A Vain Stab at Insight into the Human Condition and a Suggested Remedy (apologies in advance)

We're all scared. It's the human condition. Why do you thinks I put on this tough guy façade? Now beats it! -- Sal, Futurama

Sal's propensity for pluralzing things that have no business being pluralized notwithstanding, I believe he has a point. The trouble is getting people to admit it. And I don't mean getting someone to say, "Yeah, I'm afraid of spiders," or, "Clowns creep me out, what of it?"
Try getting an average person to admit to a big, nebulous fear of everything and anything--of life. Unless that person is being totally honest, if you manage to strip away all thier pretence and pride (gin works), or if they never had any to begin with, it just won't happen.
I have a proposition, however, that may alleviate future generations of some of the stigma of admitting to fear. I'll admit, it's an imperfect scheme and I'm probably just talking out of my ass here (though it is the internet so I figure this is the acceptable place to do that) but hear me out.
I think that the following script should be read by every doctor to every baby being born today until such a time as advances (if they can so be called) in culture make a revision to the text neccessary. I think, also, that the child should be given a written copy of the script and be reminded from time-to-time to read it.
At very least, I think that someone after reading it for the next few moments will be able to admit to being afraid--and maybe, just maybe--being reminded of it enough will help a few people to overcome the fear.
It goes like this:

Hello young one. I have some things to tell you that I hope will prepare you for what's to come. I know you just spent the last nine months in near-perfect comfort; warm and safe and as close to your mother as you'll ever be. I also know that in the last little while you've been thrust out of that sphere of comfort and into a world of climate, noise, pressure changes, lights and colours and all sorts of other stressors on your senses--and I just smacked you on the butt; which makes the bulk what I'm about to tell you all the more difficult.
First of all, you'll be happy to know that you'll get used to all the stimuli. That's the easy part. In fact, you'll eventually get around to enjoying some of it. Wait til you smell lilacs--that'll just about make up for what youre feeling now.
I wish I could tell you that things get better from here but, if you look at the odds, they really don't.
Unless you were born with a certain amount of luck you don't have very much money which is a very unfortunate thing to lack. There's a very small chance you've got a genetic leg-up if you're extraordinarily intelligent, good looking or talented in some way. This isn't as good as money but it will probably get you some. Even if you have money--if your parents are well-to-do and can exceed your needs; or if you are good looking, talented and bright--it won't make you happy and it will probably never seem like enough.
You should probably do your best to enjoy the next few years. Unless your parents are alcoholics; drug addicts; abusive; absentee; very, very poor or allow people with such issues too much access to you, the next four or five years will probably be the best time you have in this life. It will be especially nice if you have a big, caring family with lots of cousins or with brothers and sisters--they can be ready-made friends and those are extremely important to have. Friends can make a hellstorm of torubles seem bearable and you'll be needing some from here on out.
Because after those first few years, you'll go to school. And again, unless you're something very special to look at, unless you have oodles of money, unless you're extraordinarily talented; there's going to be problems. And even if you're any and all of those things, it won't be perfect. Someone will dislike you for no good reason. Someone you dislike for no good reason will like you a great deal. Other kids will latch on to any pretence they can to tease you, belittle you and berate you. This is one of those times where friends come in really handy.
School will last for about fourteen years--unless you go to college and there's a good chance you won't be able to afford that anyway. In those fourteen years you'll grow a lot, you'll change a lot. Some of the pitfalls you'll have to watch out for are as follows:
First, you will eventually develop a sexual attraction to the opposite sex. At least fifty percent of the angst you will experience at this time will be related to that attraction in some way. You will have irrepressible feelings for one member or another of the opposite sex for most of the time for most of your life and far too many times that person won't reciprocate. You should probably keep how that feels in mind when you are unable to reciprocate the feelings of someone else--though you probably won't.
Perhaps the only thing worse than this hormonal imperative that sends you lusting after the opposite sex is one that sends you lusting after the same sex--and there's a roughly 1-in-10 chance that this will happen to you. If you're lucky, there will be enough people around you to support you and love you regardless of your sexual orientation. This is a good thing because there will be people, some of them outright strangers, who will hate you completely for it.
Unfortunately, sex is a lifetime thing--the issues that go along with it, the emotional entaglement, the heartbreak and everything--will continue the rest of your life. I hope you manage to find someone--same-sex or opposite--who loves you and will stick by you. But know that to get to that person, if they come, you will suffer through endless jealousy, anger, retribution, suspiscion and doubt. Your heart will break, you will break hearts. It is unavoidable.
And while we're still ostensibly on the subject of school, I suggest not slacking. If you are very bright, or even moderately intelligent, this is your opportunity to turn some of that intellect into money; which, as I told you, is very important.
Pay attention, get good grades, work hard, face forward, don't get distracted and maybe you can pull yourself up a couple of rungs on the social ladder. Others will tell you this while you're in school and the pressure will be enormous! You may well turn to drugs or alcohol to ease the stress--but don't bother talking about it. Because the same folks putting pressure on you will tell you that it's impossible for you to be stressed because you're just in school.
Chances are that someone, at some point, will talk you into doing something stupid that will become a bad habit--one that you will likely carry for the rest of your life. It is, of course, unfair as this will likely occur before your brain is fully developed and you'll be too stupid to make the right decision. Take heart in the fact that you're not the only one.
If you've made it this far, you're probably doing okay. If you finish school, good for you; if you can pull off college as well, outstanding!
It will now be time to enter the workforce. This may sound bizarre, you may think I'm playing a trick on you, but I am not. Listen: you will be expected to go to a place and do a job for about eight hours a day, at least five days a week, usually for thirty-five years give-or-take. In exchange for this, you will get some money. Not everything is equal; you may get far too little to survive on, or you may get much more than you need (and again, even then it won't seem like enough). Other people doing other jobs may seem to make a lot more for doing a lot less--this is probably, but not certainly, true.
If you're lucky (there's that word again) or if you plan carfeully and are prepared to make some sacrifices in your youth (for example, taking part-time work to pay for college, passing up parties to study) you may like your job. If not, don't worry, you are not alone. You will do it out of neccessity, you will complain about it to your friends and family, they will complain back to you about thier job.
This cockamamie scheme is, apparently, the best anyone could come up with for seeing to the needs of such an overwhelmingly large global population.
This is also about the time that you'll be expected to find that person I mentioned earlier--the one who loves you and will stick by you? Over half of the people on the planet don't get it right the first time, it would seem. So there's a better than 50% chance you'll go through what we call a divorce. Acrimony, bitter recriminations, legal hoop-jumping, asset dividing, emotional turmoil and severe depression are part and parcel with a divorce. Think of the break-ups you had as a youth as very light practice for this.
And while all this is going on--divorce or marriage or niether--you will have financial trouble. You will be expected to fill out tax forms, pay ridiculous sums of money for things you don't really need, miss a payment and be hounded and harrassed for it, scrape together enough to pay it off and then have to worry about it again roughly thirty days later. If you can maintain your health that will help as getting sick costs money--even if your government says it doesn't.
Of course, staying healthy will be difficult. There will be all sorts of tempting foods and drugs and recreational activities that will ravage your body and mind and you will probably partake for no better reason than that it relaxes you.
Somewhere in there you may have had a child or children. Whatever else you do, remember that nothing that has happened to you to this point is thier fault--they, like you, are just holding on as best they can. Love them. Unconditionally. It may be the only salvation you ever qualify for. If you can manage to do that, there's a good chance that there will be someone young and able-bodied who loves you dearly and will see you through the more embarrassing moments of old age.
Which takes us into retirement. At first this will seem like a fantastic idea. You get to stop working, you will have liesure time. The first trouble will probably be that you've forgotten what to do with liesure time. That won't matter as much once you realise how little money you have in relation to the time you have left to live--indeterminate as it is.
Thanks to advances in medicine--which is my field, by the by--we'll be able to keep you alive longer than your life is worth living. Probably long enough for you to feel a good deal of pain, long enough for you to no longer have control of your bowels, long enough for you to wonder what you're hanging on for.
The answer to that, by the way, is that we're all afraid to die. No matter what anyone tells you, no one knows what happens after life ends and it scares the bejesus out of all of us. So we cling to life no matter how objectionable it becomes.
A few other things before I hand you over to your mother so you can get to enjoying the simplicity of youth:
I have only told you about your life and what to expect in a small way. I haven't talked much about the world at large and there's a few things you need to know about it.
First of all, an incalcuable number of people you don't know will hate you and wish you dead for nebulous political and social reasons--because you dress, look, think or believe differently than they do, because your life seems easier than thiers, because they can. There is nothing you can do about this.
The economy is broken--I can say that with relative certainty if nothing else. No one, no matter what they say, knows how it works and yet it will shape every moment of your life in ways you will never be able to control. The important stuff I have already told you: money is important, get it if you can, try not to lament it too much if you can't.
There are a few people out there to whom none of what I've said applies. They have money, happiness, comfort and security and they don't give a flying fuck about you or your problems. If anyone can be said to control anything on this crazy little planet; they control everything.
You will probably work for one of them, or buy something from one of them, or be subjugated by one of them at some point in your life. Though you will probably never see thier face.
Thier names are easy enough to find, though, if you care to look for them.
There probably isn't a God. A lot of people will tell you otherwise, and hate you if you don't agree. This isn't such a bad thing, just keep doing the best you can for yourself and the people around you and after a while it won't matter and you won't think about it anymore.
Your governemnt is as hapless and clueless as you are. They're of no use to anyone except for a handful of crackpots that need someone other than themselves to blame for thier ill fortune.
People make things that can kill enormous numbers of people in the blink of an eye.
People use these things all the time.
Even if you have a very good idea about how to fix all these things, no one will listen, unless you're something special to look at, very bright or significantly talented.
The people who are something special to look at, who are very bright or significantly talented almost never have very good ideas.
Everything you see on the news is a distortion. And if it's not a distortion, it's a lie.
Virtually everything that can make your life easier also damages the ecosystem of this planet--life or conveinience: it's a trade-off.
Very few people will ever care about you as much as they care about themselves.
Finally, and this is the most important thing I can tell you about life: No matter how bad it seems, there is someone out there much worse off than you are, in much more desperate circumstances, who is about to lose thier last bit of hope. If you come across that person you MUST help them. No matter what.

Granted, it's culturally biased. It could be revised, I suppose, for other countries and perhaps even be made more specific. Or perhaps the entire thing could be revised to be more broad--I think it would be better if we all heard and read the same script. Better still would be if we could all hear and read the same script and realise that, and realise what that means. Maybe then we could all start treating others the way we should.
But I don't suppose there's much hope for any of it at all. Most folks wouldn't want this read to thier baby. I doubt very much if I'd read it to my future step-daughter. Not because I think it sounds hopeless or depressing, but because I worry that it would make her too compassionate. And compassion is a liability now, isn't it?
I tell you what though, even if she never reads these words, I hope she comes to the same conclusion on her own.
And I hope you do to.

Broken Beer Bottle Slippy-Slide

I am not an impeccable record-keeper of the shows I've attended, in fact I rarely even bring a camera because I find that cameras and booze don't mix so well. What I do know for sure about my show attendence record is the following:
1. Have been slacking the last few years.
2. I have seen a shitload of fantastic bands.
3. Many, many of the fantastic bands I saw; I saw on the stage of The Embassy Hotel in London, Ontario.

The Embassy Hotel wouldn't garner even the most casual of glances from your average tourist. Partly due to the fact that it's not much to look at, and partly because it's in an area of the city that most tourists would avoid like the plague (probably because of the high incidence of Bubonic plague there). However, for a punk rocker or a metalhead or an indie kid I doubt very much that there's a more appealing building in the entire city (with the possible exception of whatever building happens to be housing Speed City Records at that time).
Going inside doesn't solve the problem of appearances, by the by--just in case you were waiting for me to say something like, "But the grimy facade belies a..." nope, nothing like that. Inside the building is no better than the outside. What you get is a floor that feels soggy and probably has been since 1977 when it was converted to a live music venue featuring mainly country acts (I swear, I won't draw any romantic parallels between The Embassy and CBGBs).
The bar is divided in half. When you enter, to the right, you find The Whippet Lounge, a small dark room with a small dark bar (that was non-functional last time I was there) and a miniscule stage.
If you go left when you enter you come into The Embassy proper. You'll be standing right next to the stage which has been graced by the likes of Our Lady Peace, Cowboy Junkies, Jesus Lizard, The Melvins, Henry Rollins, Helmet, Biff Naked, Voivod and the Misfits just to drop a few names.
Beyond that there's the Dancefloor, on which I watched Tim Drew writhe around in broken beer bottles during his stint in Oxbaker (pictured below; that is a much-less-fit me by the stage clapping like a ninny). Come to think of it, that turned out to be Oxbaker's final show and, while sparsely attended, it remains one of my fondest memories.
Beyond the bar there used to be a photobooth. I got my picture taken with Brady Caeser of Black Cat Music (he was playing guitar in The Criminals at the time) and my friends Mike and Nicole.
Upstairs, above the bar, are small apartments. It was in one of these that the afforementioned Mike and I hung out with Blanks 77. We stayed until 4 in the morning discussing the finer points of cell phones, country music and Jenny Jones.
Probably my best memory of The Embassy though, would be my most recent and, sadly, my last. It would be the night that Steph and I saw Cursed play. It was the second last show of thier last Ontario tour before thier breakup. It was also the night Steph and I got together. Maybe it was the lack of booze, maybe it was the heat in The Whippet, maybe it was the music--but that night forever changed my life in the best of ways.
But time marches on and the good times had by a fistful of countercultre malcontents means sweet fuck all in the shadow of progress. Our capitalist overlords have decreed that The Embassy, London's best independent music venue for the last 32 years, should be torn down to make room for Condominiums. Who needs a scene? Who needs a neighbourhood? Who needs a home-away-from-home?
Lots of people. But I suppose not as much as some pepople need just a little more money. Not as much as some people feel the need to banish colourful chaos (no matter how harmless) to replace it with bland, humdrum order.
So long, Embassy Hotel, you will be missed.

Whitman Among the Corpses

Another year and another series of circumstances to which I willingly sacrficed myself. Always being willing to let myself be victimized by Fate has served me well thus far--at least insofar as it hasn't gotten me killed. (Actually, upon examining my relationship with Fate I begin to wonder just who is victim and who is victimized...)
So what in two-double-aught-eight is worth talking about?
Plenty.
Turned my back on Prince George, BC permanently. Not out of ill will or lack of respect but because I failed to embrace it and I saw no way to rectify that situation. Once a year feels wasted, it's hard to get over. Double that and tack on a few more months and you've got issues that can only be resolved by swift and immediate withdrawal. I try not to think of it as a retreat--and since I also try not to tell myself lies, I try not to think about it at all.
So leaving PG was a catalyst (to understate matters a little) to a whole lot of other shit (both good and bad). First it ended a thoroughly rewarding--albeit increasingly troubled--relationship. It set up a lengthy correspondence with a girl who reignited my passion for writing, lead to love's doorstep, and then lost it's way from the mailbox to the doorbell. (Maybe love is blind--at very least it occasionally has a poor sense of direction.)
To be fair, it was distracted by another very charming girl and her even more charming child. Then there was love again--love which cost me dearly. Not that the price was one I was unwilling to pay, I just feel sometimes like I wish I'd been able to get the senior's discount or something.
Apparently thirteen years isn't quite long enough to qualify me.
Maybe it's time to step away from the metaphors and whimsical bullshit and start talking about things less personal in a more concrete way before your faithful guide (that'd be me) gets us all lost while he smells the roses. (And there he goes again... FUCK!)

Highlights:
Cursed III is an amazing record, seeing them at the Whippet in April with Stephanie was fucking nuts and a hell of a way to start off a relationship. My ears still ring whenever I hear the duelling bass guitars of Friends in the Music Business.
Having Pike come to the rescue and give me a guitar amp when I was at the lowest point of my creative cycle was precisely the jump I needed to get working again. Playing a lot more guitar now, pushing myself to try playing in ways I've never thought to before.
Making a decision and ploughing ahead with the as-yet-unnamed Epic Dystopia is daunting but feels right. I'm still feeling it out, researching and note-taking but I'm not slowing down and I don't find myself trying to think up excuses.
Finding Steph and Gwenyth in this fucked-up mess of a world was a relief on par with finding your underwear clean after a particularly damp-sounding fart. No, better than that--but I'm saving all my good metaphors for the book. Sorry.

Lowlights:
Cursed braking up was a disappointment. At least I got a chance to see 'em--thought Steph and I were hoping they'd play the wedding...
Finding myself unable to come up with a short story idea to keep my fingers busy in between bouts of guitar playing and novel researching. It's not as though it has to be a good idea, any idea would do. Alas, I am blank.
Making too little money, doing too little work. Not that money and work make a life full, but they do make it easier.
Watching things fall apart for friends and family in various ways. Sure, it happens every year, but this year seemed especially hard on the people I care about.

Looking ahead:
The band should start coming together in the next few weeks (provided our bassist comes through). I have three or four songs set, a couple more vaguely planned in my head. CDep by year's end? We're not doing the demo thing and I kinda wanted to start with a self-released EP so it is possible.
This is the year one of my stories appears in a repuatble journal/magazine/anthology. If that sounds like too much pressure to put on onesself... let me know because I'm scared shitless that someone's gonna hold me to this one.
Gettin' hitched. I'm hoping more and more for something small, quiet and chill. I suspect that Steph is thinking more in the opposite direction. Which is fine, it's not about the wedding--it's about the marriage.
Watching Gwenyth get a little older, a little wiser, a lot cuter and a lot more expensive.
University in September, if all goes as planned. Sick and tired of wishing I'd gone earlier. Gonna make it happen now.

Global recession, economic anxiety. Underexperienced President in the US (hey, at least he's black--or he was before the election, now I guess his level of blackness is unsatisfactory for some). Unsettling orc-like person in charge of Russia. Middle East as unstable as ever. Shock after shock--both political an natural. Catagenesis on the way.
So come ahead, 2009. Your gaping black maw doesn't worry me in the least. Bring it on, motherfucker.

Possibly Epic Fail

It's one of those nights where you're walking home from the coffee shop and you're passing an unlit streetlight and you spit and the light flickers, flares and joins its brothers and sisters in consistent illumination and it shocks you for a minute but you keep going. Then, a few minutes later, another unlit streetlight and perhaps coincidentally, perhaps through some subconcious reflex, you spit again and that streetlight, too, flickers and flares and lights.
This time you're less shocked and more amused at the absurd parallelism. So the next time you see an unlit streetlight, about a block from home, you spit again. And that streetlight flickers and flares and lights. And then you start to think you can light streetlights with your mind--figuring maybe that your brain configures itself in such a way when you spit to send electric impulses to the fuse or whatever and you're something like a god. A god of streetlights, sure, but in this day and age where society seems to be relentlessly searching for new gods, who the fuck is gonna split hairs?
So I figure now is as good a time as any to tell you all something that'll humble me a little in immediate and obvious ways; and in more subtle ways that will only become apparent as the days and months and years pass.

The room is dark and it smells like cigarette smoke and cinnamon. You can't see it but you can picture the whisp of smoke still coming off the Christmas candle she just blew out.
"I just get bitchy and discouraged when I read something that I don't think is as good as what I write," I say. She's annoyed with me because I criticized the book she was reading to me from. "I mean, it's ridiculous to me that something that bland and shapeless could get published."
"Well then why don't you get published? Bitching about other people's work won't do it. Get yourself out there."
I snort and say, "You have no idea how hard I've tried."
"Okay, okay. Don't get defensive. I'm just saying, I've never seen you try so..."
She's got a point.
I roll over and close my eyes, picturing pages and pages of manuscripts I've turned out over the years and I have to admit, yeah, a lot of them are bad. Worse than bad.
There are the stories I write and the sotries I talk about writing. Probably the most famous of the latter group would be the novel that has gone by titles like Fucked Up!, How Could Hell Be Any Worse?, So Much Worse, Those Wretched, Those Doomed, The Doomed Ones, The Cursed Ones and The Book of Anathema among some other painfully cheery names. (And I swear it only occurs to me now how dreary and depressing those titles are.)
This is the book I've told people I intend to work up to. The magnum opus, my sure-fire materpiece. The epic dystopian satire weaving the first-person life stories of six semi-related people. The novel that begins on or around September 11th 2001 and ends some fifty or sixty years later. I imagine something in the nieghbourhood of 600-800 pages at least, despite my commitment to minimalism.
When I describe my idea to people they ask why I don't start it now. My response is usually some variation of this:
"I'm smart enough to know I'm not ready to take on something so big yet. I don't have the skill to tell it, the focus to research it or the simple ability to fix it when I fuck it up--which I will."
But lying in bed with nothing to show for years of honing my craft, studying the conventions and tricks and traditions, I have to admit that the reasons seem flimsy when sales of novels like the Twilight series are surpasing other lousy books like the Harry Potter series.
Seems to me I'm just scared that my best idea won't be good enough. And that reason, well, it's definitely not good enough.

The concept of this novel started with a loose collection of ideas that seemed related in some way. Ideas that actually, over the ten-or-so-years since they first came to me, have made friends of newer ideas and become my personal philosophy. A philosophy that, while I haven't the arrogance to call finished, doesn't take up as much of my time anymore. Less time is spent trying to piece it together and turn it over in my mind to check it for holes. Now it functions more as a backdrop to my life. Or better still, as a lens through which I view the world. A lens that helps me understand myself, the world and my relationship to it much better.
The philosophy seems to be ready to go. And this book was always supposed to be that outlet for me, a means of expressing my worldview sort of like Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead (except, you know, comprehensible and well-written). So why not start it? It was a question I couldn't answer without making sorry excuses that did little but veil the afforementioned fear.
So start it I shall.
As of Monday I begin the considerable research period that will be required to make this story work. I've got a reading list a mile long that will take me at least three or four weeks to work my way through (and this is ignoring the very real possibility that those books will bring others to light that will also need to be read).
I've written things before that required research. I think the longest I've ever spent researching a single story was somewhere in the nieghbourhood of two weeks. This is an entierly different animal. There will be much note-taking, cross-referencing and mucking about with unwieldy volumes on topics ranging from Existentialism to Native story telling to corporate law.
I also believe I will need to do something I said I would never do: plot the story in advance. This will be my first attempt at writing something big enough to lose characters in, to tear holes in the plot or to suffer from any chronological errors. While I've always said one shouldn't know where a story is going until it's been told, I don't think it could hurt to plot certain check-points along the way to make sure my characters don't get lost, wind up in two places at once or die and return fifty pages later.
Also, I need to decide who my characters are. I have six of them to tell the story and they all have important parts to play in it. But I think it would be a mistake to give them life before I really know who they are. This is the first time I will write more than one character at a time and I don't want to make the mistake of playing favourites or giving too little time or attention to any of them. I may go so far as to fill up a notebook on each character so I know them and have reference material on them when I begin.
All in all I figure the prep-time on this beast will take me well into the New Year. I also think that once all the research is done and the plot drawn up and the characters fully realised I'll want to take a break. After that, there's a very good chance that fear will hamper my ability to begin the novel for a couple of weeks.
By that time I'll probably be back in school or getting very close to it so that will obviously slow down the writing process a great deal. Granted, in the past when I had ten or more hours a day to dedicate to writing I could crap out a novella in a couple of weeks. (Which, I know, seems fast. But consider the fact that I am a minimalist and I don't cut things out--I write fiction that way naturally so revisions are usually pretty short because even novels are pretty short.)
I don't harbour any illusions that this will come as quickly or even be presentable after the first draught. Even if I were to find ten hour days to work on it, this is a more involved piece of writing than I've ever attempted. What I'm saying is, I'll consider myself successful if I manage to finish a first draught before the apocalypse my story will attempt to predict occurs.

But I will begin it. I won't give it a name. I won't talk a lot about it--maybe I won't talk about it at all. But I'll do it. I'll work on it. And maybe it'll take years to finish, maybe I'll write other things in between and during breaks. But I'm not going to put it off anymore.

Calling Him Priest Does Not Make Him Priest

The trouble is that the nieghbour dropped off an extra-large double-double at 1:30am and, being oblivious to how my body has changed since I was eighteen, I figured I was cool to down the whole thing and still nod off immediately. Before that was the other nieghbour and his girlfriend coming over to watch a werewolf movie (which prompted the question: "Hey, when's the last time we watched a movie that wasn't a horror?"). Before that was waking up at two in the afternoon because I'd gone to bed at five in the morning.
So I'm still awake at 3:30am, fully aware of the fact that I will be awakened in something like six hours by a three-year-old ruckus in the next room, fresh from two nights at her dad's house and forgetful of all the rules of this one.
Yay!
And what am I doing at 3:30am? Reading Cities of the Red Night and discussing with Steph whether or not I believe losing Amy Winehouse to her addictions would qualify as a tragedy. And if you're having trouble guessing which side I'm taking, maybe this will help: I'm citing great musicians, artists and writers who died young and asking whether or not Amy Winehouse can properly be compared to them.
And it's as I'm listing names of more and less obscure talents that I surprise myself by mentioning Kurt Cobain.
I look at the book in my hand and depart from the topic completely (Hey, it's 3:30am, I've got the sleep schedule of an over-caffeinated cat and, like, zero attention span) and start talking about The "Priest" They Called Him--a nine minute and forty-something-second ep featuring W.S. Burroughs reading a short from his collection Exterminator! while Kurt Cobain plays some dissonant guitar in the background.
I heard it on CD way back when Kurt Cobain was still mentioned by everyone everyday. By that point I was more interested in Burroughs than in Cobain, but I had to admit that I was really into what they were doing.
Apparently the track was also released on a one-sided 10" picture disc limited to 50,000 copies. That sounds like a lot to a hardcore kid, but when you consider the followings that these two guys had, well, it doesn't seem like near enough.
Of course the recording is out of print. It's still available online at Amazon and, no doubt, eBay; and yet I find myself hoping instead to one day find it while rifling through bins in some dusty old record store in some major metropolitan centre. Maybe because that way there's a chance that I won't have to pay upward of $60 for the 10", or maybe because that's just how I've always done it.

In other news: I seem to have a couple of leads on amps, I'm just about ready to sit down and start writing something serious, I'm going to be listening to both Blue Train and Yanqui UXO tonight if it kills me and I've decided to forgo buying a motorcycle until after London (unless a stupendously good deal comes up in the meantime).
By the way, the link to my nieghbour's book does not constitute an endorsement--I have not read the novel. In fact, I feel compelled to warn you that if all I've read about Publish America is true, they'll publish anything. Nonetheless, there it is. Take it for what it's worth.

Clarification and Whatnot

THE ENGAGEMENT
So I'm sure I've inititiated some cognitive dissonance out there for folks who have known me for a long time. I can picture one or two people scratching thier heads and saying, "Can he be serious? Or is this some sort of social statement?"
I'm serious. Also, it may be some sort of social statement.
For years I eschewed the idea of marriage. It seemed an unneccessary arrangement entered into half-blind by most people; all too frequently resulting in shit like heartache and financial insolvency. A good solid coke habit, I reasoned, would probably turn out better. Or a self-administered lobotomy. (Which, by the way, are the same thing, really.) I figured marriage was looked at one (or both of) two ways: Either it was a social contract issued by a society that I had nothing in common with and whose institutions mean very little to me; and/or it was a religious contract and, as you are all aware, religious contracts are not high on my list of priorities.
So why this socio-religious institution? Why now?
I've settled into relationships in the past. They were fulfilling in a certain sense since I wasn't looking for permanence. This is not to say they lacked depth or passion or love. But they were ephemeral, fleeting things and most of the time I realised this going in.
The thing is, when you're not looking for permanence, you start courting the transient, seeking it out. Probably because if you know at the outset that it won't last, it will hurt less coming out the other side. This is precisely what happened in my last relationship. We talked about marriage in a half-hearted, jokey way but we always said that there was no such thing as forever. "It's a word designed to give hope to a hopeless culture," I said.
So coming out of that relationship I felt good--that is to say I felt like I'd been made a better person for my involvement in it and like I'd salvaged a real friendship for knowing when it was over. I felt ready to take on the world. There was no protracted period of healing, no fear of getting hurt again. And it is in this mindset that, as chance would have it (if you believe in chaos or unbound freewill which, let's face it, are far from certainties), I happened to meet what may very well be the only girl with whom permanence seems possible.
The component lacking in all my past relationships that kept them momentary was understanding. An understanding of who I am, why I believe (or don't believe) as I do. An understanding of what is most important to me and why. A respect for the deepest foundations of my character.
Stephanie seems to understand. She doesn't always agree, but she gets it.

All that being said, I am practical about this. Because I have accepted so many temporary relationships as temporary, I go into this with eyes wide open. I know what kind of work will be neccessary to make permanence happen. I know it won't always be easy and fun.
But I suspect it'll be worth it.

LITERATURE
In other news, it seems that I'm starting to feel a bit writerly again. I'm getting small story ideas and my fingers seem to be moving over the keyboard with a modicum of grace and ability once more. I'm not sure when I'll be able to tackle a novel again. With something like three failed manuscripts in various drawers I may just be a little gun-shy. However, Broken Pencil has a short story contest coming up. Perhaps if I submit something I will find the old confidence--and should I gain any recognition for it, all the better.
I've also found that engaging in reading material of the sort which I would normally decline has helped. Genre fiction, pulp paperbacks and such. Not that I'm rushing to write the next horror novel you'll find on a rack in an airport and forget after your flight--but reading those types of books is an interesting experiment that seems to be exercising my creative muscle.
Another helpful factor seems to be my place of residence. Maybe it's because artists tend to be shit-poor most of the time, but I seem to be reading quite a few manuscripts by aspiring writers (not to mention listening to songs by aspiring songwriters and critiquing the fruits of other sundry artistic pursuits) since I moved to Taylor Ave. Some of them are really good. Some of them are really, really bad. But it helps to know that there are others out there pushing thier way through the muck and slime of anonymity.

OTHER
The amp I have been using has been returned to its rightful owner. I'm hoping to borrow one for a while to continue writing/recording some music.
My landlord is a jerk-ass. Though, I don't suppose that's news to anyone who has ever had a landlord.
Gwenyth has the energy of an atomic bomb and the discipline of a three-year-old. So I guess that's just about right.
George Carlin is, regretfully, still dead. Along with Johnny Cash, Bob Marley, Joe Strummer, Bill Hicks and a host of other erstwhile rebels. Dick Cheney is, somehow, still alive.
And so am I.

Struggle with the Medium, Continual Tedium

This is my favourite time of year. The cold, the rain, the unsettled sky the colour of faded denim--all this plus picking wet leaves off the soles of my boots before coming inside.
Woke up at six in the morning after falling asleep at three thirty--got out of bed at seven. Made coffee and smoked cigarettes and read the news. Sweeney Todd, the Demon Kitty of Taylor Ave decided to crash out on my lap while Queen Isis mewed at her empty food dish. I'm sure I'll miss the sleep I might have had if I'd stayed in bed and forced my eyes to stay closed--but really, will I miss it as much as I've enjoyed this morning?
Somehow, I doubt it.

Steph and I checked out Monkey Unit? at the Elephant's Nest the other night. A couple of pictures have been posted for your enjoyment. My personal favourite is J.D. doing the robot.
The band is a good time if you're looking for mid-to-late ninties modern rock covers. Not my thing but they're all swell dudes and they do what the do well. And hearing songs I heard on the radio and disdained when I was a fifteen year old punk kid make me smile now.
After the show we had taquitos and Pepsi, went up to J.D.'s apartment where he and I drunkenly discussed our writing over whiskey and water while Steph and Pike wrought audio havoc, playing the new Metallica album.

What does a writer who can't write do? He blogs the tedium of his daily life. What good is he? Not much, I suspect. But it might just get the old fire burning... if he can sustain the heat.

The ninth rule in the Thinking Person's Guide to Suicide is as follows:
Do what you do, suck it up and force yourself through. If you haven't tried you can't give up. (Anyone noticing a theme in these rules yet?)