Monday, April 27, 2009

An Open Letter To Barb and Joan Concerning Their Ongoing Refusal To Let Me Have a Pet Monkey

Throughout history, many important men have owned pet monkeys. When Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to that church door in Wittenberg, he did so with a chimp named Brendan at his side.
Sir Winston Churchill would unwind after a long day of inspiring Britons during The Blitz with a cigar, a snifter of brandy and a Barbary Ape named, ironically, Adolph.
Abraham Lincoln had a spider monkey named Herb. Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves. Ergo, if you don't let me have a pet monkey, you are pro-slavery.
It is simple, unassailable logic.
Also, many great fictional characters had monkey pets/friends. The Clint Eastwood character had Clyde in Any Which Way But Loose. Homer had Mojo in an episode of The Simpsons. Ross had a hairy, inhuman partner in Friends. Plus he also had Maurice the Monkey.
As you know from the last bachelor party I threw, I am not an unreasonable man. All firearms were discharged out of doors with one execption -- and I maintain that instance was the fault of flaming sambuca, a tray of butter tarts and the Mayor's sudden pantlessness. So I am willing to compromise and allow any pet simians I may own to be trained as helper monkeys. This would be a great help to you, Barbara, as you are ... ahem ... frequently incapacitated by grape-based beverages.
And Joan ... well ... you're no spring chicken.
We are also frequently plagued by black-outs in this area. For entertainment, we have to resort to board games by candlelight and listening the CBC on a battery powered radio. If I had a pet monkey, however, we could get him loaded for our amusement.
Drunk Monkey is incredibly fun to say. Try it now. Say it with me ... drunk monkey ... that WAS fun, wasn't it? I think it may be the double "unk" sound.
I'll wager my last pair of clean underpants that an actual drunken money would be one hundred times more fun. We could watch him reel around the room, confused by his condition. We could watch him swing from light fixtures, wearing a lampshade as a hat in a humourous fashion. We could watch him sit and stare forlornly into his drink, beating himself up with bitter self-recriminations of lost love, wasted talent and failed opportunities.
In short, Barb and Joan, it would be sheer folly NOT to let me have a pet monkey. I shall name him Hilton Langley.
And I promise to clean up any feces he may fling -- after it dries up and becomes more manageable.

P.S. I've missed you too, dear reader. I've been working like a dog lately. A Border Collie, in fact, who rounds up theatre patrons, removes their drinks from their hands (ironic, no?) and makes them sit down and enjoy a show.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Poseur Meets Author, Acts Like Dickweed

I really like Paul Quarrington.

He wrote some of my favorite books -- King Leary, Logan In Overtime and Whale Music ("the greatest rock'n'roll novel ever written" according to Penthouse magazine.)
He is also a fine song-writer and a better than average guitar player.

He also seemed like the sort of guy who could sit down and have a drink without rubbing your face in the fact that he has released two albums and written ten novels, five books of non-fiction and five plays. He never seems to mention that you have pissed away any talent you once had and now publish your drunken nonsense, desperate for attention, on a free blog.

So I was really happy when Barb phoned to say she had tickets to see Quarrington play some songs and practice his racounteering ( ... racounteermanship? ... racounteerism? I don't know the exact word.) in a small space during the local comedy festival.

Quarrington played two sets of the songs he wrote and sang for the band Porkbelly Futures. He was amiable and amusing. He sang the first folk song about the pornography industry and works The Friendly Giant into one of his songs.

I was kind of excited to approach him and buy his latest book, The Ravine after his performance - until Barb's enthusiasm and my studied lack of enthusiasm kicked in.

At this point, I revert to verbatim quotations:

Brian: I'd like to buy a copy of your latest ...

Barb: Brian is such a fan of yours. He is so excited to meet you!

Brian: Well ... a fan ... yeah ... I guess ... more a guy who thinks you can turn a phrase real ... good.

Paul: Umm ...

Barb: Brian owns all of your books.

Brian: Well ... I own some of your books ... you know ... the good ones ... plus Civilization ... I bought them at thrift stores so you actually didn't get any ...

Paul: Thanks, I guess I ...

Barb: I always do this. I'm going to step aside and let Brian talk.

Brian: Thanks, honey. Why do you act like I am a deaf mute?

Paul: Do you want me to sign it? It that Brian with an 'i' ?

Brian: Umm ...

18 second pause

Barb: Yes. It's Brian with an 'i'.

Brian: err ... Thanks.

Which probably explains the inscription in my book - which cost $19.95 and for which I let him keep the nickel!

To Bryan, Quit trying so hard ... Paul Quarrington.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Andrea and Dave's Baby Just Got Here

Welcome to the world Baby Girl (name pending until the poll to the right closes) Jefferies.
Those looking for my trademarked smart-assery ... move along.
Nothing to see here.

Kurt Cobain R.I.P.

Kurt Cobain killed himself fifteen years ago today.
Do you remember where you were? I remember where I was ... living in a basement apartment, trying to make a living.
Seriously, buddy ... you could have taken your money and fucked off to a South Pacific island. Leaving a child in the care of Courtney Love makes you a bigger douche bag than the 'jock' fans who 'didn't get it' you were constantly complaining about.
I understand chronic pain -- but you just drink and pill yourself through it. It can be fun. There is an upside. Self medication shouldn't involve a shotgun.
I love Nirvana's music -- it really inspired me as a youngster -- but seriously Kurt ...
You should have stuck around so people like myself could have called you over-played and over-rated and wrote that you should have packed it in after In Utero.

That said ... Sorry you felt you had to off yourself. You are missed.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Twitter - Threat or Menace?

I realize I am late to the party but I have become mildly obsessed with Twitter.

Many pundits have condemned Twittering as the death of literate conversation.
I call shenanigans and suggest said pundits may have a vested interest in overly long verbiage which wastes time and burns up precious, precious word counts by which many -- both aspiring and professional -- writers are paid handsome, handsome sums.


I'd have been paid anywhere between fifty cents and two dollars for typing RUSTY TROMBONE from any reputable journal. It means nothing except for a quick way to earn enough for one of those newfangled coffee drinks.


Another Starbuck's latte coffee drink.

Most writing contains too many needless words. The reason I can't get through the first page of James Joyce's 'Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man" is -- not my limited attention span -- but the fact it should have been called ''young man artist pic LOL'

The fact I am getting practice at cutting my thoughts down to 140 characters will spare you, gentle reader, several precious seconds of your life. The fact that I have to cut my thoughts down to 140 characters (including spaces) per post spends more minutes of my life than most non-writers would believe.

I love the fact I can write real time reviews of movies/TV shows/music I am listening to at the moment. Mona Lisa Smile sucks!

The only drawback is I no longer get paid for spouting my ill-informed opinions ... Hey wait ...

If you read this ... Please send me three dollars and twenty-five cents.

It is only fair.