Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Cities. (Tuesday, December 02, 2008)

A flight back from Europe, less miserable than the horrifying trip over where my glorious leader got pathetically drunk and tried to sleep with the flight attendant. Worse could happen, but at 3am at 20 000 ft above a frigid ocean, the last thing you want to hear is your boss screaming the number of women he has slept with. But that was only the beginning.

Further misadventures included an interesting but largely uneventful trip to Doncaster, Yorkshire. And a night out drinking with an army friend of mine at a South African pub. And so, for your reading enjoyment I present:


I drank at a South African Pub and I've STILL never met a nice South African, because they really are a bunch of arrogant bastards who hate black people


After a quick few pints at a smattering of pubs including the sad "Maple Leaf", a Scot friend of mine and I decided what better to do in London on vacation, but to get completely destroyed at a South African pub? The answer? ANYTHING.

The idea for this quest began a few days prior to the story. After meeting an ex-Rhody veteran who decided to tell his best war stories to me in the hotel lounge. My business associate, Ardashir, had long since bailed due to something he referred to as "work", so I didn't particularly care who I was speaking to, so long as I wasn't stuck in the back of some pub staring off into the distance limiting my conversation to "another one of these please".

The Rhody, (who's name I never bothered to ask), was apparently organizing some sort of ex-military reunion and happened to mention a decent South African pub in London. After this point he accused the black bartender of short-changing him his money. Thereby ending my conversation with him. The trouble with bad ideas and me, is that I know full well how these things turn out. Consciously, I know better than to play with fate, but some genetic malfunction prevents me from listening to rational thought. I call that malfunction "drinking".

So this idea begins to fester in the back of my mind. I wasn't consciously aware of its existence and went about my day without a second thought for it. It wasn't until a friend of mine from the BA arrived, that the spores of this bad idea spread. The idea infecting my judgment and led the two of us into this wretched pub deep into a drinking embassy of the dark continent.

The doorman could see us coming a mile away. We'd been drinking all afternoon, mostly for sustenance rather than entertainment. However, these things tend to creep up on you. A whiskey shot aperitif followed by a 4 pint lunch rejuvenates the body but clouds the mind.

After the doorman let us through with a cunning smile usually reserved for the doomed, we walked in. It seemed normal enough, almost Australian in design. Besides, my friend was there, and nothing is more reassuring than having a psychotic drunken Scotsman on your side when walking through the jaws of hell. What, could possible go wrong? Then he saw her. Single, and immediately distracted by any run of the mill dark haired seductress, I could see exactly where the incident was going to start. Almost pre-cognitive and best described as that feeling you get when you see a heavy object falling from a high shelf immediately above your head. You know what's going to happen next, but its too late to react.

"Scot" immediately begins chatting her up. She seemed flattered enough, but was still relatively sober. Standing under a speaker I couldn't hear their conversation and decided to get a bottle of Castle lager and stand around like a jackass. Then she got to the point. Existing in the tip of her outstretched finger, and accentuated by an equally outstretched arm, The point was, (and usually is) the very heart of a given issue. In this case, the point was 6ft 5, 300 pounds and sitting in the corner with two of his equally large friends. "Scot's" face dropped. So did mine. Without even hearing their conversation, I got the point. Anyone else in the bar who had been looking over at her (and most were), would have gotten the point. However, "Scot" did not. Like most of his ilk, a situation like this is more of a challenge than a warning. Realizing this, the point decided to join us.

Having to duck, due to the lowish ceiling, he took up most of the corridor. A strange wave of tactical thinking began slowly churning in my mind. It began with horror, and then amusement when I realized he was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and pork-pie hat. And so the main event started.

"What's your sport mate?" Speaking to me instead of "Scot".

This took me a moment, Being in London that long, I had realized most English usage is never literal.

"How do you mean?" I replied like the moron I was.

This caused him a bit of amusement since he was all too aware of what was going on.

"Yeah, as in do you play football? Rugby?"

Once the literal nature of his comment was discerned, I could see the clouds part. With everyone now listening in, the tide of the evening was now within my court. My next comment would decide the entire scenario.

"Nah man, my sport is drinking." (....fucking....idiot, here we go..)

The rest of their table was suddenly around us. I realized everyone had heard my statement. Including both bartenders. Despite having eaten nothing solid all day and still recovering from a previous hangover, I immediately realized this was the best that could be hoped for. I made a mental assessment of my health and level of intoxication and found that most of the bullshit I had been speaking that night, had actually been of the sober variety. Which meant, (in many instances of previous experience) I was top of my game.

While "Scot" laughed uncontrollably, she took notice,

"Drinking is your sport?"

"Sport, Art and Science" (oh go on!)

She purchased the first round. Jagerbombs. Child's play. Jagermeister is truly a masters spirit. Under estimated by the novice, it is only attempted by the professional after conquering each of the three wise men (Tequila, Whiskey and Vodka). However, when combined with red bull, the effects are diluted, ensuring that an accomplished drinker has nothing to fear from stumbling like a moron. The greatest risk is merely premature heart failure.


There is an etiquette to drinking spirits most people over look. While some cultures suggest that you must overturn the finished shot glass, others insist it be placed upright on the bar. In the case of tumbler glasses, this is always the custom. However, in competition, there is one often overlooked standard. To win, your shot glass MUST hit the bar before all others and for the finale, you MUST take the drink with a completely straight face. Any sign of weakness will be immediately sought out and attacked. I was aces.

Five rounds later, and the threat of brutal beatings had subsided. "The Point" had been vanquished, and left the bar sullen having realized his position. My job as "wingman" had gone stunningly. "Scot" was chatting with the girl and I was milling around taking to a variety of the local inhabitants about the status of South Africa, asking about different beer, and discussing the finer points of Nigerian dance hall music.

Live music followed, with a few requests from "scot" and myself going off stunningly well, turning what was a normal night into one of that bars best. Drinks were poured by others, few were paid for by me. The girls overly protective drunken brother had been rendered retarded with drink and the remaining friends of there's were just happy we weren't English.

Of course, things can't go on forever in good health. Which how I found myself speaking to some strange psychotic who was somehow involved in the running of the bar. The only Englishman allowed in it seemed, which was understandable considering his behaviour. Then I noticed the tattoo, which the internet conveniently has many representations of. The tattoo was none other than the emblem of the SAS. The British Special Air Service.

No stranger to unfortunate home-made tattoos and recognizing the image as that of the badge of the SAS, I realized what the situation was. The psychotic I was speaking to was one of three things:

1. An active SAS member
2. A past-serving SAS member
3. A total and complete walt

While this was never determined, the tattoo was done by hand. Further I don't believe a serving member would be allowed to wear a tattoo of the unit on his forearm. However, I didn't ask.

The night began to wind down. The SAS man demanded that the bar stay open and so the dregs of our party sat around smoking cigarettes indoors (to my great pleasure) and drinking free booze until around 1 or 2. Having consumed enough alcohol to kill a horse, "Scot" and I ventured out for food. Arriving at possibly the worst chinese-food takeaway I've ever had in my life. In my drunken state, I finished half of my meal and then started berating the staff over the quality of the food considering its expense. The reaction: Stone-faced reserve. I handed my meal back to the staff (politely) and walked outside to find the SAS man hunched over on the pavement with an opaque blue liquid dribbling out of his mouth unconscious. He had followed us there. What had happened to him, I do not know, but I knew it was time to go home.

Immediately finding a taxi, I said goodbye to "Scot" and the girl, and went home to endure one of the most painful hangovers of my life. I don't think London is any more different than any other place I've been to in the western world. Differences between major cities are superficial. Spoken language, street names and product names. The rest is identical. There is always some vortex of the bizarre where ever you happen to be. If you seek it, you'll find it. My best advice is to avoid it at all costs. For whatever reason, I can't.

Monday, July 10, 2006 Rotting Corn of The Glorious Five Year Plan

I'm dangling my legs over the edge of my grandparent's open grave. I can see the two caskets 6 feet down smeared with dark clay. Its a nice day out and the manicured grass is cool and damp. My grandparents lived in a time when material things didn't matter as much and people got through life on their word and with purpose. And now they have no words, all that's left is the skeletal remains of their physical presence, stored wastefully in expensive boxes on expensive real estate. Their death isn't a departure, but a final and perfect adaptation to a world filled with material without purpose.

Monday to Friday I stare at the light of a photocopier, blinking every time it produces another memo. Monday to Friday from 6am to 5pm I can predict to the minute exactly how my future turns out. And then Friday, at 5pm I hit the event horizon. Sunday afternoon I sit in the wake of destruction and shock of another weekend with new zeal for the predictability of my work week.

Friday night and I head downtown to meet up with some friends. On this particular evening we are all meeting at God''s Blind Spot. A grueling bar at the best of times. Regardless, the beer is cheap and considering the massive quantities of that particular poison which is required to get through an evening, it is the only option. Sober and still wearing my upstanding work clothing I arrive at the bar.

During the week I work in an office that has a series of televisions constantly tuned to 3 different news networks. I can watch our wars in stereo over a cup of coffee. Monitor #1 shows a nameless Middle Eastern city street after a car explosion. Monitor #2 shows a train bombing in India. Monitor #3 shows the World Cup. Iraqi insurgents and Kashmiri terrorists ahead by 1, and will therefore go on to the next round pending the results of the Croatian/Australia match.

While important people are doing important things, I occupy the majority of my mental ability around the defining aspects of life. File corruptions, paper cuts, smiling enough but not too much, avoiding work while looking as though I am exceeding the expectations of my employer. The edge of reality blurs further when I watch the news and once in a while I know the person on the screen personally.

And now, it's Friday, I am going to the bar. I walk through a mob of street kids and punks who are in the midst of a battle royale. Blood and booze take the place of thought and personality. But I have resolved to avoid that type of behaviour. I push through the crowd without stopping and walk in the door of the emptied bar. The owner sullenly handles a mop with a disgruntled look of confusion and anger, lost as a bastard son on father's day. My friends are nowhere to be seen, then the feeling comes rushing over me like water crawling up my spine when I realize my shoes are sticking to the floor. Looking down I notice that someone has decided to decorate the tile with a great quantity of slowly congealing blood. I imagine that from the empty nature of the place, this new scheme has not gotten the approval of the management. Without a doubt in my mind I know this has something to do with my missing friends.

Events like this usually follow a certain logic. The following formula can be applied. Bar - Friends + Blood = Hospital. The convenience of which is a matter of steps from the bar. Reaching the hospital, Jimi is in the waiting room.

It seems that after a few beers Jimi decided to use the washroom. Jimi had reacted to an unprovoked exchange of insults with some fuck-up from Soux St. Marie. This individual had decided that some unnecessary surgery inflicted on Jimi would better illustrate his point in their disagreement. So, the son-of-a-bitch bit Jimi's ear off. This was immediately followed by a massive 30 person bar fight, resulting in absolute drunken anarchy accentuated by Jimi slipping on his own blood looking for his ear. All of which, I was happily absent for and blissfully unaware of up until seeing Jimi at the hospital.

The blue glow of the photocopier rolls on and I'm sitting in a living room. The white paint has changed with age into the colour of a well-used urinal. The coffee table is dusted with cigarette ash and the room is furnished with used 30 year old furniture. Everyone is staring off silently and the moist hot air of July marks the rooms presence, leaving me with the feeling of a wax coating over my skin. I'm thinking of Jimi and his ear. Everyone tried to make light of the situation with friendly jokes, I got him a Van Gogh print and a bottle of absinthe for his birthday. The fun thing about absinthe is... well... nothing. Its expensive, tastes terrible and makes me act insane.

Drinking Absinthe. I was separated from my group of friends at an after-hours bar that night. I somehow managed to make the acquaintance of an Azerbaijani Importer/Exporter. I haggled with him over the unit price of a Russian built armoured car and the cost of body armour. Later, I found him in an altercation with a biker. Obviously the most logical thing to do when you see a 5ft 6 Azerbaijani being pinned against the wall by a 6ft 5 biker, is to put your self right in there. Go ahead! Don't just walk into the jaws of hell with a stupid drunken look on your face, run screaming all the way down. So I tapped the guy on the shoulder,

"So ah, whats your name pal?" I asked oh-so-cleverly.

"Buzzsaw."

"Really? Is that Czech?"

Anyone who can get away with calling themselves Buzzsaw is called that for a reason. Seeing that the etymology of names was not Buzzsaw's interest, I changed the topic to shotgunning a pint of beer. I found out sitting in my friends living room the next day that I beat Buzzsaw in a drinking contest, then took a bite out of my pint glass, chewed the glass and spit out the pieces. I then left the bar, found my friends waiting outside, was asked for a cigarette by a crackhead and told him to start running. I then proceeded to chase the crackhead for a city block. The troubling thing is that I still haven't gone to a hospital about the glass but I do have an appointment with the Azerbaijani on Thursday regarding a Russian armoured car.

I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.

After the revolution in Russia and once Stalin had come to power, he instituted a series of five year plans which were designed to industrialize his country to the equivalent levels of its western counterparts. One of the ideas was to plant North American corn as an alternative to wheat because of its variety of uses and higher food yield. However, Russia did not have a national economy sufficiently adaptable for the introduction of a new industry, so the corn rotted in the fields.

I'm staring at the print pattern on the walls of my cubicle. I put away my days work and head home to my one room apartment. Once I get inside I find the timer on my coffee maker is still working. However, instead of coffee I have a packet of instant noodles cooking in the decanter to save the trouble of preparing a meal when I get home. I recently got a goldfish for my birthday so I walk over to its bowl and drop in a flake of fish food which he eats instantly.


My fish is named "The Glorious Five Year Plan".

Sunday, May 14, 2006 Staring Into The Sun

My apartment is, (for some reason), directly under the flight path of every airplane coming into the city. Tomorrow I'm going up onto the roof and setting up a help sign in red paint. If they land, they must take off, when they do, maybe they'll send back help. At least that's the theory.

Things have calmed down a bit. Just enough to get working on repairing the barricades and collecting food for the coming winter. The tide of humanity that is everyday life has no concern for the well being of me, so when the zombies come on the first of the month pounding on my door and in slurred animal speech demanding rent money, I better have it. The only question is how.

The Stupidest Things I've Done (that I can talk about)


When I was 19 I had a fear of heights. The usual event of walking around downtown was given some warped purpose when I decided it was necessary for me to climb the 40 foot arches at city hall. Three concrete arches stretch over an ice rink, the width of each arch being about 1.5 feet. The added fun of this event was that I had just come back from a party so my head state wasn't exactly clear. I hopped the small fence which pathetically deters anyone with a slight note of common sense from going up there, but I would not be stopped. I could feel the stone-speckled concrete under my naked hands. Their heat immediately sucked from my flesh against the cold stone. Moving upward, I eventually reached the top of the arch. In the night sky at winter, the full impact of my actions was not entirely clear until I sat with my feet danging over the edge. I looked down and realized I'd done something incredibly stupid when the homeless people who gathered around the square were staring up at me. Fine. I'd gone this far, what's wrong with testing the functions of the machinery? Why not see its full performance?

I hung by my hands off the edge of that thin ledge. I could feel the perspiration beginning to seep out of my hands as they clung to the cold concrete. Slowly, my fingers began shifting over the tiny pebbles embedded in the cement. I could feel the outlines of each tiny rock as it passed slowly under my fingers like braille. I jolted to try and gain leverage against the stone, shifting my body forward underneath the arch. This caused my stomach to drop as my back became parallel to the ground below. In jerked gestures I moved one arm forward at a time, until I was exhausted, but safely grasping the ledge. I very nearly killed myself that day. Was not the first time, was not the last time.

I should be dead by all normal logic, but for some reason I escaped. Remind me to send God or Baal (or whoever is in charge of fate) a gift basket of Danish cheese. That's like a hundred dollar gift right there.

After climbing the arches I had the taste of the shockingly weird. All of us ended up at Yonge and Eglinton. A neighborhood comprised of the same mold output of yuppies found in most neighborhoods across Toronto. Not exactly the spot you'd think insanity could be set loose on the city like medical test monkeys escaping from cages. Most people ignore the fact that the best of times can happen in the worst places, its all up to the creativity/insanity/irresponsibility of the individual.

Actually that's bullshit, because by that point the night was boring and we had nothing do to. Rambling down the sidewalk looking for something of interest. No money, no direction and no purpose is a dangerous mix. These ingredients are usually the seed of life changing events. We were walking as a group and I noticed a taxi cab unlike any other I had ever seen. Its hood up, and fire streaming from the engine. The natural reaction would be to cross the street, or at least to put yourself out of harms way. But as I've said before, I am not known for my good ideas. The driver was running around in circles with a fire extinguisher trying to save his livelihood before it burst into a diesel fueled wreck all over Yonge street. I had an unlit cigarette, and no lighter so the solution presented itself. I leaned over the hood and lit my cigarette while trying to make sure that it didn't cost me my eyebrows or hair in the process.

Such clever and timely responses are hallmarks for people like me. The normal, uninteresting ones which eventually, just let go.

Thriving in the misfortune of others is an activity best reserved for professional evil, a practice too rich for my blood as I've felt terrible about it since that day. I'm not sure if the Vatican has a name for the sin of lighting a cigarette off of a burning car. But regret aside, I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that the cigarette I had that night was the best tasting cigarette I've had in my life. The irresponsibly wealthy are rumored to occasionally make the silent indulgence of their status by lighting a cigar with a dollar bill. This, of course as we know, is simply a waste of money. Where as the truly irresponsible can use my method, wasting the much more valuable human decency and common sense.

Staring into the sun is not a hobby I would suggest to everyone, but then again neither is having a fire extinguisher fight on the top floor of a hotel you aren't staying at. The entropic anomaly that proves chaos is a necessary presence. If it weren't for the random, what would we have? Patterned order. And the thing about patterns is, they go on forever. Forever predictable, accountable, done, spent.

This idea has been ingrained into me for over a decade now. Showing up to work with candle wax and belt marks on my back may not provide for the most "professional" presence, but balanced against the "photocopied work week" it can give purpose to life simply by wondering what will happen next Friday night.

I found myself in a cab with Bob. He was bringing us to an after hours somewhere. This should have been cause for alarm. But, it wasn't, because I was oblivious. Arriving at this place, we stepped through the door to the image of some thug running toward us.

"I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FUCK SAID YOU COULD WALK IN HERE...Hey! It's Captain America!"

Apparently on a previous visit, Bob had ridden a trouble maker down the stairs like a sled for committing the trespass of being "dishonorable". If you ever find yourself in an argument with a giant, super-intelligent Pict who speaks fluent Klingon, the last thing you want to do is portray yourself as "dishonorable". And so Bob attained the handle "Captain America." After everyone in the room went through the handshakes and the back pats we settled down long enough for me to clear the mist and realize the situation I was in. Two thugs stood at the door in leather trench-coats watching the room. A selection of equally brutal street soldiers and half dressed strippers stood around the room. After a drink I managed to get myself through the vortex as usual. This time I came to the realization that I was in a conversation with some guy about the perspective future of the Selassie Dynasty. Okay, let me explain.

If every answer begs a question, then this should put you out on the corner for a few years. Years ago I met a relative to the Ethiopian Crown. Exiled since the 70's due to a communist coup, the heir to the throne has since resided in London, UK. However, a good portion of his family has become American. I met his grand-nephew and became decent friends with him. In return, he decided to give me the honorary title of "Ras" which in European terms equates to "Duke".

That alone would cause for some social strife, except for the fact that everyone in the room at the time was Jamaican. So to connect all the dots, Back when Emperor Hallie Selassie visited Jamaica, the Rastifari decided to acknowledge him as the Living Jah or in other terms, the representation of God on earth. This was in exchange for the passing remark that if the Rastifari wished, they could make Ethiopia their homeland. To make the importance of this clear, The word Rastifari stems from the words Ras Tafar I, the title and name of the Emperor Selassie before his coronation.

Back at the after hours I had just informed the extremely stoned man with the serious face that I had received a title granted to me by a grand-nephew of the gentlemen he believed to be the incarnation of living God. Not exactly the type of thing you want to explain to someone who talks about trees and doesn't mean the tall leafy things that dogs grace with their presence.

This conversation evidently created a degree of interest because I explained the situation to a number of those present. Further I thought I'd throw in some prophecy just to balance it all out.

How to make friends in interesting places.

Then it clicked. Like an adrenaline shot to a morphine addict. Someone asked Bob.

"You his bodyguard?"

"Shit no, He's mine!"

In some places you don't need a phone call or bell to realize when its time to leave. Sometimes the cold shocked stares of 30 bad men is more than reasonably subtle to give directions to the door. Now I've never been one to aggravate a situation, so on Bob's recommendation we left. Getting in a cab we went to McDonald's. Bob bought food, I bought 15 Canada flags designed to attach to the windows of a car. In my condition peering out over the edge of the glass staring at the traffic like a mechanical lion safari, I felt that 15 flags attached to all the windows of the cab were an excellent camouflage to protect against redneck patriots ready to storm down on us. Because by that point of the night, with 20 minutes left until the safety of sleep, anything could happen, and I'd take all the help I could find.

Monday, March 06, 2006 Murphy's Lawyer

New Years Day on the border of Buffalo, NY. I'm sitting in a customs waiting room with approximately 200 Norwegian hockey players. I'm hungover, I've had my pockets emptied and I'm being hassled by a squat middle aged customs clerk with a .45 revolver strapped loosely to her hip. When she laughs the beads of sweat on her face drip lines over her brow and the revolver shakes in its holster. She is now dealing with us after our good friend Akil handed us over to her trust. I'm looking over at Jack and then at the Homeland Security logo taped over whatever American agency used to run customs. There is a plaque on the wall commemorating the open border between Canada and the US. I have been fingerprinted three times and am not allowed to make phone calls or talk to Jack. Jack looks like he is about to flipout. Happy fucking 2006 you sons of bitches.

New Years eve and I'm at some party I can barely remember now. I vaguely remember a big rosedale house filled with the extended band of downtown dropouts that form the backbone of what should be recognized as a "displaced people". The vortex of the improbably attained critical mass in the summer of 2005 and now a community of like minded freaks and outcasts, a few hundred in total has come together. Ofcourse, none of them get along.

Instead the hoard twists and turns with new vendettas and alliances, always meeting up together at mostly the usual places. Meeting up isn't usually about being happy to see someone, its more about making sure everyone else knows you're still around. So the crew of the good ship Queen Annes Revenge arrived at the party standing proudly as one of the factions in this roving leper colony. Adopting the standard pillage that is associated with any house party. I had decided to leave early, a good choice considering mention of a gunfight shortly after my departure. There are many things I do not need to see first hand, small arms warfare is one of them. And if I do ever have to see it, then it better be during work hours and not on my own time.

I arrived at the girls house. I had been with her since Sept. But on arriving at her place she was lying on the ground with a mirror covered in white powder. She had done lines of Ketamine. This drug is marketed as a cat tranquilizer. But it also happens to be nearly exclusively the drug of choice of gay men and my ex-girlfriend. It makes me wonder if the company that makes it has ever wondered why its profit margins go up around the time of gay pride day. So on finding out that my girlfriend had decided that her New Years eve would be skyrocketed to the level of a supreme party by stuffing cat tranquilizer up her nose, well I was a little unhappy with my choice in company. My ability to seek out and befriend the most awful human beings on this planet can only be as a result of a curse put on me in Spain by a gypsy when I was 17. Either that or I shouldn't throw stones. The only word of advice I can give on that topic is, Never try to beat a gypsy at their own game. They take that shit seriously.

That was the state of affairs surrounding me like flies on a dead raccoon. 4am on the first day of 2006 we sat reflecting on an already bizarre night when depression set in. My apartment at the time was the place to be. It rivaled any freight storage facility or garage in the area. When I rented the place it was described as a "studio flat". I have since gone back to the original advert and edited it into some semblance of reality.

Tenant wanted for Soviet-Hip style apartment: Semi-Furnished.

Plenty of standing room for one, this 10ft by 10ft box is equipped with all the modern conveniences of 1950's Tajikistan. Enjoy sleeping on couch cushions while your head and feet touch the opposing walls. Kitchen sink (located conveniently adjacent to cushion bed) gives the impression of tap running water to impress the third world. Don't be fooled though, the only water from this sink is the leaking pipe that will soak you in your sleep, giving you a refreshing nights rest. Refrigerator is climate cohesive (warm room, warm fridge). Bringing new tastes to your food (if you have any). The hot plate that serves as your oven comes equipped with open concept wiring. Remember, only one light can be on if hot plate is in use otherwise the power shorts out. When you wake up wet and refreshed why not have a refreshingly cold shower? It'll keep you on your toes when every 34 seconds the water changes to scalding hot and leaves burn marks on your skin. Windows are taped in place for your security. Night Owl? Hope you like roommates, because you'll be bunking with atleast 2000 roaches, 5 mice and atleast 2 rats. They stay up late and will tend to wake you up. The party lasts all night as you feel your fellow tenants swiftly crawl over your feet at night. If your claustrophobic filthy apartment drives you insane, Indulge! Go ahead and scream! Your new neighbor on the left is a low key convicted sexual predator and your neighbor on the right was just released from CAMH mental hospital and will enjoy talking at you through paper thin walls about her feces.

All this and more can be yours for $550 a month! Can't afford it? No problem! Your mincing homosexual landlord will be more than happy to making passing remarks regarding the exchange of sexual favors for rent! No point in locking your door, Most people have a key so its like an open concept criminal adventure!
Call Today 1-900-Sex-Party (just ask to speak to George!)


So Jack and I sat around being depressed drinking whiskey in my Christmas Light decorated storage shed of an apartment when the idea hit. Coming up with a solution to the worst night of the year to date required inventive thinking. Self-diagnosing advice is what led me to the vortex in the first place. And it was what was going to get me out. Hopefully.

6:50am and We're sitting on a Greyhound bus. We're still trashed and hoped that by bringing some whiskey with us we could keep a hangover at bay for a few hours atleast. All precautions were taken care of. The ever resourceful Bob was on call incase something bad happened. And despite the fact that the night before, someone had slipped 6 hits of LSD into his drink, he was willing to assist if shit hit the fan. Shit, That's like going through a train wreck and saying "Ok, things get bad we've got insurance".

10:04am (I think). Jack and I have always had infinite confidence in the decency and hospitality of our southern neighbor's. They've always been friends and willing to even go out of their way and even to your country of origin just to say hello. Look at Iraq, Afghanistan, Iraq again, Panama, Vietnam, Korea. So when we arrived at the border without passports we assumed without a doubt that this was going to be a short stop. However, we didn't count on how spooked they've become. We also didn't count on Check-Point Akil, The Syrian-American customs agent.

3 hours into our lovely conversation with Akil, our bus has left and we've been entered into atleast three government databases as possible "evil-doers". Maybe I'm not giving the Americans enough credit. Maybe they could smell trouble coming. For all I know, they saw the plagues of locust and storm clouds that accompany me well ahead of time. None the less, I learned a valuable lesson. The only thing more dangerous than an armed American is an armed American bureaucrat. So by 2pm Akil had us more ways than a sorority girl looking for inventive ways of paying tuition. Fingerprinted, Photographed, questioned. Our id had been confiscated, pockets emptied and I believe at one point they even made us do a little dance. We sat in the waiting room while 200 Non-English speaking identical Norwegian clones had their immigration cards filled out for them by the authorities. And finally someone came and spoke to us.

"you're still here?"

After hours of waiting and being processed they had forgotten about us. Well I suppose it's a better option than Guantanimo Bay, but the comparatively liberal immigration laws in Cuba would have been a nice change from the Orwellian policies that the United States has instated. Eventually they gave us back our id and shipped us back to the Canadian side. 2000 Mexicans enter the United States illegally each month and yet I can't even get passed the border for a day trip. I think it comes from years of insulting their god. Regardless, we were back in Canada. Beautiful downtown Fort Erie. Home of Steve's ROBO-MART. This border truck stop was the last bastion of my hope. As Jack and I walked toward the ROBO-MART sign I prayed to Baal that somehow this truck stop was secretly a transforming Japanese Robot standing guard against the heathen Yanks. That if we only explained to its controller/store clerk how we were treated, that he would immediately change into a motorcycle helmet and colourful spandex ski-suit and take command of ROBO-MART to smite our enemies.

The 15 year old kid at the counter was playing stupid and the forced blank expression on his face indicated to me that apparently I wasn't "in" enough to talk about the stores secret abilities. A cold wide-eyed stare also indicated to me that I shouldn't mention the Japanese robot again in public. Well Fuck it. With an hour to kill, Jack and I walked to the banks of the half frozen Niagara river staring silently across the water to the land of the free that rejected us so completely. I've dealt with rejection before, but usually it was due to muttered drunken comments about women looking pregnant. I would never make such a comment about Lady Liberty, even if she is a silver-backed coug' at 120 years old. Hours later we were off the bus in Toronto. Scorned by the lessons of God. Dejected and in shock, we sat in a coffee shop with the overwhelming feeling that we should both go to our respective homes and think about what we had done. We saw nothing of the birth of punk, the economic engine of the western world, That rotten apple. Instead we do what we do best, we made it into a story.

"God bless America". I'd believe it. Only a total bastard like him would. God is an American, and I am afraid of Americans.

Saturday, November 19, 2005 Judging Evil.

I'm in the middle of nowhere once again. Some place between Kitchener and Owen Sound in the pocket of Ontario ruled by German Puritans since the 19th century. But now my family owns a small patch of this godless land. I'll be constructing my alter to Lord Baal next summer, maybe even set up a mission...

I'm reading a book about Jerry Adams and Sinn Fein. I've heard a noise outside that might be gangster rappers or possibly some sort of deer. I bet its a deer, the migration patterns of gangster rappers isn't known to travel this far north unless global warming fucks with things.
I'm ready for the bastard because unlike the wild outdoors I've got a Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol. Whatever is out there is going to be deep in the shit. I'm pissed off, hungover and have withdrawal shakes plus, this particular means of lead conveyance comes equipped with a hair trigger.

I notice the stains of plastic cheese stolen from 7/11 on my clothes. It matches the orange on the Irish Tricolour Gerry Adams holds on the cover of my book perfectly. It makes me a little nervous as the thought crosses my mind that whatever is outside might smell the "yellow taco caulking".

Its a risk I'll have to take. When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, those brain eaters wont stand for hesitation. If my gun had a safety, it would be off.

Moving outside I unload a couple of rounds into a statue of a hedgehog just to show how serious I am about expressing my opinion.

It was a good thing too, I guess I must have spooked off whatever evil was lurking out there because all I could see was my neighbor walking his dog.

He looked a little spooked so I told him I heard evil doers so I've been shooting off firecrackers all night to keep them at bay. I said it for his own peace of mind. Knowing my neighbor had been a "Justice of the Peace" for 30 years I asked him the legality of the operation of fireworks after having consumed large quantities of whiskey, but the best he could say was that he didn't know. That seemed like a suspicious answer for a law man. Especially since it was 3:30am. I asked him what he was doing snooping around my family property at that time of night and secretly wondered if he was in league with that deer that had disappeared. He said he had heard gun shots and wanted to phone the police. I told him good idea. We could round up a mob and trap the fucker before it gets too far away. Then he asked me if I thought I was funny and accused me of some sort of noise complaint. Shit no Your Honour, those days are far behind me now! I'm a defender of our way of life now! I saw through his schemes, and now I know he's in league with that deer.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005 Hail To The Chief

I woke up this morning and jammed a corkscrew through my alarm clock. The fucker wouldn't stop ringing so I was left with little choice. I need to escape for a few days. Get the city out of my system, relax and learn to put the fear behind me. Living downtown has that effect. There is no escape from the circus when at the end of the day you sleep in it.

From the window I can see the group of crackheads pawing at the door. One of them, I've named George due to his striking resemblance to George W. Bush. I've gone to Goodwill and got a 5 dollar suit and a red tie for him, I'm just trying to figure out how to get him to wear it. At the end of the day when I'm tired from work, broke or just pissed off at the world, it always cheers me up to see George Bush take a pull from a crack pipe and give me that look of a vain attempt to understand what's going on around him. As I walk past George I comment that his policy for "The Next American Century" is based on the false pretense of American domination in terms of military might. George Looks at me and tries to bum some change from me and I laugh at the idea. The other day I saw his crack dealer put a cigarette out on his face.

The idea has passed my mind to take this crackhead put him in the suit, drive to Washington and try to make a switch with the real guy. With a crackhead in the whitehouse, I would put money on the fact that very little would change. And then I remembered that Georgey used to have a coke addiction when he was in university.

George was picking up cigarettes while a gang of thugs chased down some guy with baseball bats in the middle of Spadina Ave. He was apparently trying to steal back his own bicycle while George watched in confusion. In the Zombie Apocalypse, reality is always relative.

Sunday, August 28, 2005 Wretched Animals

Canada looks at Toronto and shakes its head in disgust. Rightly so. Watching the news would give you the concept that Toronto is descending into the seventh layer of hell, so when you meet people who've never been here, they look at you as if they are staring at a traffic accident. Horrified but can't help but look.

From talking to important uniformed old men in wood paneled lounges to getting beaten up by a 40 year old skinhead ex-heroin addict. Yes, thats right. See this bastard was pushing an old man, so I decided he shouldn't do that. Its weird when beliefs mix with fists, what can you do. It ended with me looking in the mirror this morning and realizing I have a black eye and a job interview in two days. Good impressions are hard to come by and have never been my specialty, especially when I turn into a richeous prick. On the bright side, I took the punches so the old guy didnt have to. The shit side is that the old man thought I was a nazi because I keep my hair short. Serves me right for trying to do good.

The monsters I call friends are throwing beer cans all around me, typing in a cross fire of beer and aluminum is distracting when going through scumbag withdrawal. I almost look forward to franchise coffee and strip malls for some peace and quiet. Never happy, never satisfied. Three days, two punk shows, beer tabs big enough to put a downpayment on a mortgage and nothing to show for it but bruises and half remembered parties. Everything smells like infection and stale beer. Jesus, reputable people read this, well no excuses.

I've met almost everyone again, bringing me back to my friends after 4 years of self imposed exile. I have a feeling I'll be having welcome back parties perpetually for 6 months... How did I end up here? Everyone asks it but no one knows. The intensity of this lifestyle is to much to handle for even the boldest of us.

Battlefield journalism was something I never considered as a career, but now, surrounded by 4 massive drunk freaks holding forties of beer, dancing and singing to drop kick Murphy's, I am going back and forth from watching the screen to watching my back. Dave is prostrated over the edge of the couch with a bottle of wine that he emptied in about 10 minutes screaming about Ethiopia for some reason. One day some marketing company will find these people and realize they will make a fortune selling the image of belligerence, and on that day I will not be able to look at my self in the mirror.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005 Its Neat When The Dead Rise

The chunk of steel that was in my hand is one of the most sophisticated lead delivery systems available in the world. This particular one happens to be Gold Plated. The Desert Eagle .50, A pistol that could stop a train. So its an odd question to ask why I'm shooting this pistol in a shopping mall. In Zombie literature, one of the key principles of a zombie attack is that the recently undead keep certain instincts from when they were alive. This is the reason why so many zombie movies are set in shopping malls. It's also why it makes perfect sense to have a shooting range located in the building. When the owners of the West Edmonton Mall created their glowing alter to consumerism they thought of every emergency situation. Those clever bastards know the score. Unknown to most mindless shoppers, on the upper level of the mall, tucked away in a labyrinth of staff access hallways is a shooting range filled with Libertarian Albertan gun nuts just waiting for the word to unleash hell fire. In the event of such an emergency, the mall is also equipped with 5 working submarines, a team of trained Seals....and a water park. I swear, you can look it up. Las Vegas had an illegitimate child and abandon it in Edmonton, it is the mall. On a given evening you will see someone walking out of the mall's "bar district" dressed in a bathrobe drunk out of their skulls shooting guns on a range.

I work with a lot of Polish guys, which is great, because when they meet other Polish people, they become really good friends. Because of that, I can now phone a crazy Polish taxi driver instead of paying the fifty bucks to get downtown. The only problem is, he is constantly drunk. When the bombings in London happened, he gave his "crazy man in a wooden shack" advice. "Take a bullet and dip it in the fat of a stuck pig -Kurvu- then shoot them those bastards -Kurvu-, all but one, let the word get out and they wont go to their heaven when they die, Kurvu". Kurvu means "Dirty Whore" in Polish but is used as often and as liberally as the word "fuck" in English. He also has a lot of opinions about Polish Socialism vs Democracy, most of its in Polish, so I don't get it, but the just of it is "Poland Good, Democracy Bad.........Kurvu". While he's explaining all of this I didn't have much time to deal with the intense shit he's saying. Mostly because he's looking over his shoulder at me and waving his hands instead of watching the road and too involved in the conversation for dealing with details like holding on to the steering wheel. And ofcourse its when he's explaining his opinion on international politics to me that I notice the overpowering smell of booze on his breath. Its in weird times like that, the strangest details jump out at you, and only until after its over do you realize what they completely mean to the situation you were just in.

Edmonton, like most of Alberta, is like a Disney franchised American pavilion. The province is built on Oil. There are more classic cars here than I've ever seen in my life, and all of their drivers work for Haliburton. The Christian Reich reigns supreme and everyone is fat from too much freedom pie. When the plane crash in Toronto happened, the local news reported on how it effected Edmonton. Recently there was a million barrel oil spill just outside the city. Protesters came out in force. Not greenpeace, not activists. Shit no, Kurvu! Instead it was a collection of yuppies going through happiness withdrawal demanding that the spill be cleaned up faster so they could return to their cottage life. Life in denial.

The police here are fanatical about homelessness, you will not see someone sitting on the street corner, they get pushed out too fast. On Canada Day some guy asked me for a cigarette, looked like he needed it as well. Before I could even reach for my pack, the police told him to move along. The culture here is completely hemogonized. Edmonton city council heard that Toronto rakes in a ton of cash from Caribbana and decided to do the same. What they got was a civic centre with a performance of some vaguely Caribbean dance set to "Day Oh". Performed by 20 or so overly tanned middle aged white women dressed in African print dresses who had recently returned from tourist fortresses in Jamaica. I talked to a Sudanese guy at a bar recently, he couldn't believe I knew where Sudan was and what's going on, atleast to a limited degree. As I finished my conversation, Someone smashed a beer bottle over the head of some kid. A fight went on and as the bar cleared the biggest complaint I heard was "That idiot got beer all over me!" The guy was taken away in an ambulance.

The sun never sets here, I woke up in a cold sweat my first week. 3:30am, the fucking sun was up. The Magpies chirp and squawk doing loops in the air. This place is surreal, but subtle. Different in ways that creep up at you so that you don't notice for a while. I came out here for work reasons, important for my future, what I ended up with was an unintentional two month trip to a re-education camp for the American Nightmare.

Friday, June 10, 2005 The Queen Anne's Revenge!

Last night I manually pulled a centimeter long piece of my jawbone out of the empty socket in the back of my mouth, spat blood for about 10 minutes and went outside for a cigarette.

Sunday night in Chinatown. Nothing more wholesome than that long trek up Spadina dodging thousands of garbage bags filled with rotting vegetables that are just as mysterious when they aren't half decomposed. Tripping over those pentagon shaped coconut things that people drink and the rancid husks of durian fruit. When the garbage strike was on in Toronto, Chinatown was a nasal tour of the most rancid acrid smells on earth. To this day, when the shops close and the bags of garbage move on their own with burrowing rats in the rotting contents, you can still breath-in and remember.

I'll go back a week though, to a dentist chair half way through having my wisdom teeth removed. See, this wasn't a hospital, it was a dentist chair, and all I got was oral freezing. When you can't feel it, the image of blood and bone shooting from your mouth like a fireworks display in a butcher shop is sort of neat, the trouble is when you have a slight immunity to freezing and the dentist decides to dig at a raw, exposed nerve in your face. It gave me new respect for surgery before the invention of ether.

I've used the word fuck innumerable times in my life. As punctuation for a sentence, in causal conversation, as a subtle pause in speech, and ofcourse while fucking. I dont think I meant the word fuck so much as when I yelled it at the top of my lungs while shooting out of the chair blinded with a white light of pain and sharp metal instruments lodged in my face, as when the dentist hit that nerve. After being held down and having three more injections of freezing, I was casually informed of the fact that the freezing wasn't working. Something made abundantly clear with the blinding pain. Im sweating from my brow and trying as hard as I can not to think about my jawbone being chiseled with scalpels and drills. After another half hour, it was over. I stumbled out of the chair with blood dripping down my face as the dentist stared at me as if I was about to phone a lawyer. So last night when I found a piece of broken bone that had not been removed during the surgery, I wasn't all that suprised. My mouth is a fieldtrip into the ghetto of dentistry.

After the surgery I moved to Toronto. Driving on the 401, the greasy fat guy driving the van dressed in sweatpants and sandals lets me know that the cloud of white smoke coming from the back of the mini bus I hired was nothing to worry about. Remember gym class when you were a kid? Remember that dirty son-of-a-bitch that used to casually sniff his dirty underwear right in front of everyone? Well guess what? Now he drives a broken down mini-bus. 30 minutes later the van was pulled over. His solution to the problem was to pack a gym bag, abandon the bus and walk away. Nice, looks like I just inherited a broken bus. I was still taking a lot of codeine from the surgery so it looked like a perfect time to lie down on the roof, smoke cigarettes and listen to music while traffic passed at 100km/hr. If anyone wants a mini bus with a destroyed engine, get up to the entry ramp where the Veterans Highway meets the 401, just be warned, I pissed on the seat out of spite.

Christ, the details of my first week back in Toronto are a blur of drunken idiocy. To start, there's Bob. Bob is a very smart guy. He also happens to be evil and as a side note, he also happens to be 7 foot 4, 350 lbs. Bob is a God-Damned Viking. When I met up with him, He cracked open a beer and drank it before even leaving the beer store. At a show he decided he wanted to go into the pit. The logistics of that were impossible, and as a result, Bob BECAME the fucking pit. The singer on stage was eye level with Bobs chest, So when Bob decided to re-posses the microphone and destroy the singer with insults, there really wasn't much that the singer could do but stand there and stare into the sweaty mass that encompassed his field of vision. But I'll start at day one. Imagine this, you are out for a jog in downtown Toronto when you hear a roar, you turn around and you see a giant fucking Viking chasing after you and screaming "I EAT YOUR FACE!". Bob chased this guy for a city block, I've never seen anyone run faster than that jogger. When Bob came back all of us were falling over laughing. His reasoning for this? He was motivating the guy to run, pushing himself farther than he would have otherwise. Its a good idea if you think about it. How much more would get done if a God Damned Fucking Viking was standing behind you while you worked.

On another night my entire group of friends came out. 20 or 30 of us. See, in my absence my friends took over a diner. The previous owners sold the place because too many fights were happening when the bars let out. When we arrived there were only about five of us. But because its known that during the night hours its almost guaranteed to find everyone there, people just drop by. Its almost like Cheers, only I don't think there was a heroin addict that painted the lower half of her face in red lipstick and assaulted the cast when asking for spare change. If there was, I'd guess it would be Dianne. But in the real world, that would be Simoan. and as the saying goes; "Nobody like a lady named Simoan". She's the local latex covered skeleton who walks up and down the same block asking you for change over and over again. At 3am when you're tired, she is the last person you want to see. The only practical way I've ever gotten her to leave me alone is to wave my arms and scream "White bats! White bats!" it freaks her right out and she usually walks away muttering under her breath. Around 12 o'clock the bar went from being occupied by a group of South American truckers to a massive 20 foot banquet table filled with the pirates and circus acts that are my friends and I. Random people arrived as the entire party broke out onto the tiny patio following volleys of pirate cheers and glasses crashing together. Weird drunken cameos give me single frame memories of that night. Some weird coked up hippy chick doing some windmill scarf dance. A Peruvian guitarist jacked into a belt amp and played classical Spanish guitar. Dave and Conrad highjacked some frat kids video camera after filming some of the girls making out with each other. The tape was later liberated, set on fire and bootstomped to ensure total non-disclosure of that nights events. Why? THE FUCKING SHOW IS NOT FOR SALE. Some guy who looked exactly like Charles Manson was shooting the shit with Kurt. Kurt, who hates the nickname, looks exactly like Kurt Cobaine, so the concept of Charles Manson and Kurt Cobaine drinking beer in the midst of this scene will stick in my mind forever. Doug the bike builder sitting with his apprentice hasselling the passers-by. Beardo from The Delinquents playing the theme to the Legend of Zelda in the background. One of the best times of my life, even if I don't remember all of it. But thats part of what we do as pirates on a ship of fools.

Before I left the city a collection of oddities happened. Jack, Kurt and Dave. They've only known each other for a few months. But in an interesting turn of events they got jumped at a late night restaurant. A difference of opinion can lead to all sorts of results; misunderstandings, fueds, or (as in this case) a fibreglass chopstick stabbed lengthwise to the temple. Nothing really lets people get to know each other like a drunken brawl with total strangers, sort of like a "get to know you game". The City at night is fun like that. Pass 3am and be prepaired to deal with the most random and occasionally terrifying shit. It happens in a city of 3 Million, I'd rather run the risk of meeting the psycho with a weapon, than stay at home watching television. Its a risk of life. Its not really avoidable in some cases. I had a six inch nail pulled on me for trying to stop a fight. Really though, A NAIL?? Do you laugh or run? You could do what I did; calm your friends down only to fire yourself into a fit of teeth nashing rage. But I wouldn't suggest it. See, the really gruff looking bartender who is always just on the brink of kicking you out just for being there doesn't need to be provoked. Why? because even if that bartender is a dragqueen (and in this case it was) the guy is still 4 times bigger than you. On the list of most soul destroying circumstances that you will never be able to live down, being beaten up by a dragqueen would be near the top of that list.

That was all a month ago now and Toronto is far away. I'm somewhere in the middle of Canada where the sun doesn't set until 11:30pm and rises at 3am. You can see for miles in any direction, which excludes anything surprising happening considering you could literally see it coming a mile away. Which makes me ask why am I out here? It's actually an interesting story....

Sunday, May 29, 2005 Once and Future Fool.

I woke up this afternoon after surviving another weekend with my usual antics. Turned on the coffee machine, poured a day old coffee and went onto the patio for a cigarette. My head was still sore from the booze so I wasn't quite in a state of awareness. With the cigarette in my mouth I leaned over my lighter and flicked it on. A burst of flame covered my face giving me a unique perspective on the definition of the colour orange. I dropped my coffee and smacked my head against the sliding glass door. With eyebrows still intact I was able to pause and think what I did to deserve that at this godless hour of a Sunday afternoon. The night before I had inadvertently sabotaged myself by modifying my lighter to shoot a foot long flame when used. How clever of me. Picking up the coffee mug, I noticed a bike in the back yard. More flashes of the previous night.

3am the night before. I'm sitting downtown alone on a bench, cursing the sandwich I had just bought. I had bought the sandwich without realizing that the money spent on it was half the cash I needed to get home. Stupid fucking sandwich. And before I had the time to curse Gods name, Deus Ex Machina. Some random person asked me if I wanted to buy a bike.

Following a French PCP addict around a city usually doesn't sound like the smartest way to end a Saturday night, but quart bottles of beer make the bravest fools. Into an the ally. My relief that the guy did actually have a bike, which was a real surprise from my expectations of being beaten to a bloody pulp. 8 dollars later, I had my very own, probably stolen bike. I tied the plastic bag containing my sandwich around the seat, lit a cigarette and prayed to Baal that I wasn't going to ride for five minutes and be stopped by the police. Riding along listening to "Bad Brains" and swerving the entire breadth of the street. I have not ridden a bike in ten years and now for some awful and ridiculous reason I was going to ride 12km home at 3am, drunker than a priest. Despite visions in my head of being rendered into a bloody mash of bones and meat stuck to the grill of a Honda civic, I managed to come away from the ordeal with little more than a hangover. Mind you, if the last thing I heard before I died was the base of European techno before being hit by some greasy club zombie's Honda civic, I believe that I'd have the right to punch God straight in the face for such a classless end to my life.

Here's the thing, I had two options for Saturday night. The "adventure" night of going to some punk show which I figured would have ended in evil, or the much safer and normal night of hanging out with the army guys. I chose the quiet option, far too many things have happened in the past weeks and I needed a rest from the lunacy. Unfortunetly I used up the last of Gods graces the previous weekend, so rest was not to be. I arrived at the mess to cheers from the entire room. That was a rush. Flash forward to the bar and a live rendition of Teen Spirit. Then to The Tavern where I ran into John. If you read the story "Trenches of Life" you'll meet Bandit. John is Bandits nemesis. The guy is about 50, looks and acts like George Carlin. This guy is one of those crazy yet wise old burnt out hippies that are a current dying breed. He's completely convinced of his own super powers and so long as you indulge him, he actually has some weird and interesting things to say. So I'm sitting there talking to him and he says "watch this" and before I can even blink there are about 10 girls sitting with us. This was about the time of the night that I was unknowingly spending my last $20 on beer, which ofcourse results in a trashy bike parked in my backyard this morning. What a nice, quiet weekend.

Last week, Jamie came up from Toronto. This is a guy I've been friends with for the better part of a decade. I knew him years ago when he was "that weird guy" that worked at the movie theatre while he was dating a friend of mine. First time I really met him he was being interviewed by the transit police for "lewd behavior" in a photo booth located in the subway. Jamie is a big scary guy, dresses all in black and has a look in his eye that could peel paint off of walls. But he's a good guy with a good heart. About 4 years back we were attacked by a gang down at the beach, I froze and he took on two of them by himself. On the other hand I've seen him skip down the street with flowers in his hair and a turban on his head. Collectively my friends have dubbed his alter-ego at times like that, "Lola the dirty slut". Seeing a 6'5 guy dressed in black with a mohawk, leather jacket and chains doing an interpretive dance to spoken word poetry at 5 am in downtown Toronto was one of the greatest times I've had. It was even funnier when he accidentally flailed his arms and knocked a yuppie off his bike without even noticing that he did it.

I'm waiting at the bus terminal for Jamie to arrive. Velvet Underground lyrics are circling through my head. The last time my friends came up from Toronto they had gotten into a car accident. When they finally got to Ottawa Jamies girlfriend at the time chased a handful of tylenol with a bottle of vodka. This is the first time any of my friends have come up since. Jamie got off the bus drunk and laughing. He'd sat next to a botany student reading a Margaret Atwood novel. Jamie on the otherhand was drinking Vodka and Rum and I have no doubt in my mind that the student he was sitting beside will remember that bus ride for the rest of his life.

His first night in town was relatively calm and ending roughly at 5am. The following night however, was May 24th. So it was mutually decided that the best way to celebrate the birthday of Queen Victoria was a drunken safari into the cancerous heart of my trashy neighbor's house. The area I live in is suburban and calm. Except for one house. I had been observing their habits for a number of months, using a book on the behavior of rats as a reference. I was able to come to the following conclusions about my neighbor's:

1- They do not sleep.
2- They appear to nest somewhere in their basement.
3- The number of "people" infesting that house is somewhere between 10 and 15.
4- The police know atleast 4 of them by their first names.

Jamie and I were sitting in my backyard drinking when one of them emerged from the house. He seemed to be the alpha male, was around 22 and was the most friendly of my neighbor's so I waved. After a line of talk with the guy I decided to invite him over for a beer.

"Can't man I'm under house arrest"

I was about to laugh when he propped his leg on the railing of his balcony and rolled up his pant cuff to show me the court ordered monitoring bracelet around his leg. For reasons that I can only explain as morbid curiosity Jamie and I accepted the counter-invitation to go to his house, Deep into a nest of Zombies.

Pushing past a blanket hung over the door I was first met by a thug sitting on the couch using a blowtorch to heat a spoon. The sour stench of a burnt electrical fuse hung in smokey air around the room. he introduced himself and explained he was on the Canadian football team. There was no rest for my senses. The carpet was covered a foot thick in garbage; newspapers, cigarette butts, ash, bottles and cans. An old wood cased television up against the wall with a portrait of Jesus hanging above it. A glowing alter to the decay of the room. I poured my host a drink of Jack Daniels and Pepsi. We talked for a while, he showed me his police papers. Assualt, Hostage with a weapon, and a few others that where no longer readable from the folded and over handled paper. Jamie disappeared while I drank more JD and ended up on the topic of fights. My host has regular sparing events. Only rule you don't hit your opponent in the face. Fueled with whiskey I challenged him. Didn't do to badly considering the guy outweighed me by about 80 pounds. Afterward I was introduced one of the other people infesting my neighborhood. This kid was taller than Jamie and about 250 pounds. Without any of my input I was suddenly in a fight with this guy. I hooked and hit him in the chest, and realized that he didn't even feel it. My fist just soaked into his fatty chest without any more effect than a visible ripple throughout his torso. He took advantage of my pause turned against me and hooked my in the ribs. The cigarette in my mouth dropped and I doubled over. An elbow dropped on my back and the fight was taken over by the rush to find the dropped cigarette despite my personal belief that the house could only be improved with fire. That cigarette also happened to be my last. I was about to leave to the store when I was told, "Hold on, I'll phone for them"

Five minutes after my host put the phone down, a girl walked into the backyard with a ziplock back of cigarettes. Since the tax increase these cigarettes are everywhere now. Made on Native Reserves they come in bags of 200 and very in price from $10 to $30 depending on how many times they've been bought and sold.

After that I went into the basement to use the washroom. The Bedroom door was open and not being able to resist the need to explore this particular warzone, I looked inside. 15 people were crowded in one room, all eyes on me as I looked in. Giving me a wide eyed fear as if I was about to arrest them. Haunting looks like that cannot be described in words. The smell of burning Styrofoam filled the air, but there wasn't a word from anyone. I walked out again and found the washroom. There was a hole in the wall large enough to walk through. The interior drywall was completely torn away with plastic bags and all sorts of trash stuffed between the bare rafters. The sink was half broken off, the result of the cinder block half sunk into the floor. In this room more than any of the others it was plainly obvious that there was more than just people infesting the house, small black ovals scurried under the trash. After using the washroom I went to look for Jamie. As I walked up the stairs my host ran past me with a machete in hand screaming at someone in the doorway. Ducking, I walked into the living room and found Jamie standing there with a wide eyed blank expression.
It was the look of mutual agreement that the time to go had arrived. Leaving through the backdoor I could hear screams on the border of terrified squeals from the house. Walking out on a war, a helicopter flew overhead.

I woke up the next day having trouble breathing. I took my shirt off and looked in the mirror, A massive bruise on my rib cage, another center chest and back. My hands were swollen into mitts. That fat bastard broke one of my ribs. Afterward I swore to take it easy for a few months. Try to avoid Murphy's Law for a while. If I had followed that advice, I might not have woken up to a bike in my backyard this morning. Maybe next weekend, but its not likely.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005 The Trenches Of Life

Seems every post I make starts out with me drinking with my friends. If I thought about it long enough, I'd bet I'd come to the conclusion that I should find alternative sources of entertainment. Thing is, Movies and Bowling just don't do it for me.

Last weekend I was training with the army. Spent most of Saturday firing a machine gun from a trench dug into the ground. It was 5am and I was watching the sun come up and seeing a beaver swim around in a small lake. I'm lying in the dirt looking through the gun site waiting for any sign of an enemy patrol. I can see my breath when I exhale, it could also be the cigarette smoke. My first cigarette in hours. You can't smoke at night, it draws to much attention. There is dew on everything. The sand is slightly wet from the rain the night before. But it doesn't matter much because I'm soaked to the bone. If you stay in one place long enough, mold begins to grow on your clothing. The wait is worth the conditions though, because eventually the simulated battle begins. I can hear gun shots in the distance and then the sound of large explosions as the artillery begins to drop. The gun fire increases louder and closer. Then the first sign of movement on the crest of a hill that meets the horizon. Green helmeted figures moving closer over the grass and mud. They haven't seen my location. To my right is my heavy gunner. I motion to him with hand gestures that I've spotted the enemy but not to fire until my command. I will wait until they are trapped between my fire and that of the trench about 20 meters to my right. After sitting for so long you become anxious to fire. The patience and restraint needed to prevent from ruining the attack is fierce. But the enemy is nearly where I want them to be. The sounds are now deafening, and the ground is shaking every time an explosion goes off. The entire enemy patrol is now in place and I give the command to open up on them. My heavy gunner fires a repetitive burst every 2 seconds. Hot brass casings fly from his gun as steam and smoke fill the air. The sensors carried by the enemy register a hit, and bodies fall as more move past them. I can see 20 or 30 soldiers moving toward my position. They've over run the trench beside me and I can now see their faces. My gunner is down so I take over his gun. I am now alone and am about to be over run myself. I've got the choice to give up the trench and move my position back to the command trench 30 meters behind me. If I can get there without being shot I will stand more of a chance of continuing the fight. I grab the gun and my own rifle and run as fast as I can. I jump into the trench and immediately set up the machine gun again. While I'm firing I can see that my old position has just been taken. Just as I'm about to redirect my fire I'm hit. The sensors on my uniform beep indicating that I am now "dead". I role over and lay on the ground motionless as someone takes over the gun. 30 seconds later he is also shot and the last man standing takes the gun. This is the last trench that has not been over run, but the objective has been complete, we've slowed the enemy advance long enough to count victory. A grenade is thrown and the last man is killed. A soldier jumps into the trench and sprays everyone with gun fire. Two more join him and begin searching the bodies and collecting weapons. The exercise is over, everyone gets up and moves to the commander to hear how it went. The realism seems shameful when I think about it. Soldiering is one of the oldest professions and while I take a certain amount of pride in my job, I try to be careful not to like it too much.

When I got home I did what I usually do after a field exercise. Shower and Sleep, its 4:30 in the afternoon.

I've got the next two days off and a buddy of mine is having a going away party. We head out to the bar and do the usual. I get bored with the conversation and begin thinking of wierd things to do. First I start up a random conversation with a real estate agent. This guy is a walking stereotype. He is a living, breathing shadow of the high point of his life preserved in every way except for the spirit of it. Docker Slacks, Fake Tan, gold chain, ray bans and sandals. Some time during 1989 when he was at his peak, something crashed. A divorce, bad business, it really doesn't matter because he has been perpetually living that moment since. He's standing at the bar attempting to hit on these college girls while they mentally laugh at him for his boldness. After about five minutes he gets the point, my beer has arrived and usually I'd just leave as a casual observer, but I want to know what's going through this guys head.

business-speak is hilarious. The key to being recognized by an 80's business guy is to use his name at the end of each sentence following a standard firm handshake and modestly compliment on their watch, sunglasses or some other over priced piece of shit they prize over the love of their wives. "Its a real pleasure to meet you Frank, and if ya don't mind me saying that's a real nice watch you've got there. How much did that set you back? Really? Well I gotta tell ya Frank, You're just lucky you're a damned good businessmen otherwise your taste would bankrupt ya! Follow this by a hearty laugh and the guy will all of a sudden be back on top of his game and forever greatful for feeding his addiction to nostalgia.

So I listened to him for a bit, learned a lot about real estate tricks in the surrounding area. Who owns what, what companies are fighting for power and all the dirty tricks he pulled buying houses from little old ladies for a quarter of their value. On the bright side, judging from the way he leers at the women in the bar, he's probably got a venerial disease he doesn't know about.

Eventually I walked out for a cigarette and some fresh air. When I got back Bandit was sitting at the table. Ok the guy is "homeless" although every homeless person I've met has had a place called home. He plays guitar and has been for about 20 years. And he does it with one hand. He'd be pissed if he knew I was writing this, but it really is amazing. He lost his left hand somewhere, but he's never told me the story. So he plays guitar with one hand and a coffee mug over the stump on his left arm. The character about the guy though is that he doesn't try to hussle you. He's never asked me for anything. He's sitting at the table, I buy him a beer and he's not really talking, just starring off. So I leave him alone. Never try to pry into the life of someone who's spent 20 years on the street, sometimes the shit they tell you willingly, will scare the living hell out of you. I go to use the washroom and just as I'm about to leave, he comes in with his guitar.

"These are the best acoustics you'll ever hear".

When he said it I thought he was joking but he sits down next to the sink and begins playing. 10 minutes later the washroom is crowded with people listening to him play. When he finishes a three song set, everyone leaves the washroom at once and into the concerned eyes of everyone in the bar. Seeing 10 or 12 guys come out of a washroom at once, I had to laugh.

This is when I realize Kurt, who's party this is, looks really shaken. Kurt moved here a few years ago and met a bunch of people at work, became friends and moved in with one of them. I've met his roommate before, he seemed decent for a computer programmer who looks like a giant biker dressed in GAP clothing. Kurt, sort of looks at me across the table with a mortal fear in his eye usually reserved for pregnancy tests and divorce cases. The night before, he was asleep when at 3am his roommate comes home with 4 or 5 guys he's never met before. They stink of cooked crack and are covered in blood. They'd gotten into a fight that night. One of the guys had just finished an 8 year prison term, which even as I'm writing this makes me think that's fairly strange company for an unemployed computer programmer. So it turns out that Kurts roommate stabbed someone. I guess to him it was more exciting than sitting at a cubicle. Not to be out done, "Mr. Prison" decides that's not rotten enough and repeatedly stabs another guy with a screwdriver, gets in a car and runs him over. Its one of the more unique ways of saying "I disagree with your opinion". Kurt hears all this and decides that a park bench down the street might be a slightly safer place to sleep in his last night in the city. Fortunetely for Kurt, he's so completely unphased by it, when he's telling me the story he could have been talking about his day at work. A few hours after, he's reading the paper in a coffee shop and discovers that all this is in print, magically turning his life into a rap album.

Just as Kurt finishes telling me all this, his roommate walks in and sits down. One of his new buddies is with him. Awkward silence does not properly describes the scene. Now all of this had happened recently from what I gathered. So sitting at that table was a bit tense. The table was a scene to remember. A biker guy dressed in Gap clothing having an extremely intense conversation about cars while sweating and shaking without once making eye contact with anyone at the table. To avoid dealing with any more random bullshit that seemed to make the night run like a movie script, I went outside for another cigarette and to talk to Bandit.

I'm sitting beside him while he sings a song and some random jackass bellows out "Hey One arm! One of these days I'm gonna have to by you a D String". This pisses me off. The guys narrow eyes, bald head and fat body only add to the fact that he gets his kicks from making fun of homeless people. I ask him when he's going to buy himself some decency and he cackles "never". I could have hit him, or insulted him, but I'd heard about enough violence for one day. So I decided to give the guy a casual suggestion.

"Choke on your money you greasy piece of shit!"

He was startled when I said it, turned around and left. Bandit got a kick out of it, but then started to remember what was going on with his girlfriend.

His girlfriend whores herself for crack. While I was trying to give advice or atleast listen to Kurt casually explain the recent projects his homicidal roommate has engaged in, Bandit was out trying to find her. He tells me this as we sit outside the bar smoking. He looks over at me and says one of the most awful things I've ever heard in my life.

"Imagine if you found the woman you love crouched in a back ally crying and vomiting. Then see that the vomit had chunks of semen in it and she tells you to fuck off."

I don't get bothered by alot of things, but at that point I didn't even know what to think. All I can really say is that no one will ever know a city as well as someone on the streets does. And because when fate gets its act together, it doesn't stop, that was the moment Jack Layton walked by.

Jack Layton is the leader of the Federal NDP and has become an increasingly important member of parliament. Before leading the New Democratic Party, he was a councilman for Toronto City Hall. He was noted as a peoples politician and even spent some time down at tent city which I mentioned in a previous article. Now after all the shit over the course of the night, he just happened to be walking by. Bandit knows him regularly. He decides to listen to a song. I shake his hand and let him know I thought he did some good work at Tent City. This is where he blurts out the most bullshit line I've ever heard.

"Uh yes, they had it very tough but they are really coming together as a community"

The contents of a soiled baby diaper has more substance than what he said to me. I told him he didn't have to bullshit, there weren't any cameras around, and he just smiled. Bandit finished his song, and the last thing I told Jack Layton was "remember this when you form the next government". He looked like he took it in, but he's a politician so you can never really tell. He stood up, dropped a few coins in Bandit's hat and walked away.

It was time to say thanks and go home. I spent the cab ride back asking the driver about Lebanese politics and wound down the night drinking the last of the Absenthe, listening to Iggy Pop and using a Christmas card I received from Prince Philip as target practice with a bb pistol.

Bandit was right in the end, the men's washroom does have great acoustics for guitar. To bad the venue is so shitty.

Friday, April 08, 2005 Grit

"Jesus Christ, You nail a guy to a 2x4 and suddenly he's Gods gift to mankind"


I woke up at noon today coughing up blood. Shit I love the weekends. Right now its 7pm. I've already drank 14 cups of coffee and smoked half a pack of cigarettes. I think I might also have a lung infection.

On that cheery note....

The Beaches of Toronto is a hub of upper middle class social masturbation. Its as if Martha Stewart squatted down and aborted her magazine all over a few kilometers of prime waterfront property. Imagine this:

You are a 39 year old professional. Your husband works for an American movie company and spends more time at work than with you. He also has a girlfriend that you pretend not to know about. You are a lawyer. Your neighbor is also your sons orthodontist. She also pretends she doesn't know about your husband's girlfriend. You live in a century old house that you gut and renovate every few years. Open concept modern(1992), English Country(1998), Contemporary Californian(2000). The television you bought dominates the den where you relax. Your dining room is a museum perpetually set for a dinner party you will never have. Your maid owned the house you live in 30 years before you. She's so old you could cut her in half and count the rings. She speaks with an English accent that gives you a fulfilling idea of not being "Nouveau Riche". Your son attends a private highschool in which you are a parents committee member. He is only home for two hours a day. When he is, he calls you a whore. But that's ok because you've got Paxil(c). In the mornings he waits for you to leave for work then fucks his girlfriend on your imported Italian silk couch. When you come back from work, your liquor is gone and your CD collection is covered in a fine white dust. He spends his free time selling weed to his friends and using that money, as well as the money he stole from you to buy coke and clothing. When you were growing up your heroes were Pop Stars. Your kids heroes are crack dealers turned rap stars from Detroit. You cook dinner and your hands shake because your life is crumbling around you. You realize your life is a steaming log of highly perfumed shit served on a velvet cushion. Time for you to "Ask Your Doctor Whats Right For You".

Your house is in a neighborhood perfectly situated between a waste treatment plant and a sewer outlet. Both of these are hidden from view by trees and clever zoning. All that is visible is a massive smoke stack that looks like a cigarette. When your family was new and happy you used to go down to the beach and swim in the polluted water. You don't do that now, since your family hates you. Not that you could anyways, last summer some psychopath was burying razor blades in the sand so the beach was closed.

The old families that used to live in the neighborhood have been pushed north. Up the hill and away from the waterfront property they can no longer afford on the wages you and your neighbors pay them. This is not an exception, it is the rule. The trick is that after working so hard to create the perfect life, its just easier to try and ignore the devastating problems that have destroyed everything you worked for.

There are shadows of ugly reality left everywhere. The aging yuppies who live in the neighborhood now would never know them even if they walked past. Besides, what's the purpose of buying a $500,000 house if you wake up one night and find some slob pissing on your flowers?. Escapism is played in very different ways. It can be ignoring the homeless guy you know you see every day, or in this case one of the worst bars in Toronto located 2 blocks from your parked Lexus. Reality is becoming a symptom of fantasy withdrawl.

Located conveniently within walking distance to or from the local police station, this bar runs out of a converted coffee shop. You can still see the donuts sign underneath the thin paint that now reads "Sports Bar". When you walk in, the first thing you'll notice are the Christmas lights strung around the room. These, as well as the remaining shreds of paper streamers are the owners attempt at making the place look hospitable. The walls are tiled like a public washroom, (I should add that on occasion it does in fact serve as a public washroom). The tile is half painted over in pink and a sick green colour. The floors are bare concrete grided with the marks of where the linoleum used to be. The song "Brothers In Arms" plays on repeat from stolen speakers rigged together with exposed wiring running from a greasy looking jukebox. There is one beer on tap. "Cool", a low priced beer that tastes a lot like malt liquor, its served from a kitchen facet somehow rigged to the keg tap.

When you sit down, you notice that the tables and chairs are the type you find in a McDonald's. The chairs swivel and are attached to the table. The tables are bolted to the ground. The owners are from Beijing. A husband and wife that bought the place from the owner of another bar I mentioned in a previous story. In China, the wife used to dance professionally in Chinese Classical Opera, you can tell she misses it. In the center of the room is a pool table that is the battle ground of the various factions that go there. I've been visiting this place for a year now. When you're bored and want to be a tourist for reality, its cheaper than a movie and more entertaining.

My friends and I arrived there at about 10pm after we had split a 40 of whiskey down at the waterfront. When we arrived at the "Sports Bar", the place was nearly empty for a Saturday night. There was a group of Natives that have tried to pick fights with us and befriended us alternately over the year, but today they were keeping to themselves. The crack heads who run in and out over the course of the night were also strangely absent. Usually I'll be sitting and talking with my friends when one of them will come out of no where, take the empty seat and begin talking. Usually beginning with "Spare a Smoke" "Spare a dollar" "Spare whatever you have that I might want". After saying no repeatedly and deciding we can't be punked, they usually threaten to kill us, then befriend us and tell their life story. "I work for the TTC" or "I got shot last week", it doesn't matter, whatever they say is usually bullshit, but its amusing as long as they don't pull a knife.

"Sing", is the nickname given to the co-owner of the place. Sing likes my friends and I because we don't fight, we spend a lot of money and we are respectful of her business. We like Sing because she is amusing. Sing speaks in a mix of proper English and street slang she has learned from school and the patrons. When we sit down Sing dances over to us with a sincere smile and tells us she loves us and that we have a "solid crew".

The only other person in the bar is an Asian-Indian sitting by himself in the corner. He's wearing track pants and a fur jacket. He looks about 40 years old has unwashed matted hair and meticulously plucked eyebrows. He sits with one leg crossed over the other and is very flamboyantly gay. He's screaming at Sing that she is flirting with "These Beautiful Hunks" and warning Sing's husband that she is going to cheat on him. Sing, on the other hand is smiling and attempting to ignore him while playing a game of pool. Being ignored, the guy screams louder and then after finishing another beer he gets up from the table. In the door way he reaches down the back of his track pants, down his underwear and pulls a joint out of his ass. He proceeds to go out side and smoke it while everyone looks in disgust. When he comes back, he settles himself behind his beer, and starts up again. Think about that. This guy was sitting there screaming and drinking beer since before my friends and I arrived. We must have been drinking for about an hour before he decided to get up and do this. Which means he carried a tightly rolled paper wrapped joint in his ass for atleast an hour before deciding that it was just the right time to smoke it. Now THAT, is a special kind of crazy.

"Sing, look at all these people, Red, Orange, Brown! Looks at all the Hunks you are flirting with!"

He says this in a surprisingly educated English accent. He screams again

"Flirting with Indians!"

Now, this is the thing. This bar does have all sorts of people in it. Among them, Asian-Indians, and Natives. Natives who do not like being called Indians. One of the natives gets up from his table and approaches the guy in the corner. The guy screams with wild bug eyes "Get away from me you awful man!" he throws his hands up in the air and shakes the curtains behind him. The other guy laughs. The crazy still has the look of terror on his face and crawls over his table spilling his beer and breaking the pint glass. The Native guy is still laughing. No longer cornered, the crazy is now insulted by the laughter and decided to get even. Sing is busy cleaning up the mess while a friend of mine helps her. The Crazy then crawls onto the pool table, squatting under the lamp set over it. He's screaming about "the awful coloured people". My friends and I sit looking at each other, we're all trying to decide whether we can take this anymore, looking for the clue of "lets leave" on our faces. Always a tourist, I look over and realize the crazy is being pulled off of the table and beaten. At first I thought it was just because he was disrupting the game, then I realized he had dropped his pants and had taken a shit on the pool table. We left the bar, and walked out on to the street surrounded by half million dollar homes. I will never play pool there again.

If you ever go there, the bar has Wanton Soup for $4.00 when you buy a beer ($3 a pint) the soup can also be substituted for a plate of 6 dumplings.

Monday, March 21, 2005 Cops & Crooks

Last September I was out with some friends from work. They were sitting on a patio talking to two complete strangers when I arrived. I sat down and not wanting to interrupt the conversation, I sat quietly and listened.

One of the strangers was sitting down, long hair and looked generally laid back by everything. The other was a coiled spring of tension that looked ready to snap at any time. Ofcourse, as I am a vortex of the improbable he was staring unblinking at me through thick glasses, as if I had somehow offended him.

"What do you think I do for a living?"

He said it more as a challenge than a question, so in an attempt to keep it light I said "I don't know, a computer consultant?"

I should mention that for some forgotten reason I was in my prime mood for mischief, and so not thinking clearly I failed to realize that my snotty answer probably wouldn't inspire a laugh.

"No, I work Construction"

Well done I said, and attempted to ignore the issue. I should have seen at that point, regardless of what I said, his decision had already been made. While I sat attempting to enjoy the last of the summer on a patio, this monster standing next to me like a chambered bullet was calculating the entire scene. His decision was baking in his head, coming together like mountain streams to a river, capilaries to veins in his brain. It was only a matter of time.

My friend piped up "Well we're in the army so..."

Of all the inappropriate things to say. Both of them smiled. The spring snapped, I was punched backward out of my chair and onto the ground. Full understanding of what was happening rushed into my mind. The words "Oh Fuck" in large block letters shot across my mind, paralyzing me for that all important second of potential action.

200 years ago, the British army wore red jackets. The idea was that during a battle blood wouldn't show as easily and would prevent soldiers from being demoralized. I was going to see another case of theory vs fact.

By the time I stood up again, I was just able to catch the image of my friend being dropped to the ground by this chimp. And by the time I'd gotten over to the other side of the table, the quick motion of this guys fist pistoning back and forth into my friends bloody face. For some reason, both of then were smiling.

I grabbed the guy by the collar of his shirt attempting to hook him in the side of the face, he turned around and clipped me in the nose. My nose gushed blood but there was a split second where we stood looking at each other, waiting for action as if I should have hit the ground, he hit me again and ran past me. I went over to my buddy who was now laying unconscious on the floor.

This was something I had never seen before. The entire right side of his head was swollen out making his ear flush to the side of his head. His face and the ground around him looked as if someone had smashed a bottle of ketchup. I picked him up attempting to get him conscious and walked down the stairs to the street. And that was when the cops arrived.

Immediately I was suspect, the chimps had run off down the street before the police got there, Which left me and my friend, both soaked in blood and a single bouncer who was no help at all.

A waitress from the bar across the street explained to the cops what had happened. I was told I couldn't go with my friend in the ambulance and was told to leave. In my condition, no cab would take me, so I walked the rest of the way home, doing my best to stay off main streets. Near my house I had no choice but to cross the main road to the pub on the other side. As I passed some university zombie yelled out, "Hey man you pissed yourself", I replied that it was infact blood and asked if he had an extra cigarette.

When his friends heard that they all turned around, faces pale and eyes unblinking like deer. They stared me up and down, looking at my shirt, my face, pants, arms and shoes. It looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of red watery paint on me. Frosh week. Once again Culture Shock can be a beautiful thing. I asked again for a cigarette, the kid held out his pack so I informed him that it would probably be best if he pulled one out for me unless he wanted me to bleed on his cigarettes. Sense clicked in, and he followed my advice, ending with "Do you need any help" I said not unless he had any aspirin, and walked past. The next day my clothes were a red-brown ball of rags clumped together in a plastic back. The dried blood crumbled when I tried to separate my shirt from the ball. Fed up and disgusted, I tossed them. A few weeks later I ran into one of the cops who was off duty at a near by club. I was dressed in a suit for that event. He recognized me and so I explained what happened, this time he laughed. The last time I explained it to him, he almost put me in the back of a cruiser. Its interesting what 3 drinks or a uniform can do to someone's perspective.


When I said I was a vortex for the improbable I meant it. A year prior to that story almost to the day, I was contently sleeping when one of my roommates friends pounded on the door. This woke me up and by the time I came downstairs I found my roommate and his friends doing lines of coke off the living room table. One of them noticed I was awake, he came toward me wide-eyed and with urgency in his voice. Holding a bag in his hands he emptied the contents. A number of diamond rings spilled out onto the table, still with the stores tags on them. He explained that the diamonds were marked with an image of a polarbear, which apparently means they are Canadian diamonds. He told the room the story of how he became the "owner" of these things. He tried to sell one to me and when I flatly refused he got angry and left. The next day I thought about that event, and what I did to deserve being put in a situation like that. Not long after I moved out of that house. Later I found out that after doing time for the theft, he spent some time in a mental hospital.
Another guy who was in the room that night is currently in jail for manslaughter, he was driving drunk and killed two people. And yet another person who was in the room that night is now a corrections officer. Sometimes when you hear that noise that wakes you up in the night, its just worth it to roll over and go back to sleep.

Monday, March 14, 2005 Human Programs v1.0

There was a radio contest recently. The basic premise was that you tune in to the station to receive clues. The clues were for the location and description of "The fugitive". The concept is that you ask everyone you suspect of being the fugitive and if you find him/her, you win $50 000 cash. In a mid sized city of 1 million people, working in the downtown area is hell when this radio gimmick is on. The idea is to spread word of mouth advertisement. And Holy Fuck does it work. A radio station can spend millions on advertisement campaigns in an attempt to get listeners to tune in. This little scheme couldn't have cost more than a hundred thousand dollars. Counter-Culture has its Guerilla marketing, and so does society. The difference ofcourse is that the tools society uses work.

Every day while listening to music someone would approach me. This means that I have to take off my headphones to hear what it is they are saying. Without fail the goon asking the question with dead eyes and a smile of hope vomits out the radio question. The key to their chance at marginal temporary happiness. I listen to music to block out the ad-vironment that we live in. But the zombies are more clever than your average run of the mill Dawn of the dead cast extra. Free word of mouth advertising is the most effective and most desired effect that a company can hope for when marketing a product. But this, this is more than a mere ad campaign. This can only be described as a human email worm, and I am positive that someone could write this scheme in code.

I suppose I have to be glad in the fact that we came up with this instead of some ideological outside force. Imagine how the effect would be different if the question were: "Are you the Socialist Orthodox archetype of good Maoist virtue? or "Are you the Good Samaritan ready to accept Jesus as Your Savior?" I shouldn't give the zombies ideas... Before I know it, anyone with a message will be setting up their own 50 000$ contest to promote their ideas.... Hmmm On that note maybe I can capitalize on this...

Here's the idea:

You ask as many people as you know the following question: "Do You read Survive The Zombie apocalypse at Blogspot.com?" and if you find the Zombie Apocalypse fugitive, I'll write a form letter post that includes your name and a story about you that may or may not have happened.

I give it 2 years before some major US network television group discovers this devious bit of human code and capitalizes on it. From there, the virus will spread exponentially until all of Western Civilization is reduced to a mass population of people going about their daily lives and communicating only through the use of verbal advertisements. Instead of asking your boss for a raise, you'll say "Can I super-size my career to the luxury of Mercedes-Benz?" To which you're boss will reply "Can you afford not to with 0% financing on all current models?" (unfortunately in the future, that will still mean "no, now get out of my office")

When that day comes, I am going to market a great thing I'll call "Zombie Remover". Its basically a chainsaw painted in a really cool colour scheme with an MP3 feature.

Here's my last prediction for the post.

IPod, or its successor will begin allowing free music files, but ads will be tacked on to the beginning and end of each file so that you will have to listen to them before you hear the song. I give that 3 years as well.

If the second coming does happen, Someone better get him a good public relations rep otherwise he'll just be another crazy savoir impersonator ranting in the park.

Fun Facts:

- The spell check on this site has a correction for Mercedes and Samaritan, but does not have a correction for the word "Fuck"
- Go to chapters.ca and in the search field type "Books" and see what you get.
- The environmental lobby in Spain is being protested against because they want to put massive windmills off the coast of Gibraltar that will destroy the spawning routes of sea fish.
- Both the Soviet National Anthem and the American National Anthem contain the phrase "Land of The Free"