Saturday, March 15, 2008

Captain, Is It True?




Nobody understands it, my not-secret love for the beef. "Turn off that shit," they say as I listen somewhat self-consciously and ostentatiously to Bat Chain Puller or Trout Mask Replica. (No-one sees me dance to your music. I am deeply afraid to do so.) I am no longer the young self-conscious fan debating whether your music is A: beautiful and distinctive genre-bending genius, or B: total shit.

Now I listen on my own, listening and remembering, a solitary consumer of your weird meters and the other stuff you were doing, which I cannot describe, because I cannot describe music, or what it was you were doing, and would not do it had I the ability, what's the point? I don't know if anything you recorded is any good and I now care less if it is. It is enough that it makes me happy to listen. Thanks for this sweet gift. And thanks to your various record labels which published your material out of the goodness of their hearts, I am sure.

You have been and remain a name-drop for many a musician. Will they now be saying "Blah blah, tour bus, blah, chlamydia... influenced by solar rays, millet burgers, and Captain Beefheart, may he rest in peace?"

Goodbye.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

And Second Prize Is?


The press, and few others, are making much of the beauty pageants that are the nomination races for the Democratic and Republican parties in the good old US of A. One wonders how a matter of such import to a nation can mean so little to its citizens and so much to the press, and why the press does not spend a commensurate amount of time commenting on the broad-based antipathy towards the process and the knobs in the sashes vying for the brass ring of leadership.

Parenthetically, if it is an issue of priorities, the press is making more of Dr. Phil's visit to everyone's favourite trainwreck than it (of course, this is a collective it, as opposed to any specific person, because generalizations are, generally speaking, entirely incorrect, but I don't care, this is my blog, and I named it) which clearly illustrates to me, at least, where the public's interest likely lies. End of parenthetically.

One (ok, me) wonders why anyone would want the job. Sure, you get to slaughter citizens and furreners alike (Go W go!), you have vast spending power (financed by the citizens of the future), big companies will gift you with amazing things in return for modest concessions on the environment (financed by the citizens of the future), and, best of all, you get to be the president of a nation that has already sunk into a recession and which has a debt the size of... something really big!

I know this is no laughing matter to Canadians, after all, we are the remora on the back of the shark, and if that fish dies, we are going down with it (well, maybe we could swim away if we were really a remora... I am not a marine biologist, but I imagine the remora could find another accommodating shark, it's not as if a remora has the longest contiguous undefended border on the planet with its shark... so I guess, in summary, the remora analogy is a bad one, but I don't care, because I can't think of another host-hanger on image which pleases me right now and I will stop thinking about this soon enough after hitting "publish post" in just a few minutes) and that is not a prospect I relish, as a business owner, home owner, parent, whatever (ok, we are like conjoined twins, sharing a network of veins, arteries, nerves, and autonomic functions; and we are the smaller of the two, and if our twin dies or suffers some medical reversal we are also to die or suffer... yes, I prefer the twins image, but it's too late to change things now, I have become attached to the remora and his cute little scales and it would be cruel to kill him, having brought him to life, and named him, and so on) because, frankly, I don't want to live through a depression. That would suck ass. But really, what kind of sociopathic fucker would want to take the helm of a ship which is low on fuel and has water lapping across the deck? Further, who would want to suffer through another failing metaphor? Not me.

P-man out.

Monday, September 24, 2007

I Read the News Today

Marcel Marceau, the great mime, is dead. He died in bed, surrounded by family and friends. It is reported there were no last words.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Whither Goest Thou, O Fellatio?


Lo we have been married these many years,
And have studied each other in our entirety,
Delved deeply into the other,
Mad rabbits burrowing to escape the fox.

In truth I am ever fonder of your body,
My pleasure to bring about your little death.

Lo these many years are kind to me,
As I benefit from your presence,
You are kind and constant,
And you have not yet removed by axe my worried head.

But while I am on the subject of head,
Lo its absence comes to mind.

So tell me dear, as I type this secretly and with great concern:
We know well where the cunnulingus is,
Pray tell, where is the fellatio?

I'm just asking.

Friday, July 20, 2007

A Call to Action


I am to militancy what Kraft Dinner to haute cuisine. Having said that, my milquetoast blood is curdling of late.

The City of Vancouver's outside workers, including garbage-people, are on strike. On the 19th of July the lord said: Lo, let it grow sunny in this sodden town, and the trash grow ripe in the streets, while the City payeth for the Olympics, the RAV line, and highway expansion.

The RAV line is, for those who have seen it, a very long, very deep trench through the middle of the city. It will be perfect for transporting people in a straight line from A to B once it is complete and my grandchildren are paying for it. I guess it is more important to look good for strangers in 2010 than to ensure the working folks have competitive pay. For now, the RAV line looks like a perfect place to store trash while we wait out the strike.

To the fence, people! And bring your diapers.

PMO

Friday, July 6, 2007

Stepping Out


I'm the man.

This is not a rebel blog... no, wait. This is not a spinoff blog, this is the dumping site for my toxic brain pellets. The "not suitable for a family blog which is run under my wife's pseudonymous self"-type stuff which curdles the marrow of those whose marrow is ripe for curdling. Now you the discerning and (with any luck) non-existent reader can discover the deep thoughts and deep seated fears which make me tick, which define me as a person and which, of course, illustrate the fine and nuanced human being I have become. Like Lemmy, but without the beautiful voice.

Yeah, heavy stuff like: Why can't I find jeans with legs short enough, fucking jeans Nazis! Or: Why are they cutting down trees all the time? Fucking tree murdering Stasi! Or: My cat just shat in the beet patch! Fucking Khmer Rouge of the garden!

So sit back, close your eyes, and go to sleep.

p-man