Saturday, August 14, 2010
Gone till September, I'll be gone till September. Don't you know that I'll be gone till September
While I am away, please enjoy this beautiful picture of a bear in it's natural habitat. While I am away, please don't crash my hip pad. While I am away, if you do crash into my hip pad, don't touch anything, and whatever you do, no parties and if you do break into my home take off your shoes and don't go into the tiny room under the stairs.
More Bangus Superficial Book Reviews
Don Quixote
Written by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra sometime in the early 17th Century, some real smart literary people claim that Don Quixote was the “first novel”. I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean. I thought Valley of the New York Dolls by Johannson was the first novel but again, none of this academic stuff is important to the task at hand, which is the provide a sketchy review of this thing. Right out of the gates the book is timeless and balls-out hysterical. There’s Don Quixote, the main guy, who is old and infatuated with the days-gone-by with the chivalry and knighthood silliness and damsels and all that other stuff from medieval times before it became a theme eatery for the gluttonous. Those day have long passed but not in his twisted old mind. Poor Don-Don. He’s convinced that he is a ‘knight errant’ and he is thusly obliged to seek out adventure and fully live out this delusion with comic results o’plenty. His shenanigans get him beaten and whipped, mangled and maimed. It’s classic bloodletting. He convinces Sancho Panza, his fat dopey neighbour to become his ‘squire’ and between them both they stumble ass-backwards from one trouncing to the next all in the name of his ‘damsel’ in distress— the ugly Dulcinea de Toboso.
Sancho is promised his own country by Don Quixote but instead gets flogged and tormented. Each chapter is pretty well self-contained so if you’re lazy and just wanna check out a certain adventure without committing to the whole book, just skim the chapter headings (An adventure on leaving the inn, The adventure with the corpse, The prophesying ape…)
So, eventually after a bunch of funny crap, the old man has a moment of clarity and snaps out of his dementia just in time to die and so forth and son on. The book is a bit bloated like Vince Neil or Liza Minelli, so I wouldn’t blame you for just ambling out and renting the movie with John Lithgow and Isabella Rossilini.
Okay, there’s this delicious line somewhere towards the end where Sancho Panza, the squire, is bummed at always getting the shit-end of the stick so in typical maudlin fashion he begins to bitch and moan, finishing up with this gem: “Fortune is a drunken, freakish dame…”
It’s a great one-off line and a humbling sentiment. I’m thinking of having tattooed on my back So, here’s how this thing begins:
In a certain village down in La Mancha, which I do not wish to name, there lived not long ago a gentleman one of those who have always a lance in the rack, an ancient shield, a lean horse, and a coursing grey hound.
Here’s how it ends: For my sole object has been to arouse men’s contempt for all fabulous and absurd stories of knight errantry, whose credit this tale of my genuine Don Quixote has already shaken, and which will, without a doubt, soon tumble to the ground. Farewell.
There’s a handful of editions with different translations. Stay away from the Yiddish edition - your tongue will swell.
Written by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra sometime in the early 17th Century, some real smart literary people claim that Don Quixote was the “first novel”. I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean. I thought Valley of the New York Dolls by Johannson was the first novel but again, none of this academic stuff is important to the task at hand, which is the provide a sketchy review of this thing. Right out of the gates the book is timeless and balls-out hysterical. There’s Don Quixote, the main guy, who is old and infatuated with the days-gone-by with the chivalry and knighthood silliness and damsels and all that other stuff from medieval times before it became a theme eatery for the gluttonous. Those day have long passed but not in his twisted old mind. Poor Don-Don. He’s convinced that he is a ‘knight errant’ and he is thusly obliged to seek out adventure and fully live out this delusion with comic results o’plenty. His shenanigans get him beaten and whipped, mangled and maimed. It’s classic bloodletting. He convinces Sancho Panza, his fat dopey neighbour to become his ‘squire’ and between them both they stumble ass-backwards from one trouncing to the next all in the name of his ‘damsel’ in distress— the ugly Dulcinea de Toboso.
Sancho is promised his own country by Don Quixote but instead gets flogged and tormented. Each chapter is pretty well self-contained so if you’re lazy and just wanna check out a certain adventure without committing to the whole book, just skim the chapter headings (An adventure on leaving the inn, The adventure with the corpse, The prophesying ape…)
So, eventually after a bunch of funny crap, the old man has a moment of clarity and snaps out of his dementia just in time to die and so forth and son on. The book is a bit bloated like Vince Neil or Liza Minelli, so I wouldn’t blame you for just ambling out and renting the movie with John Lithgow and Isabella Rossilini.
Okay, there’s this delicious line somewhere towards the end where Sancho Panza, the squire, is bummed at always getting the shit-end of the stick so in typical maudlin fashion he begins to bitch and moan, finishing up with this gem: “Fortune is a drunken, freakish dame…”
In a certain village down in La Mancha, which I do not wish to name, there lived not long ago a gentleman one of those who have always a lance in the rack, an ancient shield, a lean horse, and a coursing grey hound.
Here’s how it ends: For my sole object has been to arouse men’s contempt for all fabulous and absurd stories of knight errantry, whose credit this tale of my genuine Don Quixote has already shaken, and which will, without a doubt, soon tumble to the ground. Farewell.
There’s a handful of editions with different translations. Stay away from the Yiddish edition - your tongue will swell.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
From the Foreign Affairs Desk of Bangus Correspondent Chris Rees
Where: U.S.A.
What: Almighty God now available in stores
Kids can now get the ultimate in action figures! Almighty God now comes with AK 47 and Holy Shroud to defeat his mortal enemies - namely Satan and Lapsed Christians. The omnipotent being sells for $9.99 and is available in white and blue. Bangus asked customers at Walmart what they think of him and comments ranged from “I thought he’d be taller” to “Get him to do something about this heat”
Where: U.S.A. Cape Cod
Police arrested a man who they believe has a devious sexual fetish for amputees. The man had befriended actress Renee Zellweger and evidence suggests he had been planning to take her snorkeling in the shark-infested waters off Cape Cod, Mass.
Where: Africa
Robert Mugabe has become the latest spokesman for Viagra from Pfizer. The aging dictator realized the little blue pill’s alternative potential after his wife died last year. Since then he says, he has saved hundreds by taking only a 25% dose. “It stops me peeing in my slippers” he said.
Where:Ireland
Paul Hewson, better known as Bono Vox has been immortalized in a giant statue in downtown Dublin. The front man from the Irish rock group U2 is depicted in a 50’ statue saving orphans and poor people in Africa and around the world. “The best thing about it, is that it only cost me a couple thousand” said the singer.
Where: Hollywood
Lilo has been released from Jail and is now participating in rehab said LA county sheriff Craig Whitstone. The “Mean Girls” actress definitely has to get a grip on her drinking problems. She is scheduled to christen a yacht at LA Harbour and organizers are worried that she won’t let go of the bottle.
A Bangus true story of love and rubber boots as told by a sheep.
“… so anway, he comes over to our table real smooth like and he smells like, God, I don’t know how to describe the smell. He says to us, and I’m not making this up, he says, ladies, the Golden Goose is on the loose and never out of season. That was his line, I guess. It was so weird. I guess he actually thought he was something special. He was still wearing his rubber boots. We all laughed in his face. He told us all to go to hell then walked out of the bar and then …
Grandma's still got it at Mattawa's first geriatric Hooters Grand Opening
BANGUS ONLINE - MATTAWA, ON — In a town that is known for industry lay offs and skidooing on the side walks, Mattawa, Ontario, with a population of 2000 is now a buzz of seniors and the curious busing in from all over Canada and parts of the northern US states. Why? Is it for the beautiful scenery? No. It seems that locals and tourists alike are arriving in record numbers to dine at the worlds first Hooters for Seniors, the brainchild of local entrepreneur Karl Montagne, a retired mill worker.
“I was in a Hooters in Toronto and I got to thinking…” And with his life’s savings and a massive line of credit, Hooters For Seniors was born and people are lining up around the block to sample the ample. Every Wednesday it is all you can eat cream corn from four to six for $3.99
Bangus Books of the Day - two books, two icons
BOOK #1
Crime & Punishment
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Originally published during the winter of his discontent, 1866, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment dissects the complex relationship between man and the crime he commits. Translated from Russian, The Modern Library Edition includes a spectacularly entertaining pop-up feature where you can pretend to be the tortured protagonist, Rodya Raskolnikov as he hacks up an old peasant pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna and her step-daughter, Lizaveta. It seems that in St. Petersburg, Russia it was tough to make a real good go of things.
Raskolnikov is a brooding student with radical ideas relating to the nature of crime and asserts that the act of murder can be justified in certain circumstances. He hypothetically asks the question of whether or not it is acceptable to commit murder if that single act of violence betters the human condition. Is it justified to kill if the one doing the killing is particularly brilliant and a competent conversationalist? He writes a thesis on it then bottoms out and gets depressed. His melancholic mother, Pulcheria Alexandrovna is this shrilly dramatic creature who sobs constantly. Dounia Avdotya Romanovna, his sister, is willing to sell herself off to a wealthy ignoramus with a receding hairline and control issues. There’s a guy named Razumihin and some other cat named Porifry Petrovich who is a cop and armchair psychiatrist. I got a decent chunk into to before becoming hopelessly obsessed with the pop-up part of the book so consequently I never actually finished it. As all great Russian novels have happy ending, I'm sure things'll work out fine.(See 'Here is the end')
Here is the beginning: On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
Here is the end: But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story but our present story is ended.
BOOK #2
C'mon Get Happy
David Cassidy
It doesn’t get any more compelling than this tale of love, lust, fame and hair. This thing reads like fiction with the whole fairy tale feel of the Life of David. Fun book full of funny, family-oriented crap:
• He played David Partidge on Partridge Family.
• Became famous, real fast.
• Made guest apperances on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand the Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour, and Merv Griffin.
•Popularized embroidered overalls, the shag cut and coral necklaces.
• Lots of groupies in green slacks.
•Established a legitimate singinging career selling over 20 million albums but got royally screwed on merchandise.
•He was at one time bigger than McCartney, Elton John but was way skinnier than Elvis.
It’s the age old story but still a thrill-a-minute rollercoaster like The Thorn Birds or The Winds of War.
Here is how this thing begins: Somewhere between the sublime and rediculous is a book called C’mon Get Happy…Fear and Loathing on the Partridge Family Bus. And as I, at the tender age of forty-three, have nearly completed this venture, I thought I mightgive you a little insight into my own take on it. I always believed that any celebrity autobiography carries just slightly more significance, in terms of literary contribution, than does goose poop on theeastern shore of Maryland...
Yes folks, he actually said ‘goose poop’ which means that even though Cassidy did fall ass over heels into the debauchery that is the music and television field, he’s keeping the tale pretty sanitized. Poor Dave doesn’t seem the realize that he no longer has to polay it safe for fear of offending hysterical twelve-year-old girls. They’ve all grown now and are probably on antidepressants.
Okay, so here’s how it ends: “So…” somebody asked me the other day with a hint of disapproval in his voice, “when are you going to give up this ‘David Cassidy teenager’ thing?” Huh? “I don’t know,” I told him, surprised by the question. And I grinned. “I’m having too much fun to give it up now.”
Crime & Punishment
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Originally published during the winter of his discontent, 1866, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment dissects the complex relationship between man and the crime he commits. Translated from Russian, The Modern Library Edition includes a spectacularly entertaining pop-up feature where you can pretend to be the tortured protagonist, Rodya Raskolnikov as he hacks up an old peasant pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna and her step-daughter, Lizaveta. It seems that in St. Petersburg, Russia it was tough to make a real good go of things.
Raskolnikov is a brooding student with radical ideas relating to the nature of crime and asserts that the act of murder can be justified in certain circumstances. He hypothetically asks the question of whether or not it is acceptable to commit murder if that single act of violence betters the human condition. Is it justified to kill if the one doing the killing is particularly brilliant and a competent conversationalist? He writes a thesis on it then bottoms out and gets depressed. His melancholic mother, Pulcheria Alexandrovna is this shrilly dramatic creature who sobs constantly. Dounia Avdotya Romanovna, his sister, is willing to sell herself off to a wealthy ignoramus with a receding hairline and control issues. There’s a guy named Razumihin and some other cat named Porifry Petrovich who is a cop and armchair psychiatrist. I got a decent chunk into to before becoming hopelessly obsessed with the pop-up part of the book so consequently I never actually finished it. As all great Russian novels have happy ending, I'm sure things'll work out fine.(See 'Here is the end')
Here is the beginning: On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
Here is the end: But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story but our present story is ended.
BOOK #2
C'mon Get Happy
David Cassidy
• He played David Partidge on Partridge Family.
• Became famous, real fast.
• Made guest apperances on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand the Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour, and Merv Griffin.
•Popularized embroidered overalls, the shag cut and coral necklaces.
• Lots of groupies in green slacks.
•Established a legitimate singinging career selling over 20 million albums but got royally screwed on merchandise.
•He was at one time bigger than McCartney, Elton John but was way skinnier than Elvis.
It’s the age old story but still a thrill-a-minute rollercoaster like The Thorn Birds or The Winds of War.
Here is how this thing begins: Somewhere between the sublime and rediculous is a book called C’mon Get Happy…Fear and Loathing on the Partridge Family Bus. And as I, at the tender age of forty-three, have nearly completed this venture, I thought I mightgive you a little insight into my own take on it. I always believed that any celebrity autobiography carries just slightly more significance, in terms of literary contribution, than does goose poop on theeastern shore of Maryland...
Yes folks, he actually said ‘goose poop’ which means that even though Cassidy did fall ass over heels into the debauchery that is the music and television field, he’s keeping the tale pretty sanitized. Poor Dave doesn’t seem the realize that he no longer has to polay it safe for fear of offending hysterical twelve-year-old girls. They’ve all grown now and are probably on antidepressants.
Okay, so here’s how it ends: “So…” somebody asked me the other day with a hint of disapproval in his voice, “when are you going to give up this ‘David Cassidy teenager’ thing?” Huh? “I don’t know,” I told him, surprised by the question. And I grinned. “I’m having too much fun to give it up now.”
Saturday, July 31, 2010
ASK IGOR (DON'T BRING UP THE HUMP)
HE'S BAAAACCCKKKKKK! YAY! Bangus Foreign Affairs Desk - Major headlines from around the world of Bangus.
 |
| HE'S BACK. IT WAS A FALSE ALARM. |
Where: Asia
What: N. Koreans Prepare Killer Joke
Rising tensions on the Korean Peninsula have led the North Korean government in Pyongyang to develop a killer joke. With secret assistance from comedian and communist sympathizer John Cleese, they have developed a joke so powerful it can kill an American at 500 metres distance. Recent intelligence reports say that U.S. spies “nearly shit themselves” before even hearing the punchline.
Where: Hollywood
Mel Gibson develops weight loss routine
Embattled actor-director Mel Gibson has tried to soften his image by developing a new weight loss routine. Leaked reports say the routine is as follows. “Get up around 6 am, punch the bag around for a while. Then she gets up and peels a grapefruit”
Where: Atlantic Ocean
What: Lonely Hearts in Newfoundland
A lonely young man in Newfoundland has approached the Bangus Foreign Affairs Desk for help in finding a girlfriend. Bangus was only too happy to oblige: “Wanted – scaly greasy, slimy girl with big bulging eyes, nice fins, strong gils and a good swimmer.”
Where:Venezuela
What: Chavez severs ties with God
Venezuela has formally severed ties with God. Hugo Chavez president of Venezuela cited God’s refusal to sanctify the socialist nation’s revolution through miracles and wonders. Particularly in dispute was the Supreme Being’s refusal to miraculously shrink the size of Chavez’ prodigious belly. Although God has no embassy in Caracas it has been suggested that Fidel Castro act on Venezuela’s behalf when he visits Heaven permanently in the upcoming months.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
BANGUS JUNK MAIL
Dear Mr Pecore:
I have only recently come to discover BANGUS ONLINE, and would just like to say that the columns are certainly shabbily written at best, and often quite offensive. You are squandering a great opportunity to reach out to the world and make a positive statement as I no longer think that the internet is a crazy fad like Prince. Now, I realize that humour is quite subjective so I did ask others to read your column as well and we have all essentially come to the same conclusion. It’s infantile, cynical and jaded. And what has happened to proper punctuation? Now, I know you will make fun of this input, but since you espouse freedom of speech, I am simply exercising mine. I will continue to read, not out of interest, but more out of a sense of dismay and profound disappointment. Now, there is some homemade turkey soup for you at home that you can pick up. You need to eat healthier. Your father bought a new second hand snow blower from the neighbour that won’t start. He’s quite upset, understandably so. You really should call more often.
Love Mom
Hey Kevin
Something’s come up. Can I crash at your place for the next few years? Just till things cool down. I can help your son with his slice and I can vacuum and shovel the driveway and whatever y’all need. I know you have a basement because I can see it from the street. I’m the one parked in your driveway. I have six chicks with me, but they’re light eaters and can sleep in the van. I’m down to about nine hundred bucks but it’s yours if you can help me out.
Your friend,
Tiger
Dear Kevin - I recently watched Stanley Kubrick’s Dr Strangelove and remembered a conversation we had a few years ago about this movie. I hadn’t seen it at the time but told you that if Peter Sellers was in it, I probably wouldn’t like it. Then you hit me in the neck three times and suckered me once in the kidney area. And then you stormed out of the wedding. For the life of me I can’t remember who was getting married. We were in Owen Sound I think. Anyway, I’m not sure if your remember this or not, but I Googled you and found you writing for Bay Today. Your columns are inane but in a mind-numbing way, so I have been reading them and printing them out for the people on the base. I felt obligated to contact you to take back what I said about Dr Stangelove - Peter Sellers is a genius in it.
Lt. Col. James ‘Coconut’ Jones
Hey jerk face - you were the only guy in this country to stick up for me when that CBC radio thing went viral. That whole interview was a setup. Damn that Jian Ghomeshi. I don’t trust anyone that wears fancy scarves. Anyway, much obliged. My agent, Mississippi Gary, found your contact info on the web. I read some of your stuff. Not my kind of thing. Mark Twain was a true Southern gentleman. You just write real bad. I’m sending you a copy of Bad Santa as a token of my appreciation.
Billy Bob Thorton
Dear Mizter Pekore - my husband is in hiding right now as he has been accused of being a terrorist. He said some things to the wrong people after drinking a jug of chokecherry wine before a funeral. He asked me to touch base with you to see if you know of any good civil liberty lawyers. My husband says that he thinks you’re trustworthy, but a little off kilter. Please reply to this email as soon as possible as my husband is in poor spirits.
Rosa Yanz
I have only recently come to discover BANGUS ONLINE, and would just like to say that the columns are certainly shabbily written at best, and often quite offensive. You are squandering a great opportunity to reach out to the world and make a positive statement as I no longer think that the internet is a crazy fad like Prince. Now, I realize that humour is quite subjective so I did ask others to read your column as well and we have all essentially come to the same conclusion. It’s infantile, cynical and jaded. And what has happened to proper punctuation? Now, I know you will make fun of this input, but since you espouse freedom of speech, I am simply exercising mine. I will continue to read, not out of interest, but more out of a sense of dismay and profound disappointment. Now, there is some homemade turkey soup for you at home that you can pick up. You need to eat healthier. Your father bought a new second hand snow blower from the neighbour that won’t start. He’s quite upset, understandably so. You really should call more often.
Love Mom
Hey Kevin
Something’s come up. Can I crash at your place for the next few years? Just till things cool down. I can help your son with his slice and I can vacuum and shovel the driveway and whatever y’all need. I know you have a basement because I can see it from the street. I’m the one parked in your driveway. I have six chicks with me, but they’re light eaters and can sleep in the van. I’m down to about nine hundred bucks but it’s yours if you can help me out.
Your friend,
Tiger
Dear Kevin - I recently watched Stanley Kubrick’s Dr Strangelove and remembered a conversation we had a few years ago about this movie. I hadn’t seen it at the time but told you that if Peter Sellers was in it, I probably wouldn’t like it. Then you hit me in the neck three times and suckered me once in the kidney area. And then you stormed out of the wedding. For the life of me I can’t remember who was getting married. We were in Owen Sound I think. Anyway, I’m not sure if your remember this or not, but I Googled you and found you writing for Bay Today. Your columns are inane but in a mind-numbing way, so I have been reading them and printing them out for the people on the base. I felt obligated to contact you to take back what I said about Dr Stangelove - Peter Sellers is a genius in it.
Lt. Col. James ‘Coconut’ Jones
Hey jerk face - you were the only guy in this country to stick up for me when that CBC radio thing went viral. That whole interview was a setup. Damn that Jian Ghomeshi. I don’t trust anyone that wears fancy scarves. Anyway, much obliged. My agent, Mississippi Gary, found your contact info on the web. I read some of your stuff. Not my kind of thing. Mark Twain was a true Southern gentleman. You just write real bad. I’m sending you a copy of Bad Santa as a token of my appreciation.
Billy Bob Thorton
Dear Mizter Pekore - my husband is in hiding right now as he has been accused of being a terrorist. He said some things to the wrong people after drinking a jug of chokecherry wine before a funeral. He asked me to touch base with you to see if you know of any good civil liberty lawyers. My husband says that he thinks you’re trustworthy, but a little off kilter. Please reply to this email as soon as possible as my husband is in poor spirits.
Rosa Yanz
BANGUS FOREIGN AFFAIRS CORRESPONDENT REPORTED MISSING
 |
| MISSING - BANGUS ONLINE'S FOREIGN AFFAIRS CORRESPONDENT. IF YOU SEE HIM, APPROACH WITH CAUTION - OR NOT - IT'S YOUR CALL. IF YOU HAVE HIM IN A CAGE IN THE BASEMENT, PLEASE BE NICE TO HIM AND RETURN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. WE HAVE A FED-EX ACCOUNT. E-MAIL FOR SHIPPING DETAILS.CHRIS, IF YOU ARE READING THIS, PLEASE DON'T GO SEE INCEPTION. IT'S QUITE LONG. BUT ELLEN PAGE IS VERY GOOD. DICAPRIO IS OKAY, BUT LIKE I SAID, IT IS QUITE LONG AND CONFUSING, BUT GOD FORBID I TELL YOU WHAT TO SPEND YOUR HARD EARNED MONEY ON. |
Iggy Pop and Mystic Fire’s Big Book of Mystic Secrets & Wizard Stuff with Unicorns
“What worries me is the professionalism of everything.” Irvine Welsh
Hey. I wrote this remarkable column the other day. It was brilliant - a real work of literature - 1,200 words of literary gold. I swear this thing had everything: flowing sentences, eight metaphors, romance, references to Sammy Davis Jr., and I think there was something about the Canadian Rockies. It was fabulous, and would have surely won me some type of major award and possibly a mention on CBC’s Morning North with host Marcus Schwabe. (I’m not sure if I spelled his name correctly as I no longer Google things.) The column, well, once published, I’m reasonably sure there may have even been a parade for me, like the recent Shriner shindig, except it would be me sitting on the back of a pickup waving a sword around like a menace. But, I deleted it. Gone. Poof. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. So I ripped this one out instead, which is neither brilliant nor does it make any reference to the Canadian Rockies. I still may end up waving a sword around, mind you - just to see what happens...
Words and rhythm. Music and writing. Music is tattooed way deep down into my genetic makeup. Jazz. Blues. Appalachian Mountain. Zydeco. Funk and soul. It’s all way down there in that sub-cellular level where things tend to get pretty weird. The music gene or “Django Gene XX14” makes my crazy DNA ladder rumble around. I need music every day, like caffeine, Judge Judy, and Nexium. I have cds stacked all over my downstairs office. Towers of them. I lose them. I give them away. I write music. Play music. Lend, borrow and steal music. I tend to over-think things and get too hung up in the mundane if I find myself in total silence. Music propels me, like a shove from a bully.
Words and rhythm. Music and writing. Right now it’s Sunday morning somewhere. Through headphones, Iggy Pop is slagging through Lust for Life, which works just fine for me. The song featured prominently in the success of Train Spotting; an adaptation of Irvine Welshs’ ragged and hazardous first novel of the same name. I’ll be going off on Irvine in a future column.
Okay, so Iggy’s still howling about Johnny Yen. Iggy’s a dangerous cat, provoking me to WRITE IN UPPERCASE, TO RUN OUT INTO THE STREET AND PUSH OVER A TRASH CAN OR COMANDEER A LITTLE RASCAL SCOOTER AND DRIVE IT INTO A TREE.
So, here’s the deal for this week’s column- guaranteed to interest a precious few - I’m going to cue up random songs from my computer then just write whatever comes to mind. No edits. No worries. No inner voices. And in the immortal words of Methuselah: If you know the words feel free to sing along!
Spontaneous Writing Experiment #1 -Iggy Pop and the Stooges- Raw Power
Last night there was a bit of a cold snap. Today it’s high noon and my beloved city has fully descended into a bleak state of absolute chaos, having nothing to do with last night’s cold snap. Today is all about blind madness in epidemic proportions. A plague of instant insanity. Out from the opened window I look down on street level. Mr. Knoph is in a blue bathrobe running down the middle of the street, screaming and shaking one bony fist at the darkening sky, while trying to keep his robe closed with his other hand. Across from my 2nd floor apartment, 930 McIntyre is on fire. I listen to glass breaking. Pops and cracks. It’s the largest house on the 200 block. A bloated McMansion owned by an Air Canada pilot with a biting pill habit. His wife, Marlene, is trying to extinguish the inferno with a kinked garden hose. I light a cigarette with the dented Zippo Mrs. Henderson gave to me after her son Henry was imprisoned for arson. She told me Henry’s Zippo would only bring back bad memories. Fire is the great equalizer. And Armageddon. And ponzi schemes. A police cruiser speeds past, almost running down Mr. Knoph, who although is still shaking his fist at the heavens, has since stopped screaming. He has also evidently given up trying to keep his robe closed. A sonic boom rattles my walls. The cruiser rams a 50 Cab broadside. Objects are now dropping from the sky. I crank my neck and look up. I squint. The sky is now full of colour and crazy shapes. Random things raining down: a green desk lamp and bent lightning rods, a white sectional sofa and a few English saddles, a roasted chicken bounces off the Camry parked by the curb - the one with the canoe strapped to the roof with frayed bungee cords, some plastic dolls, a gazebo, globe and four gazelles, and various types of both brass and woodwind instruments. Old Testaments, New Testaments and basketballs. Canadian Tire flyers. I see Mr. Knoph. I sniff. This morning I woke up with a fever. I was out last night at 100 Georges drinking with a stranger who told me about his habit of twisting the truth when it came down to the crunch. I’m thinking that I should probably yell down a warning to Mr. Knoph when he’s crushed by a plummeting John Deere riding lawnmower. I sneeze and sniff and go back to bed. Maybe I’ll feel better after some more sleep.
Baffled Buffoon Beaten Beautifully By Brilliant Banana Balloon Boy
I spend the majority of my time inside my brain. It’s my working office. Thinking. Plotting. Scheming. In my brain I keep my shoes on all the time and leave the toilet seat up when I hit the can. There’s room for my green recliner with the ass groove, a small fridge, my Fender Telecaster with Cyber Twin amplifier, my three-legged bookcase that once belonged to Pierre Trudeau’s neighbour, “Marvellous Wayne” Tubsoch, my Boomtown Rats records, and even the tiny herd of those freakishly small miniature ponies. Inside my brain nothing grows, hopefully, so nothing ever needs trimming. Most of the time my brain travels with me wherever I go; there is no need for any kind of wireless technology. My internet is not on a stick. My internet is a complicated mess of neurons and strands of grey matter that’s fairly dependable considering the haphazard wiring. No monthly fees.
There’s a heavy steel door designed to withstand a million megaton nuclear blast. Or just a good old fashioned carpet bombing. Perfectly balanced, the door pivots smoothly with a delicate touch of a single digit. Most of the time it’s kept slightly ajar, just for airflow. Sometimes I’ll close it when people try to sell me heavily discounted natural gas, or some type of quasi-religion literature.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Precious memories from a man-child and his deer:
When I was just a young man-child with little concept of the world around me I had a beautiful deer that I raised from a fawn. His name was Tommy Shanks and he loved me and I loved him. We grew up together in a colossal sweatshop on the far side of Trout Lake. We were orphans, see, and we were sold into a forced-labor camp to make leather slippers and maple syrup, but it wasn’t bad as The Fifth Estate would have you believe. At least not for me because I had my best friend, Tommy Shanks, as company. Me and Tommy spent twenty-one years on that labour farm churning out thousands of quality beaded slippers and later, designer handbags. To be honest, I’d be the one doing most of the intricate needle work because Tommy was a deer and struggled sewing with his clumsy hoofs. It was a cool morning in October the last time I saw Tommy Shanks, my friend and confidant. He told me he was tired of the exploitation and was going to make a break for it. He said he was going to try his hand (hoof) at acting. We embraced then he jumped the fence to greet his new life. I sure hope things worked out well for him. I loved that deer.”
Let's talk about Clockwork Orange for a minute - just between friends
I remember first reading A Clockwork Orange, first published in 1962 by Anthony Burgess, when I was a kid growing up on the tough streets of the crime-infested industrial town of Kenmore By The Danmore just east of Prince Williams Valley Gorge, BC. Now, I’ve long since lost the book so this whole thing is going down by memory. The protagonist, Alex is a wise-ass psychopathic teenage hooligan (are there any other kind?) He leads a mindless pack of no-goods going from one crime spree to the next, skipping school and everything! There’s some serious debauchery and violence. Alex and his lads beat on bums and commit some pretty
atrocious acts. The language of the book and the Kubric directed movie is Nadstat. Burgess invented it to make the characters seem more psychotic.
According to Burgess, Nadstat is constructed from “old Cockney school boy talk, English, Russian, and bits of Communist subliminal penetration.” Naturally, things get out of hand. Little Alex is sent away for murder. In prison, he is transformed into a model citizen through this controversial Ludivico treatment. He is forcibly restrained and then conditioned to become sick whenever entertaining thoughts or witnessing acts of violence. They make him watch a ‘viddy’ compilation of some ‘nastiness’. But can this state-sponsored psychological rehabilitation program actually work? Can morality and a sense of what is right and wrong be forced down your gullet or guttiwut? Is the ability to choose between good and evil, in fact a human right? Or is it a mere privilege? Oh, and what's up with Mel Gibson? He sound's like a dick.
Here’s how it begins: (this is from memory so I may be off and if I am and you take the effort to notice my mistakes and e-mail them in to Bngus Online,we’ll that’s spooky)
“What’s it going to be then, eh?”
There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim being really Dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry...
As I have no idea what the hell I did with my copy,I can’t find out word for word how it ends, but suffice it to say, it’s not good. I think it has something to do with recidivism.
The Dancing Man from Buffalo, For the Love of the Korn God, and the Lost Keys to the Hippie Bus
I recently met a guy from Buffalo. I didn't go out of my way to meet him nor was it a mysterious case of Providence. I just met him. Briefly - while at a Counting Crows concert - one of only two Canadian dates for their Traveling Circus and Medicine show. When you willingly join a temporary community of a few thousand people in a designated space you are bound by the laws of sociability to interact with someone in some form, yet interaction in general is not something I excel at - especially with strangers. I'm just hardwired that way and am now too set in my ways to try and modify this quirk. Small talk for me is excruciating. I can never come up with anything interesting to say. I just babble. I truly become seriously bent when it comes to talking to strangers - especially when it's strictly enforced. But, there it is, and here we are and there go you and I. So, I met this guy from Buffalo. Recently. So did my wife. He was sitting directly in front of us. He turned, introduced himself and just began talking. I think anyone who has ever gone to see a concert has met this same guy. He wears a concert shirt of the band he's seeing. He's hopelessly drunk and has an attractive girlfriend who looks like she's just trying to placate him by feigning her enthusiasm for his favourite band. Once the band hits the stage, he immediately stands and starts to dance. He 'whoops and hollers' in the section where people are perfectly happy to remain seated, unless prompted by the band to do otherwise. He tries to make small talk with everyone around him, who can't hear anything he's going on about, nor particularly care, but he keeps talking anyway. He phones someone on his cell and holds up the phone to subject the person on the other end to a heavily distorted mess of sonic drivel. I've seen this same guy at the following shows in no particular chronological order: Bob Dylan (times fifteen), Tom Petty, Grateful Dead, Joni Mitchell, Crosby Stills Nash, Neil Young (times three), Steve Earle (times three) , Pink Floyd (times three) , Rolling Stones (times three) , KISS (times four) , Iron Maiden (times two), David Bowie, Alice Cooper, Motorhead, Stompin' Tom, Robert Plant, Mark Knopfler, KoKo Taylor, Eric Clapton, Ronnie Wood, Bo Diddley, David Lee Roth, Spearhead, Blue Rodeo, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and even the Hot Club of Cow Town. It's the same guy being a dick and a total distraction. But, like Dr. Thompson once wrote - when you buy the ticket, you must take the ride.
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