep little Roamin’ alive… Ya, I called him Roamin’… Buffalo Jen, from Buffalo thought it a good name. Today, Anthony called me at 2:30pm… A pal of Anthony’s had seen my bulletin posted at the bodega at the corner, and got the word back. It would appear that Roamin’ had left Anthony’s place a week ago… Left from Anthony’s apartment 4 block’s away.. Roamin’ apears to have been a good name indeed. Anthony dropped by, we grabbed Roamin’, put him in a bag and sent him home, or well, back to Anthony's. Anthony asked if I wanted, 5, 10 bucks or something… the going rate for the return of stupid birds I guess… Forget that! Sure, I coulda bought a burger, or perhaps maybe a drink at the local later, BUT why… from what I’m told a bird in the apartment is good luck. Roamin’ is home, or, well at least at Anthony's with his six other bird like pals Anthony has hanging around, well, let's hope they're as happy to have him back as I was to have him around last night... IN COMING! Roamin’ you are more than welcome, into my window… anytime you like… Roamin’ the bird-dude!

1:33 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

20 May 2005

On Behalf of Diana and Her Request for Stories that Change

Today I recieved email from a dear old friend... ------------------------ Ah, the spring! The signal of new beginnings...and with new beginnings are new endings. It's the end of the school year and the beginning of summer. What better way to mark beginnings and endings than with coffee and cake in the afternoon? So you're invited! Where: Diana's Place, 354 Spadina Ave. When: Saturday, May 21st, from 2 to 7 pm or so Why: To chat, eat, chat, enjoy, caffinate, enjoy... Bring: a story about an ending or new beginning! Feel free to bring children, pop/juice, wine/beer, liqueur that goes with coffee/tea, a healthy snack to counter the cake, an unhealthy snake, a small hedgehog, a guest, someone I meant to invite but misspelled their email...whatever you like. Note: There will be several cake choices including flourless, sugarless and just plain fattening! Hope you can make it out! Diana --------------------------- Summer… You sit there on the curb, smelling the smell that you can barely smell after years of soaking in that smell. You sit their smelling the fetid rubbish pouring out of half opened bags of garbage; picked clean of depositable cans by the family on Eagle whose living it is to do YOUR recycling. You sit there, again and again same old, same old, waiting for one of the old and tired, old defeated men to come down those stairs… to throw you what you don’t want but always find yourself getting from the fire escape affixed to the place with exactly no hope. Running you momentarily realize that you, yes YOU are the idiot. You are your own worst enemy; YOU are the worst thing in your life. Forgotten again in a moment, the next moment, the moment that melts into the next moment when you decide moments later to do it all over again. The day after the day before you made your escape to the beautiful places one spends their summers… the places that finds you at peace, but that, upon your return, finds you right back on the curb moments after the car door slams behind you… summer, the heat and fetid smells of half emptied bags… don’t think about it. At least, don’t think about it right now… Fall… There’s always hope when the leaves turn yellow, red then brown… There’s always hope as things seem to die and wilt all around your feet… there’s always hope as you start to notice the smoking laws are making you cold and young overpaid men are hitting the balls that climb the fences that actually mean something to you… there was but little hope last year. Not because history was made with a great big yawn, but because everything, everything you did, even sitting on the curb had become one big empty hollow, desperate yawn. Found some joy in the pigskin drama’s found more joy at the bottom of a bottle, bottled in Kentucky. Found a few friends, yawning the same yawn and waddled on through the tunnel that links the G to the V. The stenches lingered last fall, the old men appeared, then re-appeared, then re-appeared, then re-appeared again… yawn. Praying for an ice, a freeze over that would lock you indoors, that would knock you cold… maybe even end it all and send you back to… ice and snow. Winter… Things get busy when the leaves are all gone. Family calls and plans are made… could never have anticipated the plans being hatched by family that year. Could never have anticipated the offers put on the table… could never have anticipated the opportunity that offer would hold. Favors for old friends, new roomies, little boys sitting, lounging around on great nights, beer, hamburger helper and Andre the Giant spinning his ever growing tale of success, well OK, making the best out of a bad situation. Arguments and fights I grew less and less interested in, placard, buttons, badges and t-shirts telling of the coming aunslauch, doom and gloom in the city of well meaning but never doing anything dumb people. A distraction for the moments, the results, then… a beautiful dinner in Ohio. Then a birthday, then a fight, then a momentary moment of clarity, insanity, what’s the difference? That, all that, each and every moment of that… over. Thank goodness, perhaps, or perhaps, more happiness found at the bottom of the bottle, bottled and corked in the great coalmining dead disastrous state of Kentucky… Change now or don’t. Midnight Mass after a few days off, then a few more days off after midnight mass… long walks and a lot of conversations with myself… bridges… walking bridges, bridge after bridge, while I looked for a route that would take me from here to there, from there to here. Conversations with myself that turned into ranting and ravings… ranting and ravings… that turned into memories… memories that turned into stories… stories that mean nothing to anyone but me… stories that meant something to her. Spring… There is therapy in memories… tons of therapy if you have years of memories. Clicking little keys as you empty those Kentucky bottles, as you empty your mind of memories of sitting on that damned curb. The cold lingers, the ice you had hoped for stuck in the air a bit longer than anyone but yourself had hoped for… A quick message that takes you by surprise… Admitting defeat, admitting mistakes, admitting you are an asshole whose own worst enemy is YOU; who hates the you YOU became to the people you love, IS, I believe one of the steps those people I met last winter try to take. I took that step by making my rambling self absorbed sappy therapeutic gigga-jagga accessible to everyone I know, everyone I love… never did figure out if they understood what I was doing… one person though, one person did, and that one person also enjoyed the way I was doing it…A quick message… I was taken by surprise! So, Diana, a story of change… Cake and coffee… enjoying the strains of spring at the moment they become the next summer. On behalf of my old friends who may gather at Diana’s place this weekend, I submit to you my story of change. There have been nights when the stench was there; there have been days when I have prayed for cold; there have been moments when I question the miraculous things that have happened between sitting on that curb, and now sitting at my own desk in my own place; working on the things I have a say in whether or not I enjoy doing them… A wise old young man said quite recently… “It’s crazy how much self esteem can be generated by the simple act of a women telling the guy that she loves him”… There have been moments when I have looked at what has become what, and have asked myself, “Can this actually happen?”… The answer comes back in a sigh with a Roman accent, YES it can happen… If it could not happen… then I would be doomed, BUT, it has happened, and I sit at my own desk, submitting to you this story of change, a change I am completely, absolutely confident of, confident of the fact it has indeed, happened. Confident, completely confident as the you, the YOU who was my worst enemy and the one I hated most, put aside it’s YOU, and met the Italian, the Roman… I am now in love with YOU; completely, absolutely in love with you. Completely confident that YOU will never let me down again… AND with that my friends, the therapy session is closed… OH, sticky, saccrin, syrupily sappy prose will be the norm… but now I write for the frikin’ fun of it. The break is over… see you again in a few more days. Enjoy your cakes and coffees… I do miss you folks!

5:44 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

14 May 2005

Recente Distraction

Current mood:satisfied

...and that makes it official! -----Original Message----- From: Nathan Nathan Sent: Wednesday, May 11, 2005 1:53 AM To: Gordon Gower Subject: RE: Thank You Gordon, I appreciate the mail. I would also like to look at our efforts and relationship from a positive perspective. We did accomplish quite alot, and I have alot to thank you for. I wish you the best of luck and am sure you will be successful with your new projects. I hope you remain in touch. Nathan -----Original Message----- From: Gordon Gower Sent: Tuesday, May 10, 2005 5:19 PM To: Nathan Nathan Subject: Thank You Nathan, I appreciate your letting me do what I can to help you transition the site to Kate and Casey. Although I have been completely dissatisfied with the job for the last few months I do not want this to end badly. I will always appreciated the fact that with very few questions about my "status", you offered me this job when my industry was on it's knees. On a base level, I have really enjoyed this job. From the positive perspective [which at the end of the day I prefer to dwell on], it has allowed me to focus 14 years of experience and ideas on a single objective. Although we fell far short of your expectations, I leave somewhat happy in the knowledge that we tripled sales. And while I know you disagree, I also think we are spending our money more wisely and in a more controlled fashion than when I arrived. This probably happened two or three weeks earlier than I hoped. I did see the writing on the wall; and did know it was time to start rebuilding my independent business again... the terrain is much more fertile these days; two new contracts are about to close. I'll do everything I can over the next few days to feed Casey and Kate as much info as possible. Please let them know that I am available to answer any questions they may have as they go forward. Same applies to anyone you may bring on. All joking aside, this site does mean a lot to me, and I would like to see it flourish, perhaps under someone with a bit fresher enthusiasm. Nathan, thanks again... Net, it's been a pleasure. Gordon

6:08 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Apr 2005

No... I... FUCKING... LOVE! -- New York

An old pal in SF has just launched a travel site http://www.realtravel.com/, in yet another attempt to spend another entire day fucking the dog at work, I thought I'd oblige him on at least half his request for me and my pals to write up ten reviews of this big ol' greatest of great places... Let's enjoy the Spring! ------------------------------------- Sights: Brooklyn Bridge Park "Romance Under the Bridges" It's well known that New York City has great parks, and that New Yorkers Adore them. Central Park is legendary, Prospect Park and the new West End shoreline are favorites for locals and wandering tourist alike. I almost shouldn't be telling you this, but the best Park, the absolutely most wonderful place to chill the street stress right outta your bones is The Brooklyn Bridge Park in Dumbo. An urban experience in the most urban city in North America. Imagine sitting on a rock beach, driftwood, wave lapping the shore. Your field of view... Two of the worlds most spectacular bridges soaring out on each side of you and the trillion dollar view of downtowns office towers, SMACK in your face. Weeknights are best as the place is almost empty. I suggest leaving the office, hotel room a bit early, well OK, early by NYC standards, say 6:30/7:30. Get yourself to the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge. Take a leisurely stroll across one of the cities finest attractions in itself. On the Brooklyn side, take the first pedestrian exit and walk one block over to Washington Street. As you turn onto Washington Street, be careful, any fan of Sergio Leone's "Once Upon a Time in America" is going to faint... Three blocks down Washington St., and you're in the park. Insider Tip: Bring a couple of plastic cups, on Washington you'll find a very fine wine store... Brown bagging it on the shores of the East River, alone or with someone special as the sun sets over Manhattan between the oldest and the prettiest Bridges in the city. A plastic cup full of wine, your arm around your lover, the sound of ferry waves... eh, hem Paris?!? The City of Lights has nothing on "Big City Bright Lights" tonight baby! My Town... Enjoy it Babes! Note: You can also get there via the F train, Exit at York Street Station, or the A to High Street Station. Dumbo, the neighborhood itself has more than enough things to do after the sun finally sets. Rice, on Washington is a fantastic Asian fusion restaurant, and there are a number of great bars tucked in and around the cobblestoned streets of what used to be called Viniger Hill. ------------------------------------- Accomidation: The Gershwin Hotel "This ain't no Daze-Inn" Located perfectly conveniently equal distances from Midtown and the Villages this place is great for the folks who want to spin in wide circles and get it all done. The immediate area itself is kind of sparten, but on a nice night you can easily walk to Union Square, the East or West Villages... and anywhere you'd probably want to go is easily within a $6 to $7 cab fare. This is an old SRO convert, or perhaps re-convert back may be more correct. The rooms are small, pretty sparten, but who the heck stays in their rooms in NYC anyhow. OK, if you need space, rent a suite for something like $20 extra [oh, and that's on top of what an average room price of say $97]... One important tip... On most evening they curtain off a chunk of the lobby and turn it into a hip little lounge/club. Unless you enjoy spinning off to sleep to the sounds of some trippin' DJ, get a room on the third floor or above... Wait, who the heck sleeps in New York anyhow! My Town... Enjoy it Babes! ------------------------------------- Entertainment: Spring Lounge "This Ain't No Lounge... No Dive Bar... Paradise" I came across the Spring Lounge one day while daydreaming my way through Little Italy and the Lower East Side. Dreaming about the teaming streams of good folks that plowed their way through these neighborhoods that were once considered the Calcutta of North America. Day dreaming about mob hits and oversized 1970's era boat mobiles trying to make their getaways down these tiny bumpy streets. I came across the Spring Lounge at exactly the moment I needed a beer! OK, plusses, it ain't no lounge. I mean, it's not all done up like the waiting area for your 2035 trip aboard American Airlines Space Liner cruise to that Orbiting Hotel that's become oh so 2034! Nope, this is a great little comfy hang in a great 'hood you should visit. Big ol' windows let you people watch and friendly folks at the bar won't stop talking to you. There's usually a good looker working the taps, and very few frat boys! No minuses here... If you need a break from shopping in SoHo, or if you're just well day dreaming I highly recommend the Spring Lounge, go for one stay for three make a new friend. My City... Enjoy it Babe! ------------------------------------- Sights: East River Bridges "I Dare You... Triple Dog Dare You!" More of a challenge than a review... A challenge to all you spandex wearin' bike riding, roller blading health nuts, you life-lovers who have recently seen it fit to not allow me and my pals to smoke in those bars you don't even go to anyhow. I challenge you to what could be your best day in New York ever. A spiritual day, a day you'll think some new thoughts about how us humans get things done, I mean really done, done! The day you walk every bridge, except for one, that crosses New York's East River. [bonus points if you name the one you'll miss] OK, here's the background... first though, just so you know, I drink about 17 and a half gallons of beer, wine and/or various whiskeys a week and smoke more than a broken down delivery van illegaly licenced out of a chop shop in Flushing so, I love life just as much as you do. And I probably have more of the stamina required to undertake this great adventure than you could imagine. OK the background... I did this one day when suffering the worst hangover of my life... a beautiful walk, a walk that starts with no idea in your head at all... just follow me. I guarantee you'll enjoy it. OK, get yourselves to Queens Plaza Subway Station in Queens [I'm giving you a head start, as I actually started this trip a mile away in Greenpoint Brooklyn]. Queens Plaza's not that far ladies just take a look at your freakin' subway map, or ask one our famously friendly city folks for directions. The N, R, Q, F and a raft of other trains stop at Queens Plaza. Its at QP that you'll find the foot of our first bridge the 59th Street, Queensboro Bridge, or as I like to call her, the Grand Old Lady. The Old Lady is a nice place to start, simple nice views of the Upper East side... a pretty picture. Oh, small note, this is the Bridge I used to escape the city a few years back, she's not my favorite, but the old hulk holds a special place in my heart. OK, so this is a challenge, I'm not going to give you exact directions, not going to leave you any breadcrumbs... you find your own darned way from bridge to bridge, through the neighborhoods the sweet sweet neighborhoods. OK, That said, I will lead you to the next one as it requires a bit of serious local knowledge. While crossing the Old Lady, you will have noticed the Roosevelt Island Tramway. A ski lift like contraption that you'll need to take to Roosevelt Island in order to get to the Roosevelt Island Bridge that take you into Astoria Queens. Once in Astoria [hey stop for some Greek food]... You're going to have to find your way north to the Tri-Boro Bridge. It's a bit of a hoof, I'll let you take the train if you like, but remember, I walked this part, AND stopped for two beers in the process. The Tri-Boro is the longest, highest and dullest on this here day-of-you-freakin-health-happy-life wander. But you have to do this bridge. Robert Moses' proudest moment before he forced the city to span the Verizano Narrows. The Bridge that paid for the rest but has yet to pay for itself. The Bridge that stitched together what the glaciers tore apart thousands of years ago... I could go on. Here's where it get's fun you blading fools. The Tri-Boro can put you in the Bronx or in Harlem. Ha, I see the silliest media brain washed of you kind of feeling a bit uneasy. Grow up, this is the safest city in N.A. [statistically speaking]. You'll want to get off the bridge at Randels Island, technically part of Manhattan, but really nowhere. Look for a sign, any sign that leads you to the 125th Street Bridge, a gorgeous piece of over engineered lift bridge that take you into the heart of Lou Reeds lyrics... in Harlem, "Up to Lexington 1 2 5, feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive"... OK, if indeed you feel like doing Heroin at this point, that's your prerogative. I'd strongly recommend against this, as you still have half an hours subway ride and three more bridges to cross. Besides, heroin is so, 1995. We'll speed it up here... Grab the 4, 5, or 6 train at 125th and Lex to the Brooklyn Bridge subway station, away aways on downtown. It lets you out at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, a nice if crowded walk. Crawl through Dumbo and find the Manhattan Bridge, New York's prettiest Bridge by far... after crossing the Manhattan, you'll be wandering through the lower lower East Side, walk North to Delancy and there you will find... the Ultimate, my favorite the greatest of great New York Bridges. The ol' workman, Uncle Saul... Pappa... The Williamsburg Bridge. The bridge that opened the floodgates OUT of the doom a despair of the cities famous east side slums. The bridge that allowed all the pent up Jews, Italians, Greeks, Portuguese, Slavs, Poles and whaty what nots out of lower Manhattan and into, well, OK, into the slums of Brooklyn. Savor this walk folks, you made it, you rose to the occasion... You took Uncle GoGo's challenge and beat him over the head with it. I applaud you. At the center of the bridge, take time to note that you can see every bridge you just crossed. You can also see a few you didn't. When you get to the other side, at the very foot, you'll find the stop for the B61. Take a victory ride on the bus on up to Williamsburg, about 5 stops or so. Find yourself a trendy bar or a nice pub and consider this for me... give it some thought. Really, you bridge crossin' spandex wearin' maniac, consider this for me and put it down in 75 words or less... just why the hell will you NOT let me and my pals smoke in bars! ------------------------------------- Entertainment: Karma "Smoke Your Brains Out... In Other Words, Pure Transandental Bliss" As you probably know, New York has fallen prey to the goody goods and has made it illegal for hard working independent business men and women, men and women who have toiled there lives away building business that cater to a particular clientele... the city has made it illegal for these people to allow their customers to smoke in the bars they have built. OK, forget the politics, have your view, mine... I like to mix my poisons on the nights I go out to hang in the places I hang most every night. Exhale, ah... Imagine my joy when a new friend, a new very beautiful Roman friend at that notified me of a place where I can "god forbid", smoke and drink at the same time! Karma, a hookah bar in the East Village has been grand fathered under the smoking ban because, well because it's just that, a hookah bar. You know, the politically correct always seem to work themselves into these lovely dilemmas... We can't let the sick smoke at the bars we don't go to, but we also can't slap someone's hertigacal practices in the face either... what to do... Hookah bars that have been around for ten years are exempt. Funny enough, they also exempted the Havana Club at the top of 666 5th Avenue, a cigar bar for the cities power brokers... I guess "power Broker heritage" is a heritage worth preserving as well. Been there once, drank my salary in booze and smoked a pack and a half in about three and a half hours. Cinderella Power Broker for a day... Karma, is a comfy place. Kind of a sweet ol' dive bar out front. Dimly lit hookah couches in the back. A great place to bring your gal or guy and neck like high school students out on that date when they knew both their parents would be out later than themselves so curfew was not an issue. A great place for PSA... a great place to drop a dime on butts and wag your finger in the general direction of City Hall. You'd expect it to be crowded, it's OK, most weeknights that rarest of rare Manhattan real estate, the bar stool, is readily available. You'd expect it to be expensive [I mean this place does have us addicted retards more or less by those thing we're making less and less usable with every puff]... no more expensive than anywhere else, $5 for a beer, $6 for a drink, $10 for a bowl of tabac, if that's your pleasure. Me, I never touch that stuff sweetened flavored tobacco, please... somebody write a law. This is a New York secret, if I see you there, I'll kill ya if you tell someone I sent you there, they'll kill me, so, don't say hello, and keep your damned trap shut. Great DJ's as well, puff...

1:18 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

25 Apr 2005

Why do I Love YOU...

Why do I Love YOU... well because you threw me a smile as you were walking those four dumb dogs down Bedford on a night it should not have been as cold as it is tonight. Why do I Love YOU... well, your dad took out my appendix, no questions asked, THEN you let my granny die in his home... no questions asked. Why do I Love YOU... because when you asked me the tough questions, you let me fudge. Why do I Love YOU... you wear your politics on my sleeve. Why do I Love YOU... because you simply said yes. Why do I Love YOU... you asked me my opinion, and noded in agreement even though you were di-o-metrically oposed. Why do I Love YOU... we sailed, and taught sailing together. Why do I Love YOU... you posted nice comments about me after meeting me only momentarily. Why do I Love YOU... You gave me a simple job to do when there really weren't a lot of jobs about. Why do I Love YOU... we raised two beautiful cats, AND had a whole whack of GREAT trips together while trying not to absolutely completely dislike each other... Why do I Love YOU... because you made the end easy. Why do I Love YOU... you visited me, when I really needed a visitor. Why do I Love YOU... you let me show you the buildings, roads and streets teaming with people AND let me, without words, show you just how much I LOVE this. Why do I Love YOU... you love your place and have shown that to me again and again... Why do I Love YOU... you take pictures that break my heart. Why do I Love YOU... you treated me like... shit? NO, like some one you were so proud of you couldn't stand to see me fail. Why do I Love YOU... you packed three sandwhiches for me, and two for my dad, the guy who did NOT treat me like shit. Why do I Love YOU... you make me laugh my frikin' head off! Why do I Love YOU... you let me put ideas in your head and called them ours. Why do I Love YOU... you are raising my sister's and mines little babies. Why do I Love YOU... you play rock and roll like it was meant to be played and really enjoy doing it like a frikin Rock star. Why do I Love YOU... because you are the first person introduced to me here, and that night you introduced me to the word GAPPER while handing me cans outta an 18 pack that I seem to remember paying the lions share for. Why do I Love YOU... because you absolutely love him against all odds... Why do I Love YOU... because you defended her and you are a spiritually... dude-guys. Why do I Love YOU... because, you KNOW I stole that money not on purpose. Why do I Love YOU... because the names Tim and Tom sound so nice and dumb when you say 'em over and over agian. Why do I Love YOU... because you have worked by my side for years and years and have finally found your place away from the boys and me... Why do I Love YOU... you did NOT invite me to your wedding, but then felt kinda bad when I did NOT point that out. Why do I Love YOU... you taught me so damned much about... being a smart souless Canadian. Why do I Love YOU... because you do not call. Why do I Love YOU... because you do not write. Why do I Love YOU... because you make no attempt to contact me, see me, or... Why do I Love YOU... because I know... Why do I Love YOU... through all this... I know, YOU kinda do love me [wink].

10:05 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

21 Apr 2005

Oh to live on Beer Geek's Mountain

Current mood:giddy

As mentioned earlier, I'm struggling not to make this a teenaged girl's diary. Not a report on the daily doings of Uncle GoGo, not the daily glop and glue of the sloppy sap that I appear to be floating on these days... This is not a diary entry but yet another story of friends, these stories I'm trying to pound out of these little keys out of this soak old brain before they drown in all the other things I'm pouring on it these days. This story may sound a bit like a diary entry as this story began this last weekend when three great friends who I hadn't seen for years and years flew down to the city, specifically to drink beer. Carl, his sister Ina and her husband Ralph, had come down to Beertopia, we planned to meet, we met for one of those really great weekends. I will have to immediately exclude Carl from this story, although, well, he will appear from time to time to flash that goofy grin and interject with one of his classic semi-segwaynic master pieces that immediately plasters a new never before seen smile on your face... The story of Carl runs way beyond my re-introduction to Ralph and Ina. In the future, if you do read the inevitable story of Carl, I assure you, you will need professional help un-sticking your stuck on "tickle fast" tickle button. Carl is by far the greatest Goofball I have ever known; more exactly, I'd have to say that any Goofballedness I may claim to have, I've learned from Carl, the master of all goofy Goofballs! Diverted... Ina, the sister of the Goofball and Ralph own the Cafe Vollo. Have owned it and operated it together for 18 years or so, together. That my friends has to be some kind of marathonic like "being together all the time" record for a couple, living working eating and sleeping together. An honorable record AND they also managed to raise two boys, good boys at the same time... OK, the funny aside this weekend, Ina and Ralph did start a lot of conversations with, "while we were in Naples, we weren't speaking to each other..." or "...we were on this train, we weren't speaking to each other..." or the classic "...we were at the restaurant, we weren't speaking with each other... but did manage to order for each other"...for some reason the start of these stories seamed as logical as they were funny. Ina and Ralph appear to be one of those couples who soundly "beat the odds". I won't even begin to predict how they've done so in such a spectacular fashion. I know Ina and Ralph through Carl, but I also know them through Cafe Vollo, which from time to time I would frequent as a regular; at other times would find myself in only as an occasioneller, in 18 years, you can be both over and over again. Vollo's one of those comfortable little places, an Oasis at it's location on the most commercial streets in Toronto; food drink and friends at a slow pace in a sea of fast food places... When I was first going there as a regualr, it was wine and Italian; since then they appear to have grafted on beer... beer in a Big Big Big way. Vollo is now a craft beer bar on top of a wine and Italian restaurant, not having been there for years, I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how they could have managed to jam all this good stuff into such a tiny precious little Oasis on Toronto's most commercial street. I can only imagine this tiny precious place jammed with folks enjoying exactly what they like, pressed together as happy people allow themselves to be jammed when enjoying themselves; Ina and Ralph enjoying them being there. Beer. I've always loved beer, beer has let me down a few times. I've got mad at beer a few times, and most definitely beer has been mad at me more than once. I'm pretty non-selective when it comes to beer. Oh I mean, I do like good beer, micro-brewed beers, brewed by men and women who love the beer they brew are obviously my preference, but heck, toss me a silver bullet while tailgating the Bills; I'll pop it, tip it and pour it down the pipe just as quickly as I would any "loved" beer. The reason for Ina, Ralph's and Carl's visit was beer... Beyond Beertopia, their agenda included visits to New York's finest beer bars [bars they don't want to emulate, but bars they could pick up a few things, pointers from here and there]; there were also a few "beer stores" [Canadians shudder at the very term], beer stores where they could buy samples of the many hundreds of beers they'd like to serve at Cafe Vollo. Like to serve... The LCBO, the beer police and beer-auchracy... All beer bought in the Province of Ontario, that's in Canada, must be bought through the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario. This board, basically does not want the people of Ontario to drink, or at least, they do not want Ontarians to have any real choice in what they drink. Molson swill and Labatt swill seems to do the trick for most, so why not all? Every time Ralph and Ina want to present a new loved beer to their customers, they must first subject the people who love making their beers to the horribly beer-o-cratic LCBO... Any of them who have had experience with this beer-o-cracy will usually just say no. Any of them who live in the more economically free "down here", undoubtedly will say no... Alas, Canada's misinterpretation that Americans cannot make beer continues, there loss, AND as far as I'm concerned just another great big black eye on that monstrously wrongly implemented thing they jokingly call free trade and globalization... Ooops... So here were Ina, Ralph and Carl, in the greatest of great places sipping beers they could not have. Enjoying their continued learning of a marginal but interesting thing, I think the word is, here they were exuberantly enjoying being Beer Geeks! I gladly tagged along; although consistantly making many mistakes; mistakes like bringing these beer lovin' folks, in the city as Beer Geeks to a Belgium restaurant when these Beer Geeks tastes run so American; mistakes like dragging them to The Whitehorse for History, the Whitehorse were on a quiet mid-winter, mid-week, mid-afternoon, one can simply melt into the old wood walls while aimlessly pouring pale yellow swill down the empty pipe and into that place that makes your head spin and forget the daily shits that had been shoveled on you earlier in the day. The Whitehorse, were ol' what's his name died, and where on sunny Saturdays they serve up their swill to a gaggle of frat boys waiting to strike out again and again that night... Mistakes like constantly ordering Lager in front of these ol' Ale, hrrrr, hmmm, OK Ale snobs [smile]. Of course, it was no mistake organizing the meeting between Ina, Ralph, Carl and the Roman. That little coup resulted in the creation of a fivesome of friends that seemed to eat up the entire weekend. You can always tell when you've hooked the right people with the right people; any "meet stress" dissolves instantly and in very short order the people you introduced are talking rapidly about anything and everything you know absolutely nothing about... Nothing nicer than the silly smile on the face of the great big Goofball apprentice, nodding in agreement to stories about places he's never been and experiences he never had; nodding as if to say, YO good friends, tomorrow I will have had these experiences, and by next year, well, I'll be a definite part of these stories of places I've never been, things I haven't seen and experiences I've never had yet. Precious is that big and goofy grin. The next day found me on a mission, a mission to haul Ina, Ralph and Carl around point to point in Brooklyn visiting mysterious sites of high importance to Beer Geekdom... Places I'd even been to, but never saw them for this quality. At "American Beer Distributors", in my old neighborhood no less, I found Ina, Ralph and Carl bouncing through the isles like a 10 year old boy in a Neil Simon play would bounce around Mr. Clancy's Soda Fountain, 5 & Dime Candy Store, you know out in Flatbush or up in the Bronx. Ralph, carefully selecting new brews to be sampled by the hardcores up at Vollo, Ina leading him to the ones he may have missed, Carl, well Carl, just wandering around with that goofy grin looking like he was already tasting from the handfuls of bottle that he had placed in his side of the shopping cart. Beer Geeks seem such a more happier bunch than those Whinies you see skulking around the wine stores with the serious look of scholarly proffesors on their faces, or those drunk after the first 10 bottles tatsted Scotch-Heads. Of course the over arching sad point is that most if not all of these beers Ina Ralph and Carl had clutched with such glee, would ever make it by the LCBO; that the contents of these bottles which these Beer Geeks held, studied and placed with an almost giddy irreverence into their basket, would only ever be tasted by a very few, very lucky, probably somewhat select group of people at the Oasis in Toronto Ontario's, cafe Vollo. Seems a shame, but then again, there is a good group of friends of my little group of friends here that I'm sure will feel quite blessed that their friends Ina, Ralph and Carl went to such happy troubles. After the second beer stop of the day, another store, surprising with a smaller selection but still an almost barely overlapping selection from the selection at the last place. It was during this stop that Ina planned her ambush. Disappearing for just a moment to collect her arsenal... Now, here's another sign that you've hooked the right friends with the right friends [said the Goofball apprentice as he rubs his knuckles on his chest and says, ya, I did OK]; here's another sign, it's when one of these friends starts making better plans than you had made for the next meeting of all these friends. Ina, a Beer Geek, but a restaurateur at heart, had stocked up on all the things required to undertake a full frontal lunch assault on the studio of this beautiful Roman they'd all just met. Hey, I'd thought we'd just pop in for a quick visit, nope, Ina had prepared us for the next mission of the day. D-Day, the landbourne assault on Dumbo... and away we went... Let's just say, these good friends are all now good friends themselves, anymore, and this all may become more sloppily sappy than even I could bare. Small snippets, hastily assembled chairs, just enough plates to go around beers such as "Arrogant Bastard" being tasted, wine flowing, bread breaking conversations breaking out all over the place; all finished off with the last bottle of wine while lounging in the sunshine watching a school bus load of tiny kids throwing rocks into the water at the absolutely stunning beach between the oldest and most prettiest bridges in this greatest of great places. Hmmm... says the Goofball apprentice, I done did good indeed. Kisses goodbye, we'll see youse agains soons all spoken, me and the Beer Geeks headed out on the rest of the days main mission, more beer... The rest of the days detail are delicious but relatively unimportant, you can safely assume it was more beer in perfect beer spots. If I had the urge to become a Beer Geek myself, well, I've got my day of initiation all planned ahead of me. We did have to miss a spot, unfortunately as, the sun just wasn't cooperating and I had to unleash my secret plan to end the day on my roof watching the sunset over the Midtown Manhattan Mountain Range then drag these Beer Geeks into MY beer bar for a final swig and a taste of what is, OK arguably the best pizza in Brooklyn, which of course makes it the best pizza in all the world... The night, the great weekend ended simply watching the Simpson, eating pizza and drinking some passable brews at the place I go to, well pretty much everyday single damned day. Hooking up with old friends you barely remember having is well, a hoot, a treasure when you become better friends than you were when you were last friends. Of course Carl being good friend glue, I guess this was probably bound to happen. Hooking these friends up with new friends and having them become good friends is, well downright spectacular... You know, I've not once yearned to go back to Toronto. Oh, I'll pop in pop out, see the sister, but for the most part, trips to Canada are family affairs that take place in those two small towns stretched out along the 401 just a nip over the border. That all changed this weekend. I now have this absolute desire to take a trip up Toronto's most commercial street, up to the Oasis, were we'll start with a few beers on the patio, eat a great Italian diner, then slip into the bar to sample a few of the rarities. I'm sure Ina, Ralph and Carl, the lovable Beer Geeks, old friends, pals who got a great big ol' kick outta my big ol' burly Brooklyn home will crack open a special one. Pour out some glasses... a toast to the day we spent climbing Beer Geek's mountain, now that'll be a toast.

3:24 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

15 Apr 2005

Don't Fart in the Elevator and Other Advice My Mama Done Tol' Me

My friends have been tossing books at me lately. I guess word got out the Uncle GoGo had recently sailed back from his 15 year self expulsion to the Island of Illiteracy and that he was once again eating soft covered gems. They've been chucking books at me which is good as I have recently found myself completely stuck on "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. A thick book that carries you from the primordial goo and ooze through to a promised supposition of where all us jerk's kids kids kids are going to end up in the pecking order once we get this whole big ball of mess all figured out. Interesting, but thick as glue. I mean, I'm lucky to get 4 pages done on the commute in; then end up having to re-read the last of the four pages over again on the commute out... I'm taking a break from "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. Last weekend a great friend, my Roman friend chucked me a copy of "Perfume"; actually sorry, she didn't chuck it all, she thoughtfully placed "Perfume" in with a loving goody bag full of treats, bits of beautiful glass and other precious objects meant to be sent home to Canada by the messenger who shall be reporting back that Uncle GoGo is indeed doing well these days, and that all this recent flow of sap has been justified... Of course, you may have noticed that the sap flow has flowing been a bit shallow lately... Simple problem, fiction. When I used to read, I'd eat fiction like candybars; couldn't wait to start a new book, always hated finishing them. Like that mad drug you're not addicted to but simply can't get enough of [and oh, I can name a few of those, basically the running list of everything I'm running away from these days]. Fiction is the place I always wanted to go after finishing a day drudging around in my real world -- Another problem, I found like with those drugs, I was loosing time after time... so, off I went, I sent myself to Illiteracy Island and focused on work [well, and drugs]. I guess I have to thank the New York City Subway system and my toilet for bringing me back; AND I guess this new found interest in getting smarter well, OK, trying to get back to at least being as smart as I was one very long day ago; I guess I can thank that desire for helping me find my way to books like "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. Fiction eats my brain, I love it, but when I read it, my brain goes wiggly and I loose my ability to speak. I get stuck in this Zelig-like trap and start mimicking the words and phrasings of what ever it is I'm reading. The better the book, the more I start talking like the folks I'm reading about... "Perfume" is fantastic, I've been talking like an 18th Century French courtier for the last three days. Of course, in this case an 18th French Century courtier who lives in a book written in English by and American who lives in Berlin and has a touch of Dickens in his voice. Voila... I'm wiggly. Again, I should point out that "Perfume" is GREAT fiction! If my recommendation counts for anything, I strongly suggest that if you do like fiction, and especially if you like smelling... I'd strongly suggest putting this good chew on your menu for a future read. OH, and to my Roman friend, thanks for the break from "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. I have thoroughly enjoyed being wiggly this week, AND you know that on your recommendation alone, I'll gobble up any book you toss at me, fiction, non-fiction or pop-up! Besides, you know, I'm getting older, maybe it has become the time when I learn how to use all these drugs responsibly anyhow. Using drugs responsibly, now there's a piece of advice I shoulda taken from mama when she done tol' me.

11:42 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Apr 2005

Rip Me a New One

Current mood:crappy

Hey folks, unless Tom is yanking my chain and posting false readership numbers... It would appear that a decent amount of folks like to get this sappy goo all over their keyboards. No comments? Honestly, slap me 'round a bit. I'd love to hear for example that the lovey dovey trail I've been on recently is, well gettin' you green at the gills, OR maybe that you think I might wanna get back to "shoulda woulda coulda"... Front yard clothline... my laundries out their, throw a few eggs... at least help me correct my spelling and grammy. If so not so... Crappy the Sapmaster [oh, BTW my Sapalicious Mentor says that I'm but five silly stories away from achieving the fifth level of crap... the pink belt and white shoes are but five, five little silly stories away... Soon, I will achieve... Fabio-ness]

11:42 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

12 Apr 2005

The wandering Fool

Current mood:amused

Even the wandering fool knows that a wander, a good wander is a flight into pure fiction. A dance in the head that starts with your feet and dances you across the city and through your mind into those places no one has ever been to yet. A good wander happens on those days and nights when your mind is open and extra energy surrounds your soul. The wandering fool, burning off a little extra energy with a load of extra thoughts and quick step across the city. The wandering fool wandered backwards yesterday; carried along with the company of graying old friends he'd never met; the wandering fool wandered straight through his almost forgotten history, back to school, back to see old friend with funny smelling smoke and great big noises that makes your fists pump, your belly wiggle and your back almost break off bending itself backwards. The giant bird played the soundtrack to this particular wander. An ancient giant bird, singing the songs you had forgot that you'd ever forgot about. Old songs that rang in the wandering fools ears a million years ago while he wandered with the fresh faced fools who made his life and pointed him the direction that allowed him to wander in the first place to the place he finds himself now; the greatest of great places. The wandering fool played with his old friends as the ancient bird sang; fiction on their faces as they pumped their fists and sang along... old memories becoming as familiar as the day you first sang that old song... bliss. Like most things, not all things, a good wander always comes to an end. The end of a good wander ends at exactly the place it suposed to. Across the city, or in the Garden, or at your doorstep. The good wander, as any wandering fool will tell you, ends with a smile, a shake of the head and quite often a good night sleep; a better sleep although better isn't quite the word that best describes that ultimate feeling of balance... The wandering fool will tell; a good wander... A wander past my history, through the gates of the Garden, into the darkness and around the bottom story of a great new house he has now just laid the first stones towards construction. Hey Ho to old friends, good to have seen you all, now good night... and we'll see you again next time I have a good wander. Oh, and next time I do have this next good wander, I might just bring a new, the newest of new good friends, wink

12:27 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

10 Apr 2005

The End of Conversations...

...view the world from binoculars rather than the microscope you seem to be using... you get it, yes, binoculars... my friends, the tiny IS tiny, binoculars, from there everything will, well I'll stop, and I will never ever... ya, ya, ya, you KNOW... you got it, you got the picture... binoculars, big ol' binoculars... ...the tiny is indeed... tiny

8:57 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

8 Apr 2005

It's Misty... Or is it?

I've been experiencing instant friendships quite a bit lately. Who knows, Spring, good fortune or maybe its just due to the fact that, I've been flung open recently. Of course, instant friendship, no time, I've never liked using time as a measure of how good friends you are with someone, I mean, time does allow for a greater mixing of memes, but one quality meme shared in an instant could easily equal all the memes shared with another over a life long friendship. Let me sing you a song. I'm actually wondering if Misty really existed at all. She showed up in the middle of a desperate night. She had already had an impact on our lives, her arrival [or theoretical arrival] prompting Dylan to make an initial sweep of the dirt burying our lives. Uncle GoGo the aging frat boy and his side kick the never-there SUPER-D. Another pal, Pauly Paul, the big ol' New Yorker, commented that the place looked like a crack den. Having been to a couple crack dens, I'd have to add, a "dirty" crack den. Anyhow, the mere mention that we would be hosting a pretty young friend of a friend we'd never met before, prompted Dylan to clean, and me to cry because he cleaned. Misty appeared at our door in the middle of the night; I spoke with her more on the phone than in person. We met quickly at the Shredder club, her bonding with my friends over commonalities I barely understand. Dylan stuck by her side, playing the role of the bigger big brother as she lived through her first ever night in this greatest of great places. Being with another new friend, I left her in the hands of my greatest of great friends the next night... she proceeded to scrub the last bits of the dirt left behind from bad times... the next day was peppered with reports on how our fixtures sparkled and or floor shone. Frikin doo-dad-diddly, I didn't even knew we had a floor. I finally got the chance for a chat with her last night, her last night. We tried to jam 10 years of friendships into an hour, we got quite a ways, but then I had to go down. Exhausted from a great week. I trundled off to bed. I woke up, she was gone as she said she would be. Off to figure things out. Make good choices on whether or not to return and when. I can say this with absolute certainty. This friend of a friend, a great friend; a person I'd barely heard of until Monday, I can say with certainty, that if she does return, if she really actually exists at all; she'll be returning to an already well established circle of friends. It would appear that the length of time you know some one is also no measure of how good a friend, but is also no measure of how much sap can be poured out over them as well... don't worry though, I'm not Misty, I'm just happy to have had a cool visit from a cool person, at yet again, the right ol' time.

3:58 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

3 Apr 2005

The Bread Maker; Words of Advise, A Fable... a True Story

...it was say, some... eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years ago. I was under the service of a beautiful family; I was the bread maker. My master, a respected professor, a teacher of words and the art of inscriptions was a decent man, he treated us well. Through his kindness, we ate large portions and often had the pleasure of serving the finest of Romans; Senators, Generals, Governors all.. ALL who had in their employ, my Master, teacher of Rome's brightest young. It was while in this employ, this servitude that I first met my love. She was my Masters mistress, first mistress. She held a distinguished position. Being that my masters wife was often sickly, my love held, on all public occasions the position of wife, and hostess. During the many feasts, during the many festivals, I would watch through the hole as she performed her duties. I watched as she fed Rome's finest the bread that I had made for my master. I watched as she pleased the Senators, Generals and Governors. I fell in love. While I made the bread, while I made this bread from the finest of our lands wheat, yeast and water. I would often find pleasure with the woman of equal standing in our house. The women whose role it was to nurse the children, whose role it was to please my master. As I kneaded the dough, and placed the rounds on the warm brick... I would often find a fresh flowing skirt up which to run my hands. Pleasant times in a fine and happy household. Pleasant times, as I also knew, my masters mistress would be using the hole in reverse, watching me, enjoying the looseness of another servants skirt. And, so... there came a time, when my bread, still fresh and warm became in demand at one of the many gatherings. I, the bread maker was allowed to personally deliver and serve this warm fresh bread to my masters guests... there came a time when my masters mistress, the first mistress, and I shared a glance. A glance that spoke to us through time and the ages; the glance that put me on the purpose of the mission that brings me to, to this day. With this glance, I knew immediately that I must see the alchemist, I must see the sage. There came a day when I knelt begging the alchemist, offering but a poor remainder of the coin left to me by the keeper of wheat and yeast. My Master's coin, a coin so hidden that if found, I most certainly would have been cast out from my position of bread maker. With this remainder, I was able to purchase a precious amount of the special black powder... the powder I would kneed and roll into my master's mistresses bread, the bread I would share with her... the bread, we would share together and through the magic of the black powder... agree to meet centuries ahead, re-incarnated in a time when bread makers and first mistresses could be one. But, fuck man... That stupid frikin' chemist sold me a bag of goods. I mean that black powder was the rawest of shit; you know, OK the stuff you sell to your poor uncles stupid kids. I mean, fuck dude... eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later... I gotta wait until, I'm what forty something... dozens of relationships wasted and done and paid for, ok, ok, some good some bad, but dude. IT took eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years to get back to bein' wit that babe I'd digged through the hole away back then... OK, deep breath... Yes, that cheap assed alchemist and his ratty ol' black powder worked; I did finally meet her again after all these years... AND, I'll tell you my friends, it was absolutely worth the wait. So what if we've been through this or that... so what about the ages and the age. Hey, If I'd bought just one grade finer of that black powder, hell maybe it would have been a few years earlier, maybe 50, 60 years earlier; maybe I would have been G.I. schmuck face, meeting the love of my life in Rome, next day, shot down and laying under the treads of a Panzer. Word of advise... Mystic practices, fables, potian for love and promises to meet millennia hence is by rights, a tenuous game... When someone, even with just a simple glance says, I love you... stop, grab her and run away with her as quick as you can. Black powders, baked in bread may eventually work, you may eventually find her again... as I did... but then, hmmm... that's a muggily mugs game... grab her and let all the precepts and cliches be damned. I was going to try to work the Pope dieing into this... facts written as fiction, the mother of all bitches... My black powder worked. But eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later[?], damn... I will dedicate myself to making up for this lost time. :-)

11:29 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

31 Mar 2005

Ken, the beutifully Jazzy Jazz Mongrel - Redux

It would appear that angels can visit you throught the internet... I'll fire email off to Ken, the beutifully Jazzy Jazz Mongrel'svarious addresses regualarily but not frequently... And, now it looks as though he's back. Who knows, maybe my New York friends will one day get to hear him tinkle the ivories and bare the full-assed brunt of his devilishly dark wit. Perhaps... ------------------------------------------------------- I started to send you this wonderful e-mail and this computer killed my story. Needless to say I may just have to give you a quick collect call. Your story is beautiful and I guess its because I love to read things about myself especially when written by someone who loves you. So far you're the only one who has that I can remember. I don't remember doing the survey, possibly because I just blocked it out as I have with so many things. I used to just eat all that shit and smile. Now I'm lashing out. I can't keep it from spilling out. Of course the system has a hold of me now and I'm doing the out-patient thing again and I just hate my life these days. And for what? Because I'm dating a white art historian, intellectual property lawyer who cheats on me and if I break a mirror over it she calls the cops on my black ass. I wants me a Bollywood girl. Find a song of mine called "Tell Me Lies" http://www.garageband.com It should be on the all time jazz charts at ..45 I think. Or just look for jazzmonger. Also check out a CBC site called ZeD for other submissions including a couple of paintings. I do remember us taking strawberry microdot and going to see West Side Story because we couldn't get tickets to see David Bowie in the Elephant man, lighting my southern comfort on fire and telling Mr. Roos that I was old enough to drink in New York. It all comes back. I remember sleeping in your parents garage which gave me my first taste of living on the streets. Yikes! What happened to me? I'm a desperate alcoholic who shouldn't drink but I just can't seem to get it right. The only time I ever stayed straight was for a year and a half from May 1997 to February 2 1999 it was at this time that I met the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I started to drink and lost her and my dignity. There is so much I'd like to tell you but I think I save that for a phone chat. Libraries only give you so much time on their farging computers. Love you like a brother always. Ken Skinner ------------------------------------------------------- Love you like a brother, I know what he means here, but I have to laugh as perhaps, he could have meant something else. Please send good karma to my pal here, he's a wee bit fucked up, but he deserves better.

4:58 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Mar 2005

Something New at York

Nothing New at York as I rode the train home everyday in the first year I lived here; here in the greatest of great places. Nothing New at York as I'd ride the train into and out of the station that no one seemed to get on or off at. Nothing New at York, always assuming suspecting that those few people I never saw get off or on were, special. Nothing New at York... I somehow always knew someday, there'd be, something... I hesitate this, pause it, until I remember that it was the wind rustling the pages of this open book that alerted her to me. It was these sappy splatters that made her know me and say hello. There is no public or private today, the day after the most important bridge walk I have ever walked. A walk from there to here; a walk in the howling wind and cacophony of a city closing down it's day and starting it's most wonderful evening. Wash your hands and spray on some pretty perfume; Sappy, happily sappy... a lifetime on a windy bench, just inside my blessed Brooklyn, two green chairs pulled closer than a 1000 years of roman bathouse history and two bottles of bunches of grapes... the promise of peaches. Snap shots more clear than the fastest paper could ever hold; little stones in plastic boxes, a stone on the shore, asked for and handed me by a skilled stoner, ancient tools that only special hands can know. My head spins from glimpse to glimpse, two chairs, a sip, a rest from the conversation for a breath, for smoke, a stare and then more kind words, all the while just simply completely utterly, wonderfully, comfortable... Next, Peaches. Something New at York. I'll no longer ride looking for the people, who I know, who are special, and who are not there. I walk down the pillared isles of this empty place, spinning around half to dance, half to see if I've been followed. A blast of shiny steel, the sound and the rush familiar to every morning on this most surprisingly familiar of mornings. Sitting in the sunshine on the shore beside this greatest of great places, dawn... There is something I've always known, Something New at York, me thinking of nothing but you. yo, leave home the book of rules!

7:04 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Mar 2005

There goes the neighborhood...

Current mood:happy

Woke up late Sunday in a very good mood. Very good mood is putting it lightly, how about fantastic mood, how about best mood I've been in in quite some time, how about best mood ever... tough to rank a good mood. The morning started with listening to all the recorded enquiries from the night before, text mail, voice mail, email. To put it mildly and keep it privately, the night ended at and with very good Karma. Jen got the first call for coffee. Re-parked the car and headed out to the Green Street Cafe. Our second of what would be many "bump intos" was Dave's dog. She looked rather unhappy lashed to a lamppost, barking at another dog across the sidewalk, so I gave her a few petty pets and huggin' squeezes. Of course, as soon as I was through with that, she started barking again. Dave came out with a chair, coffee and smoke. It being after 12, Jen and I stayed in for wine. As it would be the case that day, on the first smoke break, Amy wandered up along with Dylan, Paul then a tossled haired Dan. Obviously, their night hand ended lately, I was happy I hadn't followed them out of the Mark at 5:00 after my bouncy night cap. We all split up with various things to do, shit, shower and shave, some off to Dan's parents for Easter Dinner, others off to bed, me... a slow long wonderful walk about my beautiful home in Greenpoint. Stops on stoops for thoughts and smokes. A trip to the beach to look at the city, a wander over to Amy's to see if she was ready... home to read email, pretend to work and a quick nap... There goes the neighborhood... I live in a small town populated by what seems to be a disproportionate number of 20 something / 30 somethings... Oh, I have my older gang, the thieves, dealers and regulars from when I bartended at what most of the 20/30 somethings like to call the murder bar. I constantly run into these pals while outside the Mark, tuggin' and a puffin'. These folks are the rock-hardened locals who for the most part have grownup; lived their entire lives in Greenpoint, well OK, extcept for the 5 to 10 they lived upsate, the ones who have stayed put. The yungin's on the other hand seemed to have entered a season of constant in motion... Jen moved out of my place, from Freeman to Huron; Dylan, couching it at Amy's moved to my place from India to Freeman; The kids, Sally and JP moved right the heck outta Greenpoint and down to Bay Ridge [they will be missed]; a few folks who are now friends who haven't quite recorded themselves in my name brain, notably the Jewish guy who moved into the apartment Jen and I looked at last year; and the guy I'm told looks like Beck; moved from parts unknown to Freeman and Green respectively; Amy moved from India to Commercial; and Ian after splitting with Dawn moved from Freeman to Amy's old place on India... Oh, and Rusty, one of the rock harders' house burned to the ground on Thursday... I'm certain, it being spring... there will be a few more moves before this season is over, hopefully continuing to be due to simple matters such as break ups and restlessness rather than, fire. Living in what must be my 37th loft, or apartment in the 24 years since my first one, all this seems vaguely familiar. As the neighborhood continues to accept refugees from Williamsburg and the city; Greenpoint is starting to feel more and more familiar. At a nice pace, it's becoming like some of the great neighborhoods I lived in Toronto, more bars, coffee spots and restaurants. Of course, it's not the bars, coffee spots and restaurants, it's all those folks you'll meet outside the coffee shop on Sunday morning, when your smile is too big to be commented upon, when you're just a bit less tired and worn out than your pals are; when your riding the fumes from the fantastically, ecstatically wonderfully lovely night you had the night before that ended at and with good Karma. The old and new friends you bump into at just about the right time; the friends you're just plain old happy to be living amoungst.

8:09 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

27 Mar 2005

Three completely inadequate word blog

I AM HAPPY...

11:22 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

26 Mar 2005

At a complete loss for words...

Transforming... Just a perfect day, Drink Sangria in the park, And then later, when it gets dark, We go home. Just a perfect day, Feed animals in the zoo Then later, a movie, too, And then home. Oh it's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you. Oh such a perfect day, You just keep me hanging on, You just keep me hanging on. Just a perfect day, Problems all left alone, Weekenders on our own. It's such fun. Just a perfect day, You made me forget myself. I thought I was someone else, Someone good. Oh it's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you. Oh such a perfect day, You just keep me hanging on, You just keep me hanging on. There are some days I am just so damned happy that I got the pluck and vigor to move here... Imigration, it has served me quite well today... Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Now it's off to enjoy the sunshine, see some A. R. T. and then have a nice bottle of wine. "Old Billy", we'll be a crossin' you today. A crossin' we'll certainly have to do. Oh, and watch out for me today, here comes the goof ball.

11:33 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

26 Mar 2005

One L Michele - Part One of Many Many More

OK, enough of the guys for a while, time to hit a hard one. Besides, I gotta get this one down before it gets paved over with false memories brought on by all the similar things that have happened since it. OK, the guys have been fun, but feel I'm risking being falsely identified as the faggot [and you KNOW I mean that politely], the craptastic sapalicious anal-izer of all things that happened last night at yesterdays bathhouse... Anyhow, this is an avoidence, you see me avoiding this, why am I avoiding, well because boys and girls, this is the big one, the extremely personal one. Actually... I'll preface this 'part one' prologue this with a couple of warnings for the squeamish amongst you. Firstly, turn back now or cover your ears and duck; if you do decide to proceed, do yourself a big favor and download a big old load of big assed gee-tar ballads. Vintage 70's super groups would likely serve you best, launch them, crank it and, well well well just sit back and enjoy a tale so wo-full, well, it'll just break your heart. Fooling with you, really it's just the standard fare tale, young man moves to the city, meets young girl, takes young girl for a wife then proceeds to hang with the transsexuals as the young wife begins fooling about with her art/business partner who just so happens to share the same name as the young man who moved to the city. You've heard it, lived it all before, it's a story told day after day after day in all those books you see the secretaries reading on the subways, on the way to and from work, dreaming of Fabio, settling for guys like me. Avoiding it still, see that, yes, I am avoiding it still, but, well here we go... Part One –Mushy Meetings: Part one starts out in the usual place. A guy with an open heart, waiting to fill it with the excitement of a movie and a first kiss. It had been two years since the end of what he thought should have been that previous thang that shoulda just kept right on going. Two years, two problems, firstly, I believe we are meant to bond, so an open heart creates a sad loneliness that just aches day in and day out; secondly, as my buddy Rick said so eloquently once... two years, "I had stored up enough god damned jizz to shampoo a small brown bear". Two years, is a very long time in your twenties [of course, now in my forties, two years is barely enough time to read the paper and gulp down a coffee for breakfast]. So, there I was, all lonely and horny, beginning to shed my flea bitten artist habits... still living like and with a couple of artists but focusing more on money making, and obviously, money spending. I am pretty sure money plays a big part in this one... I had been working at this place that colorized black and white movies [dare to jar that memory open and I'll be sitting at this here computer, typing furiously for the next seventeen and a half years]... Colorization, I was changing Jimmy Stewart, Orson Wells, Emory Parlle and Peter Lore from beautifully toneful bits of black and white history into mushy noise reduced globs of ill picked and poorly placed colorfully soulless saps that were to dance dollars into the hands of the folks who then would re-secure the rights to these now brutalizingly colorful 'shows' that were once old movies that had fallen into public domain. A full 75% of my co-workers were either Ontario College of Art grads or Ontario College of Art dropouts like myself. I had worked my way up to upper management, one L Michele became an Art Director. In other words, she picked the colors and I told all my old art school pals where, when and how to stick them. There's a side story here... Before taking the plunge, I had been eyeing one L Michele for quite some time. I was ready to ask her the scary question, but then she applied for a promotion, a promotion to that Art Director gig... It being mostly my decision on who would get the gig, I felt it highly inappropriate to ask one of the candidates out on a date the day after I had interviewed her. It took a god damned month for me and my partners in this crime to come to a god damned decision, a whole month on top of those danged two years... run little brown bear RUN. So there I was, ooogling a gal, AND getting good advice from her pal that I was, indeed being ooogled back. Couldn’t ask her out so what to do, what to do but what the heck, throw a party. Money was good, it was time to show off that this hunter and gather at the young old age of 24 or something had hit the nutpot, sorry, had, nut the jackpot and had enough extra dough-ray-me to invite the gang over and feed them from the cooler he filled mostly himself. By the way, sorry kids, this is actually how we all spoke back in Canada a way back at that turn of that century we called the late 1980's, early 90's. We wuz speakin' post punk hallalua glory be god that the cowboy didn't blows us all ups before weze all got the chance to make and spend all this money talk. Relatively, I had it good, I was living in about 2000 square feet with a couple of pals; the sign on the door of these 2000 square feet read "The Parkdale Sports Fishing and Hunting Club". Indeed, what else to do but throw a party, invite the gang, invite the job candidate, play it coy but get and give some insider info so that when the decision had been made, the question could be asked... The party ended up being the weekend before the Friday we finally hired one L Michele for the job. There's a sweater, a drafting table and phony ploy from a great old friend mixed up in this story as it heads off to the in-between time between Saturday's party and Friday's decision... Let's see if I can remember which came first and who did what to who now. But first, an intermission, an interlude and a bit of advise to those twenty something year olds who might be planning to throw thier own party... One, plan your parties in early spring so the chicks wear, then discard their sweaters strategically about the house; Two, be sure to invite all peoples who have spoken kindly, highly and often about all the goodness you have offered humanity; and thirdly, if you have a microwave, hide your alarm clock, otherwise, drunken experiments that destroy both may easily ensue. Fucking Twenty Something Year Olds... that was a perfectly good alarm clock! More on parties in the late eighties, you gotta know the context kids. Remember at this time DJ’s hadn’t yet been invented. Most of the good ones were still tossing the ball on whatever playground it was they grew up on. Club drugs were still being prescribed as relaxants to couples undergoing marital counseling, heck there really weren’t any clubs, well at least not the hanger sized snake pits full of hopped up happy kids that came a few years later. OK, OK, ya ya there were clubs, but to us these were just fading sweaty places, uptown, halls full of aging Ginos and Ginettes, drinking happily named drinks and dancing to tired out old disco dreck. This was a moment in-between. This was the time that all the stuff I had come of age with, stuff like punk, [I mean real punk, not this emo crap the kiddies swoon to these days], stuff like heroic painting and The Dukes of Hazard etc…. This was the exact moment all these things dried up and blew away. My hog hair bristles sat idly glued into each of their individual paint pots. We had grown up and grown out of a whole big bunch of things; conversly, we hadn’t quite grown into something else, quite yet. Our party was mus-ikked by pre-recorded mixed tapes. Songs would have easily included our old favorite punky-dunkalicious standbys [I'm so bored of the U.S.A], and the stuff we were listening to, in this in-between time; Hank Williams, Ema Sumac, maybe some Roy Orbison. To old for the Smiths, to young, well too fucking young and fucking meaninglessly few in fucking numbers [fark you I AM gen-X], to have anything that was really fuckin' ours. I do recall it being a really good party though. So yes, one L Michele dropped by to pop a few beers from that cooler. She came wearing a light blue sweater, I spoke with her and her friends a few times, I kept an eye on her to make sure none of the other hunter gatherer types were angling in on what I wanted quite badly at that time. Ways back then we were a much more polite lot, at least my gang anyhow. Oh, there were a few, lte's call 'em, young Turks, jerks who had histories of bagging and bragging, but it just didn't seem to be “the thing” with my crowd, my polite crowd. Maybe it was just the Art Schoolish overly read overly left pedigree and/or the fact that sexy feminism hadn’t quite percolated itself into the form of lipstick lesbians and lady friends who NOW like to bag and brag like the big boys themselves. I had wary eyes on one "bag and bragger" who was spending attention on one L Michele; one L Michele handled herself quite handily... When the party was over [most likely sometime early Sunday afternoon], amid the beer bottles, cigarette butts and the usual layer of post party scum, we found, a nice light blue Sweater. It’s always fun to be picked up. Matter of factly, I think this is the case in most cases. Oh I don’t know, I have on occasion, thrown my growl into the ring, I have gotten all he-manny, attempting to snag the “what I wants” from moment to moment, but honestly, growing up with punkish childhood angst and Art School ethos, just didn’t leave me with the tool required to dive into the frat boy pool and compete for the super lovelies. Stick with what you know, let them come to you; uber passive aggressiveness; sickly charm a little compassion and a little empathy… I had one L Michele in the bag, I was now in possession of her light blue sweater. …AND with that, this is the END of part ONE of many… Tune in next time, when the we'll examine just how the light blue sweater, drafting table and phony ploy from a great old friend lead us directly to the wasted, or rather the years of growth and experience, eight great years, eight years that I will just have to ask you… just WHAT did you do… Eight years, was a vey long time, I think it may deserve Parts 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and, maybe 7 and 8, and in all likelihood… 9. My god, NO, we're not talkin' "best years of your life"... just good years that helped fill the gap between, well between then and now.

12:16 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

23 Mar 2005

This is NOT a Diary

It was a day… I do not want this, this to turn into a diary, a teenage diary of sadness and angst that all those little girls go through and write about in those little key locked books… BUT today WAS a day, As you already know, your ‘days’ usually start the night before.. as mine did. Met with the x for a few drinks over witch she could finally explain the goofy assed stories she’d started to pepper me with on Friday, Saturday, Sunday… three way love machines on a Friday morning with the guy I really hope steps up and takes responsibility with her… This is not a dairy… This is NOT me talking about waking up late after creeping out my pals about how happy I am with the friends I am meeting… This is NOT the daily journal of little things that happen to me, this is about those three words… this is a project, two projects which I will… I will, I will promise as strongly as an any atheist who carries the bible his mom sent him last Christmas, in his pocket can. Carried NOT to feel GOD, but to feel the concern of his mother… I swear on this bible from my concerned mother that these projects will be completed. Fun year, good friends… good new friends, WHO I am now probably scaring the firkin be-jebus outta… Oh, and it was just that, a day… a day with too much work and way not enough… what… compassion, empathy… joy… I do believe it is time for this ol’ fu, to go to…

10:31 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

23 Mar 2005

Three Word Blog

Current mood:happy

I am Happy

12:08 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

21 Mar 2005

What Does This Smell Like? -- Part I

Current mood:blah

I woke up this morning in a kind of haze… but honestly, it’s not about this morning and the things I did last night. Sappy sentimentalism has been coursing through the veins for months. Long walks, bridge walks visits to the places I first visited on my first visits to this place I always wanted to live in… I have lost my memory of how it all used to smell. I have this vague memory of the tingly excitement I would feel as I got off of the bus, train or plane and the dove head first off the deep end into this place. I recall a tradition where I would immediately hit a bodega, buy a beer in a bag and drink it seripticiaously as I walked through midtown thinking whoa, mudda fucka, I’m walking the streets of the greatest place on earth, drinking a beer on the streets where nobody gives a rats ass about me OR the fact that I am doing that, god bless the 80's. My first trip here was a twelfth grade Urban Geography field trip… I carried about 60 spliffs across the border and triped on ‘cids the whole way down. I got an 80 on my notes and saw “West Side Story” while tripping and holding my first Ultravox album in my arms, waiting to puke on the Eddison’s roof while looking at the wooden rockets that hold the water that bathe us and feeds our thirst. That was high school… Art School brought me here at least 5 more times between 1980 and 1984… What did it smell like? It did not smell like the aroma of Seattle brewed coffee… It did not smell like garlically pesto… It smelt like a great big pile of lubrication, lubrication, grease that makes things go. It smelt like garbage, a great big pile of garbage… it smelt like the sweat of COOL people doing COOL things. It smelt like the big ol’ place I knew I’d someday come to help myself to the ultimate newness, freshness and excitement. I needed to vindicate the urges some folks in my life have always told me to avoid. We’re four months away from my fifth annivesrary… although I have completely enjoyed integrating myself into the greatest place on Earth… I have also mourned the loss of the excitement I used to feel when I came… this being the Zenith of all places, I wonder if I’ll ever know that feeling again, I mean, I’m not going to London, Paris or Ho Chi Min city thinking, well this, that, there will be the place I will define myself. I got it, I have it… I read my books on the V and wish these mother fuckers would stop holding the door open so that I could get to work. I walk the streets of the West and East Villages, Williamsburg, Cobble Hill, Coney Island, Clinton Hill and Greenpoint; as I am walking home a citizen, rather than, as an excited tourist. It’s good… It’s bad… I miss the way it used to all smell.

9:54 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

20 Mar 2005

What Contrasts with Gray?

Today there was a cold gray fog hanging over the entire city… yesterday there was a warm gold sunshine. Yesterday, I slept until two, a full seven hours longer than I ever sleep… missing out on all possibility of walking to the beach, or enjoying a nice meal al fresco at one of this great cities restaurants that know how to lickity-splitly get the chairs and tables outside at the first sign of sunshine... sun and 60 degree weather. Yesterday I had just enough time to shake off the cob webs from the night before, figure out how to borrow a friends car and drive the last load of other friends stuff from one place, my place to theirs. Today, I woke up at six am, barely remembering dropping off the “you’re 30” flowers last night for Joan… Called the other pal who I had promised to move and was sickly, but elated when there was no answer. I have taken advantage of this cancellation of plan, moved my ‘puter gear to the front room, helped the x unload patio furniture into the new back yard where she lets my old cats roam freely… I have found myself, today, tired and brought horribly down by the soup of gray… BUT, I know, now that I have moved the gear, that there will be one after one stories flying outta of this room as I struggle diligently to get all of this stuff off my mind. You are about to meet all 200 plus friends, deep wonderful friends of mine, each with a story, each with a story which defines just where, why, whoa and what the frick we’re all doing right NOW. Fuck me, this is about YOU.

7:16 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

19 Mar 2005

What is up With Doc?

Current mood:grateful

You must know by now, where you meet the best of your friends. You meet great friends at school, often life long friends. You meet good friends at work, sometimes you’ll even know these people for a year or two after you quit that damn assed job… Outside of that, unless of course you’re the church going type, the best friends you meet will be the peoples you meet at your local bar [or simply your local in my world]. I have and have always had a number of “locals”. Matter of fact, and this is already a future hummm in progress, fact is, I always have at least four or five locals on the go at any given time… heck, the other day, I realized I had become a regular at a bar at 23rd and 1st, O’Connels, only because it’s right near the NYU Dental Center, and doink, I’m there once a week, I have a Local for my trips to the Dentist... [free shot of Jamison when I pop in post-op with a face swollen and stuffed with cotton]. I digress, the story of all my locals is on the burner, keep your eyes and ears posted… I promise a serious slew of twisted tales… BUT, wait, this little ditty isnt about locals, it is about one of my most favorite Irish/Bostonian dude-guys [thanks Wade], Doc. The place I call my Manhattan local is a place called the Swan. OK, here’s the thing, it’s been my Manhattan local for over six years now. The x introduced me to the place mere moments after I met her. I’ve been hitting the German taps at the Swan since, since well, over a year before I moved here. A local is a place you frequent, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not twice a week like it once was… I frequent the Swan now… primarily to see Doc. Doc’s is an older gentleman [the term gentleman survives today only to describe gentlemen like Doc], he’s older, I believe he’s 69. Let’s get these facts out of the way; Doc is 69 he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart AND a Bronze Star [more on that later. For my Canadian, and now Italian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired NYC plastic Surgeon, he’s gay, AND he is the best damned Republican I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Doc and I struck up a conversation long before nine eleven… Doc and I became good friends on the basis of my complete non-homophobic ability to kiss him on the lips every time I saw him, and our ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic [non-partisan democratic mind you] enlightenment. Doc is a true American argument… I mean, c’mon, he’s not only gay, a decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican, he’s also from the Land of the evil, cursed family that tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that booze running flaming wackos… ooops, sorry, Doc is from Massacheustis [the place I cannot not only not pronounce, but cannot spell]. The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he’ll talk about himself… He was born to middleclass Irish folk up in Boston, AND he has the accent to prove it. Haven’t heard much of his childhood story, but some how he got himself through med-school. It was back in the sixties, he somehow knew, he’d have to serve; an old prof who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned down there, but when that sheltered assignment was up… he requested to go to Nam [he had the opportunity to do Germany, but he REQUESTED to go to Nam]. He honestly hasn’t told me much about being a warrior/doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me a weird drunken story about this cove he’d often swim in and how he rescued a small child from the currents and the sharks, how he stitched up this boy after the boy had been bitten. He has yet to, but we have an agreement that he will one day tell me how he was awarded his Bronze Star. It is a story, a date, I am very much looking forward to. It gets a bit sketchy, but he returned from Nam… and skippity-skip-to-lou a whole whack of stories I have yet to hear later, he became a renowned plastic surgeon in the one place outside of L.A. where plastic surgeons are regarded as absolute gods, NYC. Again it’s sketchy, but I can tell you this by seeing his old apartment, he was living the 1960’s / 1970’s Halston lifestyle… Sidebar, Halston was the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leap frog years above that silly white haired boy who had a loft he called a factory down in the heroin ridden scum town they called… Art. Nope ladies, Halston was NYC in the 60’s and 70’s AND Doc’s old apartment stank of Halston… mirrored walls, zebra print bed sheets, red shag carpets and 100’s of thousand little glass figurines… every where. Not to mention two cute as doodles little doggie dogs who survive to this day at 16 and 18 years of age. Doc has told me stories of being pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold Roles Royce… He 'Falls' with his pal Trudy [heir to the scientist who invented no more tears and sold it to Johnson and Johnson], he 'Falls' with Trudy at Villa Desta [along with Donettelo et al]… he’s a once a year Winter regular guest at the Bermuda Beach Club… He has introduced me to friends, good friends, who own restaurant chains who get chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limos. He has told me all these stories, and, the way he has told them, I have never once felt belittled, or subrogated to another class. Doc, my good dear friend, knows the value of friendship… I will leave it at that. Actually, no maybe I won’t… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas as I was, in a forgetable state, Doc gave me the greatest compliment a friend could give… I had a whole big whakin’ pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through them with Doc… Gordon, he said, you don’t need to go to your AA meetings… you don’t have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take a month off whenever you’re feeling out of control… Gordon, he said, go to the NYU Dental center [across from the VET] on first Ave, they’re cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth… Gordon he said, you and Jen will remain good friends… and, you’ll meet someone soon… we then proceeded up Park, him drinking, while me holding him upright as I was, well at his advise taking a month off. True, utter beautiful friendship. The compliment came when he told me, Gordon, 'the nice thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things to be attempted to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have issues; issues are so much more easily manageable'. I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I would stick on it until the day I die… Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I actually feel the moment I walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… nuff said about that. I have a vague memory of the things I wanted to get up to as I started to write this stuff about my good friend Doc. I think I may have wanted to write about our non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union [over which Doc and I have buried hours!]. He’s a Republican, I’m a Canadian [and we’ll leave it at that]… We see eye to eye on about 90 percent all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in the Gomorrah theory of the US of A, and where as I see a country, empire, epoch, not yet even beginning to take it’s place in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same position… I wanted to write about these conversations, but as I got into writing this, I believe I may have started to realize, that although the stuff you “talk” about with your friends may be important, it really is the beautiful opportunity to talk WITH your friends, share the shit, the luck of having someone close, dear and on your wavelength that makes it all important… Craptastic Sap Master, Signing Off… Love you guys! [PS, I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of advice, AND I revel in the advise and examples of life living they give me… to my older friends, Doc, Paul, Fred to name but a few, I am honored, FUCKING HONERED, to have their friendship, and to have axcess to their wisdom…AND am beholden to passing the wise advise they give me onto these younger friend of mine] Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like a Potatoe.

7:51 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

16 Mar 2005

The Next BIG Thing... Perhaps

Current mood:calm

As things were going horribly wrong last night, well OK, no more horribly wrong than any other night recently, I stumbled across what may just become the coolest idea EVER! I found myself chatting with [heck I can't remember names so we'll call 'em] June and Raymond. June was a younger gal, dreaming of moving to Montreal to focus on her passion for photography. Raymond, an ex-Los Angelean was nursing a sore back he had hurt while doing a finish carpentry job. The conversation swapped back and forth between my standard dirge rant against French Canadians, how Toronto would make a far better choice; and stories about hanging doors and knocking together cabinets with my father. I saw Zelig again for the first time a few weeks ago, scared me as much as it did the first time I saw it. The great idea came from Raymond. I'm not certain whether he claimed to have actually done this, he described it as though he had. Essentially, when he jumps the train home from work, he scans the crowds; like the pea in the roulette table wheel, he eventually fixes his gaze on that certain someone. To call this person his "victim" is kind of creepy, so we'll call this person his victim. The victim unknowingly has become the pace setter, the paper thrower, the rabbit at the dog track, that unlucky Ethiopian selected by his pursuers to breaks in front early then fades at mile 23. Getting to the point, lets call the game "Stalk-Walking", please if you have a better idea, that one wreaks of the whisky-soaked head it just came out of. Anyhow, Raymond claims he quietly watches these people. Rides the train with them to their stop. Discretely follows them home, to work, or wherever it is they're heading, kills them then steals their belt buckle... wait, sorry, that's not it, right... He essentially follows them home then walks on by as they head in, you know coincidentally like. He'll head on a bit, then bend his way back home. Connect two random dots that otherwise have no need to be connected. Place yourself at random somewhere in this massive place, wander through it unscripted in a play that's been started by a complete strangers simple desire to be at home. My heart races at the thought of giving this it's first tug. I'm certain, I'll pick some dude, some dude who could under any circumstance beat the living crap out of me. This would be far too dangerously rude a stunt to pull on some young woman who may already have some built in paranoid defense mechanism which alerts her to jerks like me. So, I'll follow a thick knecked dude out to Morning Side; or I'll follow Mr. Ti-quon-doh out to Flushing, Jamaica; or maybe I'll take the L and follow someone out to New Lots, New Lots, one of those places I know only from waking up in shaking my head saying Gord, not again, not again, frik I gotta pee! So, off I go, sounds like a Friday after work kind of thing to do. Remember, if you do someday get the funny feeling that that weird old guy IS following you, don't worry none, it's probably just Gord or Raymond, a couple of old "Stalk-Walkers"... Man, that's dangerous advise, better bet: Mace Me! I'll say hello to Brooklyn for ya. Oh, and if you're wondering, I once walked from Greenpoint to Bay Ridge incorporating both the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges into my route... Outside of say a few places, say Far Far Rockaway there ain't no place these pins can't get me back from... In other word... no one is safe.

1:55 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

16 Mar 2005

Try Something New... STICK with what You Know!

Current mood:recumbent

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... Stayed out of the corner bar tonight...Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... not picked up the call from my dear friend Frankie... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... stayed in Canada... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... not have said yes when Sally invited me over to hang with her and JP... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... tacked, roll tacked, on the lull... shit, shit, shit, as it hit the lee side of the island; I could've won the race and become a serious sailing dude rather that someone who, just, you know, likes to sail... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... studied a bit harder, did less, you know... and well aced all my finals...Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... painted 2' by 3' instead of 6' by 12' back in the O. C. and A DAZE... saved a hole lot of dough the g'vment gave me and instead of droping out, dropping it, stuck with it and became the perfect assholes grant sucking... all my art school buddies, stickeny stuck it with it it, friends are now. Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... stayed in Canada... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... bought a snow mobile... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... dressed more warmly and not have moved SOUTH, and met the perfect friends I have met... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... been a school teacher... remember, cant... teach... AND I definately can't these days... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... decided I was gay, OR at least happy... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... stayed with my wife Michele, had babies, and cursed the day I met the woman who, was... the... best... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... ignored the facts... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... left 7A... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... said yes to the offer of garlic bread... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... turned around and said, nope, tired, sleepy, rather than, HEY last night did CK ones... I has gotta four hundred dollar a night room, overlooking a picture of Marlyn Manson... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... enjoyed that all by myself... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... Something about Mary... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... Stayed with the folks... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... been happy where I wuz... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... stayed safe with my fingers clenched firmly on the edge of the big... ol' frighteningly horrid, bottemless WELL called love and relationship... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... We can't, WE do not have the ability, nor the where-with-all fortitude to do all the things, the things we know we, we are so damened good at.... AND YET... WE ARE SO GOD HONESTLY NOW... Regrets, I've had a few; But then again, too few to mention. I did what I had to do And saw it through without exemption. Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda...

4:50 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

15 Mar 2005

Murray's Coming to Play Poker Thursday

Current mood:flirty

On November thirteenth Felix Unger was asked to remove himself from his place of residence. That request came from his wife. At some point after this date, say December or January, Dylan K. was asked if he might like to get off his good friend Amy’s couch and explore the idea of, well, you know, sleeping on the floor of a pals place that smelled like the thirteen circular ashtrays of hell… If he’d like to explore the idea of, maybe, once again, well, you know paying rent and having some reasonability. Deep down he knew she was right. But he also knew that someday he would return to her. …and return to her he would. You know sometimes I have to ask… Do I have a roomie? Most times I have to call, Yo, Amy, you’se seens the D? Yo, youse see ‘im, tell ‘im ‘bouts da dough… ya knows? Hey Amy, how you doin'? With no where else to go, he appeared at the home of his childhood friend, Oscar Madison. I ain’t no childhoods fren [end character]… OK, ya ya, sometime at the Mark, we all act like, me ‘specially, like we’re 17 and/or half years younger than we actually are, but hey… that’s only normal. I mean, me, Dylan, Amy, Jen and the rest of the cast… we have secrets. Or do we? We have dark patches of deep brown that seem to swirl around the tab that somebody, one of us, both of us, OR all of us, AND, that mystery man from Columbus seemed to plunk down for us. Somehow, it always seems to get done [thanks Jen, thanks Amy] Sometime earlier, Madison's wife had thrown him out, requesting that he never return. Well, I see it more as Jen’s mom’s offer, but we will not get into that here, at this time… in this, this time of tribute… Can two divorced men share an apartment without driving each other crazy? Crazy? Hmmm… well, I do believe our pals Adam and Izabel saw to it that that diagnosis had already been well established. The Hotel admittance room with, Nurse “Lazy Eyed George” and his gurny-boys Paulo, Flacko and Slim had already got this boy down, out and sent to 1st Ave. Can two… divorced/single guys of disparagingly difference in ages, experience, tastes, intelligence [Dylan went to Brown], hehe [said the Art School Flunky]… AND talent for picking up the… garbage, and doing the dishes; can these two guys “share an apartment without driving each other crazy”… cue Woody Woodson!… [thanks to Danny, great Corn Beef and Cabbage, your i-ree eys and beutiful mum are deserved... ont a great big thanks for sticking that theme song deep inside the bowels of my somewhat honorarily deserved inclusion on some future liner notes on that next Disclaimers CD... "Yo, Seat'l, dis one goes out to our 'ero in Br'lyn... Go'g, we'll send a car arounds, when they release yo...YO!] xo

12:56 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

12 Mar 2005

Dog Food AND Other Survival Tips for the Old Single Guy

I love to cook. Unfortunately after some serious alone time after the demise of my marriage and a six year relationship with an x with an extremely limited palette, my cooking skills have gone somewhat atrophied. The x and I never really established that true couply lifestyle. Oh we had a few couply friends, but the dinner party routine never seemed to stick with any of them. The wife and I on the other hand were extremely couply. Heck, I remember one weekend we spent all day Sunday making hand made gnocchi with our couply Italian pals, turning their entire loft into a gnocchi churning out production operation, come to think of it, outside of the making wine, we turned the place into a typical Toronto Italian garage, roasting red peppers and eggplant, jarin' em' up in oil; gnocchi and tomato sauce. I think we came out of that weekend with enough homemade Italian food to last us well beyond the rest of our married days. Like I said, the x, on the other hand, although she did like most Italian foods, anything more adventurous than red sauce and mozzarella cheese was a push. Oh, I did sneak in a few good pork chop nights, cooked a few roasts, even developed and perfected a "Glop" recipe that she'd eat a bit of; but her idea of dinner was generally either a pizza slice or a plate full of mozzarella that she'd melt in the microwave throw a handful of salt on and scoop up with tortilla chips. Hey, eat what you like, I'm not judging... Me, I unfortunately slowly drifted into a too lazy to cook stooper of "gut filleing", making "gut paste"; dollar store mac and cheese, maybe dolled up occasionally with a handful of frozen peas. These days, I'm struggling to find my way back to having a more adventurous relationship with my kitchen. After a few months of single guy-dom, I have managed to clear enough room in my bomb damaged Kitchen, I mean, literally we're talking about 15 trash bags full of whatever it was we'd been piling in the room for three years or so. I mean, there was essentially a path to the microwave, and another to the fridge. She has taken most of the tableware, dishes and whatnot, the stuff she did leave was piled "college dorm" style in the sink, on the counter and all over the stove top. My last super essentially sat there petrifying into some sculptural reminder that I was alone, often drunk and in a pretty surly, "Man not this Fuckity Fuck Fuck, AGAIN", mood. I think it was a good two months, the weekend that I'd taken a day off work in order to drive her to the Airport in Philly so she could go on the vacation to St. Croix we had planned; the vacation from which I had been scrubbed from the itinerary as it involved bunking with her parents, and my being there may have caused a week of discomfort during their five week stay. Oh well, Presidents Day I turned that into a four-day weekend and proceeded to get my Kitchen "glop" ready again. This is not about "glop", this is about an even tastier invention [invention, well OK, that's a bit of a stretch], this is about "Dog Food". “Dog Food” happened last week when the funds dried up. A temporary draught in dough based on the untimely withholdings of funds from contracts and pals who, in their defense, just had some unfortunate family issues to contend with; no anger on that front, just another bump to hump myself over. Anyhow, I found myself with ONE less pork chop and CAN of beans that I'd been dreaming about for most of that afternoon. I didn't really feel like dining on pickles and ketchup... I did however have some frozen hamburger, AND to my surprise a half a bag of frozen corn... Sidebar, a very good friend of mine once had a business plan for this type of situation. He wanted to come up with the programming for a site where you'd essentially type in every ingredient you had on premise, select a mood press a button and have returned to you, voila, a few dozen recipes for the evening meal. I wonder what recipe this site would return me after typing in two pounds of ground beef, a half bag of frozen corn, kosher pickles, a bottle of ketchup and some Lea and Perrins. I guess it would, in all likelihood come back to me with a recipe for "Dog Food". I'll get off my high "old single man" horse here for a sec, and admit, that the old single man lifestyle isn't all that unique. I mean, it's almost identical to "third year college dude" life [you know after you move out of the dorm]; or the "I just got that first good job and I'm booting all my roomies out" life. Many of these things I now know are simple derivatives of the "barely married" life I had with the x, and the tips, like how to make "Dog Food" could easily be helpful to some of the young couples I know. Old Single Gal life, well, I'd never ever hazard a guess on just how crazily complicated that must be. Maybe one of you ladies could share a recipe for melting mozzarella on a plate, throwing salt on it, and scooping it up with tortilla chips. Anyhow, here's my tip for you today, I've refined it somewhat [made a new batch last night], here's my recipe for "Dog Food", gratis. Ingredients: 1 Onion [optional, as fresh anything is kind of a dicey proposition these days] 2 Pounds of ground beef or pork, or 1 of each if you don't mind mixing your barnyard pals in a pot. 2 cans of tomato paste 6 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon 1 decent sized bag of frozen veggies 1 Jiggery Joo of Lea and Perrins 1 quarter sized pile of salt 6 or 7 Marlboro ultra lights And whatever spices you like and managed to hold onto after the break up [optional] Instructions: First, clean just enough dishes from the pile to cook, stir and later eat your "Dog Food" from. You'll need a cutting board [if you went for the onion option]. A knife, or a hammer perhaps to reduce the onion into a more edibley sized pieces. You'll also need a good sized pot/frying pan. I have this old vinyl record sized deep dish frying pan that pretty much serves all my cooking needs regardless of the menu. OK, next step, cut or smash the onion into small chunks and toss 'em into the fry pan, oh you'd probably want to grease the pan up with a nice virgin Olive Oil first. Forgot to mention this. One thing I learned from Alton Brown on the Food Network. Olive oil is the Single Old Guy in the kitchen's best friend. It takes the heat, doesn't smoke, and does a good job hiding the smell and taste of cooking things that are approaching or at their expiry date. Maybe I assumed that everyone knew that you should have at least a bucket full of Olive Oil on hand at all times. OK, cooking "Dog Food"... OK, onions are on the fry; next step light up a marly and pop top a tin of beer, you've just completed some of the most serious cooking chores you've completed in months, a small celebration is in order. Next Step: while the onions are frying, tear the plastic wrap off the top of the Styrofoam meat packets... wait 'till the onions are kinda, well sweaty, caramelized perhaps, ok, until they're almost, just almost blackened. Toss in your meat. Now, you might want to crumble the meat into the pan, think bite sized again. Ground meat has a tendency to "hamburgerize" into meatball like chunks when cooking, so a last little grind of the ground will go along way down the road when it comes to good eatin'. Meat is on the burn. I usually put a lid on the pan at this point, grab another beer and give the pile a chance to cook through. But, hey, the lid is optional, hey the smell of cooking meat [mmm cooking MEAT], a beer and a smoke, honestly guys and gals, if they sold that scent as an air freshener... well, you get the picture. When the pile is cooked through; you'll know this after chopping up the bits of meat you failed to grind thoroughly earlier, it's time to dump in the tomato paste [oh ya, sorry, you will need a can opener]. Tomato paste, Tomato paste on it’s own is NOT food. Lick the fork after scraping this goo out of the can and you’ll quickly realize this. Although the cans of tomato paste I use list the ingredients as simply, “tomatoes”, which we all know ARE food, the paste of the poor tomato is impossible to eat. Tangent, DO NOT use tomatoes sauce, crushed tomatoes or whole tomatoes. Remember, we’re making “Dog Food”, not “Doug Soup”. The paste, when combined with the other more edible foods, simply binds the flavour, oils and spices into a cohesive… Tomatoes paste takes “Dog Food” from schlop to dinner. We’re almost there. We’re now at the point where the remaining four beers, your spices and four or five Marlboro’s come in handy. We’re at simmer time. One, you have to let the paste and meat simmer for a bit, time to chuck in some spices and simmers some more… Knife a hole in the veggie bag, toss, stir and simmer. Simmer, simmer, simmer for an hour, two hours, heck pass out and let the whole thing just sit there on the stove top… It’s only “Dog Food”… You know, I like food that gets better with age. “Glop” tastes ten times better the next day. “Dog Food” likewise gets better and better the longer the veggies, meat oil and spices get to mingle all dance hall like. On the nights I cook these feasts, I’ll maybe have just a small tinee tiny bowl. These are meals meant to feed me on all the nights I don’t feel like cooking. These are the pots of goo I call my bestest friend after that bad day at work. These are the great big covered pots of six minutes in the micro while I’m watching the Simpson’s; Meal in a bowl, don’t think about nothing but my most recent obsession, I can feed myself… meal. After all you ARE an OLD SINGLR GUY; cooking everyday, well that just takes time away from more important things, like drinking, your book, and TV. OR things like fear, dread and angst… HUH, wait, Have I reverted back to my punka roots? Tip today, cook “Dog Food”… Next weeks tip, “How much Cyalis is enough Cyalis for the Old Single Guy”, and/or “How Strategically Wearing the Odd Piece of Women’s Underwear Can, Indeed, Get You Through the Next Lonely Saturday Night You Spend with your 20/30 Something Pals at the Corner Local”. Enjoy Your Dog Food!

7:18 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

11 Mar 2005

On Your Mark, Get Set... Get Sappy

Current mood:happy

There is a little place where your shit shines like gravy. A little place where the swirling vortex of fun spins directly into the old wooden door of one small room. I small little room full a hap happy wobbly people. The happy wobbly people I, time and time again have called my pals. In this little room in this little place one can hear the greatest news, or a sad old story. On those rare occasions when I stop flapping my own gums long enough, I've heard the best stories I've heard in quite some time. Oh, a lot of the stories are about just how shit-shiny the gravy is, but others do take you squeaking and squirming into that wonderful hole in your head where you store the seriously secret sap that you've saved to spread on only the most perfectly browned and tender toast. Big City Lights? What, are you joking. We live in a tiny little village, smaller than the tiny little village I grew up, even smaller than the villages I like to visit when visiting family. Matter factly, when the country mice come to visit ol' Uncle GoGo, they marvel at just how many people I wave hello too, how many folks I stop to chat with. I don't have the heart to tell 'em that life can be fuller on foot, and that they'd wave a lot more if they'd leave the cul de sac camp site more often. In all honesty, The cul de sac camp site, load 'em up a drop 'em off drive bys life style is one I often pine for. Trading for a wave from my own cute as buttons tiny hockey superstars for a wave from my pals in my little place, could be as fine for me as it is my family. Maybe. But, I've made my breakfast, buried about as many chances as most anyone ever gets, and lay down comfortably on the bed on the floor I found on the streets of this little tiny place. I'll wallow happily on my streets, and sit by the shore from time to time trying to recall the shape of the howling noises that screached out of the vortex that spun me into and out of the little room full of wobbly friends who put up with handfuls of this sap from that hole in my head where I keep secrets like this one. Love you guys, it has been, is, and will be fun watching come in and out of that old wooden door. See you tonight?

5:44 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Mar 2005

A Perfect Evening - A Nail in the Head

One of the more perfect evenings, or unfortunately too often these days, start of an over the top perfect evening, is to divert from my normal route home; jump the L instead of the V-G and head over to Zaplodzky's on North 6th in Williamsburg. Two dollar Ying Lings, Lisa the pretty bartender and an mp3 jukebox that always seems to be playing the exact song you want to hear at that exact moment. I started my evening at Zaplodzky's last Friday. Started it in the usual fashion, sat there drinking the cheap beer, reading the book the lovely Ms. Veronica had send me that day. Veronica is truly a magic friend who, although she's on the other side of the country, seems to be acutely tuned to my every mood, and seems to know exactly just what I and need exactly when I need it. She had sent me the book I was reading at Zaplodzky's. The book arrived the exact day I had finished my last book, AND reading a slightly left, perhaps more libertarian, definitely cynical jab at all the right wing pundits I've been following since long before that last circus we called a Presidential Election was exactly what I needed to be reading at this very moment. So far this book is a bang on good time! I sat there, reading "Skipping Towards Gomorrah", and investigation of American contradiction with how we talk/rant on about the seven deadly sins and how we actually live with respect to these sins. Greed/gambling, lust, sloth, hey these sins have been very good to me in the past, eh, pride and envy well, OK, others, I can do without. Anyhow, as I sidled up to the warm wood of the beautiful wooden bar, I gave a quick, sorry fella glance to the guy next to me, basically politely telepathically mentioning I was there for a read rather than a chat. [not mention, I still hadn't quite got used to talking with the new chompers, enough said about that]. I was getting close to the end of my third beer, my usual limit, I mean $2 a beer, a $4 tip, a $10 ride all done within the two hour limit required to still make my free transfer on the B61. I was finishing up the last beer when something struck me in the conversation my neighbor was having with Lisa. I decided that this would be a good conversation worth busting in on. Busting in on a conversation, politely, is a talent I'm quite proud of, wink. There was an easy in here as he was chatting with Lisa, not only the bartender, but also a friend; bartenders and friends make great springboard to leap from into the warm refreshment of a good bar-convo. They'd been talking professions, what caught me was this guy's claim to being a circus freak. Hey body modification was on the top of my mind that evening, so thought I might learn something. Unfortunately, although he is good friends with "The Enigma", and knows "Lizard Man", he himself was not a modifier, well nothing beyond the standard issue tats and earrings. No, my friend was a pounder... a driller, a cutter and a lifter He had a wonderful selection of scars [well healed] where he carved himself up with shards of glass. He told great little stories about pounding nails up his nose, or how he'd drill into his nose with a power drill. You may have caught this act, I'd caught stuff like this on TV. We talked for a good hour, and about three more beers, so much for that transfer. He told me how most of his gigs were between acts at Metal shows, and that he was making a perfectly good living off this. His best crowds were in the Midwest, his best story was of how he once dissed a heckling dude by picking his girlfriend up on the jumbotron, getting a little back stage pass action... I guess I'm not really going anywhere with this frikin empty story. I've been sick the last three days, and well, I just had to get back to monkeying around with these little dirty keys again. It's good therapy, almost as good a therapy as a perfect evening at that perfect little bar talking to perfect strangers. I'm obviously taking the L train home tonight.

5:18 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

5 Mar 2005

Bite Me, No, Really, Bite Me

Current mood:jubilant

Feeling like a million bucks. No, feeling like six million bucks. I’ve been Lee Major’ed, Steve Austin’ed… A man, barely alive. I am being rebuilt. Listen, I’ve always been a fan of body modification, nose jobs, liposuction, face lifts, tummy tucks, you know if that’s what you want, well go raise the dough a git ‘er done. We have the technology. Be all that you can be. Feeling like a million last night as for the first time in, well almost a year. Finally I could talk to folks without feeling self conscious about the crap they’d be seeing if they glanced into my mouth. Now, I’m not getting ahead of myself. I still have a mouthful of trouble, but I no longer have to feel like some washed up third string American Industrial League hockey failure. I got me teef! Self esteem is funny business. Especially when it comes a crashin’ on the shores of vanity. I mean, I was always taught not to fuss and bother ‘bout such things. How I look; not to worry about what picture I’ve posted on my front page at myspace. I mean, that’s girly girl stuff. Let’s go cut up that lumber son. Maybe it IS vanity, but man it feels nice that, at least at first glance, I can talk to people I do not know and know that they’re not calculating the big black gap in my lower jaw in their immediate impression, often an important impressions. How many meetings over the last months have started with “…sorry, had an accident, getting some work done…”, some little self deprecating jab; some little bloob to make us all feel at ease 'cause one of the men in the room was, incomplete. Now here’s the vanity… I have always applauded body modification, I’ve been modifying mine for over 41 years now. Last night I sat at Plodzky’s down on N 6th. I sat at the shiny brass taps, reading my new book. Every once in a while, I’d take a look up and glance at the choppers in the reflection of the tap rig. Came to a very simple conclusion. Fuck spending thousands on fixing these rotting useless god givens! They’re all coming out, I’m gonna be a “Fixidenter”, bitches. I’m going to have my young man Vincent at NYU, forcep these little brown beans into the hopper, into the un-documented history book of Uncle GoGo’s sorded history of bad habits, poor diet and various abuses of substances not offially recognized by the FDA. I'm going for the Brad Pitt chompers, HOLLYWOOD brights... maybe I'll have 'em all made of golden. Straight as pins, white as the snow before it hits the street of Brooklyn. "No, YOU had wooden teeth". I am so excited, I am so frikin' relieved... I've adapted to a prostetic. I've had no rejection issues, I'm ready to get myself under that knife, start carving up all these things that have been bugging me for years and years and years... Time to make the make over ladies. Watch out, here comes the super GoGo!

10:13 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

4 Mar 2005

UN SANE

Jiminy crickets, it would appear the time has come to let all of this just frikin' go. I get new teeff today, and this is just about the best thing happening at the moment. Imagine that, new teeth, lets all go out and celebrate. Yes, indeed, lets all go out. I went out last night... at just about the exact time I should have gone to sleep. Sleep, now that's a novel idea, can someone please describe to me just how one goes about getting sleep. This elusive elixir called sleep has now alluded me for two solid months. Or perhaps, I've been alluding it. Yes, maybe this is all self inflicted, maybe I really am, as many of my friends claim just a chicken fried retard, a frikin' douchepoodle wallowing in my own luke warm musty gunky bath water. un sane How is it this old carcass of mine knows to drag itself off the couch each morning to trudge-trundle itself down the garbage strewn street... down into the dirty ol' hole? How is it that I do this against all desire to just stay there wrapped in my comfy cosy blankets in front of the big ol' TV that plays nothing but all the shows I am just dying to see? Where did I learn to light a cigarette with my eyes closed? How come there's always a beer with a twist off cap or an easy open pop top tin tab sitting in my fridge box? Who put this love in my belly? AND who stopped playing the songs I really really really liked? A long time ago, I used to think of the things I was going to do. I still do, but now I seem to spend almost as much time thinking about the things I have yet to get to. I find this to be quite frightening. While at the same time I am encouraged by the fact that I seem to be doing more, I am also weighted down by the constant dread that there just may not be enough time. Time is something I need to eject; now is the time... now is the time to go rooting around the ol' CD pile and find that one song that used to, and will, once more, make me sad enough to be happy again. [insert silly Joy Division rotunda HERE, you] I really do miss feeling that brick-bat-in-the-face feeling of someone else's despair, feel the kitten whipped sting of some kid "joe singa song writer's" boyish "I just lost my gal" babble. I'd like to dump this foolish hidy-ho crap that's been clouding an old old mind with thoughts of things way long past... things so over cooked they smell more of rotten punk-assed dirty socks than... than well, green fucking eggs and ham. Get it? This is done, go away now.

12:05 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

1 Mar 2005

100% Sap FREE Content

Current mood:determined

It has been pointed out to me recently that my wee stories have been becoming, well, just a bit to sappy. The Sacrin content has elevated these little dities to the point were one has to wash the sticky goo from their hands immediately upon reading. OK, I can take this, I mean, I guess I can drop my bid to be the Greenpoint representative at the upcoming city wide Sap-Master Sapptastic-Man competitions... I guess I could just up and stop trying to find my feminine side. I guess I could let my pubes grow out again, get 'em stuck in my fly a few times and grow back the snarling angry-man that we all so knew and loved... Sure thing there bubs, I'll start standing erect, stop mopin' about in a constant state of maudlinistic despair. As of today, I'll start eating my toast raw, drinking my beer warm and my whisky straight. I'll dig out my old porn collection and start falling asleep to that rather than those documentaries by Ken Burns I've been falling asleep to recently. I'll pay closer attention to Leni Briscoe and turn off Law and Order the minute Sam Waterson's character opens his trap [even though we do see eye to eye on at least the death penalty]. You know, the best damned Cuban Sandwich is definitely being served up at a little place on 25th Street between 6th and Broadway. I believe the place is called "The Spanish Restaurant", of course that could easily just be a sign telling you what it is. This place is a classic, a classic midtown lunch joint with a counter a small seating section in the back and take out and delivery flying out the door faster than you can say "there goes another illegal alien riding a shitty bike". I prefer the counter where the dance of the 17 waitresses spins out of control inches from your food, the salsa blares only to be droned out by the near constant barking of orders in a Spanish so raunchy I'm assuming even they're using it incorrectly. Now, this sandwich, this Cuban sandwich is the best I have had anywhere I've been in the world. AND, unlike all you Yankee-doodle wing-nuts, anywhere in the world for me includes Cuba. So listen up. This Cuban sandwich isn't of the frilly willy variety, this bitch is 100% pure hardcore lunch-eating goodness, read, no frikin' AVACADO! It's got your pork, your ham, your cheese and pickle, BANG, that's it, LUNCH. It's made honestly, I mean the pork looks like it was carved off the roast with a hammer; the ham perhaps somewhat more delicately hacked off the bone with a dull tree-saw. The roll is an honest chunk of bread, crushed and burnt to perfection under the weight of the griller. And when I say weight of the griller, I mean the guy grilling the damn thing pretty near sits on top of it; these puppies are flat, fresh and filling. So, if you want a good Cuban Sandwich, I mean really want one, you're a tard, a complete frikin' tard if you go anywhere else. Myself, I doubt I'll ever eat lunch anywhere else again. I mean, I'm what you call a super-regular... I fell in love with a steak sandwich at a little diner in Toronto one day, afterwhich I ate lunch at this place every workday for four and a half years. Hey, when I got a new job in a different 'hood, I made a point of going to this one diner for that one sandwich at least once every weekend. Matter of fact, the first time I went back to Toronto after moving here, it'd been two years, I went into this place to order the sandwich, the ol' broad at the counter looked at me, asked why I hadn't been around for a while and asked me if I wanted my usual steak sandwich. Best damned Steak on a Kaiser, Best damned Cuban on earth, guaranteed no sappy content. My cheeks are clenched so tightly right now I'm afraid I'm going to suck a hole through my gitch just getting this damned thing out. 100% sap FREE content indeed.

3:08 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Feb 2005

Move It! Ya Bastadges, MOVE IT!

Current mood:content

Your back aches, your arms feel like you've spent the day waggling them out the back of a fast moving airplane. You can almost feel the knuckles on your newly extended arms dragging of the pavement. Your legs feel like to over-cooked rammin noodles, that is, until you sit in the truck for an hour in traffic, then they feel like two planks used as scaffolding for a crew of beer drinking, four hundred pound brick layers from Southern Jersey. You're exhausted, the line up you faced when returning the truck to the U-Haul center almost made you rip the heads off that couple at the counter that seemed to take forever to complete their transaction with one of only two cashiers who seemed to be dueling each other in the battle of the slow. In other words, you're sore, tired and a bit cranky, and you feel fucking GREAT. You are three split seconds from toasting the completion of moving your good pals from thatty there place to thissy here place. It was a good move, your pals hadn't asked a crew of ten people to come by to stand around chitty chatting and generally getting in the way of the three people doing the job. Your friends didn't get stressed and stretched into knots, maybe they did stress a bit, but they didn't pour their stress down the back of your shirt like cold water that makes your shoulder blades tighten up and block your ears. Your friends were organized enough, enough so that the flow of boxes was uninterrupted as we scoodled them from floor to truck and back to floor. The best thing was that your friends weren't the type that had to over think the whole process, you know the type that spends more time thinking about how a truck should be loaded, than loading the damned truck. I mean, think about it, think about your average mover-guy; usually he's a big smelly oaf; neck thicker than his head and just a little smarter than the truck he drove up in. Moving is really quite easy on the brain, see box, pick up box, move box to truck, return for another box, repeat until truck can't fit no more boxes, drive. This was a good move. OK, I'm a bit sad that I moved my friends out of my neighborhood, BUT, I am glad I was there when they moved. I mean, being part of a transition in your friends life is an great opportunity, experience and an honor. AND, no, no, no... Thank YOU, thank you for giving me something worthwhile to do on a Saturday, thanks for getting me up without a hang over, and putting me to the task of simple honest work. THANK YOU especially for having me part of a move that we all know is going to be great for you two. I see a whole load of brand new dreams percolating from within' the walls of your home, now that your home is no longer an uncleanable tenement dumpster fully stocked with an evil assortment of mistreated kids and bastards with no regards for the clock or the lack of insulation. OH AND... you owe me nothing. Dinner was nice, but all you owe me is your continued friendship and the bunches of more good times I am certain we're going to have. Just give me a place to break down and schlop out after pulling the shoot on the next crazy night in your new hood, your great new hood. Can't wait to have some good clean fun in your great new home!

4:23 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Feb 2005

Ken, the beutifully Jazzy Jazz Mongrel

Current mood:okay

This ol' story starts with small notice for the potential for evilness in small small town Ontario. Let me start this saying "yo Canada, get over yourself, and get off your high frikin' horse". I became really good friends with Ken on the weekend I realized that the whole black/white racism thing was not strictly the purview of these slave driving bastards down here in my newly adopted home. That weekend, Ken and I were assigned to the same group in our Urban Geography class that had been contracted by the local BDIA to canvas Brighton upon a survey of proposed improvements to this and/or that in town. Of course the first thing Ken and I did was to spark a great big fatty prior to setting out to knock on the doors of our assigned neighborhood. Now, I guarantee you, it wasn't that we wreeked of weed, as every door I knocked on offered someone who would answered the 15 or so questions I asked. Ken's doors on the other hand yielded nothing, well nothing but "no thank yous", "what are you doing heres" and a least one nigger reference that Ken would not expand on... Hey, maybe it was the Combination of a nigger wreaking of dope, who the heck knows. We ended up forging the resto of our surveys, our neighborhood firmly apposed the improvements, drove to the beach and hung for the remainder of the day. One small defense of my old school. In general circulation, even though he was only one of three black kids in the entire student population, in general circulation, Ken had very few problems. I guess showing up on these folks doorsteps was just a line he was not supposed to cross. I don't recall the subject ever coming up, but I assume him dating one of their daughters would have stretched the line as well. Hmmm... actually maybe I do recall something like this coming up once... Ken, entirely on his own, is probably the most talented musician, singer songwriter I've known personally, and I've known quite a few very talented musicians. One goofy little snippet memory I have of his being the cool daddy jackassy smart-assed-dude we expect our musicians to be came during a school assembly. Ken, although his first talent being piano played what he might call his 15th talent, Bass, in our school band [I mean, c'mon, if the drums were fulled up, I guess the next place you're gonna stick the black kid is the bass]. Anyhow, Ken did get his kicks in, I remember making eye contact with Ken at during a break in the assembly, he gave me a little nod and proceeded to crack out the bass line to "Watching the Detectives", yet another small offensive in our ongoing attempts to be punk-dudes in our corn-paddy back-water high school come holding cell. Ken came from, rather, at the time I knew him, lived in the trailer park down the road from my place. It was probably that fact, more than the fact he was black that my folks were always a bit leery of our friendship, actually, I could guarantee you this. On the days when his bitch of a hard hittin' pill addicted mother let him out of the trailer, or on days were he'd just plain managed to escape, we'd usually just hang in my room. He'd strum the guitar I never did manage to learn how to play, usually cracklin' joke songs. I'd sit there, either drawing one of my silly fancifuls, or making lame-assed attempts to draw him. We'd talk politics and pop outside from time to time to smoke the spliffs [of course, this may also my have impacted my folks feelings about my friendship with Ken]. Ken was a manic writer. Back then he'd carry around note books full of songs. Prolific, he was probably knocking out two or three a day. I think he carried these books around more so that his mother would not find them or that his A.D.D. brother wouldn't rip them to shreds. Ken was the son of a Jazz musician from Montreal, a good friend of Oscar Peterson, but was living with a woman who hated the musician who had knocked her up and left her with nothing but two black kids living in a trailer park. The hatred of this musician ultimately soon applied to all musicians, Ken was in a bit of a jam. Ken and I drifted apart after I stopped smokin' dubes. The drift apart was formalized with my sudden bolting to Toronto [another story]. However, this separation was the start of a new form of relationship I would soon have with Ken. Like an angel, Ken drifts into and out of my life, usually drifting in at the exact moment I need him the most. Maybe I'll start calling him my "dark angel"... I probably will not. Ken's music is peppered with sardonic wit, he brings this wit and this music into my life at beutifully irregular interval. Our first happen-stance meeting after the high school days was when he found me living about five blocks from where he was living. He had been checked into some psychiatric out patient residence.. He was in pretty rough "out patient" shape. I think I learned some humility or at least found myself humiliated by my inability to help him out in any tangible way. I was down myself, busted and unable to offer him anything more than a few nights of reminisance. A few years later, quite a few actually, he came to me while I was yoggleing in some bar by myself, probably morning the loss of losing some this girl or that. He was flogging his first CD, carrying a baby in a papoose strapped to his chest. I bought two CDs and persisted in my assertion that I'd track him down... I didn't, but of course he found me again a few years after that, this time he invited me to hook up with him at his now regular gig. His regular gig turned out to be a "piano bar" night at some up town trendy spot. Ken not only played beautiful bar jazz, but had also tuned his sardonic wit into that between song patter that makes lounge singers famous. Of course fame continued to allude, regardless of how deserving he was. I caught that gig for a month or so. I was between "wives", so I had a whole big bunch of dates to fill on the calendar. This was a great way to fill them. We hung out a few times outside the gigs as well, I recall helping him set up his piano in some park to crank out some impromptu set, saw him at his usual yearly gig or two at the Toronto Jazz Festival, then poof, he was gone again. I've seen him, you know brief run ins on the street a few times since, obviously no times since moving down here to Brooklyn. I googled him the other day, last I read of him. Apparently he's living in Stratford, or at least was so back in 2000. I emailed him, and added him to my buddy list. It would be absolutely grand if he'd contact me and I could waggle him down for a visit. This would be the perfect time to have a visit from my angel.

3:13 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

25 Feb 2005

Have you called your sister lately?

I was recently boasting about my sister to some friends... I say boasting, as perhaps that how it may have sounded. I was actually gushing. I'm as proud of my sister as I think anyone can be about a sibling. She beat me up constantly until I was about 13 years old, she went off to University when I was 16, studied Kineseolgy, after graduation spent 6 month in a hospital and promptly up and quit... She fell in love with photography, took a Photo Journalism course at our local Community College, immediately got picked up by the Toronto Star as a staff photgrapher, quit that, later got picked up by the Globe and Mail... she's quit that as well and now focuses entirely on her own projects. She's won an Attkinsons Fellowship and a Canadian Press Award. I will not drone on with one of my usually tediously self absorbed, long and winding rambling posts. I've quickly grabbed the ten pictures from her site that struck me the most... Oh, and I should point out that she's done all this while raising two kids, subjecting herself to the usual stresses of buying and house and building a home AND while being married to my adorably crazy Irish Brother in Law. This is how my Sister sees the world:

Of course my phote editing prowess aint that good. You can always have a look for yourself at www.pattigower.com, it's worth a drop in.

11:59 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

22 Feb 2005

A Bridge Crossed Alone... Is a Good Bridge Crossed

Current mood:apathetic

It became clear what the mission for the day would be sometime after the fog of the other night's drinks lifted and just before I had gobbled down the last foul forkful of gooey greasy goodness at the Scorpion. I had been fighting a creeping sadness all weekend, perhaps "nursing it" would be a more appropriate description. This sadness kind of blossomed early Monday morning after waking up groggy [again]; heading off to Jen's to feed the cats... creeping sadness, suckled on booze and left unchecked by self imposed immobility for the entire long weekend. The mission was indeed obvious. I had blown an opportunity to walk the sun the day before. Spent that day cooking glop and trying to convince myself I'd be more productive at some later point in the day. It snowed later that night, and today I was faced with a total gray bleakness and a six inch layer of slush covering the city. The mission would be more difficult, but maybe more rewarding for it. I gobbled down breakfast and headed for the Bridges. I had a thought of maybe recreating the epic seven bridge journey I'd made one Easter a few years back, 59th, Roosevelt, Tri-boor, 125th Street, Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg... thought better of it. I concluded that it being President's Day, my objective would be OK, ok, corny and obvious, I'd walk the GWB... hey what the ho, maybe I could start a new tradition. Like many of my bridge walks this one started with a hoof over the Pulaski on my way to the 7 train. Like many of my bridge walks, I got to the 7 only to find that, fuck, it was closed again. Luckily I caught a shuttle right away and had a nice above ground bus trip through that beautifully ugly part of Long Island City on up to Queens Plaza. Being dumped immediately at the base of the 59th Street Bridge called out for a warm-up walk so off I went. I'd done the 59th late Christmas Eve, walked it at 2:30am after midnight mass. The 59th, not my favorite, but probably the most meaningful, after all, it had been our means of escape a few falls back. A grand old bridge, the last one built before the Ammann dynasty. Some think it ugly in it's overwhelming sturdiness, I prefer to enjoy the almost "added-on" ornamentation that tries desperately to decorate it's utilititarianism. Hey, it's my bridge, the one I see out my window. A familiar old lady who has helped me out and given me a warm feeling when crossing her old crusty soul into or out of the city. I only hope they don't paint the life out of the old rusty bitch over the course of her current restoration. Had a nice chat with the old gal as I crossed head long into a blustery sleety headwind. Exiting the 59th, on either end is mostly unceremonial, the city side more so in so much as you're literally dumped into a tiny hole of a street with a gaggle of cars trying desperately to navigate what god himself would not have been able to design an intersection into that worked. [By god, of course I'm referring to Robert Moses]. I got the first soaker of the day coming off the old lady, but was undeterred and kept moving towards the President's Bridge. I half attempted to make it uptown to the GWB entirely above ground. That objective came to an end when I crawled down the hole at jumped the 1 train up to 181st street. I was bit wobbly from the 59th walk. I think the weekend had caught up to me and that, coupled with the miserable day, had left me a bit pooped. I think I was half hoping the GWB would be closed, hey at least the attempt would have been made. As I approached the gate, it almost looked closed, but it was just the angel, the bridge was open, it had to be walked. Sometimes I do feel a little manic when in the middle of these pursuits. Othertimes I don't quite have that total overwhelming desire, nor do I get that rush of satisfaction after getting over one of them. Indeed, crossing the old lady didn't whip me up for the next crossing. Maybe it was only because of all the cities Bridges the GWB is the least personal, more the pursuit of triumph and conquest rather than a mystical metaphor for some fanciful moment of realization that the East River Bridges provide me. Maybe because the only thing you can really do once you cross the GWB is cross it back home again. Maybe because once crossed, you're in Jersey, an ugly bland part of Jersey at that. I decided on creating a rather pedestrian quest for this trip, I'd cross then go in search of a bar I could smoke in. This pedestrian quest helped little to raise any spiritual moment, especially when I found out that the bridge had not been plowed. I had an almost miles walk through six inches of dirty brown slush while constantly afraid of being blown into the Hudson. I walked hugging the road railing putting me at target for great globs of salty muck flying from the wheels of the cars and trucks zooming along I-95. Sleety rain had soaked my glasses and a crushing fog had all but buried the city, couldn't see a damned thing so I basically put my head down, walked in low large steps and trudged my way to New Jersey. Couldn't wait to get down off the damned thing and have that beer. I've already mentioned that the Jersey side of the GWB is kind of grim. I was unprepared for just how grim it would be. Fort Lee is a frikin' wasteland. Under two inches of wet snow, it's an annoying frikin' wasteland empty of any redeeming feature, or... bar. I found one that seemed closed, not just for the holiday, but forever. I walked through empty streets holding nothing but those bleak 14 story high rises, not built to house the poor, but rather built to house the almost poor who had no clue as why they were alive and who had been given no warning that living in these lifeless slabs would eventually suck the last ounce of interest in anything out of their souls. I finally found a renovated shopping area, unfortunately it was a Korean town, unfortunately apparently Koreans in Fort Lee don't seem to need a bar. I settled on the Plaza Diner, a place I'd passed earlier but passed on in hope I'd find a little familiar local. I settled for wine instead of beer and was happy to see an ashtray on the counter. The waitress was nice, she showered my with the usual number of "huns" and "sweeties" you expect when being served at an old classic diner. She even joined me in a glass and gave me the heads up on how to catch a bus back to the city. Although I had an inkling to end the day on my old pal the Williamsburg, I had NO intension of walking back across the GWB. The bus ride back to the city included some nice new views I'd never seen, but after the first few miles it all started to look horribly the same. Miles and miles of busted down old discount stores peppered with the usual number of Pizza shops and Duane Reades. I guess I was more tired than I thought as after a time, I just stopped looking out the window, went into my head only to find my weekend companion, this sadness still hanging around, playing a game of solitaire waiting for me to get home so he could pound another shot into my stomach. Bridge walks are not specifically meant to lift ones spirits, they're just a nice thing to do when you have time to fill and things to think about and/or talk to yourself about. What one can think about while bridge walking is as varied as the weather one faces while crossing. They definitely aren't meant to cheer you up on a lonely day, AS for the most part they are a totally solo endeavor. OK, crossing with Dan has always been a pleasure, AND those very few times a special guest has followed through and joined me has been, well, special; but for the most part a bridge crossed alone, is a good bridge crossed. I probably did have certain expectations that a good walk or two would have cleared some cobwebs and helped me deal. I guess I have just reminded myself not to have these expectation or risk diminishing a perfectly good bridge walk. Maybe I should dump a bunch of the other expectations I'm currently holding onto as well. Settle in for a long period alone with not much else to do. Maybe if it's nice tonight I'll walk home over the Williamsburg Bridge.

12:24 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

19 Feb 2005

David Johnson and the Mysterious Trail of Blood

Current mood:nostalgic

David Johnson and the Mysterious Trail of Blood My current living arrangement brings me to mind of an incident in my long long ago past. An incident so heinous I think that I may have even forgot about a few times. Well anyway, it was in my long long ago past, I mean before what I call before my “playtime” which came after my wife, and well, even before my wife… Actually, it would be difficult to give this period in my life a name. Unlike “the Art School Days”, my “Childhood”, or say “The Mackerel Years”… this period had little distinctive qualities. I had just moved back from Europe after quitting Art School. I still believed I was going to BE an artist, and still tried to live that life style. I bopped from one friends warehouse lofts space to another. Drinking gallons of coffee most nights, beer on others and generally eating off the snack tables at the variety of Art openings we’d get word of. Hey, having a few bo-ho wanna be twenty year olds gorging themselves on the brie, salsa and chips and cheap ol’ wine you set up to woo your friends and family to lay down cash for your shit assed art, never hurt the cache of the moment. Anyhow, that’s for yet, another time. Hey, why not, just to get kind of romantically plagiaristic, I’ll call this time my “blue period”. I mean, I was sad a lot, well, rather, grumpy in that angst ridden “I hate the world, cause, well the world is evil” mental thing we all seem to go through in or early 20’s. Listen, Art School dropouts go through it in spades, in some of the worst cases, adopting it as a personality and never shaking it… Again, I had been bopping from loft to loft; the most permanent place I had managed to find in say an 18-month period was a room in a rooming house full of ancient East Side punks. The place was crawling with roaches; the Kitchen was disgusting even by my standard, uninhabitable for the most part… These punks were, well, punks, surly and unfriendly, especially to me who followed a more late sixties, early seventies “style” of punkedness, you know, it keeps resurfacing, straight folks cast away clothing bought from the 50 cent bin at the Sally Ann, or Goodwill [that’s right kids, you did not invent this look, nor did I]. Anyhow, all I remember of my three month there were watching the CBC, the one channel I got, endlessly, and masturbating over and over again to these same five pages of porno I had found ripped out their magazine and blowing down the street one night. Oh ya, it was while there I got my Janitoring job. The Janitoring Job is a whole other story, I’ll leave it as, this job, was the best paying job I had ever had in Toronto. Although it was a lot of work, I soon became the best paid of my peers. I had the cash to go looking for my own loft space; I had the cash to buy art supplies. Of course, I would always allow any one to come flop at this yet to be found space, as after all, that’s what us post hippie communist did… more on that later. The Toronto Loft scene, like the North American loft scene started long before I was born [I think]. It’s nothing new, and the weird twisted version of it that persists today is really nothing but the poor mutant retarded inbred child of things that happened on this continent years and years ago. That said, I love watching the wonder in the eyes of young twenty year olds who are breaking new ground and grinding their own living spaces out of the seemingly never ending supply of tossed out building here, there and everywhere. When I went looking on the market, I wouldn’t say the market was matured, not at all, I mean it was still totally illegal to live in 95f the building my friends were living in. The problem was that the stock of potential places, that is places where owners and management firms looked the other way had dried up [as it turned out, only momentarily]. I had a pocketful of cash, and I could not find my dive… Looking back, this inability to get my space was probably based as much upon my lack of a credit history, or any financial history, really, as much as the lack of stock. It was pretty grim for a while, as I had dumped my Punk Palace and had hit the “loft surfing” set again. I honestly have NO clue how I got my place, but I did… Wait, now I remember, I got a place with Patrick. Patrick was a 40 something dude hiding out amongst us bums… he had credit, a car, parents in the burbs, etc. etc. etc… He was a very good pal from my first year group at Art School, and he wanted to share a place with me… I would live there, he’d just set up his togs; come over and paint for a while, and we’d sit, smoke, drink and talk about the deep meanings of what each of us were doing… As an aside, I was painting rather large rather primitive paper and acrylic painting of daisies… I’m probably making this up, but I recall having some theory that art was just fucking wallpaper anyhow, so why not paint shitty wallpaper. Honestly, I don’t have the foggiest recollection what Patrick was doing… probably something fidgety, as he was a pretty fidgety guy… It was at this time, David came back into my life. David was an old high school friend. More specifically, David was a cubbyhole pal, one of the dudes from Weller Ontario, a small farming town just another hippy from the farms up north. I hung out with more than a few tribes at high school, but I believe I had the most affinity with my cubbyhole crew. I guess I should clear up this cubbyhole business. The Cubbyhole was this recessed door to the Gym, near where the buses dropped us and picked us up. Basically it’s where we smoked and stayed out of the wind while smoking. Obviously, it being a nice recessed door afforded us the opportunity to smoke more than just cigarettes. The cubbyhole hole crew, well how do you describe them, I mean we’d listen to equal parts The Clash, Patti Smith and Bob Dylan. We/they wore mostly old vintage army jackets and jeans, we scoffed the rockers [many of whom were my very good friends], and we scoffed the preppie, engineer wanna-bees [again, many of whom were my very good friends]. Weekends outside the cubbyhole, were spent, usually in some nearby provincial park, or out in the back forty of one of their parents farms talking to cows, smoking ounces [yes kids, ounces] of weed; or maybe dropping a tab or two and doing something which in hindsight was probably completely dangerous, illegal, or both… David was a cubbyhole kid, he’d finished high school a year after me, he’d floated for a while and finally ended up at the door of Patrick and mine’s loft. This loft Patrick and I got off the back of Patrick being respectable and all, was in a very respectable building. The Carpet Factory had “renoed” ages ago. It was filled with mostly small businesses, film companies and architects. “Living In” was strictly verboten. I enjoyed playing with this with my neighbors who all thought me a complete workaholic artist… I remember pushing it way too far once, being caught escorting a Parkdale hooker from the building one night, well way too late… Well, anyway… Dave showing up caused the usual friction. I was required to oblige his staying at least for a while, but Patrick wanted no part. It was all settled eventually when Patrick found his own space in the building and I, somehow miraculously, convinced the management firm was trustworthy enough [hey, I’d been living there illegally for 9 months or so], to allow them to give me, no mention of David, another space in one of there neighboring buildings. I have been known to sweet talk business people from time to time, even sweeter when my rep was some forty year old gal who probably had a soft spot for dirty kids who were just a few years older than her own. The trail of blood… Well, OK let’s get into the more physical telling of the “trail of blood” story. I mean, the airy fairy metaphorical side of the story might be obvious in so much as David WAS after all a cubbyhole kid. I mean, my friends are my friends and I am always willing to go through whatever tumult with my friends… blah, enough of that, too much sacrin as there is. So, David and I actually kind of thrived down in the hole… The new space was a semi-basement space in the building next to the carpet factory. Cement floors, brick walls, chopped into a little room and a big room. David and I, still wanting to believe we were artists decided the small room would be home, and the big room would be the space were ‘god like creation’ would take place. OK, I mounted a few sculptures [one of which surviving only in sketch form remains the one piece of art I made that I am still somewhat proud of]… despite that most of my memories of the time David and I spent there are of two idiots, one on an old couch, the other in this makeshift bed I had fashioned out of an old painters scaffolding slept off hangovers from the various “warehouse parties” that had started up as an affront to Toronto’s archaic 1:00am last call… David painted I sculpted… To be fair, I should describe David’s art, I mean, he did have some pretty unique notions and was extremely passionate about what he was doing. David also had this special approach to art in so much as he never went to art school, wasn’t tainted by the “brain-speak” that haunted every brush stroke I laid down. He was genuinely a painter from the cubbyhole school. I remember once, I think I was sitting at our work bench [which doubled as both kitchen and coffee table] trying to assemble this scale plastic model of an Apollo Space Rocket that I had found at a junk shop somewhere [I’m certain, it was meant to become a very important metaphorically strategic part of some piece of art I was working on that would expose the corruption of America once and for all]… I remember, sitting and listening to David describe one of the last pieces of art he’d “pulled off” at home; David had gone from friend to friends place, scoured their basements, grabbed as many cans of old paint and spray paint as he could find. He’d laid out these cans on top of some old bed sheets on the side of a small hill out back on his fathers farm, kicked back a few and just started firing at them with his .22 rifle. He told me how he enjoyed the patterns made while the spray cans burst, and the paint buckets oozed. In the end he wasn’t happy with the way the sheets looked when it all dried up so he just chucked it out. Come to think of it, I think David threw everything he did out eventually. So here we were, two old cubbyholers, sharing a bedroom, and a space to make art. We were in one of the most illegal live in spaces in a town that was now full of illegal living spaces. Oh, in order to make this story work, I have to point out one last thing… just down the road from where David and I were living was The Massy Ferguson Factory, The Tractor Factory. A dilapidated one/two story warehouse complex that covered, most likely, 20 square acres. Almost in the middle of what we called the west end fringe, I mean, minutes from down, seconds from the trendiest, hippest neighborhood in the city. Here we were at the junction between lofts being a place for artists to do art, and for hipsters to be hip, literally, physically and historically, my “blue period” indeed. It would happen one night that David and I ventured off to the bars down on Queen [think East Village, Williamsburg, or whatever down side pre-gentrified bar hood that happens to be in your backyard]. We had got nicely toasted, probably chatted some girlies even though we were both complete dorks more used to drinking and pretending to talk to each other as we though Braque and Picasso may have spoken with each other back in their bo-ho days… We’d found out about an after-hours [pre-rave bitches, pre-rave]… At this point the Toronto after hours were legendary. This one I had noted for one great architectural highlight. It was held in an eight-floor loft, just east of ours. About 3000 square feet, good DJ, OK beer prices, BUT, there was a crane access door that had been left open to let out smoke leaving a six foot by ten foot gaping hole in the wall, out of which any one of us drunken, foolish, stoned, late night idiots could easily have danced their way over to and fallen out of to their… well, you know… sad end. I remember flirting with some girl I knew, but was uninterested in, I remember hooking up with Kevin and Rick, Rick who would later be tenant number two at The Hole. I remember David all of a sudden not being there any more. No, David did NOT fall to his death although he later told us an uncorroborated story of some big dude hanging him over the security rail of the freight elevator by his ankles, threatening to drop him if he did not admit to angling toward this big dudes girlfriend… as said, uncorroborated, but essentially the reason for his sudden departure. Rick and I finally decided to leave. I had arranged to give Kevin a break and let Rick come to my place in order to free up Kevin’s couch for someone else. Rick was an old friend. He was part of the Saskatoon crowd, and I had known him from parties, coffee talks and many a crossover/sleepover week or two during the days doing the loft bop circuit. As I said, Rick would soon be resident at the hole, had probably already stayed there a few times, so our leaving and heading home after what ever strikeouts we’d both suffered was definitely no surprise. I remember talking about David with Rick. I think I may even have been complaining, and his sudden disappearance became part of that complaint. Although on the limits of a transit trip, Rick and I, engaged in this conversation, hit it to my place on foot. This despite the near or near under freezing temps and fresh inch of snow on the ground. As we walked by the Tractor Factory, I recall we both salivated over the idea of some bo-ho reno that would have converted the acres of space into some artistic utopia [fucking hippies]. The place was nothing more than failing brick walls and shards of rock smashed windows. OK, I know you know this is obvious… but honestly, As Rick and I pulled up to one of these windows, we saw a few drops of blood… we also saw that the blood drops seamed to pull away and head in the general direction of where we were heading back to my building next to the carpet factory. A mystery, a story to invent and concoct to ourselves as we walked the last 10/20 blocks back to my place. Of course David became the central character of this story. I mean, we had no thought based in reality of this, but we laughed and invented some scenario were David may have been mugged, or accosted by some hooker… It was a fun story and a fun walk… a fun walk until we realized the blood drops not only lead to my building, BUT, down the side street and too the alleyway that got me to the back door I used as my front door. When I saw blood all over the half steps leading down to a blood soaked door handle. I panicked, slipped on the ice, could barely get my keys in the doorknob and twist. I ran down the hall not even noticing the continuation of the drips we had followed for the last twenty minutes. When I open our door, I found David, literally in a pool of blood, hands in pocket unconscious, half form beer, half from blood loss. No cell phones, kids, Rick and I literally picked him up, threw him on my shoulder, headed for the streets and hailed a cab. Rick and I had him to St. Joes in no less than twenty minutes despite the fact we probably had no more than five bucks between us. The staff at emerge, decided that Dave, although up on their triage list could wait a few patients. By this point, I’d managed to slap him around a bit and get him to at least semi-consciousness… After waiting for what seamed like days, but most likely only firkin hours. I got the story from David. This is when I heard how he was hitting on some chick, how this chicks boy friend had threatened him [the elevator shaft torture, still uncorroborated]; how he’d left in a panic, but had calmed himself wit a pocket beer, and the freshness of the falling of snow and a nice quiet walk home. The danger of getting pounded receded, new danger awaited. David, like myself, had always been fascinated by the Massy Ferguson Plant, The Tractor Factory. We’d both waded in on those adventurous Saturday mornings, looked around dreaming then leaving to do what ever Saturday chores needed being done. That night, Dave had tried to venture in again, slashed his wrist on a shard in the window and thought better of it. This is where it gets dumb. Think about this… If you have just slashed your wrist, what have you been taught to do? Wrap it, apply pressure ELIVATE it. David, nope, David stuck his hands in his pockets and headed home. As it turns out, the blood drops Rick and I followed home that night dripped off the cuffs of David’s blood soaked jeans. My good friend, dork of a friend David probably lost a third of his blood that night. Oh, he probably would have regained consciousness and got himself to the hospital on his own, so , no Rick and I are not saviors…BUT it does bring to mind my new roomie, Dylan. Dylan, you are a DUDE! You have an enormous understanding of your responsibilities to yourself and your pals. That said, after seeing you keyboard face-plant asleep at the desk here, I assume you are capable of a misstep… Trust me! I’m watching for trails of blood, I’ll do my best to cover your back AND if I ever find you in a puddle of blood in the middle of our apartment, you’ll be in the nearest emerge with in minutes! Regardless of what cash I have in the pocket at that moment.

7:58 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

17 Feb 2005

Sweet Daddy Siki

"The most publicized wrestler on the grappling scene today is Sweet Daddy Siki. He is known as the Negro Gorgeous George and is as tough as they come. Sweet Daddy has been a main eventer several times at Madison Square Garden in New York, as well as other cities in the U.S. He has been headlined in all the big sports magazines and newspapers and is certainly a most publicized figure." (From Ft. Worth, TX newspaper, Feb. 4, 1963) I have to thank Sam and the Blog he wrote today for bringing Sweet Daddy Siki to mind. Sweet Daddy and I never met formally, but he was a big part of my life the years I lived in Parkdale. OK, I'll back up a bit. Over the 20 years I lived in Toronto most of these were spent in Parkdale. A grungy little chunk of the west end of the city bounded by hipster ridden Queen West, the lake and Polish town. Actually Greenpoints resemblance to Parkdale is quite astounding. The Queen West mentality always threatened to burst itself upon Parkdale but the hookers, thugs, scuzball welfare dudes and hundred of thousands of subsidized rental units always managed to put up a good defense. Oh I wouldn't say there wasn't a lot of gentrification going on, and there were quite a few very normal, hard working people living in the area. It just wasn't ever going to be hip. Obviously, my favorite bars were in Parkdale, I can't even remember the name of one of them. I do remember all of them being smoke filled rooms with nothing more than shabby melamine bars with stools and chairs that looked like the could easily have been stolen from any legion hall or Knights of Columbus... These places were usually full of drunken fat pigs during the day [Lottie comes to mind], at night they were usually filled with, well, drunken fat pigs. Music was as sporadic as there were left over quarters for the juke box, so most of the time it was just the radio tuned to some country and western station or if you were lucky, an oldies station. Obviously, these were the places you wanted to be at Saturday nights when you could sit around watching the Leafs on a two color color TV, drink $1.00 beers and smoke 2 packs of your own and at least another 5 packs of the guy next to you'se second hand smoke. I come by my ongoing love for places like the corner bar quite honestly. It was in one of these places I first came across Sweet Daddy Siki. Oh, I'd known of him, and well actually had seen him driving around the neighborhood more than a few time, but that's for later. See, sweet Daddy after a relatively successful career as a Wrestler had a relatively unsuccessful career as an Actor/Singer. Sweet Daddy's profession when I met him was that of scuzz-bar DJ / Karaoke host. Keep in mind folks, Karaoke back then was still kind of this foreign thing that the Vietnamese did three nights a week in those mysterious whole in the wall bars whose bright neon sign in the front window, although in Vietnamese just screamed at you: "no occidental pigs allowed in thissy hear place". Really, I guess you might say Sweet Daddy Siki was a Karaoke pioneer, bringing the scratchy drunken sounds of tone deaf idiots into the mainstream of the scuz-bar culture. Sweet Daddy was a huge man, I mean he was six six if he was nothing; he was as fat as you could get without looking slovenly; but his most distinctive feature was a shock of stone white fro cut almost like a Mohawk down the center of his big black head. This mo-fro was connected to a set of chops that could have fed a family of eight those chops where connected to each other by a big white handlebar... One big marble sculpture, cut trimmed and shaped to fit perfectly on the head of this one big dude. I can't remember him ever having signature clothing, except maybe for the fact, his shirts were always shinny, and his pants pressed. I'd tell you he wore cowboy boots, which wouldn't have been a stretch, but then, I'd be making that up as I haven't a clue what he wore on his feet, being he was always at the DJ booth, or at the wheel of his car when I saw him. Now his car, THAT was signature! You'd see it parked around Parkdale all the time. Sweet Daddy's ride was as sweet as the Daddy himself. Picture a mid 1970's Cadillac Hearse, stretch version, a great looking car in of itself; NOW paint that thing Royal Purple, add as much chrome trim as you can, and that's Sweet Daddy's ride. The finest of New York City midtown pimps had nothing on Sweet Daddy and that car. If there were any justice in this world, that car would one day be featured at the Las Vegas Car Museum along side the Dusenberg collection, and Hitler's Staff Car. Not quite as historically important, but man, this is a car the current generation of bubble-drivers have to be made aware of... Well, hmmm OK, sounds like it might be time to end this little drive down the backroads and sides streets of memory lane. I saw Sweet Daddy's act more than a few times. Heck I actually got up and made a drunken ass of myself singing his Karaoke; I believe "Last Train to Clarksville" was the last song I butchered. Anyhow, I don't miss living in Toronto, and New York City has offered me many a new "Classic Dude" to stand in awe of. I have my new scuz-bars to hang out in, even a place to watch Hockey [god rest it's soul]. I have a great gaggle of new pals... but man what I'd give to give a little wave to the Big Black Dude with the Stone White Fro as he drove his Purple Bomb slowly down Manhattan Avenue... Hey, Sweet Daddy, let me buy you a glass at Helen's. I'd have to think he would like that.

1:41 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

14 Feb 2005

Let Me Ask a Question... Does this day really mean anything to you?

Current mood:aggravated

Does this day really mean anything to you? I remember, well, barely, growing up kind of dreading this day. It's not that the brown paper bag taped to my old wooden school desk was completely empty at days end... the brown paper bag that we were told to bring in; had started the day off decorating with red construction paper hearts, glue and sparkles... It's not that my bag was empty, it's more that my bag was full of half baked forced truths, and for the most part meaningless bon mons from my friends from which I always wanted more. OK, we were only 7 or 8, but... I dreaded the day that your parents and teachers forced you to punch out 30 some odd perforated cartoon heart decorated Valentines day cards. Write some drivel that only added to the pre-printed drivel... fold them, seal them and stuff them into each of your classmates decorated paper bags on the front of each of the other desks in your grades one, two, three, four and five classrooms desk... Bobby said this, Janie said that, Susan never said what I wanted to hear... I mean c'mon, Susan, my best pal, my GIRLfriend, the cutie beauty I was going to marry when I was 17, I mean, all grown up. Nope, all I ever got from Susan was a pre-perforated, punched out card, just another piece of cheap cardboard tossed into a paper bag... About ten years ago. I brought my wife to a specially advertised couples dinner at my local pub. The food there was actually quite good, and well hey, a prix fix load of grub, a bottle of wine and a couple of beers might just be "what the doctor" had ordered up as a cure to a relationship floundering on boredom... We had a nice dinner, and a nice chat, when we got home later that night she admitted to me that for the last 3, 4 months she had been having an "affair", and although the "affair" was not cause for separation, the fact that she could even have an "affair" disturbed her to the point that she realized enough was enough and that it was time to end... this. Fucking stupid bitch! As much as she was the love of my life, my, so called soul mate, one of the very few persons that I think I was absolutely connected to... I will always hate her for coming to that conclusion. Coming to that conclusion on a day I had gone way beyond buying her "stake knives" or tickets to the "ball game". On a night that I had actually thought about putting a little extra something into that red-construction-paper-heart decorated bag of hers. Does this day mean anything, well I guess maybe it does. While half a bunch of nimrods are walking about dressed in pink shirts and skimpy underwear... while the asshole marketers [myself included], are trying to suck a few extra bucks out of heart strung morons whose greatest love adventure was picked out of a plastic bag they found buried at the bottom of a Captain Crunch cereal box... Today, this day, for me... means the absolute END of love. And I think that that is absolutely fucking perfect.

11:57 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Feb 2005

Wanton Sexual Relationships

Current mood:amused

My goodness how times have changed since I was in highschool... Of course, it's probably more that I was just as big a dork in highschool as I am now [actually, that is debatable in the reverse]. Anyhow, take particular note of the diagram on the top left. I would call this the absolute definition of the term Cluster Fuck! If you get invited to that party, it would be wise advice to double up on the ol' rubber booties... Thanks to JP at "L’esprit d’escalier" http://lespritdescalier.blogspot.com for setting up the chain of events that brougt this graph to my attention,

2:58 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Feb 2005

Home Invasion

Current mood:confused

The Dylan Expeditiary forces have landed on the beaches of hotel Gord. It's quite exciting as plumes of sweet smelling smoke rise above the horizon at the other end of the couch. Although outnumbered almost 2 to 1 [I say almost, I mean c'mon], Gord has held fire and held ground of his own while keeping his forces well fueled and on the march. As the lights flickerd and the battle hyms of earlier times played the troops did battle then retreated to more stable positions... No reports of massive injury, nor the taking of prisoners was forthcoming. We'll check Craigslist, and Connecticut, but if anyone can spare the following, please let us know: -desk -kitchen chairs -coffee table -plates, and other sundry kitchen like items -televisions -vacuum cleaner -ash trays [ours are all full] Thank you, Central Command

12:29 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

8 Feb 2005

There's a Man on my Floor

There's a man on my floor these days... I assume that he's around the place at other times, but mostly I just see him when, well when he's on my floor. He seems like a good man, snores a bit, but that's no bother. He doesn't smell, which is good as having two smelly men in a place that's kind of smelly itself, well that could get nasty. If anyone has any further information regarding the man on my floor, perhaps what he likes to eat, [I know what he likes to drink], what hours I might expect him to be on my floor, please contact me.

2:52 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

7 Feb 2005

Super Nova

Current mood:blah

Super Nova For some reason everything seems strangely different today. Perhaps it was the warm weather this weekend, or the good company I have found myself in the last few weeks. It all just seems all so oddly different. OK, I'm not particularly happy about this ODD feeling, as a matter of fact, I feel somewhat apprehensive, as if something dramatic is about to happen, and this will all change again. One thing is for certain, I am going to have to make some behavioral changes to assure that I am more alert, and take notice when or if this next change happens. I have a bit of a bad feeling about this... I wonder why? If you have a clue, let me know. Now, as for the weather, how nice was that? I mean, how nice was it to walk light coatedly throughout town on Saturday? How nice was it to sit on the stoop, sipping coffee reading the newspaper as the sun went down prior to the so called "big game" Sunday. How nice was it to close your eyes listening to the sound of gulls while sitting on the beach as the warmth of the sun danced a jig on your cheeks, AND memories of good friends and great times danced a jag in your mind? There is nothing quite like a nice warm day in the middle of a cold old winter. Speaking of light coatedly... despite the apprehension noted above, or perhaps outside of this apprehension, I continue to enjoy, or rather perhaps I should say, I am starting to enjoy this re-alignment of my social life. Although, yesterday, I was forced into a decision not to see old friends of Jen and mine. Forced mostly because I was a plain old idiot the night before. It was quite sad deciding not to go see Shari and Tom, even more sad realizing that there is a very good chance I may never see them again. Same could be said for Mike and Laura and Elisa and Jason, AND George and Stephanie, Tami, Rori and Chrissy. But, I can take some pleasure in having the friends I have, the friends I will keep, and the new friends I will make. I feel as though I have made a few new friends, I guess time will tell what these new relationships will be like. As always, as with all my friendships, I'm sure they will have a positive impact on me. Anyhow... Super Nova, was a good day. I think.

1:47 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

2 Feb 2005

Little Ghost Girl Fails to Show, Still, We'll Wait...

Current mood:chipper

So, my little ghost child did not return last night... OK, for those not in the know, the other night I seemingly had, what a friend later told me to be a sleep paralysis episode. Apparently these are relatively common intense "dreams" in which you are kind of awake, still dreaming but having hallucinations. They generally involve the feeling of being trapped/pinned in your bed unable to move. Most people react with utter fear, often mistaking the experience for a brush with the paranormal... At the risk of contradicting a good friend, I say, bunkers, I just had a visit from my friend, the little ghost girl. You see, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. Although she never gave me the full details, apparently something like this happened to Jen in our living room last year; and there have been many a time when I've woken up at the hour of the wolf only to have something, or hear something that has stood my hairs on end [get me scurrying back from the toilet to bed all lickity splitly like], anyhow, the other night... The other night, I was having my normal sleep three, wake one, sleep one, wake one night time diddly-doo. I had had a few dandy-assed dreams and was lying there, when all of a sudden I felt little feet running over my bed. I knew they were little, as they felt, well just a bit bigger than when the cat used to re-adjust herself late at night. As you could imagine, I was quite startled and more than a bit scared. It felt as though these little feet had been used to bolt this little person through my room, over the bed [which these days is actually a couch], and into my living room. Obviously, I wanted to get up and have a look, but alas, there I was, pinned, guilver-hog tied to the bed. Couldn't move a muscle, didn't get a look. I was spooked, but did manage to fall back to sleep for a while, had some more epic dreams [Nazi's, fiords, stone castles, Danish lunch and dinner dates with piles of logan-berry jam, liverwurst and greasy meat]... I'd have to say, it was a pretty entertaining night in the ol' noggin'. ANYHOW, that morning although STILL spooked, I was far more interested to come up with an explanation for my little jogger-pal experience. The hair was still standing up on my neck when I got email back from my friend. I did take her suggestion as sensible, and I did take it through a few turns on the net as well... lots of good reading, but honestly, I think there's something more to it. I've decided to call ol' "little feet" my little ghost girl. So far I've filled her in as either an olive skinned dark eyed little Spanish girl with braids, or a pie faced sunken eyed, straight-haired, blond polish child. I figure the child either had some connection with my place, as I assume my apartment has been home to close to 30/40 families since being built sometime over hundred years ago. Anyhow, lets just say, as one possibility, the chances of some kid coming to a no good end in my apartment, sickness, or worse, is pretty darned high. Of course another theory might be, we just have a little ghost girl looking for a place with a little extra space to hang for the winter. I can tell you straight up, I have a lot of extra space in my life these days. Anyhow, I haven't come up with a name for my little ghost girl. Actually, I'm hoping she'll tell me when she pops on by again, this time sticking around for a while. The night this happened, was one of the few nights in a long while that I had turned the TV off when I wen to bed. I'm thinking maybe this may have pissed her off, so I'm leaving the TV on again. It'd be nice to watch some TV with the kid, play a game, hey maybe I could read her a book [although, I only have two in the house right now, neither of which are really suited for young children]... I guess I could always try to make something up as I turned the pages, a little fairy tale for kids based on "Confederates in the Attic", or "In Cold Blood"... :-) Contrary to a popular misconception, I do like kids, and have often times enjoyed the company of my niece, nephew and my cousins two kids. So, I am hoping for another visit. Hopefully ghost girl does have an attachment to my place, hey ghost girl, bring a friend if you like, we'll have a tea party [do ghost girls read blogs?]. So, that's my story, I'm sticking to it. To my friend, I say thanks for the info, I have considered it, AND it is most plausible. But for now, at least until such a great distance of time has passed between visits that your theory prove more likely, I'll go with my ghost girl theory. Anyone like to join us at the tea party?

11:12 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jan 2005

More Blog about Weather and Food

Current mood:melancholy

...NYC is not as cold as Toronto, BUT in Toronto you can more or less count on the fact that the building you are in has been insulated. For my NYC friends, insulation is material, usually some kind of synthetic fiber, or styrofoam board, that prevents the transfer of heat from indoors to out doors. Speaking of indoor heat, I am now certain the entire NYC home heating industry is a scam run by a little green elf who lives somewhere in the basement of the old Tamani Hall building near Union Square Park [Across from the W Hotel]. Oh, and can someone please tell my neighbors that if your shower takes more than a half an hour [mine generally take 2 minutes and 37 seconds], if they take more than a half hour, well they better be washing the back hair of each one the migrant Mexican workers who seem to pour off the G train each morning at 7:00am... Oh, and speaking of back hairs. Will you please stop slurping your coffee, really it's NOT that hot, AND frick, I've heard you complain more than once that it always too damned cold. Tonight, I curl up on my couch, turn down the lights a bit, mix up a whopper of a JD&C, read a few pages of my book, flick on the tube. If you'd like to join, by all means, the sweat exchange of body heat is always welcome. Those with uncleaned, or braided back hair need not apply.

11:57 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 Jan 2005

All covered in blank...

Current mood:blank

Outside of maybe two maybe three hours of fun and frolic; helping shovel the walk out front of the corner bar; making a snow angel out on the shore of Huron Beach; wandering a few streets in and around the home 'hood; this weekends snowfall became a drag quickly. New York is the wrong place to put snow... It's not even 24 hours old and it's already mostly brown with a few patches of yellow, red heck I even saw an azure blue pile on the way to the office today. Of course, getting to the office has now become an even more unbearable task than last week. The task of climbing the moguls at the end of every block, curse the assholes who didn't take the time yesterday to shovel out the walk in front of their vacant building. More so curse the pee-for-brained thoughtless mo-fuckers who think that a one shovel widthed poorly shoveled path would make an adequate passageway passed their crap ass store. Every winter I try to make a mental note of who does a good or bad job each winter, trying to make a list for where and where not to shop, I really should start carrying a pen... Covered in blank... Here we are, in for what looks like a good couple of weeks of this inconvenience. I'm actually hoping that feelings of pissed-offedness stirs up my otherwise completely flat emotional cycle of the last few days. I have some pretty significant uses for emotions these days. I have some pretty hefty emotional projects I'd like to move forward on, moving them forward a bit more quickly. More days like yesterday, more days like a large chuck of last week, and I'm going to find myself stalled out. Blank days can easily lead to more blank days. Maybe if I slip on the ice in front of some lazy pigs shop, the curses I shout out will spring loose some happy love nugget trapped under this big pile of brown, yellow, red and azure crap that's covering my thoughts these days... On the other hand, maybe I just need a good hug.

11:06 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

18 Jan 2005

We eat cold eel and think distant thoughts....

Good ol' PBS, good ol' Ken Burns... This was an answer Jack Johnson gave to a reporter, or someone when asked what he thought it was that attracted white women to black men... "We eat cold eel and think distant thoughts...." I am beginning to obsess over this quote as, it really is a perfect reply to the question. Plus, it's just a really cool thing to say. Obviously, there will be some ramifications if I choose to dwell on this for too long. I'm hoping these ramifications will, in the end, be positive for all of us.

11:17 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

17 Jan 2005

Life in a Single Guy's... A New Bridge

Current mood:cheerful

Walked over a new bridge this weekend. The view from this particular bridge was quite nice, and it looks as though the neighborhood it lets you out into is going to be pretty entertaining and quite interesting. Looking forward to walking it's twisted winding streets... I'm almost certain there'll be a few dead ends and some blind alleys with hidden monsters, but hey, that's what makes walking over these bridges such a frikin' hoot.

6:14 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

12 Jan 2005

Life... an inexcusable rump...

Current mood:amused

The interesting thing, now that most of the shit has been difused, this, mostly because 80 percent of the garbage has been removed, is, well is... I'm an idiot who is going to have to learn all this silly stuff over again. I didn't learn it after Darcy, whilst in my mere twenties... basically resulting in two years where I essentially saved up enough, you know, jizz to shampoo a small brown bear... After Michele, well I learned it way too quickly, somewhat misspent it, and then basically ended up with... oh, that's just nasty... Anyhow, recently I remembered, you gotta listen... fool... FOoL you gotta listen... But ya know what... AND I will come back to this... At this point, I am rip roarin' ready to just say what the hell. A cardboard box on the mud ensconced banks of some god foresakeng mountain side near Panacachelle, in Guatamala aint that big a bad a resting point... AND maybe, just maybe, IF I don't relearn it... a monastic, hermit like life probably aint that bad either... well, OK, yes it would be bad, and I am rationalizing... G, you will relearn... bikes only have but two wheels... Feet on the pedals, pump, spin and sweat... pure glistening sweat [if that is actually how you spell sweat] xo :-)

11:48 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

12 Jan 2005

Life in a Single Guy's... Pad - Waking up to Paid TV Programming

I have returned to my old bad habits... OK, not all of them. The worst is falling asleep to the TV most every night. To say the least, my dreams have been quite interesting. This morning around 3:00am I awoke to a dream where I was in a job interview, the interviewer asked me who my favorite Marketer was, to which I replied Ron Popiel... no joke. What made it weider was that while on the way to this interview, I was atacked by a small aligator, and had just managed to uncurl it's tight grip on my entire body just as the interview began. The interviewer appeared to take no interest or concern in this... As a side note, if you need to reach me after work, you can call me between 7:00pm and 11:00pm, or between 3:00am and 4:00am... I generally get up around 6:00/6:30am. If you see my aligator, his name is Fernando. Thank You

9:07 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

11 Jan 2005

Life in a Single Guy's... Pad - The Smell is Still There

Current mood:blah

Well, best intentions... Events on the weekend conspired against my desire to clean my home. Oh well, it's not as if anyone is watching. Tonight, I will go home early and throw out all the smelly stinky garbage. Should be a few dozen bags. Anyhow, why would anyone care... [note to self, re-read this when you get home tonight]

11:18 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

10 Jan 2005

OMD... Message, the message, I am old

Somehow, I've ended up ripping an old OMD CD at quarter to eleven on a Sunday on the week that my 30 something year old girlfren left me alone here in my stinking fuckin apartment... A way way back, way back when I left my parents house, lets say 1980... The first band I saw in my new home of Toronto, the first place I lived alone as a so called adult... was OMD at the Masonic Temple. Folks this was 24 years ago. How old were you 24 years ago? How old, you stupid little shit? [Sorry, I do love you... you little shit] I am old... I am alone... Cool, eh I've been her so many fucking times... Darcy, Michele... My folks, my pals, my peers, are the tweeners you do not know about, the completely lost genration... the generation whose life was sucked out of them by those fucking boomers... who have to put up with shit for brained kids who think Greenday is fucking punk, hell! even I missed punk... God bless me and my useless, burnt out old failure friends. AND fuck you and your god damned hope! CYA... Peace... yours truley, your toothless burnt out freind God, please find me a woman, 'cause I am really really sick of you frikin GIRLS!

1:46 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

7 Jan 2005

Lifie in a Single Guy's... Pad - Day TWO/THREE

Current mood:apathetic

Cleaning continues, I'm expecting the place to be completely cleaned and de-smelled by Saturday night! As for the adjusting to solo living, well... OK, yes, I leave the TV on all night... Woke up this morning to the wierdest episode of Ponderosa I'd every seen. So far the coolest thing about the place is the echo.

2:59 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

5 Jan 2005

Life in a Single Guy's... Pad - Day ONE

Current mood:bouncy

For my young dude like friends... Pad = Apartment. So, I woke up to day one in the single guys apartment. Cigarette butts all over the floor, half drunken beer cans strewn about the place. It's as if she literally just dumped all the crap off the top of every piece of furnture she moved onto the floor. And, oh by the way, it was pretty much every piece of furniture. OK, before that sounds bitchy, we'd agreed she'd take almost everything, as I want nothing... also, hey I was mostly responsible for the top of every piece of furniture being covered in junk. So, now the clean up begins... the construction of the Zen Palace is upon us. GoGo's fortress of solitude, the empty sky in the whole of my soul... The place to be, is defined, ready and set for unveiling... in about a week. It will be a slow unveiling, as although, I do like and want visitors, there may not be many places to sit... at my pad. I'll have to have you over in groups of 2 or 3. Of course, if you come alone, you may be taking a bigger risk than you think. Rumor is, I'm nutz. Day One: Woke up late, tired and sad... swept a bit, moved a couch [my new bed], and the TV. Swept some more, gave up and left for work... Happy. I like to sweep.

7:03 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

3 Jan 2005

Day 21 or so... The Hectic Week Begins

Current mood:blank

I will go home tonight and attempt to do some final packing. There's a tinge of saddness around all this, I will reserve any further comment until Wednesday. It's 2005... whatever that means.

11:09 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Dec 2004

The Retarded Douche Poodle is Now Up To Date

http://gogo_nyc.blogspot.com/

2:09 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Dec 2004

OK - Time for a non-selfindulgent post, Phucket

I find it wierd that I have yet to have anywhere near a meaningful conversation about what is going on over there in Southeast Asia/India/where ever... It's breaking my heart on that scale where the only logical response is to almost ignore it. I have a long history, as I suspect do a lot of people of just distancing myslef from far away disaster on that scale. Obviously, I've never seen it on this scale before. They say 110,000 people so far, I can't but think that this number will double again soon, AND I can't help but think of the effects when doing even the simplist six degree calculations. I have started to notice and hear more "my family is ok...", and "my friend was on the other side..." conversations in and around the city... Having watched death unfold in front of my own eyes once has given me a perspective I did not have four years ago, but realy nothing more than perhaps a slight glimmer of empathy. I cannot begin to imagine what it must be like to have lost everyone, everthing and everything you've ever known to a silent an unexpected ripple in the sea. Once again, we sit here, reading the statistics, marveling over the stories over how very few animals have been found dead, or how the earths axis was shook, or that there was a three micro second variance in the earths travels around the sun, or something like that. Huge chunks of people are dead, just plain old dead. I'm completely helpless to do anything... anything except hope that the people swept out to sea, or squished under falling rubble, or trapped helplessly as the water rose around them, that they had some personal belief that gave them comfort... That their friends and family left behind have some internal mechanism, some kind of faith that helps them send their loved ones off to a better place. I agree with most of my friends, this God stuff can be nasty business at times. At times like these, you just got to thank God that a whole bunch of people in this world have this faith built into their lives, otherwise this unfathomable pain thats in the air right now would be even more unimaginably horrible to witness. Hundreds of thousands of people, sniffed out in mere minutes... damn.

10:21 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Dec 2004

Day 19 - I hope you little turds realize...

Current mood:determined

Actually most of you don't know my absolute disdain for organized therapy. My utter distrust of the whole therapeutic industry, from psychologists through therapist, psychiatrist and most certainly onward to these frikin self help group therapy sessions. The thought of handing my problems off to someone else, let alone someone I don't know makes my skin crawl and my brain hurt. For those of you who know me, I think your head just nodded. It's with that, that I trudged off to my second AA session last Tuesday. Yes, I might agree that the initial session was helpful, helpful in so much as it got a lot of folks off my back, helpful in so much as it gave me a slight sense of atonement for the absolutely ridiculous behavior of the night before and a few nights before that. Perhaps it was my way of saying sorry, truly "I am sorry" in some concrete fashion. Ya, ya... I'll continue to NOT drink, and ya ya, I'll continue to go to these meetings, if only to help my friends over this hump in understanding that I do not take my own bad behavior lightly. I may have an obsessive disorder around booze, I definitely have an addictive personality, overshadowing these is my absolute NEED to be liked. [A few more heads nod perhaps]. Acting badly, albeit a recent, somewhat frightening trend in my behavior, being a bad drunk, recently has scared the livin bejeesus out of me. It's been the topic of conversation with myself frequently, especially over the last six or seven months... If I have come to any conclusion, it's Gord, you're forty, firstly it's going to hurt regardless, secondly, if you're hurting already, WELL, it might not be pretty. Of course my taking the express service to Drunkton via the Jack Danials express service bus definitely has played into, and wreaked havoc on my gentle beer drinking soul... At this last meeting, I saw nothing but a bunch of whiners, not able to face, manage or solve their own problems [sorry guys at the West End Church, that was kind of harsh]. I saw, what my mind has always told me, a big ol' bunch of weak people. I admit, I am never always right, and most everything I think has an element wrongness to it. I will continue to attend these meetings on your behalf, I will continue to attend to make you feel comfortable, I will continue to attend because I need to feed my primary obsession. For those of you who see this as a great big rationalization in the process of unfolding in to one big freakin' binge. Take note, I have promised myself [that would be me], that I would not drink, and not drink for a considerable period of time. I may not drink again. At the very least, I will not drink until such time as my emotional state surrounding the current issue is resolved. As I understand this, this will be quite some time. The beauty is, is that most of my good friends have shown nothing but support. I have rid them of the need to give me that mental patient sympathy that many people feel the need to give when a pal checks into his own private Idaho. Since adding the meetings to my life, I have drank with pals, enjoyed there company as they swaggered into that beloved place. I have sat alone in my church on my pew, watching the game and talking with the stranger next to me. I have looked my pastor in the eye and said with nary a hint of regret, "can you get me some soda and lime"... These last few days have not been without some pressured moments, but you know what my friends...

9:16 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Dec 2004

Day 17 - Skipping Christmas... Future Space

Current mood:dorky

Note to myself... So I had a wonderful epiphony today. I've been stressing over what to do with this big ol' apartment that I'm living in. I have been thinking, dump it, as it is a little on the expensive side, AND who wants to live in the midst of all those memories, vibes etc... The heck with that! It's a great place I'm staying. As for the memories, I have friends who can do some things, ritualistic type things that can apparantly rid a place of bad vibes, so we'll give that a try [I'll start with burning some white sage, then move on to the heavy hitters if need be]. The epiphony was that I was sitting on a potential perfect apartment. Once rid of all do-dads, knick knack and bric-a-brac, the place is potentially a "zen palace". I finally had a clear recollection of my Pre-X existance back in Toronto. I had a nice one bedroom, with a huge living room. The living room contained three desks strung together to make a great large workspace, I had a chair, a computer and a TV. My kitchen had cooking utensils and enough dinner ware and flatware to accomdate myself and one dinner guest. The bedroom had a TV and a bed... I will virtually return to this space as of the end of January. Once the X has moved her stuff out, or as much of it as she can [she can keep stuff at my place as long it is stored in uniform storage bins]. I will return to my once clean, once uncluttered life. Items I will have will be as follows, and that is all [not including consumables like soap and milk] -15 pair of underwear -15 pair of socks -2 pair of sneakers -2 pair of dress shoes -6 pair of every day pants -4 pair of dress pants -24 T-shirts -6 dress shirts -3 suits -2 winter coats -1 pair of gloves -1 touque -1 pair of glasses -10 pieces, miscellaneous cloth items, mostly women's wear for those crazy nights :-) -2 forks -2 knives -2 plates -2 bowls -2 coffe cups -4 multi purpose glasses -2 large spoons -2 small spoons -1 kitchen table -2 kitchen chairs -1 large pot -1 small pot -1 small fry pan -1 large fry pan -1 pasta strainer -12 piece set of disposable storage containers -1 kitchen knife set -5 pieces of miscellaneous cooking utensil -1 cork screw -3 towels -1 toothbrush -1 water pic -4 sheets -3 duevys -4 pillows -4 pillow cases -1 single futon -1 double futon -2 plastic chest of drawers -20 hangers -1 alarm clock -1 amplifier -2 simple desks -1 rolling desk drawer -1 office chair -4 folding chairs -1 TV -1 rolling TV stand -1 computer -3 pens -1 pair of scissors -1 roll of tape -string... and a box of bandages Please, if you see anything glaringly missing from this list please notify me. I actually plan to try to live with less. Ultimate comfort, with absolutely no stuff. Looking forward to your next visit, oh, and I am not as anal as this post makes me out to be...

4:52 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

27 Dec 2004

SOSG - Epic Christmas Report... Day Beyond Days

Well, I am sitting here quite exhausted. It has indeed been an Epic Christmas. Epic walks, epic talks with myself, a good bunch of days indeed. Just so I remember all this myself, I'll jot it down. Enjoy if you like, or skip over it all, hey, you probably had a great Christmas yourself. At least you better have. So it begins... Segment ONE It started off as I hoped it would. I was in a great mood... sang little Christmas songs to my slumbering roomies as I left for the day. Wandered down to Williamsburg to catch the L train. On days when I don't have to really work, but go in anyhow, I like to go a different way. Anyhow, took the L to Union Square, it was getting a bit cold so I armed myself with a new hat from a table vendor on 5th. Got to work, answered a few calls, then went out looking for good deeds to do the next day... Actually, I had done a major good deed the night before involving silk long johns, way too much rain and an old Black gentleman who actually said " who dat" when I rang his doorbell on some god forsaken lonley street in Bed-Stuy, but I digress. Actually, I had two plans for the day Friday, one to find a good deed to do for Christmas, the other to buy Jen an iPod. Two simple missions that I hoped would fill the gap between say 1:00pm and the time I was to get to St. Thomas' for Mass. So it began... I'll finish this up later, or tomorrow... I'm feeling woozy after a full day of driving the city with my pal Veronica. Stay tuned...

7:47 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 Dec 2004

Day 13... Friday the 13th Day - Happy Christmas

Current mood:giddy

Merry Christmas to all my sort of, once were or still are Christian friends. F off and die to all my Jewish pals... OK, to all my Jewish pals, enjoy the day, remember it's because of Jesus that you get all these extra days off on top of Yom Kipper, Pass Over, and well all those other freaky wierd New York Holidays! Honestly, I love all of you... I'm looking forward to my Christmas adventure starting today... First off, I'm going to wade into the Christmas Shopping Whirlpool, and NOT shop! Then I'm gonna go down and get a table for one at the Silver Swan. They're cookin' a Goose, and I'm going to eat it! After that, I'm going to walk up to that spookie Anglican Church on Fifth Ave. and see if I can't crash Midnight Mass [I am after all a born Anglican you yankee bastards]. My plan is to walk over the 59th Street Bridge after that. I have a personal bond with that Bridge. Then, it's off to sleep, and see if Ol' Saint Nick has anything left in his bag for broken down old drunken fools... probably not. Tomorrow, I'm still trying to find a place to volunteer, on my walks today, I'll pull into some churches, see if they can point me in some direction. Couple of monastic societies right here around the office. That may be my best bet at this point. If I can't get a good samaritin' gig, oh I'll probably do a bridge walk and hand out cigarettes to homeless people. Anyhow... the adventure in the City has already begun. I hope that your Christmas is off to a good start! And that under all that wrapping paper is the day that you were hoping to have. Yes, I am ambivelent about this holiday, but c'mon underneath all this growling is the little kid whose eyes burst open at 6:00am, ran down to the tree that the folks MUST HAVE ADDED EXTRA LIGHTS TO IN THE NIGHT... waited impatiently for dad to make his coffee then tore into the piles of gifts [sock and underwear mostly] The kid who got the table hockey game he wanted, the hotwheel power set he wanted, the GI Joe Gemini Space capsule he wanted... OK, one year my Mom STUPIDY got me a Maple Leafs Sweater instead of a Habs sweater... But every year, like in the Christmas Story, I was the little nerdy kid, whose folks always got me that one great gift I wanted... How can I not deep down, like Christmas. This year... I'll get what I want as well... I want very little. OK, yes, you all know I'm a sappy bastard. All I want is for alll you folks to have as good a time as I'm going to have. AND, I'm already having a good time, so CATCH UP foo... Love, Great Big Hugs, and Great big Kisses! Gordy

11:48 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

23 Dec 2004

DOG-S - Day Twelve... Where the F' are my FIVE Golden Rings

Current mood:complacent

So, as I continue to babble into empty space here, actually this has been quite beneficial personally, hence my continuous babble. Got that meeting under my belt, proved to myself, that although difficult, I can still socialize in the places I like dearly to socialize [OK, I tested the waters...], Actually the test went very well. A good confidence builder on two fronts; the first being, I am not barred from the bar due to some weak kneed panty assed in ability to control myself; and secondly as I reminded myself that my friendship pool runs wide and deep... Thanks Doc! A good First Merry Christmas experience, indeed. It's good being forty-plus, unless of course you are measuring your waist size. I mean, you've got rid of all that teen aged angst [usually by the time you're 30], your emotions although perhaps wild at times are never foreign, nor ever any real big shocking surprise [yes my little ones, I have blown apart before, and no I have no felonious records, and YES I have stitched these blown pieces back together again... more than once]... I'd say that the best thing about being forty is you have for the most part figured yourself out. You've either ditched harmful family members or have made peace with them all, me, I'm lucky among that ranks of my family sit more than a few of my truly best friends... Your forties also leaves you in the midst of a very deep, very wide and very diverse friendship pool. Friends to me are nary micro inches from family. Friends do come and go, and yes friends do not have that obligated commitment that family does, but perhaps maybe that's what makes them almost more the special. Imagine choosing to put up with someone as vile as Uncle Eliach... Anyhow, I am rambling. Over the past few weeks, some older friends, friends who have become a bit distant have re-entered my life. Some more casual friends have become closer, and obviously, relations with yet other friends have become somewhat strained. I guess I'm heading to this... The best people in the world are the people you meet. My swirling pool of pals have given me almost everything I have, at the least they've given me the things I cherish, happiness, hope, strength, sense of belonging and being needed... I really do love you guys, honestly, I really do. Golden Rings... Golden Brown White Castle Chicken rings... Now let's go eat some F'n partridge and beat on some faggy Lords. Merry Christmas ya Freakin' Bone Heads

7:27 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

22 Dec 2004

Drunken old Single Guy - Day Whatever...

An oldie but a goodie... well, OK, a good and stinky oldie: Q: What's the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic? A: A drunk doesn't have to go to all those stupid meetings. I have given so many apologies over the last few days, they are starting to ring hollow. I am hoping to avoid contact with friends as much as possible this weekend. I know this will be difficult especially with respect to those friends who live with me. Go out and enjoy your holiday. I am going out to enjoy mine. With a bit of soda and lime thank you very much. See you all in 2005! xo GG

3:31 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

20 Dec 2004

SOSG - Day Nine, number 9, number 9, number 9...

Current mood:hopeful

And back out the other side we come. Yesterday was frightfully awful. Hey, before I begin, let me just say to my pals thanks for the encouraging words, thanks for the concern AND please accept my apology if you did happened to see me on Wednesday or Friday nights. So, back out the other side. I've always liked the number 9. At this point I am no longer angry and am looking forward to the week ahead. Lots of work to do to keep my mind off things. No plans, i.e. no Christmas Parties, or friendly get together that might end in debauchery... AND it's a short week. The X has told me that she will be out with friends Friday and Saturday, so I get to spend Christmas completely alone. Trust me I am looking forward to this. I think I might go get myself a German meal on Friday night, then maybe, just maybe try to get to Church on Saturday morning [imagine that]. I will definitely be indulging in very long solitary wander on Saturday. Weather.com tells me it'll be above freezing, if that's the case, NYC beware... I might make it to more places than Santa Clause did the night before. So, yes, I am looking forward to Christmas... A Christmas with absolutely NO obligations what so ever. Just the way I like it. Hey, maybe I'll find God :-)

9:57 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

18 Dec 2004

What is a Bridge?

So, I've had a good day. Spent some time at work, got a call from the sister... hung at Minettas for the afternoon. Hey, now that I am, well leberated, you might juts find me doing ten times more things than I used to do. Hey, I don't have to wait on, cow tow to or other wise give one flying rats ass concern about anyone else at all these days. Viva la smoke 'em if you got 'em... Anyhow, what is a Bridge? After Minetta's, I walked over to another of my favorite spots... Oh, BTW at Minetta's, I met the nicest couple from Houseton, or Huse-ton or what ever. At my other favorite place, the Spring lounge at Spring and Mulberry, I hung with a couple of gals from Bristol... blah blah blah... What is a Bridge... After the spring lounge, I pulled into Little Charlies, Litttle Charlies on... on what... OK, on that street that turns into Delancy. Anyhow, this is the place that we went to last Saturday to celebrate the young roomies B'day. Had a nice drink there, chatted with the Domican Bartender... [insert Catholic, Spanish Christmas Story Here]... Anyhow, decided to walk home... Again. What is a bridge... A bridge is a device, a contruct, an apparatus that crosses some form of devide... Abridge allows you to cross from some place to another place. A bridge is a convenience. From the Williamsburg Bridge, you can basically see America learning how to make Bridges. You can see 8 of the 9 greatest spans in North America [would you like me to name then... Brooklyn, Manhatten, Williamsburg, 59th Street, Triboro, Throgs Neck, the Whitstone and the Verizanno...] I've always loved the Williamsburg Bridge, mostly because of the fact that you can actually see all these bridges... BUT also,an finally because it is the most overbuilt Bridge in the city... Imagine wanting to get from here to there so bad that you waste that much energy and raw materials What is a Bridge... A bridge is something I could seriously use right now.

8:08 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

18 Dec 2004

Day Seven - Here Comes the F'n Anger... Bitches!

Current mood:annoyed

So let me start this somewhat abbreviated post with a classic joke... [abbreviated as I dare not say things I shall regret later] Anyhow, the joke... Two guys are chatting in the office [OK, around the F'n water cooler if that makes you F'n happy]... 1st Guy: So, I made a freakin dandy Freudian slip last weekend. 2nd Guy: Freudian slip, what the hell is that 1st Guy: Huh, what kinda dumbass are you, you know, Freudian slip, what, OK, I was in line to get tickets for the train when I notice that the girl at the counter had the biggest set of knockers I've ever seen... I mean, I couldn't take my eyes off them 2nd Guy: And, what's this got to do with Freudian Slips 1st Guy: Shut up, I'll tell you... So anyway when I get to the counter, I could barely take my eyes of these melons. I eventually looked her straight in the eyes and instead of saying, I'd like two tickets to Pittsburgh, I blurt out "I'd like two Pickets to Titsburgh"... talk about... 2nd Guy: What?! That's what you call a Freudian Slip, shit man I had one of those just this morning. 1st Guy: Oh ya, do tell 2nd Guy: Well, I was sitting with my wife at the breakfast table this morning. What I meant to ask her was, dear, can you pass the sugar. What I actually said was, "Bitch, you ruined my life." [rim shot... enjoy the veal] Yes, here comes the anger bitches. Seething uncontrollable anger. Good thing everyone I know and care about either does not live here, or is out of town for the weekend [or staying at their sisters place]. Good thing the X is taking what used to be OUR car and is taking off to her parents in Shelter Island. Would love to be the fly on those walls later tonight. Would love to learn just how bad a person I have become... I'm not going to growl over that just now... nope, I'm going to growl over something far more important. Just how fucking mad I am at myself. Specifically, just how mad I am at New York Gord. I tell you, I'm seriously thinking about calling up Art School Gord and Toronto Gord, having them come down and beat the piss out of New York Gord. I mean, how have I let New York Gord become such a F'n fool. Drunken fool, OK, but FUCK YOU bitches, Drunken Fool Gord used to be an OK guy. OK, before he let himself become a F'n pussy whipped panty waste. Before he some how started to recede into some weird fucking comfort and allowed himself to see a series of interesting adventures/experiences pass as a life. Before he subrogated himself to someone for the sheer convenience of more easily allowing him a presence in this foreign country. Before he convinced himself that he wanted to continue the futile pantomime that has now, quite thankfully closed to really bad fucking reviews. So, where does this anger lead... Hey, bitches if you're listening, I've been here and done all this before. Honestly, in a way this seems like a pale repeat, it really is just a modern day Hollywood Knock off of a far better movie, classic movie that was originally released in the early 90's... Kinda the Oceans Twelve version of the really serious crap that unfolded... well, anyhow, who the fuck cares... Where does this anger lead... It leads right back to where I am now. As with everything else, I'll get over this. Hopefully I'll be a better drunk, and hopefully I will not piss off too many friends, and hopefully I won't be completely alone. I really can't wait until Toronto Gord and Art School Gord get down here to hang that beating on me. Hey, maybe they'll beat the Greenpoint outta New York Gord, and New York Gord could move on to something completely new. Who the FUCK Knows! Now it's off to Mineta's in the Village for some good ol' gangsta italiano. Hey, maybe I'll get lucky, piss off a piasano and get a good ol' pistol whippin. Peace and Love Bitches, Peace and Love

1:45 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

17 Dec 2004

SOSG - Day Six... Crushing Overwhelming Lonliness

Current mood:blank

Just Kidding... It's necessary, I know, but I am really not enjoying the X's daily apartment search update... Nor am I thrilled to hear that the little roomie has found an apartment. OK, guys, it's OK, I gotta know this stuff, want to help best I can and definitely don't want to be surprised, so carry on. Just remember that at the end of your searches I'm left rattling around a big ol' empty furnitureless place full of old memories that I can barely afford. Of course, what I should be doing is looking myself, unfortunately the 60 70 hours I'm putting in at work these days doesn't leave enough time or energy to get that underway. Anyhow... look at me being all whiney and self absorbed. Let's move on. Had a great little moment last night. Pulled into a bar on N 7th, Zoblonski's or something to that effect. Really just another Williamsburg trendy kid hang out.... but well appointed, AND staffed by a bartender playing some great tunes off his ibook. Anyhow, after some mutual admiration over the music, introducing him to Ema Sumac... he threw on some old Portishead, Dummy. Well if that didn't take me right back to my divorce. I had almost forgot about that stuff. Anyhow, I ended up sitting there, ordered an extra beer, put a sad smile on my face and had a nice little fade back to the days of Michele... The torrid days of post-marriage Toronto bein' the old man poppin from rave to rave, hangin' out at the trannie bars and generally getting shit faced with my old pal and co-bachelor cohort Oliver. They were good days. My mission today, download Dummy Here comes the weekend.

11:26 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

16 Dec 2004

Stinky Old F-Head: Day 4, or 5... The Office X-mas Party

So, apparantly I only embarrassed myself, my X and my roomie... Everyone at the office seems oblivious to anything that may have happened between 8:30pm and 4:00am... Good. I feel like crap. Tonight I sleep

11:39 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

15 Dec 2004

Diary of a Old Single Guy - Day 4: Honestly, you can't beat friends!

Current mood:cheerful

Had a few drinks with the pals last night, always good to chit chat with friends at times like these. It was really nice as the X did pop in and I think we established quickly that our common pals weren't going to be all squirmy around the two of us [correct me if I'm wrong here]. I do have one small pledge to make, yes, ok, I will try to keep the gallows humor to a minimum. Anyhow, this is all going so smoothly, that I cannot help but think I am going to get slammed hard at some point soon. Or, maybe it just wont be hard this time 'round. Maybe the final physical splitting of the ways will crush me like a cartoon anvil, who knows. Maybe I should re-write this page of mine. Anyhow, back to the first thought. Friends really are the best folks. Unlike family, they do drift in and out of your life more frequently, but honestly the ones drifting close to me at this time are, well, great. Thanks Oh, and thanks for the great big heeping pile of Chicken De... whatever you call it. My belly is happier for it today.

9:50 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

14 Dec 2004

Diary of a Old Single Guy - Day 3: I Have Two Roomates

Current mood:productive

So, yes my mom has called, and my cousin has left me email. My mother wants to make sure that I'm not drinking too much and that I am brushing my teeth. My cousin, well, he's just checking in. Me, I have checked into Hotel X. One of the unique wrinkles on breaking up in NYC is that, firstly, it's impossible to find a new place any time soon, AND none of your friends have room on the couch [my couch is already occupied]... So, you're kind of left stuck living with your X for a while after the formal break up. This isn't that big of a problem in my case, as we are very civil people. I can't imagine what it must be like for those couple's whose break up is punctuated by a smashed plate over the head. I'm looking at this period, two month, three months, six months whatever as an opprtunity to chill down the old relationship and work on the buddy thing. The fact that we already have a roomie is probably a good thing as it reinforces that whole concept that we're just three dudes sharing some space. The plan tonight is to clean it all up a bit so that we can share it a bit better, and enjoy it through the winter. Ya, ya, for those of you who still see some foolish optimism being spouted here, well I'll remind you, I've been here, I know what's coming, and I know why I'm feeling like I'm feeling. Yes, I have thought about her absense at next Thanksgiving, yes, I am worried about what we will finally do with the cats AND yes, I see a huge gaping hole in the next twelve months "regularily scheduled" family events... maybe the X will still fill some, maybe some other gal will. Does anyone know a great cheap place to get major dental work done?

9:49 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Dec 2004

Diary of a Stinky Old Single Guy - Day One

Current mood:complacent

OK, in all honesty, it's day two, day one was eradicated by my sleeping in until 1:30, then drinking my face off watching the days football games, then passing out at 8:30. A typical day one as far as I remember. So, as far as this goes, I'm settling into this OK today. Back at work. Sending email back and forth with the X, you know trying to establish the terms of the post relationship relationship. Having done this before, it all seems oddly familiar. Familiar but obviously not the same. I think there is the opportunity to do something interesting with this post relationship relationship. I mean considering how we managed the relationship in the first place. Early optimism, I guess we'll have to see. I do however have a lot of faith in the old gal, and her ability to let things develop oddly with respect to the way they are supposed to work out. Regrets Today: Oh, way to frikin many to bore you with. Feelings Today: Hurt sad and other wise panicked to be yet again facing this cold harsh world without a solid companion. Projects: Redo my resume

3:06 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Dec 2004

Single Old Man... Again

Current mood:melancholy

So here I am again... Fear not, this is not going to be some whiny self indulgent post about how wronged I have been, or how sad I am. Well, OK yes I am a bit sad, and I guess really this can't be anything but self indulgent. As for the wronged bit, nope I aint been wronged at all. Hey all this has happened before. It was a little less than ten years ago, I woke up an old single guy after loosing my wife of eight years. Things weren't so bad after we sold the kids into slavery, but it did hurt for quite sometime. The nice thing about this current situation is that the intensity of the hurt is nowhere the suprise it was the first time. Waking up an old single guy is not without it's exciting moments. Hey, the opportunity to haggle with new chicks is a pretty cool thought, dampenned somewhat this time considering we did have an open relationship, and that I was able to have haggled with new chicks if I so wanted. Honestly, this time around, I think I'll just enjoy being an old single man alone. Most likely as I am a quite a bit older single man than I was the first time, and well, I've found out over the last few years that the battlefield on which this thing called dating and fucking has become a far more difficult place... for an older single man. [Besides, I have major renovations to take care of if I want to put a good package out there on the market]... So, here I am starting off as an old single man for the second time, and as a single man for the 5th time. I'll ask [warn perhaps] my friends up front, please bare with a few maudline moments. I swear this time I will try to keep the over-indulgent antics to a minimum, I really just couldn't survive the level of substance abuse I put myself through the last time. Hey, for all my couply pals, I'll try not to fifth wheel you too much... But please, let's stay in touch. OK, let the renovations begin. Thanks in advance for your patience. LUV Gord

9:51 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

2 Dec 2004

In a strange and beautiful WORLD

Comedy Central will bleep the word FUCK out of an episode of South Park in which Paris Hilton coughs up cum every 5 minutes, and where the final act involves Mr. Slave taking Paris up his ass... completely. Don't get me wrong, I love all this.

9:40 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Nov 2004

Do YOU want to be a Candian?

Current mood:excited

...I want to be an American. I have been down here for 5 years now, on legal, but tenuous grounds. If you want to get to Canada, let's hook up... get to know one another, stratigize how we can help each other out, OR as they say in my old country... oot. I know this sounds crazy to YOU, but I love the USA. I'm encouraged and take pride in the fact that you would consider living in my homeland. Contact me. GG Disclaimer, only serious adults who feel disenchanted should respond.

11:17 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Nov 2004

Official Off Myspace Blog

Current mood:accomplished

Yes, I am following my friends down the dangerous path of self indulgence and delusional thinking that anyone really cares... http://gogo_nyc.blogspot.com/ I warn you, so far, it aint much

9:26 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

4 Nov 2004

Looks like the real fun was at CBS, over to you Dan:

Current mood:busy

"Do you hear that knocking...President Bush's re-election is at the door." "This race is hotter than the Devil's anvil." "His lead is as thin as turnip soup." "This race is humming along like Ray Charles." "The presidential race is swinging like Count Basie." "This race is hotter than a Times Square Rolex." "Ohio becomes like a sauna for the two candidates. All they can do is wait and sweat." "One's reminded of that old saying, 'Don't taunt the alligator until after you've crossed the creek.'" "Bush is sweeping through the South like a big wheel through a cotton field." "What Kerry needs at this point is the equivalent of Tom Brady coming off the bench to rescue him. But it's still too close to call." "No question now that Kerry's rapidly reaching the point where he's got his back to the wall, his shirttails on fire and the bill collector's at the door." "John Kerry needs something on the order of a 55 or 60-yard field goal to win this." (To Joe Lockhart) "I know that you'd rather walk through a furnace in a gasoline suit than consider the possibility that John Kerry would lose Ohio." (To Joe Lockhart) "What about Michigan? It's been out there for a long time. Is that making your fingernails sweat?" "This presidential race has been crackling like a hickory fire for at least the last hour and a half." "Let's see where it goes from here. Round and round it goes, where it stops nobody knows." "We keep talking about Ohio if you've been tuning in and out or you put the baby to bed or you went to pop the cap on an adult, or otherwise, beverage..." "We used to say if a frog had side pockets, he'd carry a handgun." "No one is saying that George Bush is not going to win the election, and if you had to bet the double-wide, you'd have to bet that he'd win." "We need Billy Crystal to Analyze This" "You know that old song, 'it's delightful, it's delicious, it's de-lovely' for President Bush in most areas of the country." "We had a slight hitch in our giddy up, but we corrected that." "In some ways, George Bush's lead is as thin as November ice." "Put on a cup of coffee, this race isn't going to be over for a while." "You look at the map and say it's all a big Bush victory. But this is one time when your Mother is right, looks can be deceiving." "John Kerry's moon has just moved behind a cloud, as far as Florida is concerned." On Kerry's chances: "To use a metaphor, he's gotta draw to an inside straight. But hey, sometimes you get lucky and hit that straight." "Is it like a swan, with every feather above the water settled, but under the water paddling like crazy?" "What you have here is the football equivalent of a fourth quarter rally by Kerry." The election is "closer than Lassie and Timmy" "Keep in mind they are teetotally meetmortally convinced they have Ohio won." "Vice President Dick Cheney would not have flown all the way out there (Hawaii) overnight and put that lei around his neck and sort of hula-danced, if you will, unless he thought there was a chance of carrying that out there." "President Bush smiling there with his family. He's laid down aces so far." "You can almost hear the GOP (deep breathing sound). We're getting within maybe smelling distance." "We don't know what to do. We don't know whether to wind a watch or bark at the moon." On how the results are affecting strategists: "It's one reason so many of them drink a lot." Sen. John McCain (R-AZ), on being congratulated on victory by Rather: "Thanks Dan, I always believe you." Rather: "Now, ladies and gentleman, if you believe that, you'll believe rocks can grow."

9:04 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

3 Nov 2004

God Bless America [in a kind of agnostic way]

Current mood:blank

Well, that's finally over, and finished off as it should be. How this country even toyed with the idea of changing leadership at this moment in History is beyond me. No, I do not think elections should be suspended, yes, I believe our greatest strength is dissent, discussion, debate and the abilty to adapt as a nation to shifting times, but... The quality of the discussion, the level of animosity... the plain old imature borishness of the critique is something we all have to think about. We sunk a few notches over the last year, I think this country can do better. There are more than a few people, public people who should take a long hard look at themselves and ask themselves "what good did they bring" to the growth of our democracy. I claim no higher ground, but I honestly do not recall having YELLED at anyone, at least not as loudly and visciously as I was yelled at. Istrongly believe that although I am steadfast in my disagreement with what the Democratic Party put forward this cycle, their platform was built on good intentions and love of country. AND yes, I know there are many layers and folds, activities and objectives underlying what we are made aware of, but again, I truely believe that underlying objective of both parties [all parties] are the advancement of this country and the protection of it's citizens. Let's start from there next time around. Wouldn't it be great if we were to demand a more thourough debate... I'm dreaming. 2008, unless a drastic change is made, will bring two brand new candidates. Let's hope they are presented to us as something more than the two carboard cut-outs that we were given this time 'round. America can do better, and so can we. Now shut up and do what you are told, bitches!

12:15 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

27 Oct 2004

Today's Winning Newspaper Quote...

Current mood:blah

...he [Bush, has finally returned to] making the case that terrorism is the only issue that really matters. To discuss anything else after 9/11 is like asking Mrs. Lincoln: "Other than that, how did you like the play?"

Dick Morris, The New York Post

2:27 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

20 Oct 2004

Back from the dead

Current mood:blah

Man was that a trip... Sunday, thought it was just a hang over, Monday morning. Shivers, shakes, hacking wretching and... the gurgle. That gurgle that last even to today. The gurgle that's churning everything inside me to a greyish brown mush. A mush that has no preference on an exit route outta my body. I'm back at my desk, focussing on keeping the mush in it's place, or at least on the right path. Tonight, is a dangerous night. xo Missed you all

7:19 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

15 Oct 2004

Red State Blue State... No Debat

<a href="http://www.electoral-vote.com/"><img border="0"

src="http://www.electoral-vote.com/ev.png"

alt="Click for www.electoral-vote.com" width="144" height="96" /></a>

1:30 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Oct 2004

Yes, it's the Republicans who are the badies... yes indeed

Current mood:apathetic

What if Republican Partisans did the following:

burned an 8-foot-by-8-foot Nazi swastika on a homeowner's lawn, which had been decorated with Kerry/Edward signs.

stormed the local Kerry/Edward headquarters, and the ensuing melee injured at least two Democrat campaign workers.

shot into the Kerry/Edward headquarters in Knoxville, Tenn.

shot into the Kerry/Edward headquarters in Huntington, W. Va.

shot into the Kerry/Edward headquarters in Florida

vandalized the Democrat Election office in Gallatin County, Mont., not once but twice in less than a week.

burglarized and/or vandalized the Seattle area, Spokane, Wash., Canton, Ohio, Fairbanks, Alaska, and Edwardsville, Ill. Democratic campaign offices

harassed a female Bush supporter on a plane bound for Alaska to the point where the pilots had no choice but to land in Winnipeg

punched the county chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee in the face at the town Democrativ headquarters.

Well according to my news sources... This is what has been happening of late:

In Madison, Wis., someone burned an 8-foot-by-8-foot Nazi swastika on a homeowner's lawn, which had been decorated with Bush-Cheney signs. The vandals used grass killer to spray the hate symbol (it's OK, Bush-hating trumps environmentalism). Several other homes nearby were vandalized.

In Orlando, Fla., Democrats stormed the local Bush/Cheney headquarters, and the ensuing melee resulted in physical injuries to at least two Republican campaign workers. The liberal protesters justified their actions -- including ramming the head of one of the workers into an office door -- by blaming President Bush's "negative campaign."

In Knoxville, Tenn., someone shot into the Bush/Cheney headquarters. Shots were also fired into Bush/Cheney offices in Huntington, W. Va., and Florida.

The GOP office in Gallatin County, Mont., was vandalized twice in less than a week.

Republican offices in the Seattle area, Spokane, Wash., Canton, Ohio, Fairbanks, Alaska, and Edwardsville, Ill., have also been burglarized and/or vandalized.

On an Alaska-bound flight, a drunken Kerry supporter went ballistic after harassing a female Bush supporter and refusing to calm down at the request of flight attendants.

In Gainesville, Fla., police arrested a Democrat accused of punching the chairman of the Alachua County Republican Executive Committee in the face at the town Republican headquarters. The accused, David McCally, also punched a life-sized, cardboard cutout of President George Bush. McCally is a community college instructor whose specialty is social and behavioral sciences.

According to the GOP chairman, Travis Horn, McCally hurled obscenities at him before the assault. "He proceeded to say how he had a Ph.D., and he was smarter than me. I'm a stupid Republican."

Indeed, what would be happening right now.

Another question, why is this not be reported elsewhere?

I mean, I come from a time and place where a single campaign headquarter break in lead directly to the resignation of the President.

1:09 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

8 Oct 2004

Canada's Lesson to the World....

Forget money [for Oil for food], Forget power and politics... The french above everything else fear for the demise of their language. They just can't get over the fact that they've lost every major battle for cultural superiority AND that when all is said and done, this earth wouldn't miss their sorry pissant butts one ioda if theye were to be irradicated once and for all. Hope there's enough room for French Culture along side Islam in that great big trash can full of really dumb things us humans have done over the centuries. ================ Chirac lashes out against US cultural domination Thu Oct 07 2004 21:37:42 ET French President Jacques Chirac warned Thursday of a "catastrophe" for global diversity if the United States' cultural hegemony goes unchallenged. Speaking at a French cultural center in Hanoi ahead of Friday's opening of a summit of European and Asian leaders, Chirac said France was right to stand up for cultural and linguistic diversity. The outspoken French president warned that the world's different cultures could be "choked" by US values. This, he said, would lead to a "general world sub-culture" based around the English language, which would be "a real ecological catastrophe". Citing Hollywood's stranglehold over the film industry as an example, Chirac stressed that only with government assistance could countries maintain their cultural heritage. Vietnam is a former French colony, but only around 375,000 of its 81 million people speak French. English is considered by most people a far more valuable and practical second language, particularly among businessmen.

10:10 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

5 Oct 2004

Farinhiet 911, Or So they Say

Current mood:aggravated

I finally got around to watching the bootleg version I bought off the subway about a month ago. I gotta say, the quality was quite good. I mean the bootleg quality. God bless the folks who brought me this movie without my need to give MM any of my cash.

Anyhow, my quickie review: A well done piece of crap.

MM's career in Advertising is assured. In respect to modern advertising standards, tricks an techniques, this was a pretty good effort. As a documentary, hey, I haven't read all the rebutals with respect to truth, but honetsly, how truthful can it be when he continues to go back to the same hacks over and over again.

As for stringing together Bush's links to Saudies and various American business men... What? I'm supposed to be blown away by all of this [dude]... I mean Dude, he wouldn't BE President if he did not have these connections. Hey, trace the links of all the other men who have run for President, you'll find the same old links. Old news, problem, yes, big problem... well sorry America, ain't no resolution so get over it.

As my pappy used to say, it's easy to criticize... even easier to attack [even easier so when now one is really vetting your statements].

My opinion remains unchanged. Michael Moore is a big fat dangerous movie maker. His opinion is welcome in a free and open society. His opinion should definately NOT go unchallenged. I can see why toe-headed young tree hugging pot smokin' drum banging lib-kids love this guy.

1:02 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Sep 2004

We live in a strange time

Current mood:annoyed

8:11 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 Sep 2004

Giuliani makes a mistake

Former New York Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani told President Bush this week that he is sorry. "I owe you an apology," Mr. Giuliani began. "I made a mistake during my [Republican National Convention] speech ... I said that with 64 days to go, John Kerry could change his mind five or six times about what to do in Iraq. Well, he's already changed his mind four or five times and I'm going to be proven wrong again because I think we're looking more like eight or nine times."

1:49 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 Sep 2004

Deep into the heart of the Blue State

Today we will be traveling deep into Democrat territory... Who knows what horrifying mysteries await us. Will the creatures that lurk in the dark shadows of this depressing, defeatists, anti-American area smell our alleigiences, will they understand the "W" I wear so proudly on my hat?   Rest assured, I will be packing my "Kennedy Whackin' Stick"!

11:28 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

22 Sep 2004

Gimme Shelter

What kind of people re-act this way to John Kerry, I'm confused. What could he have possibly said?

5:03 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

21 Sep 2004

It's that time of year...

OK, now that summer is over... It's time to walk about! Time to feel the nip as you take a nip at the foot of Huron, or walk over your favorite bridge. Any takers?    OK, not this weekend, but next weekend for sureszies

4:26 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

15 Sep 2004

Hang on N.O., Hang ON!

If a strong Category 4 storm such as Ivan made a direct hit [on the city of New Orleans], he warned, 50,000 people could drown, and the city could cease to exist. "This could be The One," Maestri said. "You're talking about the potential loss of a major metropolitan area."

10:54 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

14 Sep 2004

Mackerel: Burying the Fish

One man's version of the death of my company... Entertaining, if not a bit to much from the flacky artist side of the equation -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mackerel: Burying the Fish Wired, never published Cory Doctorow This article was a heart-break. It was commissioned by an editor at Wired, after I told him about some friends of mine who'd started one of the very first multimedia firms, spent years looking for a backer, found one, then got savagely fucked by same. I spend an entire month collecting over a hundred hours of interviews, reviewing their software, and writing the thing. Then the editor quit Wired. I got bounced from editor to editor for eight months, before they finally turned it down. I got a nice kill-fee, but sad to say, the article never saw print. The Mackerlites were pretty pissed -- they all had their hearts set on finally getting some recognition. Years before Mackerel Interactive close its doors forever, it beat out Cosmic Osmo, the precursor to Myst, at the MacWorld awards. The company, a tiny startup from frozen, stodgy Toronto, was clearly going somewhere. Over the course of its nine-year run, Mackerel essentially invented the market for interactive in Canada. It was the definitive multimedia start-up: cash-strapped and crazy, the living embodiment of every art-geek's revenge fantasy. They toiled in the wilderness, inventing beautiful interfaces, ultra-clean designs. They were interactive artists. Who says artists know squat about running a business? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Art school graduates. Whaddya gonna do? I mean, here you've got this nifty diploma in "Photoelectric Arts" or, God help you, "Fine Arts," and you've got a zero bank-balance and you've got a burning need to find a job. Any job. In Toronto, in the mid-Eighties, that job was Colorization, the twisted love-child of Ted Turner. Hour upon hour of mousing over frame after frame of black-and-white classics, turning Jimmy Stewart an unhealthy shade of green, making Laurel and Hardy crayon-pink. If you're not totally mind-numbed by this, if you show any spark of human spirit, you'll get promoted. Oh, boy. Kevin Steele and Gord Gower knew they'd had enough. Kevin's mom, a radical expelled from the University of Minneapolis with Kevin's Trotksyist father, and deported to her native Canada as an Undesirable Alien in Kevin's infancy, had a Mac 512KE. She upgraded to an SE, and Kevin inherited the spunky little thing. Gord, in a fit of jealousy, bought a MacPlus with a 20MB harddrive. What the hell? They quit their day-jobs. Kat Cruickshank, Kevin's future spouse, heard about their grandiose plan to start a desktop design studio, and suggested the name Mackerel. There's no one reason for the name, except that it was fun, and Kat drew great fish, and it kind of sounds like "MacWorld." The two rented a back room in the offices of Our Times, a labor paper, where they chain-smoked and built beautiful pages in PageMaker. They never called themselves desktop publishers: they were desktop designers. The Mac revolution was all about non-geeks coming into the computer fold, and that was them. The two had worked on Fishwrap, a student paper that Kevin founded at the Ontario College of Arts, and for Kevin, the Mac was a revelation: "I was stunned that I could be playing with PageMaker and doing work -- laying my galleys, stuff I'd done in the real world with real objects -- and when I went home at night and remembered what I'd done that day, I remembered working with my hands. I didn't have this image in my head of this digital text block being moved by a cursor. In my mind, I was grabbing galleys and sticking wax on them and laying them down. To me, working with a good interface is working with my hands." Business took off. Dave Groff, the grandson of an excommunicated Mennonite whose sin was building a house that was too worldly (it had curtains instead of blinds) came to work for Gord and Kevin. They knew him from art school, where the naive small-town boy would show up at Kevin's parties at 8PM -- "When you had a party out in the country and it started at 8, you showed up at 8 and they went home at 11 or 12. So I would show up at 8 and the next guest would show up at 10:30. The majority of people would show up at midnight. I did this consistently, like two or three times, until I clued in." Their first formal meeting was when Dave was chilling out front of the school, smoking a cigarette and trying not to look like he still had cowshit between his toes. Kevin walked by, took one look, and collapsed laughing. Dave's cool quickly deflated, and Kevin clapped him on the shoulder, saying, "There's a tremendous responsibility that comes attached to smoking a cigarette and acting cool at the entrance of OCA." The two became fast friends, and when the Gord and Kevin needed a freelancer to handle the overflow of the desktop revolution, Dave was a natural. Dave moved his computer into the Our Times office, and worked through the regular crash of the sheet-metal guillotine downstairs that would shake brick dust and nicotine loose from the walls and shower the computers with schmutz -- by the time the boys moved into nicer digs in Parkdale, Dave had the only working floppy drive in the shop. They all hooked up to the LaserWriter and they all ate lunch at the local, Burnett's, every afternoon. They drank at Burnett's all night, every night, and worked all day, every day. 70 hours a week was average, 50 felt like cheating, and they never had more fun in all their lives, before or since. Kevin, someone who doesn't think of himself as a computer guy, somehow ended up the in-house sage on matters digital. Periodically, the boys would ask him, "What is this icon on the desktop, HyperCard?" To which he would always answer, "That is a black hole from which we will never return." Then they got hold of the Emigré Font Stack, an early HyperCard effort from the people who invented the market for digital fonts. One look at it, and they were hooked through the bag. The Mackerel Stack was born. Kevin and Gord built it during an all-nighter, Kevin coding away and Gord shoulder-surfing in his big black chair. Together, they built the first iteration of a project that would go on to virtually create the market for multimedia in Canada. They laughed. They smoked. They blew a bunch of doobs. For Dave, the Mackerel Stack was a life-changer. "I had read some McLuhan and Stuart Brand's The Media Lab. The thing I remember from it was that he said to watch out for the convergence of the television, the telephone and the computer. This was the first hint I saw of what that convergence would look like, and I went apeshit over it and I took works in progress and I showed my boss at a freelance job and he went, "Well that's really neat, but what would we do with it?' "I showed it to some clients, one guy who did corporate videos. I said, 'Look at this, it's related to corporate videos and it's just on a little floppy disk, imagine what you can do.' He said, 'I don't think I could use it.'" The Mackerel Stack stands out as a truly designed piece of interactive, with professional-quality illustration and layout and a functional interface. As Kevin says, "Function is beautiful, but beauty is not overrated." Above all, there was a sense of playfulness, an unashamed delight that informed Mackerel's design sense in the years that came. The best-known element of that original stack was the "Fish-Eye." When an unsuspecting user clicked the fish's eye, a dialog box appeared onscreen saying, "Ouch, that hurts!" and the only possible response was, "Sorry." Another dialog sprang up then, "How would you like it if I poked you in the eye?" with the response, "Really, I'm sorry!" And then, "How would you like it if I erased everything on your hard drive?" this time with two options: "Okay" and "Okay." Click either one, and this came up: "Of course, you knew that I really was just kidding," and your response was "Of course." For Dave, this was a comic monologue rendered in interface, a sheer delight. Shortly thereafter, he converted the $11,000 that the boys owed him for freelance work to a partnership in Mackerel. The stack went on to garner acclaim, winning two prizes in MacWorld's SuperStacks contest. Gord and Kevin took it to MacWorld, and for the first time, they got to see an audience enraptured by their work. When it was over, Kevin mentioned that he had seventy copies with him on floppies, and the stage was mobbed. Gord recalls Kevin standing onstage, frisbeeing floppies into a sea of outstretched arms, laughing. Fred Williamson was a good ten years older than the boys, but he was dating Gord's sister -- eventually, they married -- and he hung around the office. A former actor, Fred ping-ponged between construction jobs like Shinto temples and the weird world of sales. He sold everything from bricks to ad-space in Computer World Canada, at a time when selling for a PC mag was considered way more arcane than selling bricks. Fred took one look at the Mackerel stack. "Look," he said. "If I can understand this stuff, other people can understand it. I can sell this. You guys need a town crier. You pay me 15% commission, and I'll go out and do it." He never got his fifteen points. They made him a partner instead. Fred is the consummate salesman. He lugged his MacPlus into communications agencies, into museums, into ad offices, and pitched. No one had any idea what the hell he was talking about, but man, he's entertaining, with a twinkle in his eye and silken tongue made of pure blarney. Fred invented his market niche. He'd go to Comdex and meet you in a third-floor elevator. By the time you reached the first floor, he'd have your business card. A week later, he'd be in your office with his MacPlus, selling. The Mackerelites grew and prospered and built wicked-cool, beautiful multimedia. The office grew. Oliver Meurer, a German emigré who had the trademark Mackerel mischief in his eye, came on board to run production, and he begat more, hiring people through an interview process based entirely on his gut. J. Random Applicant begins by showing up at the office, clutching a copy of the Mackerel Stack in one hand and a portfolio in the other. He asks around and gets directed to Ollie. "Are you the person who does job interviews?" "I guess," Oliver says, smiling disarmingly. "Well, I'm here for an interview? I booked it earlier?" "What interview?" Oliver asks, totally deadpan. "I -- I had an interview. I set it up with someone over the phone?" Oliver stands at this point and takes J. Random Applicant out for lunch. He refuses to look at Random's portfolio. Instead, he feels him out, gets a sense of who he is, whether he'll fit, whether he'll learn. From Kevin: "Schools weren't turning out people who could do what we were doing. We were hiring talented, smart people and teaching them ourselves." If Ollie liked you, he'd throw you at Kevin for two or three days, and Kevin would talk multimedia at you all day, and Gord and Ollie would drink with you all night, and before you knew it, you were hired, given a heroically uncomfortable chair and a Macintosh and put to work. The next-generation Mackerelites are a mixed bag. There isn't a one of them that isn't hip and downtown as all get-out -- walking into the old Mackerel office was like stepping into some weird Hollywood vision of sexy young geeks in great clothes, firing Nerf darts at each other and disappearing into the overflowing kitchen for company-sponsored Shiatsu massage from a geek therapist who logged in regularily to the company BBS. They came from all walks of life. Joey DeVilla, the only production grunt with a background in computer science, was seven years into a four-year CS degree at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, was DJing one night at a campus bar, and running a hunk of video wallpaper that included screen captures from the Mackerel Stack, recently downloaded from a BBS. One of the dancers caught him in the DJ booth and mentioned that he knew the guys in Toronto who built the thing. The next morning, Joey packed his things and hopped a train to Toronto, and demanded that Ollie hire him. There were theater people, radio people, techno DJs, a telephone psychic, art-school grads galore, bartenders, bike-couriers -- visitors often remarked on how much the Mackerel office looked like a courier dispatch, right down to the room full of commuter bikes the Mackerelites brought to work with them. It was a golden age. Mostly. The company was strapped for cash, its people were underpaid, but a sense of wicked-cool fun pervaded the shop. When you worked for the Fish, you knew you were working on the shit. The thorn in the partners' side was that none of this beautiful stuff was theirs. It was all fee-for-service, promotional materials for software publishers and car vendors and museums and nuclear power stations. They dreamed of another Mackerel Stack, a product, something they owned. Gord became the reluctant president, after an unsuccessful bid to have the book-keeper take the job. He left behind his role as a designer and put on a suit and hit the road, looking for investors. Gord says, "I talked to 15-20 investors a year for the last three years of the company's existence. I had every snake-oil salesman from the film industry cross my doorstep saying, 'This is how you raise money for interactive media.'" The search was fruitless, and worse, it created a rift in the partnership. Dave, always on the side of the cash-strapped studio, was at odds with Gord over the number of managers and execs on the payroll, the better to woo investors. All this was compounded by the hand-to-mouth nature of the studio. Things hit bottom when, before Christmas 1994, the books just wouldn't balance. Gord, sitting at his desk, fired off a message on the in-house FirstClass BBS: We're out of money -- who doesn't need their paycheck this month? This was just before everyone was due to leave on Christmas vacation, a total desperation move. But he had a Smurfs' Family Christmas moment:. Slowly, his mailbox filled with responses, each piece announcing by a sample of Ollie shouting "Achtung!" The Mackerelites came to the rescue. In 15 minutes, over 20 people had responded: "I'll pass my paycheck, I only need half my paycheck," and the $25,000 shortfall was covered. Straight up Jimmy Stewart karma, is what it was. Gord knew he was working at just about the best place anywhere. And it was. Mackerel was known in Toronto circles as the "Hardest-Drinking Multimedia Company in the World." Legendary for its parties, where fishbowls full of cigarettes were set out along the bar and cellulite "Fortune-Telling Fish" were passed out as party favors, the Fish was clearly a place where they knew how to cut loose.. Gord, Ollie and several of the Mackerelites raved together, despite the fact that the senior Fish were a good ten years older than the target demographic at the all-night dance/drugfests. Karl borst, an early hire at the Fish, recalls the first time he bumped into Gord at a rave: "Here I was, telling all my friends, 'this is my boss!' And they're going, uh? And I realized that for most people, your boss isn't someone you party with." The Fish partied in the office, too, playing massive, multiplayer games of Marathon till the wee hours of the night, gaming through levels designed by the 3D artists in loving replica of the Mackerel office. They invited other multimedia houses down to go head-to-head against them, and generally kicked booty. Gord may not have had much luck bringing in investment capitol, but he was the social nexus of the shop. In an industry when most "employees" are freelancers waiting to happen, with an up-to-date résumé in on their desktops and an eye on the *.jobs newsgroups, Mackerel's people were bone-loyal. Through half-pay layoffs and minimal pay the rest of the time and the grim days when the partners shouted at each other from behind closed doors, they stuck with the Fish. Then they found an investor. Combined Media Incorporated was the brainchild of Gord Haines, the former number-two man at Alliance, a big-name Canadian film distributor. He conceived of a plan to marry three disparate companies and create a lucrative cross-media presence. The three companies were the creative nutbars at Mackerel; the editorial staff of Owl Magazine, a children's title whose name is often chased with the epigram, "a national treasure;" and a newly formed TV production studio dubbed Owl TV. The idea was, the TV people and Mackerel would leveraging Owl's national brand-identity into interactive products and television stations. Haines secured the proper due diligence from the various players and went hunting for a backer. He found it in the shape of Working Ventures, who agreed to front CDN$3.5 million. Gord and the Mackerelites threw a hell of a party, complete with beer-tickets, free smokes, competing Mackerelite DJs, and a wall-screen cycling through a mad-libs program that cheif programmer Joey DeVilla wrote in Director. When it was all over, the real party, the after-party, started. At 0230h, Gord gathered up the remainders of the party, the CMI people, his staff, and walked them around the corner to an old warehouse. "We opened up this big black door, me and this 55-year-old man and a 48-year-old employee of mine, and there were at least 150 people going nuts to Jarrko [one of Mackerel's freelancer/DJs] spinning jungle music. I took them over to the fridge, and said, 'Oh look, it's full of beer. Take one.'" That was the Mackerel rave, and it came complete with booze and pills and beautiful people dancing as hard as they worked. It seemed like the Fish was off the hook. And then they saw the new office. Just a few blocks away from the old Mackerel space, in the heart of the TV ghetto, stands "The Wedding Cake;" a white, monstrous Holiday Inn on the corner of King and John. The Holiday Inn offices were presented to the Fish as a fait accompli, and, to add insult to injury, the award-winning designers wouldn't be allowed to design their workspace. Instead, an outside consultant was brought in who would nod politely at (and promptly forget) everything the Fish had to say. Annabel Slaight, doyenne of Owl, picked out a color scheme that has been variously described as "hideous shades never found in nature," "shocking and oppressive," and worst of all, "Windows 3.1." Kevin Steele still marvels at the chutzpah: "Who would pick colors for artists?" These are, after all, the same designers who scanned the bricks from their old office, matched them to their Pantone equivalents, and designed accordingly. The Wedding Cake is roundly regarded as an atrocity. The senior Mackerel managers were separated from the production staff, placed in a glass-walled "executive row." The furniture, awful industrial-grey workstation-supports, were purchased over howls of protest, prompting a telling quote from a senior Owl person: "We're not buying furniture for people, we're buying furniture for work." The lighting in the studio was provided by ugly, flickering fluorescents. The Mackerelites took grim possession of their digs, and immediately began to fight back. The first day in, the fluorescents came down en masse. The pampered TV people with their room-service catering and the prim kids-lit publishers at Owl knew that the Mackerelites had arrived. They settled down and got to work, building a six-figure AOL Canada site for one of the Owl properties, the Mighty Mites, and still doing fee-for-service to cover the bills. The formerly nonprofit Owl was anything but a cash-cow, and as for the TV people, they spent and spent and spent as only a video freak can, but only managed to get one show, Mrs. Cherrywinkle, on air. CMI was paying out over $30,000 per month in rent, on the Wedding Cake and on the old Owl and Mackerel offices, still lease-locked. Thunderheads were on the horizon. The company BBS, Mackerelink, had been founded as a place for free-form consensus building, party-inviting, and general bitching. Local multimedia geeks logged in regularily, just to chat and hang out with the Fish. Traffic in Mackerlink's public conferences fell off, and in private email, the Dilbert cartoons started flying. The shoe dropped. Less than a year after the deal was signed, Gord Haines called a meeting where he announced that Mackerel was being cut loose. The venture backers had taken a look at the books, seen the Mighty Mites project writ large in red ink on Mackerel's statement, and decided that the company was a turkey. It would have to pay its own way thenceforward. So the Fish began to wriggle off the hook. Pete Mosely, a huge, shaven-headed turnaround specialist, was given the presidency of the company, and he began a round of hard-ass negotiations to buy back the fifty-share of Mackerel from CMI. The four partners were looking at assuming a $1,000,000 debt, moving back into the old offices -- after all, they were paying for 'em -- and cutting everything back to the bone. It was too much for Dave, and he walked. The weeks that followed were hard. The Mackerelites, a family in every sense but genetics, saw their imminent separation. Whatever shape the new Mackerel assumed, it wouldn't ever be the same. As it turns out, they never had a chance to find out. Working Ventures, always at laggerheads with Gord Haines, demanded his resignation. Haines called their bluff, and they took their ball and glove and went away. Mackerel, already half-way disentangled from CMI, was suddenly the last man standing, and on the hook for over $3,000,000 in accumulated debt. Owl circulated a vituperative memo blaming the whole thing on the Fish, claiming that they hadn't brought in the business necessary to keep the ship afloat. This was something that Annabel Slaight would repeat to the press in a series of poor-little-me interviews about the death of a "national treasure." The Fish finally called it quits. Jimmy Stewart dropped dead. They threw a wake. It started informally. Mackerelites, creatures of habit, showed up to work, making half-hearted attempts at building résumés with the company's CD-ROM burner. Someone bought a case of beer. Someone else got a bottle of good Scotch. Gord Gower, president again, sat down at his keyboard and wrote a letter. It told the world that Mackerel was finally dead. It dared the competition to come and hire away the individuals that had made it possible. It announced of a final Mackerel blowout at the same bar where they'd celebrated the CMI deal. He spammed everyone in the Mackerel rolodex with it.. He cracked open a beer and looked out the glass wall that demarcated executive row, and waited for the replies. He didn't have to wait long. The sample of Ollie shouting "Achtung" fired again and again out of his Mac's speakers, and his mailbox overflowed with letters of condolence from the competition worldwide, from old Mackerel friends and camp-followers, from the trade press and from shortsighted poltroons who hadn't known a good thing when they saw it. Gord took another drink, and considered the wall again. He hefted the bottle, then, he threw it. Smashed the glass to flinders, walked to the wreckage, and collapsed to his knees, sobbing. In a heartbeat, he was surrounded by his people, a chip-head group-hug that went on and on. He was led away to a sofa, and the Fish picked up the glass. Later on many of them said that it was a tremendous relief, that cathartic shattering. Gord, who had given up on all art except the art of the deal, had finally returned to the fold. He'd given his people a defiant "Fuck you!" painted large with the aesthetic of a old-time mural painter. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Fish are doing all right these days. They've scattered to the winds, but they still congregate. They still play Marathon. They still party. Their work continues to win awards. Waiting for the Cage, a CD-Plus title for the band The Grievous Angels has just been selected as a finalist for the Macromedia People's Choice Awards. Cage is a project that Mackerelites Rick Conroy, Cindy Dabis, Diana Galligan, Michelle Gay, Patrick Lee, Aaron Linton, Ana Rewakowicz, and Kevin Steele, with James Blackburn, built during a half-time layoff, working during their unpaid Mackerel hours. At the final Mackerel party, I bought a carton of smokes to put on the bar. It seemed naked without them. It didn't feel like a funeral, strangely enough. More like a graduation. Meet the Mackerel Graduating Class of 1997.

5:33 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

14 Sep 2004

It's a Madhouse! A MADDDD HOOOUSSE!

On Scholarships for Specifically Gay Students Ok, honestly, I have absolutely nothing against gay people or my gay friends... but c'mon, gay activism is really hitting some wrong chords these days... "Many of these organizations recognize that youngsters who come out of closet are sometimes cut off by their families and suffer financially because of it." OK, how about a scholorship for the girl who got knocked up by one of the grease monkey boys down in the 'tech' wing... who after her abortion was disowned by her christian folks, but managed to get herself into one of the better teaching collages? How about the scholorship for the computer nerd whose athletics oriented dad beat him sensless day in and day out all through highschool, either physically or mentally because he didn't make letter, but still managed to post grades good enough for MIT, although not good enough for an academic scholarship? How do you apply for these scholarships anyhow? What's the selection/interview process like? I mean, is their a scale by which you're measured on how many bleeding heart fuck-headed liberal proffs you bring to tears at the interview. Sound like a freakin drama scholarship to me... I like gay people... but these people are making a really strong case for the continued use of the term faggot! ================================= Gay students are offered special college scholarships - LISA LEFF, Associated Press Writer Monday, September 13, 2004 (09-13) 17:00 PDT BERKELEY, Calif. (AP) -- Alyn Libman won a $15,000-a-year scholarship to the University of California at Berkeley with a resume that showed more than just Libman's athletic achievement and academic potential. It also showed years of ridicule, beatings and threats, along with Libman's decision to become a boy in 11th grade. "It felt amazing to actually be embraced by someone who didn't just dismiss me for being different," said Libman, a 19-year-old aspiring civil rights lawyer and the first transgendered person to win a scholarship from The Point Foundation, a Chicago nonprofit organization that has awarded more than $1 million to college-bound gays since 2002. For those seeking financial aid to attend college, it doesn't necessarily hurt to be gay or transgender. An increasing number of charities, professional groups and universities offer scholarships on the basis of sexual orientation. More than 50 such scholarships are available nationwide -- from the $1,000 scholarships that Zami, an advocacy group in Atlanta, is giving to 21 black gays this year, to the $2,000 awards the United Church of Christ distributed to gay seminarians, and the $3,000 fellowships George Washington University administers so gays can spend a semester studying politics in the nation's capital. Many of these organizations recognize that youngsters who come out of closet are sometimes cut off by their families and suffer financially because of it. Some groups, such as Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, also make financial aid available to children of gay parents or to straight students who have worked to reduce homophobia in their communities. "We want to be a beacon for some kid who is out there and feeling really lost and ashamed because society says they are nothing and nobody," said Zami executive director Mary Anne Adams, who launched her group's Audre Lorde scholarship program, named for the late lesbian poet, in 1997. Sexual orientation alone usually is not enough to get these scholarships. Success against the odds, scholastic aptitude, extracurricular activities and leadership also are needed to qualify -- the same qualities philanthropists have always sought to celebrate by endowing college scholarships. But the essays these students write in their applications are something different -- they tend to include tales of confusion and rejection. Many of the recipients are estranged from their families or were tormented in high school. "The ability to take individuals who have had enormous disadvantage and to give them the ability to succeed in life is what's important to society," said Point Foundation creator Bruce Lindstrom, 59, who made a fortune as a membership warehouse executive. He was abandoned by his own family when he revealed he was gay in his mid-20s. So far, the foundation has handed out multiyear scholarships covering tuition, housing and books to 27 undergraduate and graduate students. "We try very hard to balance the issue of need versus the issue of leadership ability," he said. "We are trying to identify those who have the capacity to make change in the world, to increase tolerance, and it's a hard thing to balance those two things." Julie Schell, 30, a doctoral student at Columbia University's Teachers College, came out as a lesbian 10 years ago while she was an undergraduate at the University of Nevada-Reno. The disclosure alienated her from her family and college roommates. One day she found "dyke" scrawled on her car. Now in her second year as a Point Foundation scholar, Schell said the money has allowed her to continue her studies, but the emotional support is what enables her to succeed. The foundation pairs students with openly gay professional mentors. Schell's is the president of Roosevelt University in Chicago. "I had someone to call and say, `I got three A-pluses at one of the world's greatest educational institutions,' and have that be validated by people who aren't saying, `'Well, you got three A-pluses, but you're gay so it doesn't count," Schell said.

4:24 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

14 Sep 2004

Typeface

You know that the American electoral system is in trouble when... the debate of the day is over typefaces, letterspacing, sub and superscripts. My god, Dan Rather has gone completely mad!

3:33 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

8 Sep 2004

Screw the World!

Strongest negative views on US foreign policy were held in Germany, with 83 percent of those polled saying "worse" followed by France (81 percent), Mexico (78 percent), China (72 percent), Canada (71 percent), Netherlands ( 71 percent), Spain (67 percent), Brazil (66 percent), Italy (66 percent), Argentina (65 percent) and Britain (64 percent).

4:35 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

1 Sep 2004

Never Underestimate the NYPD

They have the situation all WRAPPED up!

6:43 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Aug 2004

On the Hippie Highway

So, They've pretty much shut down everything between 30th Street on up to 35th Street, between 9th Avenue and 6th Avenue. Pretty impressive show of force actually. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, this has made my street the first main cross way through midtown. The "Protest Area" is situated on 8th Avenue between 30th and 32nd, so it looks like I'll be working on the hippie highway this week. Gone are the containers and tractor trailers, gone are hundreds of day laborers wheeling their fleet of handcarts to and from the freight elevators, now we have groups of kids playing their gee-tars and holding up their Bush = Hitler signs... sigh... How is it that these kids have chosen to parrot the idealized, and overly 1990's stylized versions of protests of the 1960's, AND why aren't they all strung out on acid? I mean really, just outside the door of my office building sat a group of tie-dyed kids from Minnesota, strumming ancient protest songs, looking like something off an [put name of any band from the 60's here] album cover from the Height Asbury days. I knew they were from Minnesota as, on the back of their Bush = Hitler sign they had written the plea "Here for RNC Protest, Need Money to get back to Minneapolis ASAP"... I guess they forgot classes start this week[?!?]... Really, why didn't they think about possibility of needing a return ticket before they came, maybe that bag of dope was a few more dollars than they were expecting. Anyhow, why they'd want to filthy themselves with this currency of evil is a little beyond me, c'mon kids, it's only a fourteen day walk. Yesterday I decided NOT to observe the protest, stayed at home and watched the marathon instead. Honestly, it was really just too damned hot. Judging by the number of protestors, although granted an impressive lot, my assumption is that many of those planning to drive in felt the same way. I guess we'll see what tomorrow brings. Apparently, tomorrow is the day of numerous Non-Violent acts of civil disobedience. Kudos to the planners, as it looks as though they've read that tonight's session will be getting no play on the nets. So, tomorrow, it's lay down on the streets day in New York. I am kicking myself for not getting in on the "Plastic Twist-Tie Style Jiffy Handcuff Market". If the weather is nice, the NYPD should be able to up the arrest tote considerably tomorrow. Of the 551 arrest so far, 95 re related to this kind of, "hey let's make a nuisance of ourselves" type action. Anyhow... it looks as though there will be plenty of street theater right outside my door over the next few days. I'll bring my camera [and my pro-Bush togs] into the office. Anything to break up the day to day monotony of "workin' for the man" [did I use that correctly?]

7:27 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

25 Aug 2004

Mommy

12:46 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

25 Aug 2004

From inside Camp GOP/RNC #1: My Rights Have Been Stepped On!

My Rights Have Been Stepped On! [An Email] Well, it's finally happened, activities connected to the upcoming GOP convention have come crashing down on this lowly, barely legal citizen of New York City. I am no longer allowed to use my park! This morning I got off the train expecting as per usual to spend a few pre-work moments sipping the luke warm remains of my morning coffee while pouring through the Opinion Pages of my beloved NY Post. Denied! It would appear that the organizers of the RNC see it more important that they get a side stage erected on the grounds of the Herald Square parquette, than allowing myself and maybe 25 or 30 plain old folks get their morning post subway breather. The nerve, I mean just what are these folks bring to my city anyhow. I mean beyond a few million dollar boost to a sagging midtown economy, and a bit of down home Texas style patriotism, what's in it for me? I guess I will enjoy the thrill of seeing 250,000 dreadlocked black bandana wearing a-holes make jack asses of themselves as they search for a place to protest; AND I guess I will enjoy seeing 10,000 cops, secret service and special forces bring the countries busiest business district to a grinding halt... Down here the issue is more of what we really DON'T want to see. My five friends who work down and around here and I will just leave that one un-mentioned as per usual. OK, honestly, I am a giddy as a school girl the night before seeing Brad on the first day back to school. While everyone I work with is shuffling about all grumpy like, cursing this way and that, and quickly making plans to cash in those extra sick days, me, I'm trying to figure out how to best plan my staying up to watch the final strains of late night news analysis, while still getting up early enough to wander the grounds trying to catch a glimpse of my favorite stars on Team W! There's also a slim chance that a friend of Jens, a bonified member of the GOP might get me close enough to catch a whiff of some real live neo-con party action [OK, a real outside chance...] Yep, giddy as a school girl... It's going to be an interesting week indeed. I have every confidence that this city can pull it off. The combatants are already appearing on the field, the professional protestors have already started flying in, the cops already have many of the barricades in place. The battle for Central Park is in 11th hour negotiations and the whining and chest pumping is being played out on queue... We're all expecting something on the level of Ali lighting the torch in Atlanta happening hear on day one... who knows maybe they'll bring a cheque to top up all that missing homeland security funding the city needs! Now wouldn't that be sumptin! I will try to keep you posted. Oh, if you'd rather not be kept posted, just reply to this email with "Shut the fark up you fascist Canadian turn-coat bastard" in the subject line. Although it may be a bit 'over the top', and a bit unfair, it seems this is the level of discourse that's getting the nod down here these days... at camp GOP/RNC! To help you out a bit on that choice, here's a list of upcoming Possible Updates... Friday: I just can't stand it anymore and have told all my Democrat work mates to shut up and eat Cheese! Sunday: Just got back from the Protest [man], am I glad there's a shower in my office! Monday: Guess what kids, nothing happened! Wednesday: Dick Cheney spotted eating lunch with his gay daughter at a Chelsea bistro, hilarity ensues Friday: It's all over, nobody got hurt, democracy lives, even in the belly of this 9 million pound screaming Donkey-Ass of a Democratic Paradise otherwise known as... NYC.

12:06 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

12 Aug 2004

The Cats of Parliament Hill

The Cats of Parliament Hill Since the late 1970's there has been a refuge, past the Peace Tower on the Parliament Hill and overlooking the historic Ottawa river, though not a refuge for people, rather a place for stray, homeless cats. Shaped like two miniature Parliament buildings, the cat houses provide shelter for stray cats. Each house can hold about ten to twenty cats. Each cat has its own bowl which they eat from twice a day. Every two metres there are miniscule round-shaped windows which the adorable cats climb out of every morning, eager to be fed.   Founded by the compassionate cat-lover Irene Desormeaux, the orphanage has become a part of Parliament Hill. Unfortunately Irene died in 1987, but the spirit did not end after the tragic death, people volunteered and Rene Chartrand took the part and replaced Irene for this important job. Much dedication is needed for the job and Rene showed his true fidelity and inner strength when he came and fed the cats on a winter day that his beloved wife died in 1990. The government helps out with the costs by giving the orphanage 6,000 dollars per year which pays for health and food costs and the occasional tourist or friend who donates some money. This orphanage truly is an excellent and unique addition to the Parliament Buildings. The cats are loving and radiant and I strongly recommend that if you ever visit Ottawa, stop by and visit this cool cat orphanage. You won't regret it! Photos and Article: Daniel

10:51 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

12 Aug 2004

I love summer

Can't wait to get outta this place!

10:48 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

10 Aug 2004

Toronto City Hall Rats

From My pal Kev's PhotoBlob... www.kevinsteele.com

6:12 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

10 Aug 2004

The dead Elephant... is getting lighter?

I used to have to cut through this patio to get to my apartment door... that was one bitchin' apartment. I think we'll try to visit that patio next Monday. Jennifer and I used to live right across from the fourth building down on this street... We'll have to take juicy for a spin past the old place. Jen and I used to drink at this bar... Hey, check out my pal Kevin's Photo Blog of Toronto... Some good pics! He hates people, so there are not a lot of people cluttering his shots... www.kevinsteele.com

5:23 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Aug 2004

Let the gams begin...

In honor of the up coming Olympic Games I have changed my Myspace name to it's more Greek appropriation... If anyone would like me to help them experience their inner greekdom, by all means drop me a line. Go poorly funded Canadian Athletes, GO!   We always like beating them Germans at the two man double ended padling canoey type thingy event! Take that Hans and Dieter! Wait... Brian... We said "the two man double ended padling canoey type thingy event!"... oh those silly stupid Canadians, when will we ever learn!

3:44 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Aug 2004

5 days an counting...

Our vacation begins Friday after work. The mad dash to complete the weeks work has begun. As of this point that work feels like a dead rotting elephant sitting on my shoulders. Part of me says, let it rot and crawl out from under it on Friday. The other part says 'carve it up' and get to work on it... either way, I'll be left with a whole pile of rotting Elephant when we return... Hmmm... I am now frustrated! What will Gord do with his big rotting Elephant... stay tuned, this could only get worse!

2:03 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Aug 2004

Collateral - A Review by Paul Evitts, Part 2

Hey y'all Did I say Collateral was fantastic in my previous spam? Don't want to sit on the fence.... Cruise is the New Culture/post911eminence grise (literally, w the grey hair and beard and suit), the Someone popular American culture thinks Saddam wanted to be. Mann treats him as the Saddam we came to know before Bush made him a cartoon: sometimes funny, sometimes perverse, sometimes personal and true, sometimes pushy. Polysemous, like Ulysses: sly like a fox, mult-faceted, many-faced to survive. Sneaky in the way sneaky was, before schizophrenia and various disorders and pills for all made sneaky into a dysfunction. Even, as the CIA myth has it, techno-savvy... Cruise/Saddam switches to his PDA and then a Tablet when his PC becomes history, so to speak, like in the 1991Gulf war. But, the new Cruise looks like the now familiar new Saddam... tired, grey, past the point of a chic beard trim. Once again, real leaders look tired, grey, in need of a trim: maybe they need to be offed. New LA is a repeat of old New York and retrieves (McLuhan anyone?) Modernist urban cliches, but not in an ironic way a la Blade Runner. The subway system is Metropolis updated, you have to wait for the door chimes, but still, that old mass media stereotype Modernist anti-urban beat goes on: you can die on mass transit and no-one notices, the locals are all streetpunks w guns. BUT now, neoModernist retribution can be instantaneous, a parody of InternetTime (The Mechanic updated?).The discos are flat, fronts for who-knows, Asians w attitude, where the only real action comes from guns (revolution comes from the barrel of guns...Mao/Guevara anyone?). Cab drivers know the best routes, cuz the expressways suck. Guns and self-sacrificing death re-define the modernist urban landscape, a la Palestine, sans irony, sans hope, sans everything (okay that was a ref to Shakespeare). Did I say Collateral was a masterpiece? Don't want to sit on the fence.... All of a sudden the entire field of stale Post-Modern culture is available to neo-Modernists as allusion and reference. Thank you Michael Mann! cheers (may be more to come!)

10:58 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Aug 2004

Collateral - A Review by Paul Evitts, Part 1

[JP, this may be your future] Hey y'all Okay, rather than (as usual) being overly prolix in an attempt to seem profound, I will be clear and literal-minded. Collateral, Michael Mann's new movie, is the first neo-Modernist flick I've seen. From being in the avante-garde of the post-modern, Mann now leads the way beyond. Oops, okay, Architects have flashlighted the way, but HCE (Joyce/Finnegans Wake = Here Comes Everybody): Mann drags popular culture along. Even the movie name is perversely post-post-modern. The film refuses to be ironic (post-9/11?) - people die real deaths and worry. Car chases have consequences. Discos are scenes of pain not just noise and anonymity. It uses a narrative style that suffuses the conscious with the self-conscious and interweaves stream-of-conscious w narrative sequence (Dos Passos?). It intermixes the Joyceian (negative) treatment of urban space a la Freud (so resonant for Americans) w Woolf's celebratory, if ambiguous, perhaps Jungian, treatment of urban space as an opportunity and resource for healing (almost Canuckian by contrast, certainly Euro). It echoes Woolf's comments on childhood: "Nothing exaggerates the torture of childhood. People say children are happy. They forget the terrible revelations.. the sudden shadows on the ceilings." Few survive childhood alive, except by becoming older. Collateral reveals LA as the new (old) New York, the new New York. The grownup New York, survivor of the American childhood. And people matter all of a sudden. Following Eliot's dictum that the poet's emotion is beside the point, the expression of emotion is not part of the text of Mann's movie, in fact, the non-expression may be more important! But, like Eliot, as the cab driver seems to ask himself, if the expression of emotion is beside the point, how shall we get to the transcendent? See what Michael Mann's response is for yourself. Hint: remember Rutger Hauer's automaton slomo death in Blade Runner, which Collatoral alludes to in a Modernist sort of way. But don't jump the gun! Wait a minute, no hints! No mention of Mean Streets, for example. Michael Mann finally reveals himself as a real auteur, not just a poseur or boulevardier. And, once again, the real cultural transitions are mass-culture-polysemic, not mind-twists among the cognoscenti. Okay, that last paragraph was deliverately perverse, but oh-so-moderne, eh.... What a GREAT movie. I may have to see it again. cheers

10:55 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

6 Aug 2004

One of the good ones

May your lines be juicy evermore!

5:23 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

6 Aug 2004

Campaign Finance Reform = Wacko's Rule the Election

Can't get around the contribution limits? Don't have enough employees to threaten if they don't support your candidate? Hey, just find your local long haired whacko radical! Suport their publishing a web page full of jargonistic lies [move-on.org], or help advertise and distribute a movie full of quarter truths and silly gotcha's [Farihiet 911]... of course the other guys patrons might counter by publishing their own book of half thruths [Unfit for Command], but then again, you can always call this slander! America, we've taken a big step down the wrong road. In an attempt to roll back campaign spending and allow for smaller voices to be heard, we've caused millions of dollars to be diverted to the organized fringe voices... This election will come down to a fight between the wacko left and the wacko right. We'll be lucky even here a single peep coming from the centrist candidate themselve, OH, wait... I forgot the Democrats have already abandoned saying anything anyway proven in the way they said nothing at the DNC last week. I read that the RNC platform committee has been squashed, and there are NO plans to develop or publish any real policy at the upcoming RNC. So it's: Bush is a Facsist or Kerry Hates America and threw out his medals... until November. cya

2:14 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

5 Aug 2004

Wrong day to ignore politics I guess

Yep, George Bush doesn't speak very well: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we," Bush said. But John Kerry... "Kerry earned his Silver Star by killing a lone, fleeing, teenage Viet Cong in a loincloth." Instead, Kerry beached his boat directly in the small settlement. Upon his command, the numerous small animals were slaughtered by heavy-caliber machine guns. John Kerry, he shoots young loin cloth clad boys in the back and kills small animals!

5:40 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

5 Aug 2004

Old Guy's 70th

So, GISed Trenton Ontario as I was going to put up a few pics of where we are planing to head out on the vacation [I mean, how exciting would that have been]. Anyhow, low and behold, up pops a picture of my father. One main reason we're going up is that the old guy's turning 70 this year... This is how he spends his days these summers: He helped put together "Sailability" in Trenton. Basically a Sailing school for severly handicapped and retarded kids [lots of them in Trenton]. Anyhow... I'm pretty proud of the dude. He and I will probably not win the family regatta this year [held every year on his birthday], but heck, every chance I get to sail with the guy, these days is a good day.

3:18 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

4 Aug 2004

According to Michael Moore?

Thank you Mr. McCain, Mr. Feingold... weze gots a whole new way to fight Election now! DRUDGE REPORT TUE AUG 03, 2004 21:35:02 ET BOOK CLAIMS KERRY WAR 'FABRICATIONS' **Exclusive** A veterans group seeking to deeply discredit Democrat John Kerry's military service will charge in the new bombshell book UNFIT FOR COMMAND: Two of John Kerry's three Purple Heart decorations resulted from self-inflicted wounds, not suffered under enemy fire. All three of Kerry's Purple Hearts were for minor injuries, not requiring a single hour of hospitalization. A "fanny wound" was the highlight of Kerry's much touted "no man left behind" Bronze Star. Kerry turned the tragic death of a father and small child in a Vietnamese fishing boat into an act of "heroism" by filing a false report on the incident. Kerry entered an abandoned Vietnamese village and slaughtered the domestic animals owned by the civilians and burned down their homes with his Zippo lighter. Kerry's reckless behavior convinced his colleagues that he had to go -- becoming the only Swift Boat veteran to serve only four months. The Kerry campaign is planning to vigorously counter the charges and will accuse the veteran's groups of being well-financed by a top Bush donor from Texas, the DRUDGE REPORT has learned. "They hired a goddamn private investigator to dig up trash!" charged a top Kerry adviser traveling with the senator late Tuesday. "This is pay for play, and the dirtiest of all dirty tricks ever played on a candidate for the presidency. How low can they go?" Kerry supporters are comparing the effort by the veterans to the Arkansas State troopers tell-all against Bill Clinton. UNFIT FOR COMMAND will not be released until August 15. The names. The details. All on the record. Developing...

2:36 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

3 Aug 2004

What Time is It?

In the less than three years since we were attacked... President Bush has ... liberated two countries, crushed the Taliban, crippled al-Qaida, put nuclear inspectors in Libya, Iran and North Korea without firing a shot, captured a terrorist who slaughtered 300,000 of his own people. The Democrats are complaining about how long the war is taking, but... It took less time to take Iraq than it took Janet Reno to take the Branch Davidian compound. That was a 51 day operation. We've been looking for evidence of chemical weapons in Iraq for less time than it took Hillary Clinton to find the Rose Law Firm billing records. It took less time for the 3rd Infantry Division and the Marines to destroy the Medina Republican Guard than it took Ted Kennedy to call the police after his Oldsmobile sank at Chappaquiddick. It took less time to take Iraq than it took to count the votes in Florida!!!!

7:22 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

3 Aug 2004

Peace lovin' Democrats

FDR... led us into World War II. Germany never attacked us: Japan did. From 1941-1945, 450, 000 lives were lost, an average of 112, 500 per year. Truman... finished that war and started one in Korea, North Korea never attacked us. From 1950-1953, 55, 000 lives were lost, an average of 18, 334 per year.   John F. Kennedy... started the Vietnam conflict in 1962. Vietnam never attacked us.   Johnson... turned Vietnam into a quagmire. From 1965-1975, 58, 000 lives were lost, an average of 5, 800 per year.   Clinton... went to war in Bosnia without UN or French consent, Bosnia never attacked us. He was offered Osama bin Laden's head on a platter three times by Sudan and did nothing. Osama has attacked us on multiple occasions. =============================== There were 39 combat related killings in Iraq during the month of January..... In the fair city of Detroit there were 35 murders in the month of January. That's just one American city, about as deadly as the entire war torn country of Iraq.

7:06 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

3 Aug 2004

My Birthday

I share my Birthday with the following folks: Alex Van Halen - 8 May, 1953 Ana Maria Lombo - 8 May, 1978 Anthony Field - 8 May, 1963 Carla van Loon - 8 May, 1977 Darren Hayes - 8 May, 1972 Don Rickles - 8 May, 1926 Enrique Iglesias - 8 May, 1975 ian h watkins ex steps - 8 May, 1976 Ian Watkins - 8 May, 1976 Janet Mcteer - 8 May, 1961 matt jay - 8 May, 1983 Melissa Gilbert - 8 May, 1964 Apparantly, I was born on the exact same day as Anthony Field, one of the more famous Wiggles   The Wiggles really creep me out... Sort of training our children to be prepared for a gay make over later in life. Speaking of gay make overs... I was wonder who Ian H. Watkins was...   ...shudder

2:42 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

2 Aug 2004

Today, this is how I feel...

Please someone, tell me again... why do we live in NYC?

2:14 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

2 Aug 2004

It was a great weekend...

I just shared a great weekend with two great friends! Thanks... now I work!

12:42 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Jul 2004

Hope is on the way? Help is on the way?

Whatever... I just can't wait to get a great big heapin' helpin' of that hope that's on its way! I read somewhere that John "my lips pucker just like RFKs did in the 60's" Edwards might even come over and do my laundry for me. I certainly hope so!

2:11 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Jul 2004

Weekend Reading...

...as I sit thinking about the day we move to New Hampshire! "Was the government to prescribe to us our medicine and diet, our bodies would be in such keeping as our souls are now." "The policy of the American government is to leave their citizens free, neither restraining nor aiding them in their pursuits." "To take from one because it is thought that his own industry and that of his father’s has acquired too much, in order to spare to others, who, or whose fathers, have not exercised equal industry and skill, is to violate arbitrarily the first principle of association—the guarantee to every one of a free exercise of his industry and the fruits acquired by it." "I think myself that we have more machinery of government than is necessary, too many parasites living on the labor of the industrious." "I am not a friend to a very energetic government. It is always oppressive." "The god who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time: the hand of force may destroy, but cannot disjoin them." "Were we directed from Washington when to sow and when to reap, we should soon want bread." "Of liberty I would say that, in the whole plenitude of its extent, it is unobstructed action according to our will. But rightful liberty is unobstructed action according to our will within limits drawn around us by the equal rights of others. I do not add “within the limits of the law,” because law is often but the tyrant’s will, and always so when it violates the right of an individual. " "Liberty is the great parent of science and of virtue; and a nation will be great in both in proportion as it is free." "He who knows nothing is closer to the truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehoods and errors." "I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them." "I have sworn on the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man." "I have never been able to conceive how any rational being could propose happiness to himself from the exercise of power over others." "To compel a man to furnish funds for the propagation of ideas he disbelieves and abhors is sinful and tyrannical." "In a government bottomed on the will of all, the...liberty of every individual citizen becomes interesting to all." "I’m a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work the more I have of it." "Say nothing of my religion. It is known to God and myself alone. Its evidence before the world is to be sought in my life: if it has been honest and dutiful to society the religion which has regulated it cannot be a bad one." "The democracy will cease to exist when you take away from those who are willing to work and give to those who would not." "Most bad government has grown out of too much government." "Timid men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of liberty." "The two enemies of the people are criminals and government, so let us tie the second down with the chains of the Constitution so the second will not become the legalized version of the first." "A wise and frugal government, which shall restrain men from injuring one another, which shall leave them otherwise free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and shall not take from the mouth of labor and bread it has earned. This is the sum of good government." "I never will, by any word or act, bow to the shrine of intolerance or admit a right of inquiry into the religious opinions of others." "Sometimes it is said that man cannot be trusted with the government of himself. Can he, then, be trusted with the government of others?" "A free people [claim] their rights as derived from the laws of nature, and not as the gift of their chief magistrate." "The right of self-government does not comprehend the government of others. " "An elective despotism was not the government we fought for." "History, in general, only informs us what bad government is."

10:33 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Jul 2004

Have a great weekend ALL!

Who Loves Ya Baby!

1:06 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Jul 2004

Does this mean : YOU die first?

I've been listening intently [well, ok between naps] to the Democrats this last week. I have been listening for the plan that supports the claim that John Kerry will make America safer, I mean how many time have you heard one of their speakers repeat this over and over again... Correct me if I missed something more concrete, I have not heard anything directly. I did however come accross this this morning... OK, apologies to you sensitive types, yes, this is from the NY Post, but it's worthy of consideration: Under Kerry, the United States would foreswear the right of pre-emptive action against its foes. It will employ its military only in a multilateral context, with the U.N.'s consent. Such a policy would give the United Nations and the allies (who are not identified) a veto on America's use of force. It also means that America will act only after it is attacked, and not to prevent attack on itself or its allies. Afghanistan is offered as an illustration of a "good war": The U.S. invasion was right because the 9/11 attacks had been orchestrated by al Qaeda from Afghan territory, and because the United Nations approved it and the allies agreed to take part. The Iraq war, however, was a bad one: America should have waited until after an attack from Iraq before reacting. This "Pearl Harbor Doctrine" would offer insurance to such regimes as North Korea and Iran: They'd know that, short of attacking the U.S. directly, they need fear no military retaliation.

Rose Riso's badge, found in the ruins of the World Trade Center. (photo John Avarosis)

It would seem that in favor of regaining relations with these so called un-named allies [the only ones I can think that are not currently on the list are Germany, France, Russia and Canada], we would for go our policy of attacking threatening nations or groups hiding within an nation and wait to be attacked. A direct attack on us being the only justification for U.S. military action. Basically, using our retaliatory actions against Afghanistan after 9/11 as a model. Please ask your Democratic representative, does this mean we wait until a dirty bomb goes off in Time Square, or a nail bomber hits the F train before we attack. Do we wait until Al Queida takes out the Indian Point Nuclear Plant first... just wondering. If anyone has an alternative interpretation, please assure me to the contrary.

11:47 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jul 2004

I want to Fuck John Kerry's Daughters... too!

From the Daily News [so, it must be da trufe] Ben Affleck is not just smitten with John Kerry's younger daughter. He likes the older one, too. In a gooey valentine for Vanity Fair, Affleck describes the younger Vanessa and older Alexandra as "absurdly beautiful, well-spoken and intelligent." The Kerry girls, Affleck writes, are "such phenomenal achievers that if you didn't know them, they might come off as the too-perfect prep-school girls who are invariably the villains in John Hughes movies." [Blogger Note: My goodness, he's gonna fuck 'em both!] They also have a sense of humor. Alexandra, a tall brunette actress with model looks, laughs off the furor she caused at the Cannes Film Festival in May, when flashbulbs revealed she had nothing on under her sheer black dress. "I'm told there are now entire Web pages dedicated to my breasts," Alexandra, 30, says. "So that was cool. You gotta love the Internet." Vanessa, 27, the lithe blond who was linked to Affleck when they were spotted together on the campaign trail, is "fierce, focused and sharp." "She looks, with her flaxen hair, almost like a Nordic milkman's child," Affleck writes. Nordic Milkman's child!?! Ben, what's with the kiddie fetish? Honestly, have you ever heard any man use the word "flaxen" to describe a women whose hair he didn't want to shampoo with his own personal Salon de frikin' jism? Me... Give me a heapin' helpin' of these two any day! Less jaberin' more slatherin'! direct comparison:   Man that families got one hell of a lot of inches of face!

1:19 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jul 2004

The candidate emerges...

10:46 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

27 Jul 2004

The pig is in the chicken coop

OK, first, I am not a Republican, unfortunately, they do not allow Canadians to become registered members of political parties down here. Even if they did, I would probably remain an independent. My opinions have been formed while watching [bathing in] U.S. politics since I was a young young boy... I remember distinctly watching Nixon trounce McGovern in 1972, then as an 11 year old spending at least an hour everyday after school watching the Watergate hearings, can you say geek. Yes, for the longest time I would cheer on Democratic candidates... On a trip to Florida in 1978, me and my pal marveled in our trip to Plains Georgia, [my friends Dad really wanted to buy beer at Billy's gas station]. While at Art School, I though Reagan was the devil incarnate, I assumed that we'd all be blown to bits and pieces before the end of his first term... his second term, well... that's when things started to change. I left art school, and hit it out for Europe. Canada had just been sold down the river under the first Free Trade agreement, the economy sucked, I hated art school as all I seemed to be doing was getting further and further into debt for the sole purpose of having my ego stroked by alcoholic art teachers who couldn't cut it in the eh, hem, real art world. Julian Schnoble [SP?] was making millions... the scam was upon us, and almost complete. I came back a-political, got a job, yes a job... something about working for a paycheck makes you understand what a dollar is. Anyhow, my first job as a janitor at a private boys school led to a job colorizing black and white movies, where I quickly became management... Management makes you understand that a lot of people have NO FREAKIN' clue where those dollars they get are coming from. At the colorization job, most of my employees were my old art school friends. I sat there for 4 years listening to the old rhetoric... watching the wall come down and the economy zoom, AND formulating a whole new opinion. In 1987, I opened my own business... in 1989 I had 5 employees in 1991 I had 30 employees, was turning a profit and being taxed more than anyone of you could possibly imagine. In Canada, successful companies are penalized, un-successful companies, if big enough get billion dollar bail-outs. By this time I was purely a "don't tax my freakin' ass fiscal conservative". I was also really pissed off that my employees were getting nailed [with me paying my share on top of payroll], while fucking bums wandered the streets of Toronto collecting welfare and bugging me for smokes. I treated my employees like gold... the ones who showed up early and stayed late, like platinum. Work hard, play by the rules, well OK, only break the rules that don't hurt nobody [those who know me, know I break a hole bunch of rules]... AND, if I am working hard the government should keep it's freakin paws offa my pie... I'll pay taxes if they are fair [I hid every ounce of profit I could in Canada as it was taxed at a rate of 75 percent...] Let me put my profit into my employees... into sales, let me expand my business and hire new employees [i.e. keep the fucking bums off the streets]. In other words, let business run the economy. If some prove to be cheats liers and scum, jail 'em, BUT remember for every ENRON there are thousands of good hard working business men, trying to make a buck, run a good business and pay their people. There is NO MAN to stick it to anymore, our economy is small business... doink As for foreign policy... Thousands of people dying in office towers is really bad for business. First of all, if you don't like us, stop sending us your brothers and sisters. Secondly, if you SAY you want to kill us, if this is your stated objective, then be prepared to be KILLED. I don't understand what all this crying over pre-emptive war is... They have told us they want to kill us where ever we are, they have proven that the will... So, I say KILL 'em all. If they happen to hide in mosques, in hospitals and behind their women and children, well, with all do care... KILL 'em. Unfortunately, smart weapon technology has not yet developed the bomb that can swing around the burkha and kills the bastard hiding behind her. DOINK... I am not a Republican, some say I am a libertarian, but that's a whole other blog on a whole bunch of topics like roads, bridges, schools and hospitals... I'm a pragmatist. Stop freakin' whining about how hard the problems are and why the problems exist... fix the freakin' problem, sometimes this may require very difficult and gut wrenching solutions. Take your best shot at an answer, learn from your mistakes and move the freak on. This is where I am at Today... Tomorrow, I will be somewhere else, hopefully, a little further on ahead.

12:24 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

27 Jul 2004

Reminder... I an NOT in Boston!

To continue a particulary over-pushed theme: You HAVE been told!

11:21 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

26 Jul 2004

So, I was watching Jen suck this guy off...

I actually have nothing to put here other than, go read J3N's blog. Today I am flat, flat and low. So low all I really want to do is crawl into the hole, take the train home, head upstairs and stick my head under my pillow. I'm not tired, but all I want to do is sleep. That is all.

5:41 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

21 Jul 2004

Nude Asian Girls Playing Twister

Would I lie to you? Would I?

4:31 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

21 Jul 2004

Yes, I am a simpleton!

Another group I'm in, asked the question... What do you stand for. I pondered the question for a few moments... It really is all quite simple if you just don't read books! I stand for the rights of the individual. I believe we each have the right to make our own decisions in so much as we do not impinge upon the rights of our fellow citizens. I believe it is the obligation of every individual to respect their fellow citizens and understand how their decisions may impact on their neighbors rights. I also believe that each individual must take 100 percent responsibility for their own actions and must be accountable to laws and regulations that we have collectively agreed upon. Also, we should all take 100 percent responsibility for our lot in life. One should have full knowledge of their rights and obligations, one should have full knowledge of their own abilities and limitations. There is no one to blame but yourself! Today's Key Issue I believe that the culture I have been brought up in, although nowhere near perfect is a good culture. I feel that it is an adaptive open culture that is constantly changing and allowing itself to be influenced by new forces and ideas inherent in an open culture. I accept that the pace of this change is frustrating, as is the pace of evolution. I believe we are currently interlocked in a fundamental battle with forces from another culture that is inherently opposed and runs counter to what I believe in. I believe that although we have evolved in some respects, and that many conflicts can be resolved peacefully, logically and intelligently, we have not evolved to the point where all conflicts can be solved this way. It is naive to think war and violence is obsolete when we live in an extremely violent world. We are a messy species, we are improving, miraculously so even within my lifetime. But, as with conflicts of the human condition in the past, say... slavery, imperialism, fascisms and to some extent racism and communism, [which I believe to be lesser conflicts than the one we are currently faced with] we are going to loose a lot of human life. This loss will be brutal, heart wrenching and frustrating in our wish that it was not played out this way, again. I stand for this open progressive society, a society that supports and encourages individualism, creativity and hard work. I stand behind the men and women who sacrifice themselves to ensure this open and progress society survives, AND I strongly believe with all my soul that it will survive. :-)

2:01 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

21 Jul 2004

The numbers are in...

I must pay serious attension to this...   At least I'm not wasting all my time on Fark anymore.

12:12 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

20 Jul 2004

It's GOOD to be... ?

1:32 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

20 Jul 2004

It's GOOD to be GREEN!

No comment!

1:15 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

20 Jul 2004

We all miss Fabio...

My mind was drawn to think of Fabio today by a bulletin post here on myspace. I realized, yes, yes I do miss Fabio. I think I miss a bunch of things about one might call "The Fabio Days". My problem is, I can't really pin-point when the Fabio Days really happened. I seem to recall them as the late 80's early 90's... my married years. Not so carefree, but good years none the less. Years of settling down [ya right], starting my own business, developing a dependency on booze... all those really really really great moments.

What strikes me most about my Fabio Days, were that back then, I didn't know who the demon was, AND I guess I really didn't care. These days, I have my demons straight in front of me, I've met him, he's an OK guy but fuck he's one tough bastard. Fabio, we miss you... again this way shall never come a solid dude like was the dude we called... Fabio.

12:36 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

14 Jul 2004

OHIO!

I don't know anyone who has NOT been to Ohio, one of this nations greatest of great states. From it's rugged Pacific coastline, to it's sublime Carribean beaches, Ohio has something for just about everyone. I used to go every year over the Labor Day weekend to watch the Indy 500. I tell you the thrill if seeing Big Daddy Don Gartlet and his oh so fast NASCAR racing machine, my heart pounds! These days I don't see as much racing as I used to. Lately I've been able to manage an evening or two in Portland Ohio, a small town south of Capital City. I have family there, my wife, and my estranged kids. It's always a good evening though, roasting hotdogs and watching the sun set over the Rockies. I tell you, it makes me wish I'd never left Ohio! Yep, Ohio... It's my favorite State! [This year Ohio is celbrating their sequi-centenial, come on over and enjoy the splendor that is... OHIO!] I mean tell me who the FUCK are you! [shown actual size]

4:15 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Jul 2004

Found Tidbit

Can you imagine working for a company that has a little more than 500 employees and has the following statistics: * 29 have been accused of spousal abuse * 7 have been arrested for fraud * 19 have been accused of writing bad checks * 117 have directly or indirectly bankrupted at least 2 businesses * 3 have done time for assault * 71 cannot get a credit card due to bad credit * 14 have been arrested on drug-related charges * 8 have been arrested for shoplifting * 21 are currently defendants in lawsuits * 84 have been arrested for drunk driving in the last year... Can you guess which organization this is? It's the 535 members of the United States Congress. The same group that crank out hundreds of new laws each year designed to keep the rest of us in line. This tidbit has NOT been verified.

5:25 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Jul 2004

Broken Windows

Sitting in and airport bar on the way home from Dayton a couple of years back, I met a fella who, when I told him I was living in NYC had this opinion... When a conservative sees a building full of broken windows their answer is to fix the glass, find the person who broke the windows and spank his sorry ass. When a liberal sees a building full of broken windows their answer is to begin a dialogue on what social ills made cause for some poor soul to act out such painfull acts against their community, this dialogue will continue until a conservative comes along and sees the building full of broken windows.

5:08 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

13 Jul 2004

Song Lyrics...

Song Lyrics... interesting topic? To be honest, I pretty much gave up on song lyrics years ago. When I was younger I was all into that singer songwriter stuff, sing along goo goo and poetry in motion la la la. Frankly, I just got really sick of listing to the big bunch of testosterone driven young men whose take on the world had been formed while dropping outta high school smoking too much pot and concentrating way too much effort on fucking girls with brains the size of a walnut. When I dropped out of Art School and left for Europe in 1983 I sold 90f my record collection, and never looked back. Outside a frenzied re-birth of interest in "Bands" around the grunge years, I don't think I've had any particular interest in any of these "cult of the lead singer" groups since the big sell off. Oh, and during the grunge years, well the more they mumbled, the more I liked them. Summary of my most favorite rock n' roll lyrics: "I wanted to fuck her, but she said no... so now I'm twisted, depressed and full of angst" "The government is evil... so now I'm twisted, depressed and full of angst, so lets fuck" "I don't eat meat... so now I'm twisted, depressed and full of angst, and the government is evil" "My car goes fast... so now I'm twisted, depressed and full of angst, and ya, I might fuck you" "I'm twisted depressed and full of angst... so now I'm twisted, depressed and full of angst, so, like can we fuck?" I think the straw came during my "deconstructionist days" at OCA [bad case of the French flu floating around those days]. I mean, all we did at art school was critique everything that moved [mobiles] and most things that didn't move [stabiles]. You think these internet geeks are geeks you should sit down with a bunch of circa '80s five and dime philosophers in an Art School basement and listen to them argue over the meaning of every line on an Elvis Costello song sheet. After a while, I just wanted to pull all my hair out. On a side note, this is also when I developed my "Compact Creative Critiquing System". I believe I may have explained it to Sally once... essentially, now, when ever it appears someone wants to enter a discussion, or get my opinion on something creative, I do my best to cut it short by ranking said creative piece either one (1) or zero (0). Basically if I like something, it'll get a 1, if I don't it gets a 0. The criteria is simple, if I have the slightest emotional response to something, it gets a 1. If it elicits no response at all... i.e. I think it's dumb, it gets a zero. I was thinking about writing a song about this, but... the words just didn't come out properly. I digress... Singer Songwriters / Pop Stars I have liked [by no means all], but no longer bother listening to [or more specifically, listen to their lyrics] Elvis Costello... dude poet, clever diddy writer, pompous British shit head! David Byrne... I once considered David to be god, then like god, he got really really really freakin' boring Bruce Sprinstein [that Jewish guy from Jersey]...I drifted off to sleep to Nebraska for months... nuff said Ian Curtis... I applaud Ian for doing what any really good Pop Stars should do Kurt Cobain... [see above] really, I wish more of them would put a bullet in it before I feel like putting one in mine Mark Mothersborough [et al]... Indeed, we are not men! John Lennon... Mark Chapin came about nine years too late and shot the wrong person [the ol' joke, 3 if he'd fired three inches to the left, he woulda been a hero] Florian Schneider... he can press that special key all day long as far as I'm concerned, baby! Way back when In Sixty-seven I was the dandy Of Gamma Chi Sweet things from Boston So young and willing Moved down to Scarsdale Where the hell am I Hey Nineteen No we can't dance together No we can't talk at all Please take me along When you slide on down Hey Nineteen That's 'Retha Franklin She don't remember The Queen of Soul It's hard times befallen The sole survivors She thinks I'm crazy But I'm just growing old Hey Nineteen No we got nothing in common No we can't talk at all Please take me along When you slide on down The Cuervo Gold The fine Colombian Make tonight a wonderful thing No we can't dance together No we can't talk at all

Honestly, if you catch me listing to music with Lyrics, honestly, I am not listening to them.

2:34 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

12 Jul 2004

Today's Topic: I am still NOT T-Bag

See below... Stressful day... I think I really need a shot to the head!

3:56 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

9 Jul 2004

Space Pizza [from the BBC]

The US restaurant chain Pizza Hut has announced that it has become the first company in the world to deliver a pizza to outer space. Last month Yuri Usachov, one of the Russian cosmonauts living on the International Space Station (ISS) ate a pizza that the company had sent to him. Taking much longer than the usual 30 minutes, the pizza rode aboard a Russian rocket used to resupply the ISS. The Pizza Hut chain said it paid the Russian space agency about $1m (£700,000) for the promotional stunt, including footage of Mr Usachov flashing a thumbs-up after eating the pizza, and for pasting the chain's logo on a rocket last year. Spending a long time in space has the effect of deadening the taste buds, so extra salt and spices were added to the pizza. And salami had to be used as pepperoni lacked the necessary shelf life, growing mouldy. Unusual customers

1:34 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

8 Jul 2004

I am NOT T-Bag!

Recently friends of mine have been trying to tag me with a nick name that deeply disturbs me. I'm troubled by it on a number of different levels, the worst thing being that it pretty much describes a part of my anatomy which has been troubling me for the past few years, namely my big ol' hairy ol' man ball sack. OK, firstly lets get this big ol' ol' man ball sack discussion outta the way... As I continue to zing through the middle years of my life, traveling at the speed of time and light towards old age, I am starting to notice bits and pieces of me starting to droop, sprout extra hair or basically just plain ol start to break down and stop working. The problem with the big ol' ol' man ball sack falls into the 'droop' category. It's quite interesting on one level, on another level I find myself having to constantly adjust myself in order to keep my boys safe from the crushing force of my boney old ass cheeks. Simply, it's a good thing I wear briefs, otherwise I'd essential be walking around town with two bruised peaches swingin' in the breeze like a couple of wrecking balls bein' managed by a crane operator who had two too many Jack and Cokes at the local rummy bar the night before. Non-muscular appendage management is not something I'm looking forward to in my twilight years... Assuming only that the situation will continue to get worse. So, obviously, I'm a bit overwhelmed at the attention my pals have started to place on... my ol' ol' man droopy swaying itchy hairy ballsack. As for the nick name part of this, I'm reminded of an episode of Sienfeld. The one where George is trying to get his co-workers to give him the manly nickname T-Bone. Blah blah blah... He ends up with the far less manly handle, CoCo the Chimp. Anyhow, this whole incident brings up the whole issue of nick name management. I'll admit that it's all kinda new to me as I've never really tried to get myself nick named, nor have I ever really experienced this horror of watching a nick name starting to congeal around myself, my personality or in this case a previously anonymous appendage. Really, all this happened simply because I happened to yank my pants down while dancing on the bar at my local corner bar. A simple mistake, a brief public display of the ol' man... well you know. Hey, maybe I should be proud that this feature has generated so much excitement? NO. Nope, I'm going to appeal to my friends... beg if I have to, get down on my hands and knees [even if this position runs the risk of dragging said organ on the ground]... PLEASE DON'T CALL ME T-BAG! Please let me age and droop with some dignity. PLEASE get your hands off my ol' ol' man droopy assed hairy itchy burning swoopin' and swayin' t-bag!

12:21 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

7 Jul 2004

Gord Likes Beer... My Take

It's true, I do like beer. Actually the liking of beer is mandatory in Canada. I believe it is the national beverage. I have to admit though, that for sometime, I've been a bit off it. For some reason the beer I have been drinking tastes a bit sour. Maybe it's the brands I'm buying, perhaps my pallet has changed... I'm not really sure. What I do know is that this is something I really do have to work on. It has to be worked on for two reasons, the first being, I will be in Canada later this August; the second, replacing beer with Jack Daniels is becoming more and more dangerous. I am finding I get considerably more drunk after drinking the same volume of JD as I used to with beer, odd really. Anyhow, if anyone knows of a sweeter tasting beer, please, advise me. [coming soon, Cape Cod Pictures 2004 don't you just love seeing other people's vacation pictures!]

3:55 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

1 Jul 2004

Cape Weird... If you want me...

This is where I'll be. I'll be away from the office and the rest of my life for the next few days. Please leave a message at the sound of the tone. Happy Independence Day!

6:34 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

1 Jul 2004

Today I wish I were a dad...

1:54 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

1 Jul 2004

Blacktop for the GOP... AND, you can't polish turd!

Two things that have been rattlin' 'round my head all morning. My once again, over tired head [I tended bar last night, long story, no relevance]... I know why they're rattlin', the first one was a song I was making up and singing to myself while out buying a tuna sandwich this morning, apparently they're paving all the streets in midtown during the run up to the coronation... The other was the subject line of an email I was sent yesterday, some marketing newsletter. Anyhow, I thought they went well together, and reading them up there, ya... they do kinda fit nicely as a kind of theme to the day. Make of it what you will. This picture kinda makes sense today as well... Dust? Asperin or Vitamins? Even in today’s organic-wheat-grass-drinking culture, it's easier to convince some guy to part with 8 bucks if you're eliminating a bitchin’ hangover rather than simply enhancing his general health and making his pee smell funny.

12:45 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Jun 2004

I know I shouldn't read the Drudge Report, but...

Official Washington and the entire press corps will be rocked when Hillary Rodham Clinton is picked as Kerry's VP and a massive love fest will begin! So predicts a top Washington insider, who spoke to the DRUDGE REPORT on condition he not be named. "All the signs point in her direction," said the insider, one of the most influential and well-placed in the nation's capital. "It is the solution to every Kerry problem." -------------------------------------------------- Ya, right, the Clinton gang would have Kerry killed faster than you could say VINCE FOSTER. All hail President Klin-tun! I'm getting an errection just thinking about this, NO, really I am. I hear Hillary has a really nice Minky... Monkey?... Yes, Minky!

1:45 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

30 Jun 2004

Girls look good in the sunshine!

Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Today I am not going to bother with Moby or Michael Moore... Hmmmm... I'll just stare at this all day!

10:55 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,009

From Moby's Web Site wow. michael moore's 'fahrenheit 9-11' was the highest grossing movie in the u.s last week, even though it only opened on 800-ish screens. that's amazing. and bush's approval rating is at a new low, 42 percent. and most pollsters believe that an incumbent president with an approval rating below 50 percent at this stage in the election cycle can't expect to win re-election. it's nice to have some good news. but we can't get complacent, cos the bush camp have hundreds of millions of dollars to spend and they're not in any way restrained by any notions of decency or civility. so, with the bush camp like a cornered dog, it's safe to say that they're going to get as awful and vicious as they did with john mccain in south carolina in 2000 and with max leland in 2002. we can all relax in november when the democrats have re-taken the house and senate and when john kerry has won the election, but for the next four months we need to be diligent and vigilant, and we need to work even harder to get rid of bush and his nefarious administration. and if you haven't seen fahrenheit 9-11 then please go see it. the most disturbing scene for me is still the raw footage of bush sitting for 10 minutes doing nothing after being told that terrorists had flown a plane into the 2nd tower of the world trade center. oh, sorry, he wasn't doing nothing, he was reading a book about a goat that was intended for 6 year olds. moby, 06. 29. 04 Things I Think I Know: Moby hates America!

5:45 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Jun 2004

Moby on the Mermaid Parade

That's right... Moby! the mermaid parade was great. i read an article wherein they said that there were 1,500 people in the parade. yes, true, i guess, but there were over 50,000 people lining the parade route. coney island is a remarkable american treasure. i hope that the efforts to 'protect' coney island continue to bear fruit. thanks to the wonderful people at the mermaid parade for asking me to be king neptune. and thanks to theo for being such a radiant queen mermaid. moby   Moby and Jen share a Mermaid Moment, to bad he's freakin' GAY!

5:35 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Jun 2004

Coinky-dinky...

So, I've got this check I gotta cash at the Cash Stop. Stupid me forgets his Passport [my only valid ID down here] at home. So, I get Jen to bring my passport to the city. We hook up at the corner of 35th and 7th... she hands me my passport, and we light a smoke [yes it was THAT good]. Anyhow, we're hanging there, Jen looks down sees a passport and says something like "holly fuck you stupid idiot, there's your passport". So, I grab it... It ain't mine. It belongs to Some guy named Sean Ziran McDonald. Imagine that. This Sean guy gets around...

2:41 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,008

Tatoos are good...   pictured on the Coney Island Boardwalk after the 2004 Mermaid Parade

12:09 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,007

When I was growing up, the dudes in my home town of Trenton Ontario would jack up there wheels, throw hundreds of dollars at the power train and lay rubber all over town... I thought those days were over for good

pictured at the 2004 Mermaid Parade, Coney Island Brooklyn

I now know that that's not entirely true... Things I Think I Know: Brooklyn is chock full 'o gombas!

11:40 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

29 Jun 2004

Let Freedom Reign!

From AFP The silent celebration began when US Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld passed Bush a note during a meeting of NATO leaders, not all of whom knew that Iraq's new government was assuming sovereignty two days ahead of schedule. The furtive message was from US national security adviser Condoleezza Rice who wrote Bush: "Mr President, Iraq is sovereign. Letter passed from (US civilian overseer Paul) Bremer at 10:26 AM Iraq time - Condi." While the alliance's secretary general spoke, Bush read the note, smiled, scrawled "Let Freedom Reign!" on the note with a black marker, and passed it back to Rumsfeld, who grinned broadly. Bush rolled up his left suit sleeve, checked his watch -- it was 10:17 am (0717 GMT) -- whispered a few words in Blair's ear, smiled and extended his hand, which the prime minister happily took as both leaders smiled. Honestly, how can you NOT love these guys!

10:05 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jun 2004

Look what they did to my old school!?!

Those crazy bastards... All my early '80s punk-child memories, ruined, buried under a gynormous, I don't even know if you could even call it postmodern shoe box floating precariously over the ol' place... Actually, it's kinda cools!

7:06 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jun 2004

This from the director of Canadian Bacon

You’ve got four days after it opens, to get people out to the polls to make sure that Mr. Harper doesn’t become your next prime minister. We’re trying to get rid of our conservative, you know. We’re going one way, you guys shouldn’t be going the opposite direction. You should be saying, ‘You know what? We don’t want this country, Canada, to become like Bush’s America…The American way is pull yourself up by your bootstraps: ‘Me, me, me, me, me. It’s mine. It’s mine.’ Don’t go that way. Your Conservatives are trying to take you that way. Dear Michael, your fantasy of Canada as the Nirvanic socialist republic to the North is a freakin' fantasy! I want Canada to change governments just so this fat bastard can't keep misrepresenting us in those pieces of dreck he calls documentaries! In other words... Take it away Terrance...     "Shut your fucking mouth you fucking fucker... you're great big fucking pig you fucking fucker..."

5:45 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jun 2004

OH Canada, oh brother

Just a little sentimental pic to ride out the rest of Canadian election day on. For those who may not know, the guy on the right ran my country for close to 18 years. They guy on the left is a damned commie!

With respect to the Canadian Election... There is a slight chance that THE Party, that is the Liberal Party might just be tossed out on it's ear today. I truely hope this is the case. Even though I do not live there any more it would be really quite sad to see my country continue to make an ass of itself... Beside this new guy is a pretty snappy dresser!

Oh, and Michael Moore, get you fat assed stinkin' nose outta my countries business, you stupid fat F9K

4:32 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,006

Objectivity, n : judgment based on observable phenomena and uninfluenced by emotions or personal prejudices [syn: objectiveness] There is no such thing as objectivity, period!

1:43 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,005

I think I might just go and see the New Michael Moore film. This may come as a surprise to some of the folks who know me, as I have made it pretty clear that I believe him to be nothing more than a self-aggrandizing phony who doesn't know humor, nor craft of documentary film making... I could go on, but I think you could probably guess where I'd go from there.   I think it might just be important to see this latest screech from MM, as I believe this film may have entered Mr. Moore into a whole new realm of expression, the movie itself, one a notch or two more important than that last piece of drivel... He's essentially moved himself from leftist inside-jokester, to lefty blabber-mouthed propagandist. Jokesters can be dismissed, propagandist have to be dissected [some might say de-constructed, but I afraid of words like deconstructed]. I think I'm going to need a far more intimate understanding of what I'm slagging over the next few weeks, AND make know doubt, this is something I think I know: I will be slagging the New Michael Moore movie incessantly, and continuously over the summer.

12:55 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

28 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,004

I now know this, I cannot make it from Sally and JP's place to my place via the backyard route. What I don't know at this point is how to fix/replace or repair the Tomato plants I may have destroyed while exploring this option. I don't think there is anyway I can truely apologize. Sorry.

8:37 AM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

25 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,003

Beer taste better cold.

6:54 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

25 Jun 2004

Some days I know I know nothing...

Had a great night last night hanging with pals. Backyarding... I forget how much I miss the backyards I used to know back in Toronto. I guess that's the penalty for living in Brooklyn, so few back yards, the chances of knowing someone with a backyard is pretty slim, having one yourself, even slimmer. Long night tough day at work... As a friend once pointed out, hey if work was fun, they'd call it fun instead of work. Here's hoping the weekend only creates happy memories... and with that, a backyard:

6:47 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,002

The foresail on a slope rig sail boat is called the jib. The jib, in most cases, not only allows the boat to point higher into the wind but also increases the aero-dynamic performance of the mainsail. Sails essentially work on the same, high-low pressure or "lift" dynamics that the wing of an airplane work on. Wind traveling across the windward side of the sail travels across the surface of the sail less quickly than air traveling across the leeward or back of the sail. I believe this is call the laminar effect, but I don't know that. This difference in speed cause a high pressure 'system' to be created on the windward side of the sail, and conversely a low pressure system to be created on the leeward side of the sail. As some of you may know, this creates a force vector, which in this case, run perpendicular to the plain of the sail. This force vector, as it interacts with the natural drift vector, which itself is counteracted upon by the opposing resistance vector created by the centerboard or keel, creates a forward motion vector which causes the boat to move forward. The jib, as it is positioned in front of the mainsail, and offset to the plain of the mainsail creates a lift/forward motion vector itself. It also forces the air traveling across the leeward side of the mainsail, by way of a venturi effect, to speed up, helping to create a greater lift vector. This is the second thing I know: Jibs help slope rigged sailboats go now!

6:20 PM

Like·Comment

Post a comment...

24 Jun 2004

Things I Think I Know #0,000,001

After a whole bunch of years, I figure I know quite a bit. I think I'll use this space to examine these things I know. I guess the first thing I know is that everything I know is suspect... Holly freakin' profound Mr. kucka-head. Sound like I'm back in Art School, those damned flea bitten years. Of course the funny thing is that all the things I knew back then, were all damned lies. Well, OK, I think they might have been lies. Anyhow: Things I know #0,000,001 I don't know shait! At least I don't think so.

2:45 PM

Like·Comment

blog

once open a time... I made an attempt to keep a blog... it was messy, messy messy. It had some moments I guess; after all, it did lead to some very good things... [more on that, elsewhere]

That's write... here is my old myspace blog... every last single word! from it... every silly word of it, reverse sequential unedited...[if you get through it... you get a cookie]

That's write... here is my old myspace blog... every last single word! from it...
every silly word of it, reverse sequential unedited...
[if you get through it... you get a cookie]