Monday, April 30, 2012
In this age of the average nerd, I feel, that even here I'm losing. Almost every month there is an innovation, even in blog space. My philosophy prof used to chide, "No more gadgets! But I fear he to will end up an app. Blogger format has suddenly changed.Again. I don't know where this blog will end up. Perhaps in what they used to call File Thirteen in the old days, the wastepaper basket? ...But there is no basket today. You just delete. I am at the age and stage when common sense will again take over.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Suddenly, I realize through the ether of emails, bureacracy and government, that I have an enemy.
Does the enemy know what sort of person he stalks? Is he blind, lazy, or just stupid?
You know you have an enemy when simple, routine things are suddenly very difficult to do...It's like the feeling you have when you're separated.
Suddenly you get no mail. The government wants to know you social security number where you've had one for years, and can't the dweebs see it on you income tax return or past correspondence with you. Somebody has given you a problem withe paying your bills; there is no acknowledgement and you get final notices on bills you had paid months ago. It is suddenly hard to get a job in the media. You think it's paranoia... but for sure, a man with a Fedora hat and a dated Lincoln rolls down his window and yells, "The sweetest sound I can hear, Ivan, is your GO bus leaving town."
"Of course you have an enemy, Ivan. I have too," says the new girlfriend. "We have IQ's of a hundred and forty. We can make things out of wire and wood, quote entire passages and write some of our own. People hate us.
(Well, maybe she has a genius IQ, but mine is at about the leven of a mildly retarded high school teacher).
In any event, she, goes on, "People hate us because we can animate things, make them sing and dance....Like conjure artists, like performance artists."
Myself, I hate words like "creative" or "empowered," but I guess that's what she meant.
Nevertheless the enemy is playing with my empowerment. Artistic power, of course, always bows to financial power, but then you have the truth on your side, and everybody, all compromised long ago, seems to hate you.
You, of course, have your supporting army, your own Anthill Mob, old students, fellow writers and maybe a goodhearted hooker or two. Charlie still has a sheen.
But I have an enemy.
What did the enemy have for breakfast today? Where does he sleep? Is he a drinker like me? Does he have a master?
For years, I strove to be a master, but at Trinity College, all I seemed to achieve was a C. "The Polish mark," says my friend Stashiu.
And yet, there was some slight vanity in graduating....At least from the former Ryerson Pyromaniacal Institute. And achieving standing at that institution with all the trees a wasps. "Teacher-smeecher" goads the Portuguese guy wanting to argue.
And yet I have an enemy.
I imagine him in his 1940's hat and reptilian appearance. He keeps driving by and says, "When are you leaving town, Ivan?"
The Hat Man.
Maybe I've got a psychosis.
But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean he isn't out to get you.
But one is eccentric. A fool is a powerful figure on the board, because you don't know what he is going to do next.
Take that, Hat Man.
Knock your lid off.
Monday, April 09, 2012
Life has a way of knocking you on your derriere when you come too close to the ring, and just as my website was succeeding into making me something of a local star, I ran out of money and was forced to take a job as a deliverer of auto parts.
The reception wasn't too bad. They all seemed to know me at Shanahan Ford around these parts, but after seeing me for the third time, head and feet sticking out from a load of mufflers and exhaust pipes, the thrill was gone. The same thing at 400 Auto Wreckers when I decided to take an asthma fit right outside the office because of leaks in my ancient delivery vehicle. Feeling Not so much like a gassed Kurd, but more like something of a turd, I soldiered on after the wreckers brought me to.
There is a line out of old Beverley Hillbillies that goes like: You're an artist, you have to suffer. Boy, are you going to suffer when you find out that the construction crew screwed up and dumped cement not at your poolside, but all over your new BMW.
Story of my life.
Just like MAD's version of "Prince Violent", I somehow always manage to "pick up bow, drop quiver, pick up quiver, drop chainmail pants."
John Cleese: For every success, there is a corresponding failure.
Hey, I'm not complaining.
Thanks partly to Jeff Mitchell's excellent writeup on me in the Era-Banner hereabouts, the name "Ivan Prokopchuk" shows up in a lot of GOOGLE places from here to New York City, where the new McLuhan, Douglas Rushkoff has reprinted a riff or two of mine.
Lots of stuff about old Ivan on other websites too. Again, Jeff Mitchell got me started, while an able son looked after the technical end.
Not bad for a scribbler who had hoped at one time to write some soft porn and get the Ukrainian vote too, though Ukies are really quite conservative. The title? Naked Came the Ukrainian. I still think it will sell....You publishers out there, will you take a used novel from this man?
And yet I still have to work for a living.
Having had too good a time in the Sixties, I am not too hot as an executive right now. Gaping psychedelic holes in my head; short attention span. At least I can deliver parts.
"You've got it all ass backwards," says my friend Jackie Playter as she watches me struggle with a stubborn GM Astro that had lost its tailpipe. Presumably, she means I should get back into writing or politics, where I belong.
Christ, have you ever tried politics, especially municipal politics. Some of the tree huggers and AIDS activists should try it when they're not so righteous about global warming and all that.
Municipal politics in Ontario? The Mafia will kick your ass and call you a ........cker
Which I probably why I am reduced to dropping off auto parts.
Yet there is something mildly grand about being a speedy mercurial figure, a Hermes or Mercury(sometimes indeed driving a Mercury) on winged Adidas feet, dropping parts all over the world, right hand extended to the heavens to display a NAPA symbol.
One day, at a NAPA party, I won a thirty-pound ham.
Knocked off my perch as a pro, yes, but was it ever nice to eat regular!
Friday, April 06, 2012
I must apologize, I suppose, for having a military background. It gave me some rough edges and certainly irreverence by the time I finally smartened up and got into university as a mature student. But I miss some of he barrack room humour. A lot of it was sacriligious, and maybe that was the charm.
"Into the bushes!"
"But I'll scream.
"How loud can you scream?"
"Into the bushes."
"But "I'm in the family way."
"You're in everbody's way. Into the bushes"
"But I'll tell the vicar."
"I am the vicar. Get into the bushes!"
"But I'm only thirteen."
"I'm not superstitious. Get into the bushes."
But it's good Friday."
"It's good any day. Get into the bushes!"
Hm. Well over seventy I worry about jejune humour.
But it seemed so funny then.
And, heh,have a Good Friday.