Friends, Enemies, and Internet Losers: I have returned.



Where? Why? How have you gone from us?

We have been forgiven and fell to complacency

We have forsaken the picture to become

A mere, self-contained, jigsaw piece

Oblivious to the real world

Living in a lag created by

The Industrial-Me-Machine that seeks

To assassinate Darwin as surely as they

Executed God

Those who live in the sky towers who could

Never be bothered to peer down at us or up

At those who truly hold the power

Attempt to dictate and suffocate life to a mass

That should function as a collective but has been

Sabotaged by the cross wiring of Sub-contracted

Demon electricians who know what they do but still

Seek redemption from us who have been disqualified

By their masters

In the greater world where Blake’s Doors are revolving

Not welded shut by the Industrial-Me-Machine

Children play as they are while youths play as they are

While adults old men and sand filled hourglasses play as they should be

I beseech you all never call me a star

Behind the angel fire that lights the heavens

Is a physics furnace, a nuclear nightmare, a wicked fire

That runs its course according to a prescribed nature

Then burns out destroying its allies and foes without discrimination

Stranded on earth, we seek the heavens, worshipping

A distant flicker to which we ascribe name and face

We want to be the stars, and accordingly we burn out

Slaves to our nature and the Industrial-Me-Machine

And no one will truly know of our departure for thousands of years

Many miss the disappearance of a mountain

How can we expect people to peek and peer through the

Cogs and wheels of the Industrial-Me-Machine to spy

The fallen petals of the dropping flower

Those who pay-per-month for freedom because they

Don’t want to carry a quarter

Those who believe that mobility is freedom

Those who scream at microwave ovens that cook too slow

Those who goosestep and pander to curry the favour of despicable men

Those who have created a society where one must suffer the humiliations

Of teachers for twenty years just to cope

Those who teach instead of show

Those who prescribe dosage but never cure



Welcome to today where our children are classified


Did you give your child a name at birth?

Did you fill out a form?

Did you pay and splice and pay for the perfect child?

Did you give your child a name at birth?

What is your child’s name? What is your child’s face?


Is she the angel of your world or is she 14A?

Can she watch suicide on TV as long as you’re not watching?

Do you have more important things to do?

Are you writing an angry letter to the Mansion

While your ten-year-old is readjusting the dish while your back is turned?

Is it your way or the highway?

Is it your HOUSE or your HOME?

How many flowers grow in your neighbourhood?

What is your neighbour’s name?




Would you know the difference?

Do you dream in colour?

Do you dream at all?

Do your nightmares remind you to breathe?

Do the demons in your sleep smile when they exhale?

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have that dream where you die?

Do you deserve it?

How many colours am I holding up?

How many could you see?

Do you see the colours beyond the pastel blah blah blah

Of the flag of the Industrial-Me-Machine that waves in the doorways

and hallways and streets and offices and sidewalks and washrooms and

classrooms and boardrooms and interrogation rooms and cells and confessionals

and hospitals and prisons?

Have you ever been in a brothel?

Where is the light rainbow of life in this world of

The Industrial-Me-Machine? I want to run wild

like a hypochondriac paranoid delusional schizophrenic

psychotic psychopath through the streets until you see

Me standing with your next-of-kin just to see the look on

Your face when you realize that life goes on without you

And you have been castrated, made impotent by the

Industrial-Me-Machine and you are forever doomed to sit

At the player piano and watch the keys


Best Song Ever?

I’m not using hyperbole nor am I being melodramatic.
I need to keep this short because the whole point of this is the link at the bottom of the page.
It’s a “fuck you” song. They didn’t write it that way. They just wrote it.
Click the link below and click on “Secret March”.
It’s the new “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”.
If you’re being bullied at school, stand your ground, look the bastard in the eye and say, “You put your left foot forward; your right foot forward; put your left foot forward again.”
If your boss touches you the wrong way, stand your ground, look the bastard in the eye and say, “You put your left foot forward; your right foot forward; put your left foot forward again.”
I never saw Hendrix burn a guitar, nor did I ever see Pete Townsend destroy anything… But one night at the Biltmore, I saw The Wet Secrets play… Halfway through “Secret March” I leaned over to Grant Lawrence and said, “This might just be the best band I have ever seen.” Tonight, walking home, the song popped on my iPod. No fear. No fucking fear.
Click the link below and go to their MySpace page.
Click on “Secret March”.
Listen, learn, love. I can promise you, with this song playing in your mind, no one will ever wrong you ever ever again.


Laisse tomber les filles

Let’s call it what it is: Girl Crazy.
I like pretty things. I like the “female of the species”. The other night, my fave, big-eyed DJ played a song for me. With a smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eye, she dropped the needle on “Dirty Old Man”, as performed by Thee Headcoatees. I’d mentioned I’d met Billy Childish and she instantly knew what song she had to play. She said she was joking, and she was, but she knew the target well.
She wouldn’t expect me to apologize. And you know what? The likelihood of me apologizing for chasing younger skirt is slim. Slimmer than them.
During my “post what-the-fuck-happened-at-The-Biltmore” interview at VGH with BC’s top stroke man (children, please), I actually told him that I’d waited this long to be a Dirty Old Man, I don’t want to ruin it now.
As it stands, I’m not a dirty “old” man; I’m a dirty “older” man. I am also a manchild, an aging would-be rock star, and I love beautiful things.
I am also not so shallow to see women as merely sexual objects and I am no predator. But I guess that is for you to decide.
I have been accused of many things, and misogyny is among them, but let me remind you that assuming that what I do and how I feel is based solely on what hangs between my legs is sexism, by strict definition.

The things I don’t do for Zombies…

Bern’s just this bunny, y’know.
Anyway, she made this and I want it.

She made this and sent me a copy.

I lost my copy THAT VERY DAY. She doesn’t send me things anymore. Even a copy of this (which I BEGGED FOR):

Other people still send me stuff.
Like Jane:

And Jen:

She knitted that scarf just for me!
Someone even left this outside my door one night:

But it wasn’t Bern. She’d be afraid I’d lose it a couple hours later.
But I want a slutty sock zombie. So I made this blog. I needed to link back to her Blog and take a picture of bread. You really should check out her blog; it is ten flavours of pure awesome. And now, ladies and gentlemen, bread.

If I had photoshopped in a cool way, I would have got two entries. Maybe it’s lazy and FAT!

There you have it.

It is NOT a shoe fetish

If it had been me, instead of Dr. Raymond Stantz, choosing the form of Gozer at the end of Ghostbusters, it very well could have been a pair of Vivienne Westwood shoes destroying NYC and not the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
It’s not a shoe fetish. It really isn’t. I like boobs and bums and lips and eyes and don’t want to drink our urine out of your size 8’s, but when you see something like these (below) how can you not accept shoes as [sometimes] being art for your feet?

Sure they’re impractical and you’ll probably need back surgery the next day but it would be cool to scare the shit out of every man in any club with one step. AND they really are art for your feet. Something like these (below) are a lot more practical and definitely toned-down from their older sisters above, but they are still nice to look at.

Now, I know that clothes do not make the man and shoes do not make the woman but some people really need to ease up about appearance. Thinking visually is not shallowness. Likewise, and I’ve been wanting to say this for a LONG time, finding a woman physically attractive is not sexist. However, believing that I only find her attractive because I’m a man and, therefore, don’t think about other things IS. 
Okay, enough about that…
So why am I suddenly effusing about shoes? Well, I went people hunting (camera, not spree) downtown today. It was a lousy day for it. There was bad light, it was too cold, and I felt like crap. On cold, crappy days in Vancouver, the downtown core is usually awash in well-cut but drab coats. You need the sun to poke out to get a bit of variety. But not always…
I wimped out and didn’t take the pic but crossing the street at Georgia and Granville was a great pair of shoes. I didn’t take the pic because she was looking right at me. She knew. Of course she did! She wore the shoes. She wore a very professional and flattering ensemble, but dark, monotone… Except the shoes. They were some kind of rich pink… I don’t even know what colour they were (I am a guy after all). Anyway they looked a lot like these:
And, yes, I did pick that picture just to annoy a lot of you. And, no, that isn’t her. Well, I’m guessing it isn’t.
Vancouver has as many styles as it does people and we often find ourselves disappearing into a cold, grey wash when winter hits our city. So it was refreshing to see someone dropping some insane colour out there. 
Here endeth the rant…


Only narcissistic ponces blog about having nothing to blog about.

The Annual [Christ] Mass Blog

So here we are again, Christmas time (actually it’s been “Christmas time” since about 10 seconds after the Jack O’Lanterns hit the porch) and it’s time to celebrate the birth of Jesus by rampaging through Wal-Mart looking for the perfect gift. Let me get one thing straight right now: I am not what most people would refer to as a “Good Little Christian.”

My Bibles (I own four) share shelf space with The Koran, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” Companion Book, and “How To Catch Trout” (plus another 800 or so titles I won’t bother to list here).

I don’t say this to be glib. I have never prayed to anyone (except the first time I laid eyes on a Lamborghini Diablo VT Roadster), I haven’t been to church in decades, and I don’t believe in a God, but I still manage to view Jesus as being a pretty amazing person.

Jesus doesn’t need to be the son of a phantom landlord for us to appreciate Him (I keep the capital “H” out of convention, not conviction). He was a visionary, mortal, fictional, or otherwise. But no one made Martin Luther King Jr. a god, and neither Lech Walesa nor Vaclav Havel have ascended as far as I know.

Yet these men could also be credited with leading their people to the Promised Land. Lech Walesa never walked on water, but prying Poland and her people from the grip of Soviet Communism is a modern miracle indeed.
Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, delivered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963, is derivative of The Sermon on the Mount, and more potent. Nobody really believes that the first shall be last anymore but most of us agree that stringing Black people up in trees isn’t a terribly good idea.
The point here is if we spent less time preaching the Bible and a bit more time actually reading it, we might be able to revert this whole ridiculous thing into a birthday bash again. One problem though, the more you read the more you learn. However, though the times have changed, people haven’t. Imagine this conversation taking place between a man and a woman, anywhere, anywhen…

Mary: Hi there.
Jospeh: Hello.
Mary: I’m a virgin.
Joseph: Really? You’re um… pregnant.
Mary: Yeah, I know. It’s God’s. I’ve been calling him but…
Joseph: So, you want to get married?
And scene…

Also, while we’re on the subject of fact– Jesus could not have been born on December 25th.  Flip over to Luke 2:8, and you’ll see that the shepherds were “keeping watch over their flocks at night.” Anyone who is an expert on Middle Eastern farming and agriculture (which I am not, just so you know) could tell you that this little blurb means that Jesus was born sometime between April and September. 

The 25th was co-opted by Popes to steal the thunder of Saturnalia festivities that dated back to Ancient Rome. Other possible explanations for December include the belief that because He was the son of God, He had to have been conceived on the Spring Equinox. What, if any, logic is behind this, I don’t know. Let’s not forget people also thoughts their gods were serial rapists. It is also because of Saturnalia and other “pagan” fertility rites that we have Christmas dinner, Christmas trees, Christmas presents, Yule logs, and mistletoe… and “mummers”. WTF?

And (and this is a BIG and), ever see a picture on TV of all those terrorists the Americans keep not finding? You want to know what part of the world they come from? Yup, that’s right… Jesus was not white. Some might point to centuries of artistic depiction as evidence, but a million Elvis fans could be wrong. Besides, Botticelli and the boys never met Jesus! An artist’s depiction is what you get on the TV news when nobody took a picture. So what if he wasn’t white? I’m sure we’re all grown up enough to get past that one together. If you can’t, go back and read the book.
So what are we to do with an Arabic Jesus who wasn’t born on December 25th?
For starters we could all lay off the Revelation of St. John for a while and try to think about being nice to people or not punching thy brother in the neck for taking the last Sponge Bob Square Pants interactive action figure.
I’m not saying we should stop buying toys or anything crazy like that. I just think that “Peace on Earth and Goodwill to ALL Men” is a pretty neat idea (not Jesus’ gospel of course, but it’ll do in a pinch) and might serve us well all year round. He would have wanted it that way. We all know how Jesus lost his cool at the Temple; can you imagine Him at the Mall?
Picture Jesus surrounded by a bunch of hectic shoppers, all of whom look as though if they had to spend one more hour shopping they’d wish it had been Santa Claus that was beaten, dragged through the streets, and crucified by Longinus and his Legion. I don’t imagine He’d enjoy it very much.
I imagine He’d want to know why we needed holidays to be thankful or think of our fellow Earth-ridden Mortal Compatriots. So this Christmas, be nice to people. And then on Boxing Day, keep doing it. 
Just remember: Messing with his birthday is one thing but God help us all if He ever comes across an Easter Egg hunt…BSC. 

This pic has nothing to do with Christmas but I saw it on INSURGENCY INC. the other day and just had to repost it.