Lurch's Video Vault

He's alright.

David Foster Wallace and the lady's two glass eyes

Wallace, moments before the riots.

Recently, a woman ran up to me bursting with pride and joy. She had just received the two prosthetic eyes she scored on e-bay for less than the price of a yearly subscription to Mojo Magazine.

“Two for the price of one,” she beamed holding out the orbs for me to see.

“What will you do with your two new eyes?” I asked kinda grossed out. 

“Oh, that’s easy,” she cooed. “I’m going to read infinite Jest again!” She then dashed off madly directly into the path of a school bus which narrowly avoided her by swerving violently, striking a man on the sidewalk, pinning him against the wall of Dongo’s Dry Cleaner’s, the impact popping his eyes  out. 

I first read I.J. sometime in 1994 1995 after someone bought it for me as a means of corporal punishment; a means for me to atone for all sins brazenly committed since the glorious day of my birth, October 1^st, 1968. It was a dry birth, if I remember correctly, not a lot of blood and mucking around. I came out holding six serpents and a travel mug of coffee, while smoking twelve cigarettes. There was dust, ashes, and a small fire way off in the distance - a typical smoky autumn birth. 

I love the ominous girth of I.J.  It could be used to kill a person, crush a spine, or break easily through a pane of plate glass. And that was just the physical tangibility of the tome. The words contained were heavier. But I read it. I have to admit that this was not Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. This was not a one-hitter. Being diagnosed with I.J. was like living through a nasty bout of encephalitis for a few months. The book crippled me temporarily, hampering my daily routine. I grew muscles where I didn’t have muscles before. Mushrooms sprouted from dank corners. The plot confused. It depressed me. It made me laugh. Yet for months there was no light at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn’t terminal after all. Like Gloria Gaynor, I survived indeed. Then Wallace hung himself from the rafters in his kitchen. But don’t fret, dear reader, as it was a load-bearing rafter. 

The news of his death was akin to a kick in the throat. So, I read it again. I.J. as a toast to Wallace. I was going to sing Danny Boy at his funeral and say the Lord’s Prayer, but I had nothing decent to say and nothing decent to wear. Reading through I.J. again was like a mild reoccurrence of encephalitis. Naturally with Wallace, now safely underground, I.J. read like an exquisitely penned, if not a tad self-indulgent, suicide note. Jesus H Christ, my copy, scoffed and tattered from being lugged around a second time, can still be used to kill a person, crush a spine, or break easily through a pane of plate glass. It now leans against other books by notoriously dead authors. H.S.T, Hemmingway, Wilde, Vonnegut, and Johnny Thunders.

Read Reed Reid Wreed

Hey. What are you reading? What are you planning on pleading on the four counts of gross weeding and nefarious cloud seeding? Oh yeah, and what are you reading again? If you don't plan on cloud seeding or gross weeding and do plan on some holiday reading but you don't want to bother asking Oprah as she is a hideous monster, may I humbly suggest the following four books. They are real good and full of words that alone make very little sense, but when strung together makes for a real good time.

Notice how all the covers are left justified? That's some cool blog shit layout right there for you. You're welcome.

MR BERUBÉ GOES KABOOM IN TWO PARTS

Part I
P R E - B O O M

“I think I can fix it.”

“Oh, I don’t think so honey.”

“No, Shirl, really. I don’t think it’s that big a deal.”

“That’s what you said about fixing the filter for the pool.”

“No, this is different. This will be a piece of cake.”

“Please, Earl, come on. Let’s just call the guy to come and have a look at it.”

“For this? Are you kidding me? That guy's a flake. It’s just this little thing right here.”

“You don’t even know what that little thing is.”

“It’s a regulator. I Googled it goddammit!”

“Jesus, Earl, you have no idea what a regulator is. Please, let’s just call the serviceman and have it done right the first time. They’re licensed to work on this.”

“You know how much those guys charge? Here’s pass me the soldering iron and a few of those paperclips. Okay, now see this wire here? I think that’s part of the problem, too.”

“This is not a good idea. I’ll be in the neighbour’s bomb shelter.”

“Your faith in my capabilities is really touching.”

“Earl, please don’t.”

“I’m sure it’s just this part here that’s a little bent.”

“The regulator, right?

“Exactly, so if ―”“I’m leaving before you blow us all to kingdom come.”

P A R T II

P O S T - B O O M

“Mrs Berubé, you’re husband Earl is a very lucky man.”

“No doctor. Actually, my husband is a very lucky idiot. Can I go in and see him?”

“We’ll he’s still smouldering and pretty heavily sedated. He also smells something awful. Now, his face is swollen and he will have a grotesque grimace for the next few months, but all things considered his condition looks worse than it actually is. From what I understand, the force of the explosion actually was such that he was blown skyward, whereas the huge balls of flame were blown outward. His injuries could have been much more severe. And as the explosion tore off his clothes, the burns are actually quite clean and should heal, leaving, hopefully, very little scar tissue aside from his face and buttocks.”

“He blew up the basement.”

“He needs you now. Go to him.”

“We just bought a pool table.”

“He’ll need all your love and support.”

“My ceramic workshop was down there. All gone.”

“Yes, by all means, go to him, Mrs Berubé. You can help him get through this trying time. He may be depressed for a while but you must be strong enough for the both of you. Mrs Berubé? His room is that way. Mrs Berubé? Where are you going? Mrs Berubé?”

Remember when music was interesting?

The Crowning of a Queen

 Bangus County, ON — The inaugural Miss Google Eyes Pageant was held in plush Palomino Lounge in beautiful downtown Bangus. The brainchild of local optometrist and convicted serial arsonist Wayne Chills, the pageant brought out the local celebrities as well as the near sighted, farsighted, colour blind and the curious. Inside, 6 contestants competed in such events as Jenga, nude darts and drinking beer through a funnel. Outside a small group gathered to protest what they claimed to be the perverse and crass objectification of the visually impaired.

“It’s disgusting, barbaric and just plain ridiculous” one woman told Bangus Magazine. “Bad eyesight is serious.”

Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groovy

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times or 

“Angus Magazine has the shelf life of a Brimley-Carmelita beer fart.”

Preface to the Preface December 2010

Hey. In 2006 I published an anthology of the worst shit imaginable – a true labour of love. The coffee table book, bound in virgin baby seal skin stitched with unicorn hair was made up from random Angus Magazine back issues (2004 to 2006). I flipped through it recently, looking back fondly at my time as media tyrant.

Originally published in 2006 – Preface to Worst of Angus Magazine

“Everyone knows the boat is leaking” - Leonard Cohen

Ahhhh, that kooky Leonard is always good for a laugh or two. But now he’s broke. That’s not very funny. At least not for him. For me, it's mildly amusing. And here we are, you and I and whomever else may be poking around. When it comes to poking around I always say the more the merrier, or something of the sort. Typically, mind you, reading is a personal experience, like taking a bath, unless you’re into them swinging bath parties like in the seventies. Additionally, reading is not much of a spectacle unless you’re a guy with a big gut reading on the beach wearing a thong or maybe you’re a down-home gal reading while whipping a cow or perhaps a pony. Outstanding!

Okay, so I’m going to make this brief. What you are currently holding in your hands is a book. It’s not a great book. It’s just a book. There’s nothing dangerous or provocative within these covers. Hell, it sure ain’t no Old Testament. No, it’s just a book stuffed full of horrendous grammar. I never cared much for the semi-colon. It’s a smug bastard of a punctuation, and I tend to just throw them in haphazardly. I have no regard for the comma either. Commas killed my father’s uncle. Exclamation points? Screw ‘em! Spell check? Nah. I don’t give a shit. It’s all disposable.

Now, in this book you’ll find nothing specific on the true relationship between Jesus of Nazareth and Mary Magdalene as I’ve met neither of them but continue to hear only good things about both. Nor will you discover any significant insights into the true meaning of Christmas. This is not a “feel good book” or an obscenely priced “how-to book”. No, this book is essentially a published manifestation of my daily struggle to deal with things that bother the hell out of me. I’m a shitty

public speaker - inarticulate and bumbling. Truth be told, I’m just a terrible mess in the broadest of terms, but I do have some sort of knack for churning out massive amounts of bullshit through the written word. This is why I founded Angus

Magazine back in 2004.

2004 was a strange year. Guitarist Darrell Lance “Dimebag Darell” Abbott, of Pantera fame, was gunned down during a performance in Columbus, Ohio. Shot in the face. Uh, there was some other stuff that went down but I can’t really remember. I do remember resigning from my full time job, giving up all the security that goes with a steady paying gig for something as ridiculous as starting a magazine. And not just any kind of useful, credible type of magazine - no, I had to truly throw caution to the wind and forge ahead with a magazine based on contrived nonsense - stuff that could be real but really not. Yes? It's that netherworld between fact and bizarro that I thrive. I blossom like a beautiful flower, with big bright flowery thingies drooping all over me. Yes?

This anthology comes at a crossroads for Angus. I have no idea whether I’ll be publishing it in the future. I was thinking of a new career in selling used wieners (yes, they are in fact made from lips and assholes). Angus Magazine has kicked my ass financially, but has kept me from doing bad things, and for that I am grateful. Man, I hate that Family Circus cartoon. By picking up the mag, by subscribing, by providing me with feedback and by purchasing this tome, you’ve helped me and I thank you. I know that the money you’ve graciously shelled out towards The Worst of Angus could have probably been better spent on a better book written by a better author or at the very least, something more life-affirming like a fancy corn cob pipe or a tin of zinc oxide for that rash. Man, I hate that Family Circus cartoon. But since your hard-earned money is already safely tucked away in that customized little pocket I had a seamstress install in my tight, frayed denim shorts, it’s much too late for refunds. Sorry. And while we’re on the vulgar topic of money I’d like to just briefly mention that if I had my druthers, all books and magazines and newspapers would be free. Words and ideas should be free. But I don’t have my druthers. I sold them for firewood and tobacco. So this book is not free just like gasoline isn’t free nor bear gall bladders or Bobby's big bag. Bad advice is, however, still free and plentiful.

Anywhoo, ideally what I’d like to see happen goes down something like this: this anthology finds its way into the well-manicured hands of some powerful publishing executive and it all turns into a Cinderella story with me being showered with gobs and gobs of money, paparazzi, liquor, pills, loose women, lost weekends, seizures, limousines, fame, mind-snapping pressure, countless lawsuits and eighteen minute organ solos, free lawn- mowers from The Home Depot, endless paternity suits, vintage leisure suits and free tattoos to boot, and wicked tractor pull accidents. I want to be the new literary media darling de jour - the new golden boy with Maclean’s sending some hip cat with a severely sloping forehead to write a biting piece on this new author. And then I would suffer some type of extreme backlash from the over-hype and pestering accusations of plagiarism with a touch of paganism and my free tattoos to boot. Well, it’s not going to go down this way at all which I guess is just as well. I’ll be happy to hear that maybe something in this book made you laugh or smirk or snicker or maybe just smile a little like that demonic little bastard in the Omen. Remember him? Damien? If anything contained herein really rattles you, fret not since Angus Magazine has the shelf life of a Brimley Carmelita beer fart.

This book is comprised of six or seven acts. There are news stories, advice columns from people who are in no position to give advice, book reviews and some other stuff. I haven’t looked through it all so I’m not sure. A special thanks to Eric Sparling and Debbie Marson for their unique contributions. Sadly, they will not be paid. Take it all for what it’s worth. Thanks to Ob Bob, José Cramps and the delicious Chris Reese as well. The book begins with the first Greetings from the Editor, published in June of 2004. All typos remain. Cheers and have a relatively decent remainder of the day.

KJP 2006

“Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groovy” - Nick Cave

A Deadly Deathly Death by Jenga™

Bangus Meat Loaf Impersonator Shot Nine Times in Face! Police Treating as Accident! Family demands justice! Public Remains Indifferent!

BANGUS COUNTY—Spruce "Meat" McKinlay Jr. is in Bangus General Hospital where he remains in critical condition after being shot nine times in the face with a 22. calibre rifle. McKinlay, a local agitator, is no stranger to the local constabulary and sources within the Bangus County Mountain Cops Detachment confirmed to Bangus Online that McKinlay Jr. has a lengthy record having been arrested in the past for distilling corn liquor, impregnating countless cougars, eating fire without the proper permits, and shaking down school kids for their lunch money. Last Saturday, police were called when snoopy neighbours heard shots fired from the mountains where McKinlay had organized an illicit high-stakes of Jenga™ “the blockbuster of all stacking games”.

When reached for comment, McKinlay had no comment as he was busy getting buried. The police have closed the case citing gross incompetence.

Bangus Book Blip - A Farewell to Hemingway's Arms

Ernie still with his head on

Yeah. I read this while flying. I hate flying. I get sick from being stuck in a metal tube and then being shot through the sky. It’s expensive and you’re treated like shit. I forgot to bring a book for the direct flight from Toronto to Phoenix. I couldn’t find anything to read in the bookstores at Pearson International, so I stocked up on different newspapers and three magazines. I went to the john before boarding and lo and behold, a tattered copy of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. I've always liked Hemingway without ever reading anything he ever wrote. I like the ‘idea’ of Hemingway. His name conjures up visions of the tropics, self loathing and psychosis.

On the plane I sat beside a guy who talked quietly to himself. I think he was slowly becoming unglued but as long as he talked to himself and not to me I was fine.

Published in 1929, A Farewell to Arms tells about a young American in the Italian Army during the big WWI. Lieutenant Frederic Henry. He’s an ambulance driver. Everyone drinks wine and speaks in short sentences. Henry gets his knee blown off in a friendly fire thing by some jittery Italians.While in hospital he impregnates a British nurse. He has a grand time convalescing. Then he goes back to the front but he’s not crazy about mud, blood and gore so he bails on the whole thing and meets up with the nurse and they have more grand times playing billiards and drinking wine and talking about wine while drinking brandy and talking about wine and playing billiards and so forth. Someone tips him off that he’s about to be arrested as a deserter so he rows across to Switzerland with his pregnant nurse girlfriend in a leaking rowboat. Apparently, the Swiss don’t give a shit about deserters.

Here’s a fanciful exchange:
“Has he the
syphilis?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m glad you haven’t. Did you ever have anything like that?”
“I had gonorrhea.”
“I don’t want to hear about it. Was it very painful, darling?”
“Very.”
“I wish I’d had it.”

Oh yes, I almost forgot, she dies while giving birth as does the baby. While I sit on the tarmac with the engines running and that guy speaking to himself, this is how the book starts:

In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.

Here’s how it ends: But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn’t any good. It was like saying good-by to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain.

Hermit Crabs, Herbal Supplements, Uncle Wallace and his Leaking Wikis

“The phone’s tapped anyway, Maggie says that many say
they must bust in early May, orders from the DA.” – Bob Dylan

“They call it "The Earth" which is a dumb kinda name
but they named it right 'cause we behave the same.” – Frank Zappa

“I shall not lie” – the Egyptian Book of the Dead recently
unearthed after a might wind blew apart Crab Town, NY

Okay, enough bullshit. There's no time for it. Have you ever told a whopper of a lie? Not a white lie like telling someone they looked awesome when in fact, they have become quite gaunt from living on nothing but nuts and herbal supplements for the past sixteen months. Or maybe telling someone that you like guacamole in a room of guacamole freaks to avoid becoming the marginal man/ woman. I’ve told a million white lies to selfishly make my life a little easier. Today I’m too tired to tell white lies. I may have a whopper or two in me waiting for the right conditions, if push comes to shove and so forth. These whoppers, if told by a person to get out of a jam, is a form of self-preservation – man’s most primitive mental defense mechanism. These skills are honed when we are young and typically perfected upon puberty. The stakes typically get higher with age. If you tell a whopper (without just being a pathological liar) as an adult, there’s usually a prime motivating factor involved.
“My God, Alfred! You’ve been gone for three days without calling anyone at work? This will not do, Alfred. This will not do at all. I’m afraid we will have to let you go. I’m sorry, but you’re just not a team player. And there’s no ‘I’ in team, is there Alfred? Well, what do you have to say for yourself Alfred?”

“Mister Jarvis. I am so sorry. On Saturday my house caught fire. Burned down to the ground. I was sitting on the couch and there was a candle on the kitchen table and my ferret Pop-pop got too close to the flame and burst into flames and ran under the bed and the bed caught fire and before I know it, there are flames everywhere and smoke. It was like I was in Dante’s inferno.”

“My God, man!”

“I know! I barely got out of there before the house blew up. I was sent sailing six hundred feet into my neighbour’s corn field where I stayed till yesterday. I must have been in some type of mini-coma or something. After I woke up I stumbled back to where my house was still smoking but, essentially there was nothing left but a crater and my exercise bike, which for some reason is still in perfect shape. It’s all I have left. I’d sell it on Kijiji but my computer is gone.”

“This is horrible, Alfred. You go home, take some time off and get your affairs in order. Don’t worry about things here. Your job will be waiting for you. It’s just fortunate that you weren’t hurt.”

“I did pull my groin a little. I think it’s when I lifted a big slab of concrete to rescue Pop-pop. I gave him CPR and he lived. He’s down in the car.”

So, it appears Alfred told a whopper to save his ass from getting fired after spending a few extra days in Vegas letting it ride while getting horribly mangled on the free gin and tonics provided by the casinos. Hey, shit happens, right?


When I was in high school I had a crappy ten speed with no brakes to speak of. One day I gave my pal Dongo a double-ride. While he wobbled behind me on the seat, I stood erect on the pedals and steered. Dongo’s job was to keep his balance on the seat. My job was to manoeuvre. It was a precarious scene. We picked up speed on the hill running adjacent to the church. There was a ninety degree turn awaiting us at the bottom. It was either make the corner or bomb straight through the highway and into the mighty Ottawa River. God must have been watching down over me and Dongo for that split moment because defying all laws of physics and such, I made the turn perfectly. Then God must have become distracted. I simply didn’t see the woman walking on the sidewalk holding two bags of groceries. Well, actually I did see her for a millisecond before I hit her with the bike. Dongo saw her a full three seconds before impact and ejected himself from the back of the bike. It was a horrible scene. Carnage. Later, after she was admitted into the hospital, the cops took a statement from me. With my knees knocking, that primitive self-preservation mechanism kicked in. I lied. I spun a weave of bullshit. I told the cops that my brake cables snapped and I was not double-riding. I knew I was lying to save my ass. The cops knew I was lying to save my ass. The woman being stitched up was more than a little dazed and confused and really had no idea what had happened to her. That scene plays back to me like the grainy JFK assassination footage in Dallas.

Lying (which is subtly different from mere bullshitting) is a human condition, unique to homosapiens. You don’t find eels lying to keep their jobs. You seldom catch a medium-sized sloth lying to get out of jury duty, or a hermit crab making outlandish claims of personal wealth or personal endowment at a martini bar in order to pick up another sexy hermit crab to go home for crazy crab sex. (Two hermit crabs hooking up!! Get it? Get it?)

So, what the hell is the gist of all this you may ask? Well, if I told you there was no point at all to this, well, I would be lying. But one person lying to save his ass is one thing. A group of people in positions of perceived trust and absolute power lying is quite another scene, dig daddio?

So, in no particular order, I humble suggest we be wary of the following:

The 911 Commission The nebulous concept of freedom of speech (it’s quite conditional)The all-encompassing War on Terrorism – which by definition implies it as something to be won

“Hey, Allen, while you were in the hot tub, someone told me the war on terrorism is over.”

“Wow, that’s terrific. Who won?”

“It was a draw I think. I was making pancakes so I didn’t catch it all.”

Let’s throw in the tendency to invade small foreign countries to forcibly save them from tyranny and violence and oppression and debt to global banks through carpet bombing all in the name of democracy. Now, let’s keep trucking, if you’re still here. More things to keep an eye on:

· Democracy

· Blind Patriotism

· Airport security that allows for the mass fondling of genitalia

· The North American Union (one big happy family consisting of Mexico, the United States and Canada sharing one currency)

· Privacy

· Google. Microsoft. Apple.

· Cake Boss, Muffin Masters, Cupcake Wars etc. Mass media dumbing us down through viral videos of sneezing pandas and yawning kittens

· Religion (not personal spirituality, but organized religion - a good shepherd keeps his flock in line)

· OnStar

To suggest that there is even the slightest possibility that things out there may not be exactly as they seem automatically brands you as a conspiratorial zealot – it makes you a rogue sheep. Ask any shepherd what he does with a sheep that refuses to follow. Why do you think he always carry that kick-ass stick. For balance? My Uncle Wallace once told a group of people at a gentleman’s club that he felt that unquestioning loyalty is not an admirable quality on a personal level, but makes a hell of a mighty weapon of mass destruction. That, and poverty. Then someone picked him up in a black van and he has not been seen since. Poor bastard. He owes me like about twenty two birthday presents.

My Uncle Wallace is a Mime - admits Bangus Founder

My Uncle Wallace is a wonderful mime, which is fine, considering he took lessons on his own time and not on my dime. He can mime and dine, and mime while sipping mime wine which is also an art that has to be nurtured over time. Uncle Wallace nails his mimes nine times out of nine. A big part of his success at being a truly convincing mime is his unfortunate inability to speak after having his vocal chords ripped out by an ape who could rhyme on command, on cue and on time. He settled out of court a total of six times, and was subsequently paid his weight in proceeds of crime, which again, suited him just fine. With the money he was able to buy three and a half used winter tires for his Econoline van. The end. That's it. Fin!

Next week - Wiki Leaks and a tonne of bullshit. Plus the 911 Commission Report explained in under ten words. The first word is bullshit. So is the second. And the jury's still out on the third word, but I'm thinking it will be the same as the first two.

I don't apologize for the short column. I do apologize for killing that panda on a dare. Especially since that panda was the last one on the planet. That was still pretty damned funny!