Elbow Many Houses

Speaking of Dreams....

2006-04-28T08:06:00.000-06:00

Some time ago (as in within this past year) I had a dream that I was deep sea fishing. Fishing for sharks. Beside me was a bucket filled with bloody baby parts. I would bend over and scoop out little arms, legs and what-have-yous and gleefully splatter the ocean red with them. I distinctly remember throwing a particularly intact baby into the ocean. It was split plumb down the middle with one arm, leg and eye. As I threw the bloody thing overboard a great white shark's maw surfaced and snapped up the baby into really small pieces. It scared the hell out of me and I immediately woke up, what with this close up view of a great white's mouth in my head. But as I lie in bed under a single thin sheet and a whirring fan over head the shark's teeth soon faded from my mind and I got to thinking "chummig with babies.... what the...?"

Band of the week:

2006-04-05T23:44:00.000-06:00

Chad Van Gaalen

Band of the week:

2006-03-21T23:24:00.000-07:00

The Frogs
(sing for me Ged)

Band of the week:

2006-03-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

Metric

Post St.Pat's

2006-03-19T10:06:00.000-07:00

An Irish man is never drunk
as long as he can hold on to one blade of grass
and not fall off the face of the earth.

Band of the week:

2006-03-08T22:09:00.000-07:00

Tom Waits

Pat my Hairy Lobster

2006-03-08T22:05:00.000-07:00

Band of the week:

2006-02-22T23:47:00.000-07:00

Tanya Tagaq

Rub my Octopussi

2006-02-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

Band of the Week:

2006-01-26T13:09:00.000-07:00

Death from Above 1979

Funky Bomb my At-At

2006-01-26T12:59:00.000-07:00

Ok, some of you may have played this before. It's a 3-D remake of that ol' drunken classic of old Scorched Earth. The game is a free download and takes about 2 minutes to install. It is an excellent time. I am looking in to starting up a server as Mr. Buzz Barigar and I shall be delivering weapons of (mass) destruction at each other on a weekly basis. Come join in on the fun. You'll find me online with this same ol' name. Practice your pitch bitch, as I have a canister of hot napalm with your name on it.

http://www.scorched3d.co.uk/

Band of the week:

2005-12-19T21:35:00.000-07:00

Man or Astroman?

Kobi do you Fondu?

2005-12-19T21:27:00.000-07:00

Why yes Kevin I do!

Song of the Week:

2005-12-06T23:19:00.000-07:00

"Gonna Fly Now" in midi.

Sex Church 2012

2005-12-05T23:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, I was going to rewrite an old story I did about a church whose members decapitated themselves and stored their heads in cubbyholes along a great wall at the back of the church. Their headless bodies sat in the pews while a pastor's head on an altar drolled on about the sins of the flesh to the writhing bodies in the audience. The sermon culminated with all the church goers ripping off their own genitalia and throwing them into a giant cauldron which was then ritually baptized in blood by Herbert West. This lead to the creation of a gigantic vagina that was hung above the altar (with great difficulty) by the headless practioners under the direction of shouting, gurgling heads. Anyways, the vagina began to shit out headless sexless babies onto the altar that rapidly grew into hairless headless humans. These creatures were controlled by the pastor who sent them forth upon the world to bring about Armageddon.

Anyways, I was doing a little research about sex cults just now when I stumbled upon this state: statansrapture.com Home of the Church of Philadelphia- Internet. There's lots of weird stuff in here along with how these guys actually come up with a doomsday calendar [Founding of the state of Israel (1948) + One generation (40 years) = 1988] This was revised to 70 years (the life span of your average human in the time of Jesus??) meaning we're lookin at 2018 or so now. Anyways, this guy, Pastor Harry (whose name originated from a Bible code of sorts) has a regular internet radio address apparently. He's quite the poet too,

SEX MASS

Out with The Pews, in with The Mats,

Off with The Clothing, The Bras and The Hats.

Intertwine, intermingle, get oral as one, Priests, Choirboys and Even The Nun.

Tune in sky child, the end is neigh!

Band of the week:

2005-12-01T01:19:00.000-07:00

The Cramps

Long Story Short

2005-11-03T23:53:00.000-07:00

Tonight I almost went to jail on suspicion of auto theft. At one point I had 3 patrol cars snorting behind me and a forth wallowing in the filth of 4th street. It would seem, as luck would have it, that my plates were run by a pig at a light, and they came up unattached.

I was blissfully unconcerned for quite some time, but then as one trip to the cruiser turned in to another and hands started drifting to unfriendly things on utility belts I began to get worried. Nothing tied me to the truck, and the only piece of Alberta ID I have is a movie card at Casablanca. I wore a black toque and had a glass of wine on my breath. The pigs were looking for a feed.

Luckily they called A's listed phone, which put them through to her mom. She was able to explain (through responses only) that there had been a mistake at the registry and indeed we had bought and registered the truck.

The cops tag teamed on me and the first pig (who went from friendly to fierce back to friendly - thanks in no small part to a tongue lashing from M I suspect) drove off, leaving me with an exceptionally anal counterpart who gave me five hundred dollars in tickets and spouted complete bullshit about unrelated legal matters. I wasn't allowed to drive home, and I was lucky 'my story was validated'. What tripe.

I'm pretty sure that somewhere at sometime, in an early democratic government, a 'founding father' once said:

"Thou shalt not pull over a citizen in a motor vehicle for not possessing registration while he/she is conducting their daily business in a law abiding manner, but lo, thou shall punish the felon who conducts business oblivious to any law, and thou shall punish them exceptionally harshly if they are unregistered."

But I digress. I should never have gone out. In the last three days two houses across the street have been reduced to gaping pits. When I got home from work there was yet another house parked in the middle of the street in front of mine. It was on wheels and destined for Cremona. They aren't allowed to move these drifting houses until after midnight. I had to drive on the lawn to get out of my driveway only to be raped by paper.

Order. Order. Order.

Stay at home. Stoke the fire. It is an evil day.

Band of the Week:

2005-11-03T00:41:00.000-07:00

The Gore Gore Girls

Theres an Eyeball in my Acid

2005-11-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

An evil moon hid in the sky. It was the night before All Hallows Eve and nothing was as it should be in the world.

Dick and Jane, or for you cerebral types, Id and Ego, descended upon the city in what could only be called a slow shuffle. Here we see Id... (or is that Ego?) basking in a pause of time.

Our protagonists stopped in to see some of Dick's relatives and relieve a little stress, but they didn't sully long as one of Dick's relatives was terribly afraid of dogs.

Dick and Jane grew thirsty as they walked down the busy thoroughfares with their spots, and finally decided to stop at a bar named Sue. There they drank beer and danced, while the dogs sat on the porch, dejected that their genital overlords had abandoned them.

After goodness went to bed, Dick and Jane went out into the street and came across a horrible metal golem who was caught forever in time playing the same miserable game of chess.

After trying in vane to help the pitiful creature, Dick and Jane pleasured the golem sexually, so as to provide a bit of distraction from the whole causality business. Dick found him difficult to penetrate but Jane felt that his whole soul quivered once he was enveloped.

Upon arriving home Dick and Jane found that the pets were giving them the evil eye for it was four in the morning and the moon had infected their spirits.

Although it must be said that Bogart, the Puffer fish, spoke eloquently about the merits of proportional representation despite having caught a moon beam in the face and being evily disfigured.

My psychiatrist tells me that I've shown great improvement over the course of this past year. Happy Halloween, belatedly.

P.S. Drips and dribbles to you Combine, you beautiful green harvester.

Band of the Week:

2005-10-26T00:08:00.000-06:00

The Eye Popping Sounds of Herschell Gordon Lewis

Vicarious Atonement

2005-10-26T00:02:00.000-06:00

My cousins last post from Caracas,Columbia.

I was stuck in Thanksgiving, thankfully.

2005-10-18T21:53:00.000-06:00

So it finally ended for me today. The last of the brussel sprouts, yams and the final pud of potato. The turkey was gone long ago, although there is still a carcass in the freezer which will become soup soon enough. I ate a full course turkey dinner for probably 70% of the past 10 days meals.

I'm feeling a little gay tonight, so have produced a picture party for you from the actual day of thanksgiving. It is Monday the tenth, and TJ and I fished the Dog Pound and Little Red from near sun up to sun down. We only got one bite. It wasn't much of a bite either but it was still a fine day as we drank wine and smoked herb while we tromped a good eight k over river stones. We went to the Water Valley saloon and got roped in to having another full on Turkey dinner as it was all they were serving. It was buffet style and damn fine.

Oh, and this is just for you.

I have seen the turkey farms of Bandaloo.

2005-10-14T22:57:00.000-06:00

My stick and I arose from the ashen floor of a Mangrove forest into a clearing surely some two hundred acres clear. Before us lay the hard picked grounds of Otnasnom Incorporated feedlots. I beat my stick against my head to try to fix my eyes, but this was no trick of the bark, no sir-e. The expanse of land was covered by several hundred thousand small Kenyan children.

It took us some time to realize that indeed these were children, for though they were dressed in traditional jengeas, their black skins were covered in a layer of tar upon which rows of feathers (charcoal black lending to a piscine green) were carefully placed all over their torsos. Attached to their heads was a sharply down pointed beak replete with a great red snood, that was particularly well defined on the boys. The jengeas had been lifted in the back by a small piece of plastic so that the grass framed their rumps like the tail feathers on your traditional Tom Turkey. Upon their heads, which had been neatly shaven, a shlock of pasty coloured paste clung from their scalps down their delicate necks.

As we stood staring, taking in the scene, my stick wobbled and I spat a piece of bark from my mouth intentionally. The group nearest to me noticed my presence and hence forth gobbled and gargled in bizarre mix of Turkish Swahili. Bandaloo! I rose my stick high like a Shepard to his flock and spoke forth:
"Garbble-gibble! Ccroggytog-tog gribbidity gribbidy gruuugle gritik-tik-tik-tik!"

At first there was nothing but a few blue snoods, but then, like a tide of grain washing down from a tower the flock heed my call. What we said to them was this:
"I am a vegetarian! I have come to return you to your families!"

I walked forth into them, stick gripped in mid-shaft and brandished over my head like a scepter. The children parted, but I must admit that at this moment, in this sea of humanity I nearly faltered. The turkey can be a nasty beast, it's beak alone capable of ripping skin from limb and marrow from bone. We held strong however, my stick and I. For as I walked i muttered from my tongue over and over again:
"Goggy-goggy-goggy." A coo. A frog in a pond.

We walked, my stick, and the Turkeys of Bandaloo, for the better part of half an hour towards a great gleaming tower on the horizon. The children pecked the ground as we squawked across the plain, occasionally kicking over pebbles with their toes or tossing dust about with their beaks. As we grew closer the boys around me began to fight, banging necks or pinching one another with fierce little toes. They never used their arms however, and the whole thing appeared as a sordid river dance. Upon us reaching the tip of the tower’s shadow - a great stainless steel obelisk, they quieted down and gobbled softly with one another.

I stood dumbfound. A spire of steel like the great hooked incisor of a lion protruded from the desert floor, a fang of modernity tearing at the savannah. It was a chapel of madness - scientific madness.

I tore off another piece of bark and felt my feet turn to rock against the hard ground. The children began to roost and we settled in for the wait.

At high noon on the snood what was once a seemingly seamless door opened forth and a great U shaped magnet, painted bright red and silver tipped rolled into the grounds on four shiny rubber tires. It was capped with a pointy rail plow, suitable for clearing a Rocky Mountain pass in January.

The turkeys nearest me immediately began sliding and tumbling arm over arm, their calloused toes unable to grip the barren terra firma. The magnet began to slowly retract into the tower pulling child and turkey past me into a black abyss. I ran forth stick in hand, like a sword, and screamed:
"Gorble-gorble Gabole!" which is a very dirty saying amongst turkeys that is loosely translated to:
"Teabag my snood, tyrant!"

We flooded the gates my stick and I, along with those poor children running and tumbling amongst a sea of feathers. Inside the great cavernous tooth was a single plank way of steel which the magnet rolled back and forth on. It sucked them in and then knocked them off the ledge, head over heel into the depths below. I happened a glance through the tide of children and spotted a guillotine and an industrail scran wrapper in the pit below. Fiend! Horrors of horror! A processing plant! Phony turkeys destined for over seas!

The magnet began it's forward roll and I looked up into the spear of the spire to see a be-speckled scientist replete with lab coat staring at me and drooling over the rail.

"Fuck-stick!" I yelled and then quickly explained to the children in a garble of Bandaloo to push the magnet off the ledge.

They exploded around me, hardened bloated tar bodies intent on a purpose. The magnet flipped off the ledge to the squeals of those down below (and those stuck to it) but like a noble general without pause I quickly assembled the tide into an enormous child/turkey pyramid. Up I stomped, like up the steps of a great pyramid, towards the gravy aficionado, the sinister stuffer, the cranberry of crass.

The little turkeys never waivered and after a brief struggle at the top of the tower I had him in my grasp. We beat him then, my stick and I, to the chortled sounds of cereal fed children. We beat him about the head until it was brains and bone and then we beat him some more.

I shut down the power, turned off the teleporter and made the children take off their outfits, except for the jeneas. The tar took a lot of work, but eventually we made our way out in the plains, and slowly we took them all home.

Band of the Week:

2005-10-09T02:26:00.000-06:00

GG Allin

Not Till Monday Bitch.

2005-10-09T02:23:00.000-06:00

Crucifux and Drink

2005-10-09T02:11:00.000-06:00

I haven't been thinking about Jesus alot lately. I don't think about him much normally, but lately I've been thinking about him alot less. Fuck him, and his cup, and his cross. Prick.

Happy Thanksgiving. I made cider today. It's fall. It's the thing to do.

MMMmmm!

Band of the Week:

2005-09-26T23:07:00.000-06:00

The Flametrick Subs

Dog Bites Man

2005-09-26T22:48:00.000-06:00

I sit on my asshole watching the autumn leaves fall from trees both vertical and horizontal. They’re oak leaves, four toes big and brittle as a sunned-out corpse. From the vantage atop Blueberry Hill I pant in the shade of the husked out observatory, the cityscape lays beaten down in rubble. Nothing mechanical moves - only the slow steady machine that wrecked the place in the first place. Hungry through and through, its been four days since the kibble stopped.

The smell has been getting riper with each passing hour this morning. The smell of chaos, smoke and rot. It triggers something deep inside. Deeper than all of this modernity, an old gene gained through violence for violence. It’s a smell like that of a front line, of trenches puddled with blood and flesh hanging from barbed wire. Abandoned meat. I hold my nose to the air and split the smells into each succulent morsel. Awash, I keep my ears back listening for food, for prey.

Time passes and then something shuffles down at the bottom of the hillside, a scrabbling against lumber and brick. It sounds promising. Fresh.

I stand up and stretch forward and back, stiff muscles tight from lack of water. My feet pad down the rock face steadily enough however and the squirrels run amongst the ruins at the sound of my approach. At the bottom of the hill in a backyard littered with obtusely angled fence posts I stop and listen for my quarry.

It comes from a small house caved in across the street, a jumble of broken concrete and roofing tile. From the lower window, an arm flaps uselessly against jagged foundation pinned against the upper sill in an awkward fashion. I cross over silently and lay down amongst the debris and wait.

Time passes and the arm moves less and less, it grows twitchy and a guttural moan echoes about the wreckage. At dusk I can wait no longer.

In two bounds I latch on to the base of the arm, by the elbow. My teeth lock and I tug flat, low to the ground, hundreds of pounds of pressure separating meat from bone. The flesh drops about me and I latch on to bone beginning a slow dull grind, bottom jaw sliding back and forth against marrow. The screams are sharp and come in gasps punctuated by a confined twitching. It takes some time to get the entire arm. The blood and thick tendon slide down my throat like fire, a feast for the ages. I lick the blood off of concrete, my thirst subsided.

Revived I return to the hilltop and sleep like a puppy. By morning a fire has spread throughout the entire lower neighborhood. It's a lottery.

The Untidy Suicides of your Degenerate Executives

2005-09-15T22:23:00.000-06:00

A corner office and a suit that fits tight over a bourgeois frame.

Our protagonist stands facing the window staring out at the panoramic skyline of buildings and city from the twentieth floor. He is depressed and reminiscent of days gone by when hair graced his head and music still roamed about his soul. No room for a piano in here boy-o, just data and paper clips.

He puts his meaty hand into a glass vase of beef jerky and chews thoughtfully, petting the cow with his tongue. The phone begins to ring and his hand instinctively flicks sending bits of animal all over the satin draped floor. His gaze rolls from the window to the meat on the floor, laying there dead.

He used to have a dog, a Burmese Tiger dog. It died from a car crashing into it. The dog never saw it coming. Kali. Bitch.

The phone rings again. It seems to ring faster now, more urgently. "Likely the fucking Chinese." He thinks.

He pulls more cow from the flower vase and leans back in his chair, the ringing of the phone upsetting his pacemaker. By all reports the hurricane had claimed the entire quarters research from the military arm of Babbitt Enterprises, a wholly owned subsidiary of Khrone Incorporated. The records had been backed up on the New Orleans server three days before Katrina made land fall. The data was vast and varied but in particular the latest diagnostics run on SunRay, the companies latest foray into pain ray's, was swimming in a tepid pool of human filth.

The field tests for this new weapon were to commence in Iraq this coming November, but would now have to be pushed back a full year. The testing ground might not even exist in a year! It was by and large intolerable. Depressingly intolerable.

He spun his chair round and pulled the email address for the executive in charge of data storage for Babbitt Enterprise. Wanda Nicely. This is what he typed:

Wanda Nicely, the loss of data that has resulted from your mismanagement of company information will see our third quarter profits return a negative value to our shareholders for the first time in company history. I have forwarded an email to the heads of the fortune five hundred explicitly detailing your ineptitude and complete intellectual failure. Your employ is hereby terminated. Security will be at your cubicle in ten minutes to escort you from the building. I have left a little farewell gift for your drawer.
Sincerely,
James Cedric Dill
President

The gift that Robert left Wanda was this:

There was only one bullet in it. One bullet is all you need though sometimes.

Band of the Week:

2005-09-13T13:01:00.000-06:00

Corey Harris

Rwanda

2005-09-13T12:54:00.000-06:00

Keep your head down and can palmed - there’s fascists’ over there, just a skipped stone away. Everything is fine now; their bellies are full as are their pockets. But that doesn’t change the fact that they are evil. Indeed, if you were to lay one of them out, one of the unpublicized bureaucrats of the upper echelon, you would find upon peeling off their skin that nary a drop of blood would be found. Indeed the whole bag of flesh is filled only with the tiny little bones from a human population roughly the size of your standard miniature world town. Small soft bones that shuffle around and break in the bag of skin, making ghostly sounds like muffled birds wings snapping.

Pop the top off the can and put out your smoke. Breathe the sea air and watch the logs for movement. Spray. Long smooth strokes, and straight lines even though the paint wants to curve. Work through the first can of blue - black on the seawall. One more pop from the bag and then a beer.

A blue nose drifts by in the freighter corridor; the cannons are so worn down from continuously shoving down bigger and bigger balls into them that they now fire off in erratic directions. The boat is listing badly too on one side, rot in the planks and a backed-up bilge. To keep her steady and get an extra few knots out of her, a great silver bomb has recently been lashed to the starboard side beckoning a cock ring on a sadist.

Spit into the sea and start with the yellow band, bright and steady. It goes on fast but shines like a lion’s eye in starlight. Finish the ‘A’ and duck behind a lethargic log. Reload, and splash a tree frog green - a halo, nothing more than a shadow. Dot the ‘R’ orange. A light from the blue nose catches on the yellow and a printing press roars onboard. Time to leave - before it gets read.

Up the stairs, up the hill, paint and sand gritting fingertips in your pockets. The ship lobs a ball of concrete which flies overhead and crashes into the cedars. 7 shots in all. 7 shots of shit from that old bitch. One for each lazy nation.

Laughably, a truckload of NAFTA documents fly into the woods next, and in quick succession a third cannon spits out a SUV and it rolls heavy through the air, coming up well short and smashes into the sea. They take a while to reload the bigger bombs, better bullets. Tonya Harding flies next, the poor bitch, kicking and screaming right up until the moment she crashes into the wall. She slides down smearing the word with a thin coat of blood. Then comes some nameless Bosnian cart wheeling ass over tea kettle through the air letting before letting out a scream of anguish as the bag of skin breaks apart. More thin blood, the yellow shines through.

Nelson Mandela, still stunned silent from years in solitary flies. Black blood. Dark blood. Blood that stains and obscures the word immediately upon impact. A blot, like liquid asphalt, or spilt ink from a historian’s pen. The shot that seals the deal also doesn’t scream, but flies through the air lead by a supermanesque extended fist, too tight in a leather glove, his cheeks flapping in the wind. OJ Simpson, that fuck. When his body explodes against the rock a spray of darkness drenches the length of the beach like an oil slick. Sweet and sticky like a merlot left in the savannah. And just like that there was never anything there at all and the blue nose lists off, it's captains bones creaking at the wheel.

Band of the Week:

2005-09-02T12:11:00.000-06:00

The Monsters

For the Unfortunate or Misdirected

2005-09-02T01:30:00.000-06:00

Never mind the evil chinese stick fishes or the leprous leeches that lurk in the mud filtered sun just below sight. We have bigger concerns now, obvious worries. A pair of antlers two paces wide that glide through still water as though pushed steadily by an invisible hand. A collision, an imminent catostrophe sure to leave a red slick from here all the way home. Drop one in the chamber and give the lead wings heavenly bound. A magic bullet.

Something is struck deep in the heart of a solitary cloud, a big feathered blunderbuss sings a chord of sheet metal melancholy and falls into the lake heavy as a stone. Magic bullets. Load another one quick and fire blind. No screams this time, no sound, only the peripheral passing of a peacock, it's head submerged in the water amongst reeds and a pretty rump sticking up in the air.

Sweat now. Stress. A flock of pigeons, a hundred, a thousand, an army of maligned neurotic birds with dull pointy beaks and a penchant for suffering. Their dark shadows sail fitfully across the water and spasmatically fight nothing while they whistle the theme song to the Benny Hill show. One more bullet. One more shot. Straight up perpendicular from the earth flies the magic and with its trajectory the sky fades to black filled with a cosmology of grey feathers.

The antlers approach furry and foreboding. The gun is empty now, hollow. Dive in and face the beast nose to nose and poke its ego right in the eye. But the beast is only the Buddha, buoyantly floating in a squat sit holding the antlers above his head and above the surface. The Buddha laughs and bubbles leak out from his joyous face. Poke him in the eye anyways.

Band of the Week:

2005-08-23T00:36:00.000-06:00

Billy Childish Musician, poet, author. Artist.

And Ruthie pushed us down the Bow

2005-08-23T00:13:00.000-06:00

A day of sun! A day of beer! A day of choclates wrapped in purple and a funny feeling that moves your stomach every which way as the cool waters of the mighty Bow slide under our outstretched fingers. I laugh a great deal even though I stand on a bank made entirely of goose shit and the hole in my foot from a misplaced step the weekend prior throbs.

I laugh some more and then giggle and spit. A thought that doesn't stick. "When is a hippie truly high?"

The Flying Spaghetti Monster

2005-08-18T17:58:00.000-06:00

I particularly like the part about global warming and the pirates. http://www.venganza.org/

Band of the Week:

2005-08-09T00:39:00.000-06:00

Alan Lomax OK so he's not a band but he's put together some excellent collection albums. Mississippi Prison Recordings being my favorite.

Oh! To be back on the Spanish Tuna Trawler

2005-08-09T00:07:00.000-06:00

Band of the Week:

2005-07-27T18:31:00.000-06:00

The Eagles of Death Metal

Oh Shit it's Shambhala

2005-07-27T18:19:00.000-06:00

I'm gonna get insane. Blow up my mind.
Lightnin' bolt my brain. Turn into Frankenstein.
Put on a party dress. Jack off 'till i'm blind.
Clean up the mess with Turpentine.
Nevermind mankind. Leave it all behind.
Blow up your mind. Blow up your mind.
Like them mummy pharaohs. Over in the med.
Wrap up my clothes. And blow up my head.
Dynamite or acid? Hybrow or hybrid?
Forsee the forbidden. Blow the lidd of your ID.
Are you a little too healthy? Drink some bad wine.
Trap some bats in your belfry. An blow up your mind.
No more static in the attic. No no. Get erratic instead.
Get real acrobatic. And land on your head.
-The Cramps

Band of the Week:

2005-07-20T11:31:00.000-06:00

The Dwarves

Restoration, Restitution, Reaffirmation

2005-07-20T09:39:00.000-06:00

Fin, Finito, Finally. The upstairs is done. Rejoice! Everything is groovy, everything is fine. There are three more rooms to paint but they are all pretty minor projects compared to the malformed walls of the bedrooms. Patch this Debbie Travis!

Time is flying by and my consciousness is running shallow. Brain pan shallow. A millimeter deep so to speak. Boone’s is back with a vengeance at the summery price of only four bucks a bottle. I feel the need for some new kind of kick and am going to try some overseas pharma care for a while. Cough syrup just ain’t cutting it, and people give me funny looks no matter how hard I try to explain the strangely unpleasant effects of ol’ Robitussin DM. Heavens to Murgatroyd! I’m doing the Roboto!

We bought a new bed yesterday that I slept on for four and a half hours last night. It is my first new bed ever and I take great comfort in the fact that there are no dust mites or human filth other than my own floating around in it yet. I was talking into the mattress last night. It sounds hollow and the vibration of my voice runs from the corners of my mouth up to my ear lobes. “Helloo! Is there anyone in there?” Ha! Stay away microbes! Sometimes it is hard to decide what I love more, inanimate or animate things. Give me a marble in a vacuum.

Tomorrow I float down the Bow to my house after work. It is supposed to be sunny and nice and I will get out of my head with Astrid, TJ and Shannon. Likely we will sing those same old songs and stick our testicles in the cold cold water. I wonder if I could get just my testicles baptized? Maybe just one? Holy Nuts of Chinchaga, bitch.

Double Time

2005-07-12T12:12:00.000-06:00

I'm tired all the time. Burning the candle from both ends so to speak. I'm averaging less than five hours of sleep a night and have lost the ability to grab cat naps here and there. Can't shut it off.
We've gotten two bedrooms painted and with any luck will be done enough of the house so that we can move in this weekend. TJ is going to help me build a book case of Herculean proportions this weekend as well as a couple of nice rails for the stair wells. We are probably kind of crazy to put this much work into a house we are renting but it seems worth it since it will be home for the next year at least.
Even though spring has passed I'm horny as hell, so do me a favour and touch your toes.

Mommy, you killed me.

2005-07-11T01:04:00.000-06:00

Yikes!
http://www.showandtellmusic.com/pages/galleries/gallery_l/lilmarkie.html

Demolition Fever

2005-07-08T00:39:00.000-06:00

It has been a week of work and work. Here are the pics I promised of my new home in its present state of deconstruction. This weekend the lids come off and some colour will be inflicted. I'd write more but i have a carpet tack in my thumb and a litre of wine in my belly. God Bless.

Fuck Around

2005-07-02T17:54:00.000-06:00

I have been living the life of an emotional schizophrenic this past couple of weeks with good highs and tearful lows. I won't get into the details but suffice to say a fork in the river appeared over the bow and I held the craft steadily to the West only to realize at the ninth hour that I should have been going East. It is hard to paddle back up a river and even harder when you don't have a map to confirm any decision with certainty.

Enough of the metaphors. Astrid and I have rented a house three blocks from where we live now. It is wonderful. It is big and it is expensive and it is only half a block away from the mighty bow. We have three bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a huge garden, greenhouse, smokehouse, wood burning stove and all the amenities that make being a westerner tolerable. The landlord is angelic and will pay for anything we would like to do the house, which at this point includes ripping up all the old carpet throughout the house to expose hardwood floors, removing all wallpaper and getting funky with paint. I will post pictures to show ya'll the evolution. I suspect it will be home for the next year to come at the least and you are all invited to come out and eat valium, float down the river and feel welcome and wonderful.

Keith Turpin, you happy sexy man, this post is for you buddy.

2005-06-29T00:24:00.000-06:00

The Might Bow

2005-06-28T23:13:00.000-06:00