Notes for Recliners

I am most comfortable when I am lying on my side - preferably with something enjoyable to watch in front of me. To avoid injuring my armpit, I try to keep the ashtray away from the couch. When you live this way, you can easily lose track of time. This is because you have failed to rotate your clock face by ninety degrees. (In the case of digital, you have failed to stand the clock - or stove - up on its side.) And, sorry to disappoint you, but tilting the monitor upside down does not make the girls' clothes fall off, no matter how hard and frantically you shake it. If you're handy with tools you can put your couch on wheels and never once have to stand on your feet. You can be lying on the floor when the wheel delivery boy comes and get him to slide them under the door for you. Then, as long as your job is on a downhill incline from where you live, you can at least make it in for the first day. You're liable to attract a lot of women around you with all your lounging. Be careful they don't get in too close where they can kick you off the couch. They can have strong legs. People like me sound like they're having orgies in their house all the time but they are only defending their place on the couch from ferocious, lazy women. If you keep trying, eventually your bed evolves to take on couch functions. It offers, swimming, ski-dooing and co-ed mud wrestling, as well as turning itself into a dirigible in the event of a collision.
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My Rebuttal

For the sake of writing something new, I'll talk about what a great visit I had to a fucking place I've never been before. How's that? Oh, that visit to Los Angeles for my world concert. They took all the people who recognize me on the street here and jammed them all into two football stadiums. I mounted the camera behind me at waist level, dropped my drawers, and devoted my left cheek to the first stadium and my other cheek to the other stadium. Then for the encore I turned around. [I hope readers will see this blog in the context of the troubling time in which it was written. Sorry if it offended.]
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Granny, Get Your Gun

Well, ya know, I been bloggin from the time I was a-bouncin up and down on my grand daddy's wooden leg. Bloggin and a -bouncin and splinterin', too, by jingos! And if I got a splinter in my ball bag, I'd yell just like an old dog. And then that's when granny would come by with the healin compound. And she'd shake it all up and get it all fizzin and then drink it all down and punch me in the liver to take my mind offn' the pain. And if she were here today, she'd take five valiums and guzzle half a micky of brandy and say, 'Where's my house?' But then, afterwards, she'd say, 'What did you do, boy, to drag me back up out of Whitby?' And I'd have to say, 'Well, granny, I wrote a blog and it wasn't interesting enough.' And then she'd say, 'What's a blog?' And then I'd say, 'It's like a telegram, except without paper, ink, or horses.' And then she'd say, 'Sounds to me like you have no life.'
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Webcam that I Am

Hi peoples. How are you? I am fine. I called the computer helpers today, so I could get my new webcam hooked up. It seems to be working, but it's still stuck on voyeur setting. They sent me some instructions to follow. Step one was to click the utilities folder. That's as far as I needed to go! I hope you will be patient with me until I get this gadget under control. It tried to kiss me earlier and it keeps dropping stuff on the floor to make me bend over.
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The Time I Quit Smoking

I quit smoking for a spell back when I had an S.O.R. - uh - close to Gastown. I substituted my habit with shooting baskets in the park. My friend had no confidence in my resolve. But I can be surprisingly stubborn and proud. I knew the cameras were watching our every move down there. I didn't want to be caught stooping for a stinky old butt - maybe trying to hide it by pretending my laces need tying. The first week was the hardest. Cold turkey. No patch. No gum. Much coughing. Skin tone greenish. Facial expression unhappy. The doctor told me I was doing fine and gave me aspirins. Then around day five I noticed this butt on the stairs as I was heading up for my room one morning. I kept going right by it, but I remembered it. A few hours later I had to bring my trash down and I saw it was still there. Again I dismissed it with a chuckle. At 2:45 the next am I opened my door quietly and checked to see no one was in the hall. Stealthily in the dim I made my way back to the stairs. There my prize lay gleaming beneath me in the distance. Just a few steps to salvation. Tweezer like, my hand went out helplessly. Moments later I was back in my room, thinking myself quite the cunning fellow. I was about to sneak a smoke when everyone thought I quit! I pinched it between the thumbs and index fingers of both hands but it was packed in tight. I squeezed and squeezed. And grunted. Then when it burst open its foulness exploded about the whole room, almost knocking me to the floor. Its tobacco was scattered and I would proceed weedless. I stayed a non-smoker for several months afterwards, much to my friend's chagrin - for he could only thereafter think of me as a tobacco debutante rather than an all out addict. When I quit quitting smoking, it was only after I could again afford it, and I remember it took willpower for me to ask for my brand at the corner store.
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What Happens

Just remembered the nice things I wanted to say about other performers, no matter what genre. They can't help wanting to share their songs. It's an irresistible urge within them. And then they make it. And they are like gods. Then everyone suddenly shifts their attention to a poor puppy trapped in a well, leaving them jonesing desperately for their attention fix. So they blow their cool and say something against the puppy. And, next thing you know, they end up parking cars. (Wait a minute...)
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Forklift of Fear

Heavy equipment makes the world go round, but with the wrong operator, a forklift for good becomes a forklift of fear. Its puttering strikes terror into your heart. Its forks are like evil prongs, watching sometimes under and sometimes over you like a cruel taskmaster, ready to sneak up and poke you in the solar plexus if you make one false move.
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My Faux Pas

Remembering being caught wearing another man's coat under my own reminded me of the time I puked on everyone's coat at the college Christmas party. They had it at my place. The theme was bad hits. Everyone had to bring one. I had a cool place in the top two floors of an old Victorian mansion on a hill. I am not a drinker, but I thought I was back then. As I took my guests' coats and laid them on my bed, I was nursing a forty of vodka, straight from the bottle. I think the tune was 'Shut Upaya Face' that forced me out of the living room and into my bed. There was some blind rolling around, and the feint sensation of a compassionate handjob - by someone else's hand - and then the ceiling started to spin. I passed out and when I came to, it was because my guests needed to collect their jackets.
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Gentle-what?

Communication skills are one thing that, according to theory, sets me apart a bit from other males. To some it may even have had the effect of feminizing me somewhat. But being indoors and cutting out cardboard cartoon ballerinas of my own creation makes up for it. A theory I saw on the workings of the female mind states that women exceed men in language skills. So office work isn't so inappropriate for them after all. Women also dream in colour. (Or am I out of date on that?) This would be another feminine characteristic of mine, I'm afraid. When I think of how gentle I am it makes me want to bash someone's head in.
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Drawn from Memory

As soon as I hit my teens, I changed dramatically. I started rejecting trends. I don't know why this happened. It was the 80's and I just could not get into the music. Except for heavy metal and a few clever bands like The Romantics and The Police (You see, 'doo-doo-doo-doo' is far more innovative than 'baby baby'), it didn't rock enough. The trend that peer pressure dictated to me in High School was preppy. It was sort of formal attire with Huey Lewis playing in the background. I hated it. I adopted it once, briefly, to gain a girl's attention. (And one other time to avoid an argument with the football team. Their uniforms had optional leather ties.) Besides being unable to find the part in my hair, I was awkward physically and had trouble dancing. I was bad on the basketball team at first, too, but the next year I did very well. But I rejected dancing. Someone made a comment about how I looked like I was running on the spot. That was it. And I continue to reject it and sit stoically at the bar. To me it appeared strange. (Group dancing. Not strippers.) On the other hand, I was jealous of the ones on the dance floor because they were having fun. Not dancing held me back probably. Preppy girls usually didn't like me. (But punk girls accepted me if I could ever meet one.) When I look back on the 80's, I think mostly of bands that came before. It might also have been the influence of older siblings. I was far less articulate then; almost to the point of embarrassment - though I hid this so well with pretentious diction that I'm surprised I didn't end up writing political speeches or advertising copy instead of attempted truth. It took me a few dozen well chosen books and a lot of years to get to the level I'm at now. So if you're young and struggling to turn a good phrase, just keep trying. And read good books. I was a reject and I don't feel a bit ashamed of it. I looked at school as a joke. I wanted to enjoy my life. Computers were there and video games, but they were more primitive. I showed some talent for computer programming in my class. I could draw well and that made me stand out in a good way. But then that was the first time when people would come up to me and say, 'What are you doing here? You should be out drawing!'
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Idiocy

Having just looked up Freud's definition of the id, I find myself laughing: 'uncoordinated, instinctual trends' within the human mind. It is nervous laughter. It suggests that we are slaves to our behaviour patterns. I reluctantly agree. My observations have proven to me that we submit to our instincts for much of our decision making. We don't think about it. We like something. We don't know why and we gravitate toward it helplessly. Like me and GarageBand. The more frightening side comes from contemplating mass behaviour. Uncoordinated, instinctual mass behaviour. Like witch burning and lynching and guillotining and tea bagging without using Red Rose tea bags. And atheist stoning possibly - depending.
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Truth Be Bold

I believe it is important not to confuse anger with righteous indignation. This would be Aristotle again. He makes a distinction between hostile dumbfuckery and legitimate grievances. There is a big difference. Someone might look bad, but put yourself in his shoes first and ask yourself how you'd take it. Maybe you'd blow your brains out ten times over before you got that far.
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Bad Memories/Zoo

I recall the time a female orangutan named Josephine lunged towards me at the zoo. She startled me, but I didn't yelp. The glass at that zoo was almost invisible. I had my face in close. Then she just came out of nowhere and stuck her lips right up to the glass where my face was. And when I glanced into her eyes I saw something more terrible than love.
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Androcles's Lion and the Dentist

I'm very happy with the last dentist who treated me. He took away my pain. This wisdom tooth had to be the most agonizing experience I've had in the last few years. I suffered for months with it. It kept tricking me. It would have me punching the walls to build the adrenaline to fight it, then it would lapse and I'd forget the pain, and remember my fear of dentists. (Possibly from seeing Marathon Man as a child.) My rescuer turned out to be an immigrant gentleman, hairy armed, with a Middle Eastern appearance and accent. (I could be wrong about that accent.) The fee was eighty dollars for a new patient. I was no longer in a position to stall for a better deal. I sat nervously in the chair and asked him if he was going to put me under for the job. He laughed. He said it could be done with freezing. I asked him to use as many needles as possible. He complied. I would recommend a dentist with strong arms for this procedure. I caught him grunting a few times through it. And he wasn't weak looking. But it only took a few minutes. And I didn't feel a thing. My jaw just got a bit sore from being opened so wide. I was so happy when he finished I could have kissed him. Got a card from him a while ago. Time for my checkup soon.
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Road Hazards

Back in '88 Amsterdam seemed a lot like Vancouver. It had a lot of addicts. When you have too many addicts around, you can't trust a stranger. If you're a tourist who's run out of money, look out. Asking for help can lead to worse trouble. When I ran up to the stranger on the street and asked him to let me walk alongside him for a minute to shake off a couple street people who wanted to stab me, I wasn't making it up. When I asked the bartender if he'd let me in the washroom for a drink of tap water (which he refused to serve me in the bar), I did not expect to end up locked in there for half an hour. Addicts think they're not hurting anyone but themselves. But they're wrong. And if there's one thing that pisses me off, it's when people who cause others harm think they're innocent. Everyone's hooked on something or other, I'm guessing, but it depends on the level of damage. Breaking trust with people over insane drug debts is a downer for everyone because no one can trust a stranger. Everyone has a harder time trusting each other and making friends. Whereas I know my addictions hurt others. So there. And I feel pretty damn lousy about it now that I think of it. I hope you're happy.
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Being Where?

I do not watch TV. I do not listen to the radio at home. I get all my entertainment from the internet. I'm wondering how difficult this might be for others. It's always been easy for me. I am a fountain of ideas. To get started with an internet search, you must have an idea. To conduct a web search, you need either typing skill or typing patience. You must know how to use Google to find videos. They're not all on YouTube. With my internet connection, I can access all of the programs I used to like. (All four of them.) And I can also time travel back to the days of my youth. It's a win/win situation! I might spend a week or so marathoning through a favourite series, then switch over to documentaries for a while, then cartoons. I'm usually happy with this setup. Sometimes I fear I depend too much on my computer. Sometimes I wonder how pitiful one might look stationed constantly in front of his computer. How small and pathetic. But then I look into the face of my monitor and I just know everything is going to be all right. Being There is a story by Jerzy Kosinski. (That's the author's name. Just thought I'd include that. Someone's got to do it.) It's a quick read, but it casts a redeeming light on the television viewers, or, in my case, internet television viewers. The movie wasn't bad either.
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Wall of Confusion

I'm capable of visual art as well as music. When I'm focused on one, the other is compromised. Nowhere can this be more clear than in my YouTube videos. Once the song is finished, I feel like my work is done. I urgently want to share it, so I grab the first jpeg image that suits it in a half-assed way and that's it. In fairness to myself, some of my favourite videos are like that. I only watch them for the sound. But if I had more time to try to fit the volumes of songs that I've been writing all my life, I would have no shortage of ideas for their visual presentation. I even have an idea for the next one. I could simply illustrate each line of the lyrics and put them on the corresponding frames in the imovie. Then it would be 100% original. And look out, world! For my next composition I was thinking of layering ten heavy metal guitars on a simultaneous E riff. With fourteen basses backing them up. No feedback protection. I call it, 'Blanket of Guitars.' The best way to visualize such a sound, I think, is to start with a detailed image of a herd of dinosaurs. Each video frame need only be a section of the picture, and should vibrate from side to side along with the music. But all the best dinosaur pictures are from Flintstone cartoons. And, well, it upsets me more than it confuses me. That's right.
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Constructive Anger

If you want to know why those labourers and construction workers can sometimes be a little course, I have a theory that may explain it. I got the idea after reading a book on the chemical workings of the amygdala; the emotional brain. The amygdala is small, only about the size of an acorn. It lies in the centre of the brain, much like the core of an apple - as I imagine it. It regulates production of the various chemicals that produce our moods. It serves to flood the system with whatever chemical is needed to produce an appropriate emotional response to a situation. It has veto power over the higher reasoning areas, which is why our emotions can often come into conflict with our thoughts. If you are in a situation that requires physical strength, the best way to get it is to get mad. If you can't budge a heavy object, you may become upset and thereby collect the required dosage of adrenaline to accomplish the task. Over time this may become a solid pattern of behaviour. Adrenaline infuses one with power. When I am angry, I feel powerful. I can sense the fear of those around me. Therefore, the risk of addiction to one's own adrenaline seems likely. To be constantly angry is to be constantly using your brain in the least efficient manner. Find a stimulating hobby to counter this if necessary. The reason anger produces adrenaline goes back to The Old Testament. In those days we didn't have bombs or guns to do our killing for us. We had to do it with our hands. (In the case of dogs, however, they continue to use their mouths.) And if enemy tribes weren't threatening enough, back before Noah's Ark, there were all those surprise unicorn attacks. That's how fear came to produce adrenaline. Of course, it's only a theory. And I have many theories. Few if any have I put into practice without regret. And I'm pissed off about it. You better believe it. I'm holding up a Buick with one hand as I'm typing this.
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Potty Mouth

I can't remember how I wrote about Freud last time. I hope it's different this time. Tell you the truth, I don't know much about him. Only glanced at some of his writings. But I know, like most people, that he invented psychiatry and pioneered dream interpretation way back in the late nineteenth century. Some don't like him. I've noticed, within my circles, that such people tend to use too much starch in their laundry. It gives them a kind of forced, uneasy gait - as though they were perpetually constipated. I'm don't understand the connection, myself. Better consult Jung. Freud had a gift, I think. He knew the human mind. He was able to penetrate the outer shell of a person and see the beast inside. I can only assume he took his initial findings from his own mind. He must have been comfortable enough with those depraved thoughts that rear themselves so shockingly every now and then; those random, 'dirty' thoughts which children are made to feel ashamed of. We humans are all crazy. We needed a man like Freud to sort it all out for us; to remind us that we are half animal. While we may strive for the sublime, we do so in the bodies of primates. I used to have one of his books on dream interpretation. As a youngster, I made the error of using it to try to help my mother analyze something. She staunchly (and punitively) disagreed with my hypothesis. Out went that book. Next best thing I could find was my brother's stash of magazines. Knowing we are half animal shouldn't be so threatening. It's a nice way to keep perspective. The only ones who would be threatened are the ones who mistakenly believe that we are not half animal. (You might also notice they have no bathrooms in their house. This may explain the funny walk.) Not me. I still have to go. Even with Freud telling me it's all right, I still find it humiliating. And stinky. And I'm pissed off about it. Yeah, that's right.
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Doctor Hyde

You ever meet one of those soft spoken types who turns into Charles Manson after a few drinks? If so, I pity you. I just came back from a meeting with one. When he is sober, he is polite, attentive, and very kind. You can witness his transformation if you sit across from him for an hour. You can measure it by how much liquid remains in the bottle on the table. It's a classic case of suppressed grievances. If this fool would ever have learned to allow his drunken thoughts more into his sober world, he'd be much funner to drink with. I hate hearing people say, 'It was the booze talking.' No, the booze got YOU talking. It got you talking about things you feel you can't bring up when you are sober. Maybe if you adopted some of these drunken positions in your general affairs with people, you wouldn't need to drink. The irony of these characters is that they must be afraid of confronting people with unpleasant information, in order for them to build up their grievances to a volatile level. The last thing they want to do when they're sober is the first thing they want to do when they are drunk. I'm aware that the approach I'm suggesting would cost the sober side of such an individual some of its appeal, but the result would be a more consistent personality overall. That includes when he's celebrating his weekend.
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Fonty Python

Well, my font has changed on me and this stupid machine won't let me know how to get it back, except to take me all the way to the very last step and leave me uninformed from there. I wanted to write about something else but this is too distracting. It's too upsetting when I lose my font. I can't swear properly without those nice serifs on the capital letters. Watch. FUCKIN GALL DAMM SUN UH FA BLITCH! See? I left the 'g' off of 'fucking.'
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Comedic Justice

People who use my words. Oh, go right ahead! Don't mind me! When I'm hearing it come back to me through the radio or the TV, I'll just think, 'Oh my! Imitation is the highest form of flattery!' I won't be thinking about the cuts and bruises that gave rise to those words. I won't be wondering how much a writer who doesn't suffer enough can get paid to use them. Or about how ill fitting my life experience looks on strangers. Or about how much attention they are getting at my expense. Or even of how much love they might be getting at my expense, while I rot away alone in my apartment. I've learned to avoid such thoughts. They are a dead-end path to a blood spattered crime scene.
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Rudiments of Knowledge

I'm going to have to keep these posts as angry as possible, that they fit with the blog title. The other blog will be for more philosophic fits of rage. Pure rage is far from philosophic. You know why Socrates never got printed? He had way too many cuss words in his theories. In fact, the first words he could ever produce on any theory were 'Holy fucking fuck!' and he'd keep writing it over and over until great ideas would come out of it. For instance, the second holy fucking fuck might be misspelled, causing him to both question the intricacies of language and to write 'God Damn Fucking Spelling Errors!' He got the idea for capitalism while he was capitalizing the phrase, 'FUCKING CRIMINAL GANGSTER PIRATE MOTHERFUCKERS!' Plato had to go over all these writings after and edit them. Otherwise we'd all have to say we live in a shitocracy and we'd have a prime dumbfuck instead of a prime minister. The only remaining vestige of Socrates's influence is swearing on the Bible.
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