MONDO, the magazine I edit at school got a promo copy of this album from Three Gut Records (thanks to Josh our promotions manager). I’m listening to it right now for the first time. Out the window it's raining on Bathurst Street and the world moves with a kind of harmony we normally attribute to a God or movies. An ambulance sirens past and a cello swells and I can smell the cookie store downstairs like I’m ten and my mom has the day off. Water and oil stains make washed-out blue and yellow abstracts in a parking space frame outside my window. I can imagine my laundry in the laundromat next door flopping and spinning in a waterlogged cylinder. I can hear the neon red “After Dark Video” sign buzzing across the street. The wet sloshes and slaps, the intermittent zaps, they’re accompaniment to the acoustic guitar, friendly string arrangements, and Jim Guthrie’s innocent voice. It all makes sense and I feel like I can just curl up foetal on my couch and live the rest of my life in a world where the air itself is a thick smoke of nostalgia, hope, and contentment. Here I go.

I read about myself in Evan's dream, and I came off as a bit of an asshole. Refusing to explain the rules and whatnot.

But, in my defence, I'd like to point out that characters in dreams are merely mental projections of aspects of our own self.

So it's really Evan who's the asshole.

He may have woken up before we showed our cards, but I was holding a royal flush in spades. Sucker.

-Trevor

P.S. I'd also like to point out that characters in reality are merely mental projections of aspects of our own self.

I led my horse to water,
but I guess he wasn't thirsty.
So I led him to the wine barrel instead.

He liked that much better.
I guess horses are people too.

I went through my journal to find some awesome and/or jumbo tidbits to share. And I read "when did I start having memories like this?"

And it's a good point. When did I start having memories like this? When I wrote it, I was just feeling a bit old, but on reflection it's a more profound question. When do we start being who we are?

The easy answer is when we're born, but even birth is just a transition. We are alive in the womb, and for a time we breathe our mothers' air and eat our mothers' food. The buddhists ask "What was your original face?"

Last night I was laying in bed with my eyes half closed and I imagined death. A fork in the stomach, or a fall from a ladder. It's not so far-fetched.

And sometimes, if we're going to get right down to it, it seems like the easiest path. After all, I'm starting to believe that our bodies are temporary resting places of the soul. We are caught up in our birth and our death and all that falls between them, blind to the universe that exists beyond train schedules and apple fritters.

So why not just speed the process? Why not jump to the next stage in the journey?

That's where I was around 2:38AM.

And then a prfound understanding came. Love came. It's all that there is in our life that is good. It's all that our life is.

All the love we create is all the love we have. We are in this cycle for as long as we choose to be, and we choose to be here out of fear or out of love.

Our greatest power in this world is compassion. Not in an abstract sense. Compassion can create tangible change in the lives of those around us. We are all our own personal Jesus Christs. We are all saviours to the human race.

I was an atheist for most of my life, but last night as I lay with my eyes half-closed in bed a profound understanding came. Love came, and brought god with it.

-Trevor

What lies behind these eyes?
What lies behind this mind?

A glittering pool with
the plug pulled.

Dead leaves in a
concrete bucket
whipped about by
fickle winds.

Nothing is better than this.

All desire is suffering.

Because there is no time,
desires will never be
fulfilled.

Only by releasing ourselves
from desire can we truly be free.

Someday my parents will die,
and on that day no time
will ever have been enough
time, and I will suffer.

The only remedy is to release
the self and the ego and
live entirely in the moment.

Release time and you are
freed from the endless cycle
of birth and death.

Understand that what you see
is only the back end of a
wire.

Like a reverse mirror, the world
is reflected in me.

Gentlemen and ladies of the evening star trek the next generation X marks the spot the difference transformer which is more than meets the eye of of the tiger balm. Where do you go from balm? Anyway you slice it up over the rainbow sherbert lemons are good for making lemonade and I'm caught in a lemon loop it and I'll rhyme on top of old smokey voices in a sidewalk cafe on bourbon street fighters for liberty, equality and brotherhood of the wolf whistle stop campaign tour of duty free mumia from prison guards the money.

-Trevor

Fah Fah Prinkamoo

Beddle-Weddel Fankerplat

Soopel Morky Pimmle Plup

Regimoucious Pardomat

Splam Splam Trinkle Voo

Wikkimanic Dassaproo

Sesplant Tippol Farlashmit

Orpensingus Malamit

Far from me
to stand in the
way of a new word.

It's my duty to call them up because there are such
an extrordinary number of things without names yet. It'll
take a lifetime to get to them all.

There's a word born every minute, a thought every second or two.
Ideas can come in an hour, or take a lifetime to work through
There's no great hurry to get where you're going
Because you'll never get to stay.

But maybe I'll find a somewhere someday.

This is where I sleep.

My new favourite song is "Silent Sigh" by Badly Drawn Boy. Listen to it. Now.

On Friday night we played poker at our pal Mike's place across the street. Because Trevor and I are both Sopranos fans we insisted on calling it "The Executive Game" and enforcing a shirt and tie dress code. The plan was for everyone to bring a bottle of liquor, so that we would have a basic bar setup for the night. Then, the first person to fold in each round had to take drink orders for the rest of us. In hindsight, that gave people who were down on their luck a chance to mix strong drinks for the rest of the players in hopes of dulling their play. That's not a complaint, mind you, rather an unexpected bonus to the rule. Anyway, we all did as we were told and brought drinks to drink, but we didn't communicate what we'd bring ahead of time, so the bar was stocked exclusively with whiskey. Again that's not a complaint. It's sort of like going to a potluck where everyone brings shepherd's pie. Vegetarian shepherd's pie in my case.

I was the big winner because I doubled my money by the end of the game. That means I made ten dollars playing nickel-ante poker. Not too shabby. This morning I had a dream that I was playing poker with Trevor and two girls. I had a full house and was a hundred percent confident that I'd win the hand, but Trevor kept invoking obscure betting rules that he refused to explain. Nobody would tell me what the bet was at and I wanted to raise a lot, but I didn't know what chips were worth how much. I woke up before we had to show our cards.

Half way through the game on Friday Ryan from down the street dropped by. We sent him home to get dressed for the game. When he got home and his roommate said, "What? Was there no game?" Ryan answered, "There's a game. I just got turned away. There's a dress code." His roommate's response was, "Woah, Ryan, don't bet your rent." Even though we weren't actually playing for serious, it's nice to know the executive game facade did it's job.

On a completely different subject, I just sent an email to a friend that I started with a bad joke about a Pharoah that I returned to at the end to wrap things up. It made me feel good about my writing skills to conciously use a device like that... even if the joke was pretty lame. In the email I told her to visit this site. Hi, Ashley!

It's appropriate that Trevor posted that Brick Testament link, since school has been raining assignments on me like a biblical plague. That is my new excuse for not posting much. I intend to make up for it by shelling out my own clams for a digital camera. Soon we'll be throwing so many pictures up here we'll have to learn to juggle. In the meantime I've written a poem, as I do sometimes. When I wrote it I was thinking about an article I read about postmodernism. The article gave a poem as an example of postmodern writing, and I was in some ways trying to imitate that poem when I wrote this.

(Quick aside first, on the subject of postmodernism. Trevor and I (mostly Trevor) like to slag on it sometimes because, as a philosophy, it seems to be almost nihilistic in its denial of objective truth. That's fine, but the article I mentioned above was called "Postmodernism: the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism." If you understand postmodernism as a natural result of our stage of capitalism, then the real problem isn't the "ism" but the economic system it is a part of. I'm no socialist, but there has to be a better way to do things.)

(Another aside before the poem: Trevor got us iTunes and I think it kicks Winamp's ass six ways from Sunday.)

Now the poem:

Daddy

I went on down to Texas
and shot myself some guns.
I did so many push-ups
I grew hair on my lungs.

My dog his name is Giant
My car is painted black
My baby made me bacon
Her baby's name is Jack

Johnny Cash fucks Superman up the ass
Kennedy hunted snakes in Vietnam
Johnny Cash fucks Superman up the ass

My shoes are shined with gravy
My ass is tanned with pain
Your daddy was an outlaw
My daddy killed John Wayne


I'm unhappy with parts of it, but I think the essence is there.

Right now I'm listening to Anarchy in the UK sung by a Spanish punk band. What are you up to?

The Brick Testament

Wow. I wish there were words to describe how hilarious this website is. Unintentionally hilarious, I think, but then it's so damned funny I can't be sure.

The gospel told in lego?

Only the internet could come up with this.

The link above is to one of my favorite stills. Here are some other notables:
Jacob Wrestles God
John the Baptist
Reuben's Incest
Jacob Wrestles God Some More

That last one is my current windows background. Crack! It's like my computer is 50 cent or something.

-Trevor

In the beginning, there was The Trucker. And he was UnCool. And lo, the trucker did place upon his head a Trucker's Cap. And it was UnCool. Then did The Hipster look upon the Trucker's Cap and see that it was uncool. Yet inside his heart, he knew that, worn Ironically, the Trucker’s Cap would be come Hip. And thus was the Ironic Trucker’s Cap born, and it was Hip. Then came the time when the Trucker’s Cap had spread to the far corners of Hipdom, and lo was it taken upon the head of the King-of-All-That-Was-Hip, Farrell from the Neptunes. And these were the golden days of the Ironic Trucker’s Cap, when all who were Hip wore the Trucker’s Cap Ironically and those who were Not Hip would look with wonder and awe (and insecurity) at The Hipsters who would dare to be UnCool. Yet then did the leader of the UnCool, Justin Timberlake, take from his personal shopper a Trucker’s Cap. Holding the Trucker’s Cap in his hand, and thinking that Hipness was a uniform that he could wear, Justin Timberlake did place the Trucker’s Cap upon his head. And with the sound of a snowfall disappearing into the ocean, the Ironic Trucker’s Cap was extinguished from the world, and the UnIronic Trucker’s Cap was born. And it was UnCool. And the UnIronic did spread to the far corners of the Earth. And The Hipsters did mourn Its passing. Now, gazing upon the once again UnIronic, UnCool symbol of the Trucker’s Cap, did two hipsters realize the true possibility of the Double-Ironic Trucker’s Cap. What other item, they thought, has completed a cycle from UnHip, to Ironic-Hip to UnIronic-UnHip in so short a time? And in this cycle they saw the face of Hip, and understood their Divine Purpose. And so did they conceive of a party, wherein all would don the Trucker’s Cap one last time, but this time the Irony would be doubled. For the hipsters at the party would understand at the time they were wearing them that the Trucker’s Caps would be Ironically worn to make fun of those who UnIronically wear them thinking that it is Ironic. And so was a party called, and these words written, and your invitation sent. And suchly and thusly was the party a rip-roaring success, wherein all drank quite a lot and those who wished to get laid did so, and those who drank too much were not sick upon the carpet and the face of Hip was seen by all. Amen.

I had posession of the puck at the time of this "crash." Believe what you will.

-Trevor

...not neccessarily in that order

Trevor is not typing right now because he's drinking tequila. I was drinking tequila, but not as much. Here's why.

We invented a new game tonight!
Like most of our "inventions" it really just involves tagging booze onto an existing game; in this case, NHL 2004. Every goal let in by the virtual goalie equalled a real shot of tequila let into the belly of the scoree. By the psychological goalie of common sense if you like. I was up 3-2 when the game crashed and there was only 4 minutes left in the period, so it's safe to say that I am all that is man.

Trevor says "Yep. Evan was beating me like a small child or a helpless animal."
Not that I actually beat such things, but presumably Trevor's morals are relaxed by the drink.

Which brings me to this quote:

"I've probably written less than most theorists, but drank more than most drinkers." (or something like that.)
-Guy Debord.

I wanted to include that because it looks like a kind of light in the tunnel for me. A way to live my academic life without giving up rampant alchoholism and drug abuse. Debord's book has been in print pretty much constantly since it was published in the sixties while his organization, the Situationiste Internationale went down like a flaming glider into a swamp. I've been reading about them for an essay and these guys thought that everything was bullshit except for their ideas, the details of which I'll spare you right now. I'll probably descend into the mucky depths of intellectualism again, so I don't want to blow it all right off the bat.

Trevor says, "I think tequila is the bong hit of liquor."

Anyway, my pledge is that most of my self-indulgence will take place--like Debord, the Italian Futurists, Hemingway, and most geniuses of the modern era--when I'm drunk.


Here's another game, brought to you by the situationists:

Step 1: Get Drunk
Step 2: Walk around and get into trouble, meanwhile recording or at least remembering your experiences.
Step 3: Before you sober up, write about your walk. Make sure to steal as much jargon as possible from cultural theorists. If you don't have a background in cultural studies, no worries. A good theory dictionary isn't too expensive, and you don't have to read the definitions if you don't want to.
Step 4: Publish your article in a magazine that you are also the editor of. Be sure to insulate yourself from criticism by proclaiming all other modes of thought to be obsolete.
Step 5: Invent a title for your movement. Be sure to end it with the suffix, "ist".
Step 6: Drink more.

Congratulations! You're an intellectual radical!

Today I went to the Cincinnati Zoo and with the help of my mum's digital camera, I've managed to snap some shots of various interesting animals. Well, various animals anyway.

Just wait 'til I get to the bonobo.

First up, the glamorous entrance to the Cincinnati Zoo and Botanical Gardens. Gasp in shock and awe at the splendor:



Wow. Just... wow.

Ever notice how all zoos are basically the same? Does the zoo in your neighborhood have everything made out of wood and peacocks running around? Why is that? What the hell is with zoos and peacocks?

Right, on to the next picture.




Everyone's favorite: the orangutans! And no, it's not "Orangutangs!" There is no G! These ones were pretty boring, although I did manage to get the action climbing shot! Action! Climbing! (Work with me here, it's all I've got!)




The next monkey on the tour is even hipper than I am!

Man, look at that mohawk! He should get an endorsement deal from Dep Gel! Or even better his own product line. I'm so jealous of the hair.

I just don't get it, how can that monkey be cooler than me? It doesn't make sense!

(By the way, if you're seeing double, it's not the picture. Just close one eye and look again.)





We also saw those crazy big-eared freaks with the big noses. No, not the Royal Family, stupid! The ELEPHANTS! Or hephalumps as Winnie the Poo used to call them. (Yeah, I read Winnie the Poo when I was younger, whatcha gonna do about it huh? What up G? Yeah, I didn't think so!)

They were being fed at the time, so we got to see them eat. Why is that a big deal at the zoo? I mean, if I wanted to watch animals eat I could head down to McDonalds.

I think it's because most of the animals at the zoo just lay around all day waiting for some food. Feeding time is the only time when they actually do anything.

Before the trainers fed the elephants they made one of them lift up one leg, I guess it's part of reinforcing their training. I don't think the elephant minded too much, but they must think us humans are just frickin' nuts.

"Uhh, yeah sure I'll wave my foot around, whatever you say crazy man!"

The last two pictures are a bit risque, so watch out!





How many primates are in this picture? There's really no way to tell. Maybe they're all huddled together for warmth, but my theory is that they're all tired out after a big Lemur orgy of some kind. Lucky bastards.



Last but not least, I am overjoyed to bring to you from the deepest jungles of Africa, the greatest primate to ever walk the face of the earth! The most amazing spectacle of animal ingenuity! I present to you, THE SELF-PLEASURING BONOBO!



The bonobos are the closest genetic relatives to humans. You can tell by the ingenious way that they use tools--like using a heavy rock to crack open nuts for example, or using a twig to get termites out of termite mound, or using a large orange ball to stimulate their genitals.

Yeah, you read that right.

This enterprising primate rolled an big orange ball up against a stump and proceeded to enthusiastically bounce his balls against it. He did it for as long as we watched, taking periodic breaks to, errrr... take matters into his own hands.

"Look mom! He's scratching his bum!" observed one toddler as he was being shepherded away from the window by a thoroughly dismayed mother.

If only that were true.

Well, there you have it, a virtual trip to the Cincinnati zoo.

Only a few days left in Crazyland. How I miss reading about hockey in the newspaper, spelling color with a u and not worrying that I might be turned away from a hospital after my arm has been severed because the president of my HMO embezzeled all of the money and moved to a non-extradition-treaty country.

And the girls--Cincinnati isn't close enough to the east coast for the hot, rich boston types, nor far enough south for southern belles nor mid-west enough for those hot farm-girl types. Just fat, fat ugly people. Oh Canada, I yearn for thee!

-Trevor

Watchmedance.com

AMERICANS ARE WAY FATTER THAN CANADIANS.

If there are any Americans reading this, I apologize for being unable to find a nicer way to say that. But it's true.

I think it has something to do with the King-Kong-scale portions here. You don't order a half-rack of ribs here, you order half of the cow. And everything's got sugar in it... lots of sugar = lots of insulin in the bloodstream = lots of proteins turned into fat.

It's nothing new I suppose. The empire is crumbling from within and the signs are too numerous to count.

16 soldiers were killed in Iraq today. 2.73 billion gallons of oil were burned around the world. Tonight, I played X-box live for a bit, and now I'm typing on the internet.

I feel strangely at home down here, in the land of a million channels and equal opportunity (Unless you're black or hispanic, or well, not-white.) I guess it's just so featureless and midwestern I could be just about anywhere. The city lacks any kind of cultural center, so everyone just dresses in strip-mall fashions. Lots of Gap. Lots of Abercrombie. Lots of khakis and check shirts. Lots of Tommy Hilfigger. Lots of me shuddering as people waddle past.

It's like plato's cave here. There is real fashion out there somewhere, and real culture, but all you can see in Cincinnati are the shadows of New York cast by the bright plastic sunshine of Los Angeles.

Speaking of Fashion, my mom's suggested I get my hair cut while I'm here. I can't tell if it's a good idea or not. I've got the hipster mop-top happening, and I'm worried that if I let any of these midwestern barber types near me, I'll come out looking like The Beav. But then I think, maybe that could be ultra-hip. So uncool it's cool. The trucker cap of hair!

Or I could just look like The Beav.

Or I could look like I'm wearing a beaver on my head.

I think I'll wait 'til I'm back in Canada.

-Trevor

P.S. Thank buddha Mike Harris is staying out of politics. I really didn't want to have to assasinate him, and it was starting to look like the only option.

P.P.S. Someone tell my roommate (the writer) to start writing some material for this site. So far, he's been pretty slack.