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


Turns Out Writing A Book Isn’t So Hard But Admitting It’s About You Kind Of Sucks

Writing about yourself is actually very easy, unless you plan to be honest about yourself, in which case, it kind of sucks the big one. I don’t think it’s too difficult to write about the life you’re living because it’s kind of obvious unless you have a “malignant secret” dwelling in that pesky id of yours. But writing about how you got to this spot can be trying. It’s a good thing I have all this extra time to work on it because my only job prospects at the moment are winning the lottery and Charlie Sheen’s Tiger Blood Intern position. Both have about the same chance of coming to fruition which is just fine by me. Though to be Charlie Sheen’s Social Media Intern AND have $50 million in the bank would be pretty sweet. It will be sometime before I can open the door to my penthouse wearing my boxers and drinking champagne straight from the bottle, so until then I will knuckle down and concentrate on writing out the ridiculous stories that have made up my life so far, then try to find someway to make them all work as a cohesive narrative. For the next little while I be walking the street with my inner self trying to figure out the route that brought us thus far.
If Charlie calls, I’ll take it in my office.


Um… wow.

I am obviously not a fashion blogger, especially when the highlight of my commentary is, “Wow”. However, I do love good clothes. This gang makes some of the best.

From the Giorgio Armani Spring 2011 (La Femme Bleue)

See the full line HERE
And the Emporio Armani Spring 2011 line HERE

The Twizzard of Oz

Read this entry only if you don’t mind a few laughs (and a couple cringes) at the expense of your precious childhood memories. The following is a transcript of the drunk “Tweets” I sent while watching The Wizard of Oz about 2 o’clock this morning.

Bedtime movie: I was thinking “Third Man”, “Touch of Evil”. Went with “Wizard of Oz” but it’s taped over “Hells Angels on Wheels”, still manly.

Dorothy gets picked out of a pig sty without a spot of mud on her dress. I’m starting to think this movie might be fiction.

“Over the Rainbow” even straight guys can appreciate this as one of the best songs ever. Okay, ‘some’ straight guys. #garlandsadish

Just looking at that hat Miss Gulch is wearing… She might be a witch but with a hat like that you know she’s an evil cunt.

Yeah, pissed drunk and doing colour commentary for Wizard of Oz on Twitter.

How do we know Wizard of Oz wasn’t made recently? A hustler like “Professor Marvel” would have whored her out instead of sending her home.

Never underestimate my ability to ruin every childhood memory you might have.

Wow colour! Munchin suicide watch starts now.

Dorothy Gale v. The Ghostbusters: Dorothy, the next time someone asks you if you’re a witch, you say YES!

Ding Dong… Certainly the cheeriest song about homicide ever written.

I’m glad I’m drunk and not high, otherwise the stunted ballerinas of the Lullaby League would be fucking with my head.

Glinda’s high as a Kansas tornado… Smiling away… The trailer park prom dress. Pure valium. That’s probably where Judy got her habit.

The Scarecrow explains BC politics: taking directions from a guy with no brain and a stick up his ass.

Another clue that the Wizard of Oz is fiction? No good looking young woman who left Kansas would be in that big of a hurry to get back.

Yes Dorothy! Lube me up! A man without a heart wants to be oiled up by a teenage runaway. Go figure.

Don’t go with her Tin Man! She’s just going to sell you for scrap to buy valium!

You wonder why Judy Garland got in so much trouble later in life when she considers two utter fuck ups she just met as the best friends she’s ever had.

Okay, not a hanging munchin but a bird. More’s the pity.

Ah the good old days, when cowards attacked little dogs and girls in gingham dresses instead of shooting up their high schools.

Poppy field makes them fall asleep and “snow” wakes them up? I don’t have to ruin this one. It kind of speaks for itself.

The witch puppet on a string is more believable than all three Star Wars prequels.

Scarecrow’s day at the spa looks like a TSA pat down.

Afghan peasants can shoot down a Soviet gunship but the people of Emerald City can’t take out a bitch and her broom? Surrender Dorot…BOOM!

Wikileaks reports the Wizard thinks Dorothy is a whiny little cunt.

The Wizard looks like a Star Trek alien on stage at a KISS concert.

I suspect the flying monkeys are just a flash back to the poppy field.

Okay, I’ll admit it; it’s been over 30 years since the first time I saw this movie and the flying monkeys still scare the shit out of me.

*Note to palace guard: the guy at the FRONT does a head count to make sure the guys at the BACK should actually be there.

“Hurry! Please hurry! The hourglass is almost empty!” We’ll be right there! Have to change out of our disguises first!

Looks like the wicked witch was actually Wiccan. Give her a bath and she dies.

It’s amazing how quickly her loyal storm troopers turned on her. Looks like Nuremburg. Bastards, hang ’em all!

Wizard of Oz remake: Toto pulls back the curtain and Karl Rove is back there jerking off Rupert Murdoch.

If you pause the movie and look closely at the piece of paper the Wizard hands the Scarecrow, it’s actually George W. Bush’s Yale diploma.

If Dorothy had got in that balloon, the FBI would have found her head in a freezer in Oklahoma 10 years later.

That scene would have been better if they had munchins hanging off the balloon like the GI’s and the Playboy helicopter in Apocalypse Now.

Valium-whacked bitch, if you told me 3 days ago I could’ve clicked my heels and gone home, I would’ve believed you. Thanks for the heads up.

Okay, movie’s over. Just in case you missed the sarcasm fest, I’m posting it all on my blog when I wake up. Twizzard of Oz.#culturethug

Don’t quote ME on that

I often steal the remark, “The most uncommon thing on the planet is common sense”. The world seems consumed by a pity-party/hate-fest that doesn’t show any sign of receding any time soon. This is alarming. But, it is not new. 
Was anyone actually surprised when it was revealed that Keith Olberman was a Democrat?
I know one person who wouldn’t have been and really wouldn’t have given a fuck either:

“So much for Objective Journalism. Don’t bother to look for it here–not under any byline of mine; or anyone else I can think of. With the possible exception of things like box scores, race results, and stock market tabulations, there is no such thing as Objective Journalism. The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms.” 
Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72

The one thing that keeps some of us just above the fray, the pity-party/hate-fest, is the one thing we possess that others don’t: the truth.
But that doesn’t seem to help. The blind are blind are blind. But we knew this.

“Don’t hate the media, become the media.” 
Jello Biafra 

But we endeavour to carry on the good fight. Some are calling for a much more dramatic approach. I am still formulating mine. But as soon as I know, so will you. The dawn of the Culture Thug is upon us, well, me at least.

“This story shall the good man teach his son; 
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, 
From this day to the ending of the world, 
But we in it shall be remembered- 
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, 
This day shall gentle his condition; 
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed 
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, 
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”
Henry V (IV.iii). 


This pic just floated across my Internet goggles…
Below is a new picture of “alt-model”, Apnea – Amanda Pemberton to her friends and recent fiancee, photographer, Chase Lisbon. As far as I am concerned, Apnea’s eyes have always been what set her apart from the other models in her field (despite the fact this tattooed cutie is amazingly flexible).
I’m reposting this pic because it caught me as different, another new look for this little chameleon. Looks as though she’s channeling Pris (Blade Runner) in this one with some Harley Quinn (Batman) and Conan the Barbarian thrown in for good measure. Whether the ghosting was done during or post, I don’t know but it certainly adds to the feeling this image provokes.
If you have some time (and you’re not at work), swing by her blog. It’s a fun collection of picture sets, cats, cookies, and travel stories.

photo credit: Nathan Appel

Things that make you go "hmmm" right before you go "What the F***?"

At what point does a tactless thought actually become a crime? I’ve never been a big fan of hate crime legislation. Not because I love to dream racist, homophobic, or misogynist scenarios but because I believe that curbing such thought should be done through education and the occasional public flogging as opposed to legislation.

But is tact a qualifier of whether or not something is hate speech? Let us hope not.
For instance, there’s a sick little bastard in me that would probably enjoy Justin Bieber being repeatedly kicked in the shin or held down while someone tattooed “KICK ME” on his forehead. Though it’s probably not worth it to put it on his forehead because no one could see it with his combination Twiggy/Donny Osmond haircut. Now, I’m not calling for it to happen or putting out a bounty or anything but still…
Then there’s Snooki.
I’ve decided I’ve wanted a Snooki bobblehead for Xmas. Doesn’t have to be her real head. It can be plastic if that’s easier and within the laws of your nation.

Whining won’t become a habit; I promise

Someone help me; I’m getting nostalgic. Waiting for the bus, I want the 90s back. Granted I was listening to The Crow soundtrack, right before switching over to Joy Division because NIN’s version of “Dead Souls” doesn’t quite measure up. Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn’t listening to Joy Division (or waiting for a bus for that matter), but there is part of me that wants to grow my hair out again, put my earrings back in, and not shave when I don’t want to. That’s unlikely to happen, especially as I am waiting for the bus as part of two hour journey to get a cup of coffee. But it is good coffee. I didn’t care much for coffee in the 90s. If I had, I wouldn’t be waiting for a bus.
I snag a copy of The Georgia Straight at the bus stop. An article about Justin Bieber being “the Devil in disguise” has caught my attention. I hate that little shit. The article doesn’t make me feel any better about it, of course. Mike Usinger’s article woefully points out, “at a time when nothing is selling, our little Beelzebub has managed to go platinum.” This does not bode well. Usinger puts into words what we are all thinking: the record companies have found money in the machine again and any attempts to create something new will end right now. Of course, reading about things not being as good as they once were in The Georgia Straight is a delicious bit of irony in itself.
I often go to shows where some in attendance are younger than the band shirt I’m wearing. At least it isn’t a Bieber show or a reunion gig for New Kids on the Block. Some people still get it. But I suppose it has always been this way. The mainstream is the main stream for a reason. But the best fishing remains in the tributaries. As if to seal the deal, passing Capilano Mall on the bus, I am sure I see the guitar player from Drag the River, the band I fronted in the early 90s. Last I heard he was a librarian back east but still playing his guitar like a maniac. His hair is still down past his shoulder blades and his Aviators sit on an unshaven face. God bless him; If was it him. It would be even more surprising for him to be out and about so soon after Dio’s death. I figured he’d be down for at least a month after hearing about that.
Damn this coffee is good. I’ve been looking for new hangouts. My local just got busted by the Smoking Cops and is now plastered with hastily made “No Smoking” announcements, which we all vandalized pdq. So, after two hours, here I am at the Cafe for Contemporary Art (140 East Esplanade, NV) drinking a damn good coffee. My friend, Robyn *(The Stiletto Cafe, Walk Through Puddles), works here and is a self-professed “coffee snob.” Ours is a tenuous relationship, given that I spend a good part of my time searching out shitty cups of coffee as they are becoming harder and harder to find.
CAFCA is a neat little place. Perhaps a wee bit too far off the drag (a half block east of Lonsdale Ave in North Vancouver), it has a lot of potential. For starters, the coffee is great (made by a weird little robot called a Clover) and they have a nice gallery space right in the cafe. I guestimate it to be about 600 square feet of floor with 16ft of wall space, floor to ceiling. The current exhibit leaves a bit to be desired but it looks as though the gallery space was given up in this instance more out of civic duty than commercial sense. High school kids are capable of taking great pictures, but having the write-ups of what each picture is “meant to symbolize” is just a little too Grade 12 for me. It is a start nonetheless. In a city starving for places for artists to starve a little less, it is a welcome arrival. Did I mention the coffee was good? Haven’t tried the food yet but that’s only because I rarely eat while drinking. Old habits, y’know? Can’t have too much new stuff in my life or I might just start enjoying it again.

*Correction: I have since been informed that Robyn is a “coffee slut”, not a “coffee snob” as written above. My apologies.