Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Hep the Techie and Pro the Pro

I am hardly Prometheus--more like a weasly Publius Casca in Julius Caesar, but I swear Hephaestus, god of repair has left me on a cliff with that pesky eagle gnawing on my alcoholic liver.
Don't you hate that when it happens?

I have somehow missconnected my new compaq. I thought it might not have a built-in modem and applied my old modem to it and somehow knocked myself off the internet.

Not only that but I can't send out email.

Jesus. Little hard drive says DELL.

Friggin right. I should be in comic books.

Writing for years and years to prove to people I'm not stupid, but I think the final irreducible antinomy has been reached.

"You've dug your own hole, Mole. You are stoopid."

Years of shops in high school and I can't put two sticks together. (Of course, twelve beers a day during this holiday season--doesn't help at all).

So here is my techie, who will not make house calls, hanging me up on a cliff while the eternus famishus-famishus eagle flies over to have scoff of my liver.

Tough luck Henry Muck!

Went to my shrink and he said, "Fine, fine I'll get you the rope."

Jesus, that't the ultimate rejection.

Pull the chain!

First flush of despair.

Goodbye cruel world.

...Water closet disconnected and fell on my head.

Shouldn't have tied the rope there.

Says Hephaestus. "What a f*ck-up. Can't even commit suicide properly...but I think he meant just to flush it."

Well a load off my mind at last.

Maybe first flush of success.


Saturday, December 27, 2008


The hiatus in between holidays.

You've done Chrismas, New Year's coming up...And all you have for a date is a female bus driver who can only stay with you between runs. Busy, busy. So you usually just ride along with her as the Muzak robots calls out the streets.
Oh, that in-between feeling. And she has a husband. And they can be pesky.

Between Chrismas and New Year's.
There is a strange sense of unreality. You are wobbly in your grasp of reality. It is a springlike 40 F outside and the grass is getting faked out. And some buds.
...And you are faked out.

My new computer is not yet installed. Techie is balking at the 100 back emails. Spammed. I could start a virtual canning factory.
He refuses to call Bell 3ll. They will connect you with New Delhi or Pakistan, where, when it come to repairing email they will give you the standard, bureacuratic "That is impossible, you see. There are rules! Important documents!"
They may virtually wave a passprt at you. "There are rules!"

"What if f*ck is he tllling me?" My radddled techie hisses in exasperation.

Computer has a virus. I am picking up a virus.
T.S. Eliot country.

Heads made of straw.
Heads made of straw.

Well, I am on a half-hour library computer. Just as well that I am getting cut off now....Been cut off for years, and that's likely the problem.

I thought doing a blog would settle me down.
It hasn't.
Looks like not only my computer is kaput.

F I T H.

F8cked in the head?

Looks that way.

It's not a computer problem, it's a condition.

Might as
well go to the loo.

Pull the loo chain.

Goodbuy crue world.


Saturday, December 20, 2008

Is down the only way out?

"Madness has always struck me as slovenly and exhibitionist, and a great deal of trouble for other people. If one had concern for others, one would not go mad.
It seemed to Brigit as simple as that: a moral choice. Instead, she seems to she is becoming weak and callow and sentimental.
--Joyce Carol Oates.

The only was out is down. Dante Alleghieri

I have two minds (Ha!) on this.

My computer had jammed, I was isolated from my email friends, there was full moon out, I had maxed out all my credit cards, the cupboard was bare, and I was smoking floor- scraping cigarettes made(almost) in China and sold by happy natives. Five bucks will get you a pack.

Isolation, poverty, baroque rock and roll.

Madness was not a choice now. One was mad, the roiling of ones brain in the wee hours seriosly eying the Listerine, as the liquor was gone. The tremblling of ones hands. And that god-damned full moon. Aw-woo!

Re-entey into Dante's Inferno. Open the door HAL!

Well, happily, Dante's hell was only for one night, though I must admit mine lasted a week, and I'm really seriously considering getting professional help...One is crazy as a coot, and it seems to be coming on a lot. And it's not fooling.

But wait. Here comes the pension check. Might be enough for the new computer and the old car.

....But that searing re-entry into HAL's (Hell's domain?) has left me rattled. A new insight dawned. Or seemed to.

The only way out is down?

I don't think I want to visit that place again.

Seems that it's not HAL, but me that's coming apart.

And I can't ask for help.

Ms Oates says that's slovenly.

Well yes, "A slob like one of us," as the song goes.

Slovenly and exhibitionistic. Well, one is a bit exhibitionistic.

Artist-manque'type...Wonder if anybody else can see me suffering. :)

Gotta stay a bit child-like, the way of all writers, it seems. But not childish.

That is slovenly.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Lisa Nowak and her bondage gear--Where are you when I need you?

Can somebody help me out with this?

Pop 8 Sympatico will not accept my password for email....I'd quite forgottent what the password was but it was automatically indicated by six digits, just under the user name, where the space says password. So I clicked on "remember me" and onto a new password...Not working. My new Password of any combination of old password was not accepted. Keep getting that damn two line box, asking for user name on top and password at the bottom line.

My real password, according to my absent techie, was abcdefg1, but that's eight characters. Display in digits showed six characters.

I tried that. I tried everything.

But you don't remember me and you will not accept my passord, pop 8...!!!

I cannot get e-mail now.

Stupid fershlugginer machine...Or is it Microsoft on a full moon?

Nothing seems seems to work for me tonight, including the old brain, never mind Pop 8 Sympatico.

I am frustrated and annoyed.

Annoyed even at the lack of progress in my comic novel, "Naked Came the Ukrainian", sure to be a winner with the conservative Ukrainian community.

My brain is mush, likely because of my obvious condition...Yeah, I'm in my shorts, but there's nobody here... Like Han Solo? Not too much of the Force here.

Han Solo. That is a hell of name for a lonely guy from a galaxy far away.

Guess you have to while away the light years.

Or land somewhere and go after ewoks or sand people.

Ah my attempts at SciFi.

Looks like my other book, "How Ewoks get it on" isn't going to work either.

Hey those cute little devils are wearing masks and carry miniature hardware.

Geez, get some duct tape, Lisa Nowak. Might trap an ewok.

I mean lord knows what astronaut Lisa Nowak was after....But she had the tape and handcuffs.

Must get awful lonely in space.

Lisa, I''m so lonely. Hey.
And I got 3M over here. You don't have to shop.

Anything to fight off the full moon. I'll even hang you a moon.

Ah equipment breakdown. Ivan in meltdown.

Who says I don't give a flying .... about a lady astronaut gone shit-crazy?

Levitate this way, baby.

I got the tape.


Tuesday, December 09, 2008

Ever since my Fatalistic baby left me, I got nothing to snuff but my cold

Would you take a used story from this man?

I've always had trouble with balloons as symbols.

When in love, the balloon is a beautiful symbol, of the moon being a balloon, of things going swimmingly, of you being David Niven in evening wear and she in a silk taffeta gown, the two of you in a brisk foxtrot.

Kinda gay, what?

Don't worry, it gets dark.

At least darker.

My Celia seemed to descend into my life out of a dark balloon. Seemingly, out of an old Broadway poster, like Paper Moon.

Straight into my life, into dark, smoky honky-tonk.

Nashville sound, and steel guitar. Face it, there's a bit of cowboy in every man, and we all like to sort of strut our stuff. Even if we happened to be college teachers. Besides, it's the simple music arising from the very origins of emotion. Cave art, sort of. Appalachians were Neadert(h)als? Well, I certainly was in those mindless days of country music and trying to forget.

We danced into a Hank Williams night, dancing to the Waltz of the Wind. The song is haunting, surreal, and that was pretty well our relationship. Haunting and Surreal.

We would go out a lot, but for some reason, she always had to leave before the night was out.

Like a mermaid, like Cindarella, like a clone controlled by some god. Her god.

High on C&W, I would ask, "Why is your pretty ass always running away from me?

"Jumping away from you, the way you are."

And as I stand at the bat-wing doors, she seems to narow her huge round eyes, highlighted by the mascara, saying says over her shoulder now, "I know you better than you know yourself."

Control freak. Maybe somebody might be controlling her.

And was he getting a charge out of controlling me as well?

Was she just bait?

There are people, cults like that in the Greek islands. There was a brilliant novel wrutteb about such a god game, The Magus.

My Celia might as well have been Julie out of that spooky book by John Fowles, but she seemed more English, somehow more medieval. Maybe that was the attraction. The old-fashioned retro shoes. The long taffeta dress.

Ah, Fata Morgana. Morgan Le Fey. Witchie-Poo. Strange Cindarella. The IT girl, Clara Bow, photogenic as Britney, but darker. Certainly some sort of IT girl from a more recent novel. Musical chairs, musical people, jealousy, angst, fire.

I finally enticed her, or rather, led her reluctantly into my apartment.
She was not eager to go and I had to use all the ways of a cad, including expressing my terrible loneliness. This somehow always works for cads. Also bounders.

She seemed brittle, bitter. Everything about me was somehow not right, and everything I did or said was somehow not up to her standard. Plain, it suddenly dawned on me, that she had regular access to sex, while I obviously did not. She was using power. Her sword of power. There had to be somebody else. Or two or three somebody elses.

"You like my gown so much? Why don't you wear it?"

Huh? She maybe lived with a transvestite?

Ah, the Night Full of Rain Syndrome. Antique male, liberated woman. Or maybe sort of a Nancy as the gay guys used to call them. Old term, Fag Head.

But we somehow made love that night.
It was damn pleasant, sure, but througn an alcoholic haze and I barely remembered it.

The following morning, she was gone.

I groped around for her...just the empty side. She had left a drawing on the Parson's table. A big red balloon.
And me on the shoosh end, hanging on for dear life. She had a good hand.

And then, more days and weeks of chasing her, and she again running. "Not running, jumping away from you, the way you are!"

"The way I am what?"

But she'd be gone.

Balloons. Le balon rouge. Or maybe Moulin Rouge.

I went on with my life.

I met somebody else, still another empath, I think.

"She was going to kill you. But you somehow broke the spell, you little warlock ," said my latest dutchess. "And you escaped. It was your intelligence that protected you.
..."No don't.I'll lie down with you, but I won' f*ck you."

Oh god. Another clairvoyant. I seem to atttract them like flies.

But I so wanted to be in Regina.

Stuck in Ontario with a virago.

Awful luck. Maybe I should have been a priest. But lady, there is this cannon

This non-relationship isn't going to work either, i decided.

Maybe I should have stayed on track with the Celia woman. Yes. That was it. Had to find her, again, be Bulldog Drummond. Had to live through it all whereever it would lead. Even if it meant hell again. The hell I'd gone through before I even met Celia.

Had to find my Celia, my Morgan Fey.

I had began tracking her. Again like Bulldog Drummond, using my investigative reporter skills.. . Tracked her down.
Bathurst and Eglinton Avenue, Toronto. Oh-oh. Mafia Miltie country.

I saw her face inside a black BMW. There was a swarthy guy driving. Tweed jacket with leather elbow pads. Prof manque'. I found out later the professor was a Don. Living with a Don. She was pretty enough. Clara Bow look- alike. The best cars, the best women, the Italians would say about this Gambini guy. Well, name the incubus and you might have power over it, I was saying to myself. Gambini.
Beware of Italians bearing gifts!

I caught her with he don and actually took a swing at him. Strangely, Don Gambini dropped like a stone. Thought these guy were so macho.

The next night the phone call. "You'got a problem, Ivan. If you don'lt fix the problem, I will." Must have been high on something. A few minutes later, the ring of the phone. "You got a problem, Ivan. If you don't fix the problem, I will."

"I will, Ivan."

Well, don't mobsters act fast. Right away.

Seems that bikers were dispatched.

I woke up in the morning. There was smoke in the apartment, then the whoosh of propellants. There was the red balloon feeling again.

I leaped from the second-storey aparment, landing in the rosebushes down in the garden, almost like St. St. Anthony in the Dali painting. St. Anthony with the hairy legs, my hairy legs in my shorts, waving I suppoes, my cross at the naked tempation in the sky. Exceppt that I was now, some kind of Kafka figure, a moth, a hairy moth and Celia was holding the candle high. The rising balloon feeling. I seemed to be risingto follow. Now I know why moths are suicidal.

Behind me, my apartment exploded.

Almost knocked me down.

The last image I remember was of a rising balloon against a full moon face.

Like a poster for an old Broadway play. I think it was Paper Moon.


Sunday, December 07, 2008

Ronald McDonald no clown this cold morning.

For the past thirty years, I've had a mad-on for McDonalds, all of those assembly line hamburgers, yea, even Big-Macs, which I sort of liked.

The shakes seemed to taste like aeroated kaopectate, the shoestring fries like shoestrings, and the Big Mac attack seemed to come after having one.

Well, who should jump start my Christmas spirit this morning but good old Ron.

I was cold, broke, save for enough to buy the Sunday case of beer. it was twenty below Cesius, the wind was killing my and I paused inside the warm McDonald's to at least have a coffee to shake off the chills.

As I sat having the 85 cent coffee, the nicest little waitress came over to me, saw me sort of still shivering, and asked,
"Would you like a hot apple pie?"


"Would you like a hot apple pie? We are giving them away this morning."

Well, does a cat have a tail?

I would kill for hot apple pie right now.

Sweet Jesus, that hit the spot.

"Merry Christmas, "' I said t the tiny little brunette. I swear she had noticed my condition...cold and sort of hungover.
Likely just as much her kind heart as goog old Ron.

"Happy holidays," she anwered. "Enjoy your pie."

Fact is she looked good enouth to eat as well. My cup runneth over. Ooh. Does Daddy like pie!

I shall besmirch Ronald McDonald no more.

I think it was last Christmas that I had a free scoff there too.

They remembered me?

Ron, you got a real gone scon!

You're not a clown today.

So here's freebie appreciation.

You can copy.

Saturday, December 06, 2008

Sounding like Roger Miller

Like many another alcoholic, chain smoker, and much overrated sexual acrobat (I wish!) I've decided I have to slow down.

Cross-addicted, nervous wreck, a Bukowski without the major talent, I am trying to control the tremblling of my hands as I hover over the keyboard.

I am at the age when I still dream of being shot by a jealous husband at ninety--and that's not to far off--and I still have lady companions, though they are now retired window washers and some a bit arthritic and they can't run very fast. Good, I say. All the better to catch ya.
I used to keep a parrot for my employer, the place was too busy and greasy,
Had to bring him back A very old parrot, almost as old as me.."Put him in the office, away from the machines and wworkers," I told my boss "That bird is obscene! "
Sample of the old bird's parrot talk:.

"My name isn't Polly, it's Sam.
And I don't want a cracker. I want a BJ."

(Oh-oh. I think I'm going to lose my "general interest" rating, suitable for young adults. Ah well, they all seem to talk that way on Main Street now.I am being corrupted by the young).

Seriously, though, I do have to cut down some of my bad habits, for I might soon not be able to drink, smoke, or even try to chase women, some with canes. If I don't cut down, I might have to give up all these activities, which is unthinkable.

You have gotten this far because you have been a bad bastard, maybe that's why you have lived so long.
Crunchy granola, working out, abstinence and smoke- free, will kill you dead.

Smoking is a great enemy of Alzheimers, I have learned.
And drinking is a great enemy of he blues.

I mean, have you ever seen the Alzheimer guy chain-smoking, holding court in a bar, being a raconteur, woman-chaser, constructing great novels over the arborite and the taps, blowing smoke like a miniature dragon? Never.
He's become the very model of our party-pooper Province which now does not allow smoking in bars, and they are presently on tthe way to limiting alcohol.

Prohibitionists all. They want us to become like the Alzheimer guy.
They want us all to become vegetables. Maybe that's why the Queen's representative in Ottawa kicked them all out of parliament for fighting. "And you can't come back till the new year."
I have never met a wino with Alzheimers. Sleeps in the snowstorm next to his grocery cart.And "F-you!"

But it really is a time to slow down. Three beers these days and I belch, eat up evrytihng in the house and fall asleep.
My penis droops.

It is seriously a time to cut down.
But cut down to what?

Hell, it is the alcohol that maintains your optimism. The cigarettes give you an euphoric high that Howard Healthcare simply has no idea of.
It makes you write stuff like this--which may be another vice to cut down on.

Small wonder I used to like Roger Miller in the old days.

"Dang me."

Thursday, December 04, 2008

"I am losing my mind, Dave, said HAL with heavy homosexual intonation.


Oy. Schwartze!

I feel schwartze.

I've really got to stop drinking, but when you don't drink, how can your write? Ovid said no water-drinker ever wrote anything worthwhile.

Kill that internal censor, or, at least, get the sumbitch drunk.

Comes a time in a writer's life when experience is ripe, he can climb the mounain and fly down the plain to sure publishing victory.

Mongol madman ready to kill all the women and rape all the men.
Of course, it's the alcohol that greases your optimism, this sense of immortality, conquest; your paragraphs are columns of marching soldiers on the plain. Your paper army, invincible. Terra Cotta soldiers not yet clay.

And then, after ten years of experience, intuition and ingenuity, you forget where the gripping rocks are, roll down the mountain "head over feet", as Alanis Morisette migh say.
Forgot something. In publishing somebody else has control and not you.... This cut of meat is taken, another rejected.
And when the female editor smiles at you, makes nice and tells you how wonderful you are, she's in communication with about 300 other fuzzy-eared idiots who are aiming for the queen be and maybe get burned by the heat.

You needed the plus factor, and this time you didn't have it.
I have made tens of thousands of dollars writing like a crazy bastard. The work was taken and paid for because I was a wild bastard with flow.
Well this time, well over forty, I became structured, careful, old-codgety, like somebody immersed in remedial writing after a long spell in another language.
Great English composition, but no fire, no art. It was writing, but more like English comp. No plus factor.
I needed editing.

But they were were full of sH*t!
They sent my book to a grade twelve dropout sub-editor . Rubbed the balls right off it and made it sound like Dick and Jane.
Well f*ck them, I said.

So I sent out what they had edited for me and it immediately made a magazine literary section.

WTF. Do you have to deliberately write badly to have something accepted?
Is everybody blind, lazy,stupid?
The piece, after editing, sucked canal water. I knew it sucked canal water. I could hear the sump groaning.
Yet the piece was taken.


Feel like old Paul Krassners logo on his excellent old satirical magazine, the Realist.
Kind of a depressed, downward-looking Humpty-Dumpty egg with problems.

Odd. Before I hit the slick magazines, hardly anybody laughed at my jokes. I was on the outs and considered sort of a dweeb.
And now, after publishing some rather purple material everybody laughs at my jokes. I noticed the how my peers in Canadian publishing behave. "This is funny, humorous You will laugh. You will laugh because I say it's funny."

I have attitude, therefor I am?
Scare the shit out of peple when you walk into a room and say "This is the CBC you're talking to"?

I must get even more power.

If lucky, I might be elevated to a woman of colour.