He's Troubled ... But I Can Save Him. Part II: Mushrooms, Mushrooms, Everywhere but Not a Drop to Drink

As a responsible adult I'm not advocating the use of Magic Mushrooms.

As a realist I'm not advocating mixing a batch of them into Campbell's (non-magic) Mushroom Soup and walking the streets of Toronto for nine hours with Slappy and Spanky (not their real names as they lead semi-respectable lives these days).

You know those times when you just have to load up on British Columbian 'shrooms just to shake the cobwebs out?
No? Then go to Hell.
Don't you dare judge me -- if you haven't done this yourself you shouldn't be reading this blog.

Back to the point. Where was I? Oh, yes ... please understand, Slappy and Spanky can never agree on anything. In fact, the only thing I can ever remember them agreeing upon was that we should ingest wood-chippy halucinogenics and wander aimlessly one Saturday afternoon. Once everyone had agreed on THAT basic concept, all unity and harmony flew out the window.

That said, I'll offer a few tips on coping with a halucinogenic walking tour of Canada's biggest city.

Once you exit the building in which you've ingested the above mushrooms, you may feel the urge to look up at the CN Tower and comment that it looks like a big wang.
This is natural.
Feel free to giggle.
No one looks twice at a Toronto street giggler.
Please refrain from lying on your back on the sidewalk, looking up, and snickering, "huh huh huh ... big Toronto wang. Heh, Wangy".
It not only disconcerts the locals ... It really hurts tourism.

As you make your way towards wherever Slappy and Spanky lead you -- be prepared. There will be some sort of Hobo Jungle. In happens in all major cities. Please do not taunt the hobos or offer them whisky that you can not provide. There but for the grace of God -- and the lack of a Conservative majority government -- go you. Don't be such a prick.

These knobs who have filled your head with bad, bad drugs, will walk down the Cherry Beach rent boy stroll. As a confirmed hetrosexualist, don't take that walk with imaginary voices jabbering in your head unless:

a.) You are REALLY secure about your masculinity

...or...

b.) You REALLY need the money

Fellas will be cruising and whistling at you.
If you're Straight? Be cool. Take it as a compliment.
If you're a Gay Prostitute? Shake that ass and get the best price you can. If you work out, wear a tank top.

When you get to the lake - take in the scenery. Watch the ships. Contemplate an indifferent Creator vs. the happy mistake of evolution.
Under no circumstances talk to children whose mothers are too negligent to notice their kid wants to hang out with three ugly stoned guys sitting on a dock. Even really fried people recognize this as bad parenting.
Besides, encountering eight-year-old kids -- while more fucked up than you have ever been in your life -- is very bad mojo. I think it says something about that in The Bible.

"Encountereth not the toddlers whilst tripping thy balls off, for it is unseemly in the eyes of God and he shall lower his head and shake it sadly, muttering that he should have given the place to the monkeys."
-Halucinations 4:21

Don't drink Lake Ontario water and claim it's as good as city water. I don't care how thirsty you are. City water is horrible but it does lack a certain amount of feces.

When it starts to get dark, walk up the street, pool your money and hail a taxi cab. Don't care that your taxi driver is having a boxed fried chicken dinner date with his girlfriend. He works hard at a shitty job. He deserves at least that much. Tip him well.

Get dropped off at the nearest bar. Drink as much as you can but don't expect to get drunk - you're still too 'shroomed up. Ignore Slappy and Spanky arguing. Admire the beauty of the waitress in an unfamiliar nonsexual way. Then...
... try to reset
... try to relax
... try to realize you are safe for at least one more day.
... try not to do any more drugs the next morning.

I'm Really Looking Forward to my Upcoming Job as Rock Star.

So much so, in fact that I've already drafted my rider.
Since we're so close, I'll let you have a peek:

This rider is attached and made part of the contract between BRIAN ELLICOTT, herein referred to as the ARTIST and _______________, herein referred to as promoter.

1. BILLING: VERY IMPORTANT
Artist shall be billed as BRIAN ELLICOTT. It shall appear as such in all advertisements, fliers, marquees etc. Artist shall receive 100% headline billing.
Advertising the ARTIST as 'former member of GRAND FUNK RAILROAD' is not acceptable. Mr. Ellicott has never been affiliated with GRAND FUNK RAILROAD or its' later incarnation, GRAND FUNK.

2. MERCHANDISE
Promoter agrees to provide use of well-lit space, table and chairs. The ARTIST reserves the right to sell crap he has lying around his home at engagement.

3. DRESSING ROOM
Promoter agrees to provide a safe, private space for ARTIST'S use. Promoter agrees to keep all unauthorized males and ugly chicks from entering this area. A bathroom must be located somewhere in the building.

4. PROMOTER ASSUMES FULL LIABILITY FOR:
Payment of any and all costs, expenses, losses, litigation, tossed-panty clean-up and damages related to this engagement.

5. SECURITY
Promoter agrees to supply able bodied, sober security in case the stage is, for lust or outrage reasons, rushed. One guard will be required to escort ARTIST to stage. Two guards will be required to carry ARTIST from stage. In any event the ARTIST deems his security at risk the ARTIST has the right to bugger off and be paid in full.

6. HOSPITALITY
One (1) hot meal of waffles and sausages is to be provided before show at no ($0) cost to ARTIST. Twelve (12) vending machine sandwiches and tap water are to be provided to crew. Standard buy-out is $25 US/Can/Euro 35/AUD 7000/Yen 15/GBP per person

NOTE: If local/working crew is present, promoter must provide Burger King coupons. Burger King Coupons may be confiscated by ARTIST if high.

6a. MORE HOSPITALITY
In dressing room:
One (1) bottle of chilled vodka NO PRINCE IGOR!
One (1) bottle of room temperature vodka NO PRINCE IGOR!
One (1) bottle of body temperature PRINCE IGOR vodka
Various bourbons
One (1) bottle of local red wine
One (1) bottle of local white wine
Four (4) clean pair of underpants NO FRUIT OF THE LOOM!
One (1) hot-plate
One (1) frying pan
Four (4) slices of pre-buttered rye bread
Three (3) slices of No Name processed cheese. One (1) slice is to be cut in half.
No (0) smoke detectors
In the unlikely event ARTIST does not consume all of above it is to be distributed to local homeless community at cost to promoter.

7. ACCOMMODATIONS
Promoter agrees to provide and pay for hotel room or find sofa for ARTIST to crash on or about.

Jesus is Just Alright With Me

I was once a child,
You may find that hard to believe.
Okay, you may not. Barb once described me as "a toddler with access to liquor and weapons."
Regardless, as a tyke, my well-meaning but naive mother would drag me to church.
A Baptist church, no less.

And lo, the child was well and truly bored once he realized his Sunday School teachers wouldn't answer questions like, "How did Noah fit dinosaurs onto the Ark?" and "Who did Adam and Eve's children mate with?".
-Stolinations 3:17

The people at the church, with a few exceptions, meant as well as my Mom. My mother, for example, would never picket an abortion clinic. She'd never fag-bash - she wouldn't even say the word 'fag' (she calls them 'funny'. It's kinda cute). She once tried to pass an ordinance to keeps kids from dancing in Price's Corners but quickly forgot her pet project once the cooking sherry wore off.
Like my mother, I'm sure most of these Baptists just wanted my soul saved. What kind of monster wouldn't want to make sure I didn't end up in a lake of fire where torment would be heaped upon torment and the wails of my fellow damned would echo ... blah ... blah ... blah. How very fucking quaint. Thanks for your interest. I actually mean that. Sorry it didn't work for y'all.
However, a few of these people were, for lack of a couple better words, Evil Douchebags.
Like the Sunday School teacher who said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "If you steal a cookie, don't repent and suddenly die -- you'll end up in Hell." What The Fuck? I loved stealing cookies at the age of nine. I lived to steal cookies. Cookie Theft was my raison d'etre. Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll (or at least hidden Playboys, Beer and Blondie's Greatest Hits) were still several months away!
That notion -- that I could be sent to Hell if I choked to death on a stolen cookie -- scared the fuck out of me! I had nightmares I can still vividly picture right now.
The worst of the lot, however, is whoever let the above comics get into my hot little hands.
Written, illustrated and published by Jack T. Chick, these little comic books - about the size of a pack of smokes - were SOLD to the sort of people who wanted to convert other people to Christianity. These books scared me more than any ten saggy-jowled stolen cookie ladies. I was convinced I'd end up in Hell on a technicality.
A little research about Jack Chick, sadly still living, shows he's a Fundamentalist Christian who hates the usual suspects: abortion, drugs, homosexuals, Rock 'n' Roll, Halloween, Harry Potter and Dungeons and Dragons ... and the Catholic Church.
Sadly, he hates the Catholic Church for all the wrong reasons. Chick believes many of the world's problems are deliberately caused by the Catholic Church. He credits the Catholic Church with founding Islam, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and the Jehovah's Witnesses. Also? Starting the Holocaust and founding Communism.
Myself?
On one hand, the Catholic Church shouldn't have covered up all the altar boy molestation.
On the other hand, they gave us the Catholic school girl uniform.
I'm torn.
I know it seems silly now, but it really did scare me insensible as a child.
Luckily, it also made me think God was kind of a prick.
So here I stand before you now, a liberal athiest with a penchant for celebrating Halloween with my homo friends, dressed as Harry Potter while drunk and listening to Black Sabbath. I played Dungeons and Dragons once -- but I never really took to it.
When Jack Chick dies - as he will soon (he was born in 1924), I will make it a personal life mission to urinate on his grave. I may host a bus tour to do so. Scarred me for life, that fucker did.
Thank you indulging my self indulgence. I just wanted to get that off my chest.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled smart aleckry.


P.S. New Paul Westerberg and Randy Newman albums were released today. And yes, the Paul Westerberg album is supposed to sound like that.

Nonsense 101: Folied By Fuckin' Flautists! Fuck!

Don’t get me wrong: Charles Babbage was a very smart man.
He invented the cowcatcher.
He invented the heliograph opthalmoscope to examine the interior of the eyeball.
His liberal thoughts on the division of labour partly inspired Karl Marx to write Das Kapital.
Oh yeah ... and he almost invented the computer in the early 19th Century.
He lacked the proper tools and components – they were not yet invented – but one of his fully functional crunchin’ machines sits in the London Science Museum. In 1991, a buncha nerds following his diagrams built one capable of advanced logarithmic and trigonometric functions.
Nine years after his first schematics, Babbage also invented a printer for his machine. According to the same nerds -- and we have no reason to doubt them -- that would have worked as well.
So it may seem odd to call the grandfather of the modern computer one of history's all-time great fuck ups. It's just that his greatest claim to fame wasn't almost inventing a computer.
It was how much he really fucking hated organ grinders.
I can hear the outcry from the many, many mathemeticians who read this page.
'Go to hell - Charles Babbage was a genius!'
My Response?
'Yes he was a genius -- a genius who was mocked and taunted in the streets because he really fucking hated organ grinders."
Okay ... he didn't hate just organ grinders – he hated street artists of all kinds. He calculated in the London Times that “25% of his working power had been destroyed “ by various buskers.
So Babbage took matters into his own hands. He would scream and chase these musical pests down the street. He would write letter upon letter to London newspapers. He would appeal to Parliament.
And it worked ... in theory.
Legislators passed ‘Babbage’s Act' in 1854 to outlaw the “street nuisances” that had Chuck working at 3/4 of his mental power. Unfortunately for Babbage, his Act wasn’t practical or enforceable. All it did was piss off organ grinders and the people who loved them.
According to J.A.N. Lee in his 1994 Babbage biography …

The public tormented him with an unending parade of fiddlers, Punch-and-Judys, stilt-walkers, fanatic psalmists, and tub-thumpers. Some neighbours hired musicians to play outside his windows. Others willfully annoyed him with worn-out or damaged wind instruments. Placards were hung in local shops, abusing him. During one 80-day period Babbage counted 165 nuisances. One brass band played for five hours, with only a brief intermission. Another blew a penny tin -whistle out his window toward Babbage's garden for a half an hour daily, for "many months".

Clearly, Babbage underestimated the common man’s love of grinding organs. Continues Lee:

When Babbage went out, children followed and cursed him. Adults followed, too, but at a distance. Over a hundred people once skulked behind him before he could find a constable to disperse them. Dead cats and other "offensive materials" were thrown at his house. Windows were broken. A man told him, "You deserve to have your house burnt up, and yourself in it, and I will do it for you, you old villain”.

In defense of Babbage, he may have been – and I’m no doctor – bat shit crazy. He once wrote a letter to the famed English poet Alfred Tennyson in response to his poem 'The Vision of Sin'.

"In your otherwise beautiful poem, one verse reads,
Every moment dies a man,
Every moment one is born.
... If this were true, the population of the world would be at a standstill. In truth, the rate of birth is slightly in excess of that of death. I would suggest:
Every moment dies a man,
Every moment 1 1/16 is born.
Strictly speaking, the actual figure is so long I cannot get it into a line, but I believe the figure 1 1/16 will be sufficiently accurate for poetry."

I suspect Babbige had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
But Babbage was beating his head against the wall about how to build this unbuildable computer -- or Difference Engine, as he called it. He heard out-of-tune penny-whistles outside his window night and day. His government grants were withdrawn because he could not produce this computer and they suspected he was, well, ... bat shit crazy.

He did the only thing a man could do:
Conclude that people suck, twice run for Parliament unsuccessfully as a Whig, become a far-right conservative and then die in 1871, embittered and mocked by street musicians. According to Lee and the London Times:

Even when he was on his deathbed, the organ-grinders ground implacably away.

In 1890, Herman Hollerith, an American inventor, independently came up with the same idea. It was much bulkier and it did far less.
But it worked and, as much as history records, Hollerith was never mocked and taunted in the streets by organ grinders, mimes or puppet shows.

He's troubled ... but I can save him : The Case of the Mixed Up Lawn Gnomes

There comes a point when a man looks back on his life and tries to justify his existence.
He thinks back about the people he has touched - both literally and figuratively. He tries to weigh the good he's done against the harm he has caused. He wonders whether he truly deserved ...

... Wait. You knew that 'touched literally and figuratively' line was a sex joke, right? Of course you did, Gentle Reader. I was wrong to underestimate you ...

... the gift of life that he was, well, gifted with.

In short - Has he gotten up to enough drunken mischief?

The answer is : No.
Of course not. Never enough.

My philosophy is that we were made in the image of our Creator - who happens to be a drunken ne'er-do-well with an odd sense of humour.

So I present to you the first of a monthly feature : My Drunken Shenanigans.

This is partly intended as a monument to a lifestyle that ain't easy. I'm like the Jesus of drinking - I get loaded so you don't have to wear that lampshade any way but vicariously.
Part of this is just trying to explain myself to my two future children, Blind Lemon and Innocent Bystander (isn't that sweet? A boy and a girl).
Truthfully? Most of this is just bragging.

This Month: Whose Fucking Pink Flamingo Is This?
One night. my friend and I who I will call ... (Neal hates it when I use his real name) ... Slappy drank quite a lot of either tequila or saki. I forget. It was twenty years ago but I think we were in our pretentious saki phase when Ne ,,, umm ... Slappy lived in the Crappiest House in Suburbia.
Slappy didn't even know the people who lived upstairs from him ... let alone the people who lived next door who would eventually call the cops ... but that is a lawn ornament-related story for another day.
We came to the conclusion that neighborhoods ain't what they used to be. Do you know the people who live next door to you? Would you be comfortable having them get your mail while away on vacation? Could you borrow a cup of sugar from them without feeling weird?
I thought not.

The only common trait the residents of the street had was an almost fetishistic love of yard decoration.
So we got to ... for lack of a better word ... thinking -- What if we traded everyone's lawn ornaments?
One garden gnome for one harp-playing cherub here ... One pink flamingo for one lawn jockey there ... I still feel kinda guilty about the Disneyfied Snow White we dropped and broke in the middle of the street. Still, as the saying goes, if you're gonna make an omelete you have to break a few Snow Whites.

We never meant mindless vandalism - we had a higher purpose. We wanted people to knock on their neighbors' door and trade their newly acquired concrete cat for their old ornate birdbath. We wanted street-mates to meet each other. We wanted friendships born under odd circumstances.

Okay, we were just loaded and we thought it would be funny.

I'd like to think we did just a little good that night. I really hope one person on that street made a friend the next morning because two drunken fuckwits were bored.

Employment? Is It Right For You?

Finding a job is really hard work.
In fact, it is harder work than actually working. I didn't much like working in the first place. Why would I like looking for it?
Being the town drunkard doesn't pay -- plus there is too much competition in Orillia.
Being a wise-ass pays slightly better but those jobs are few and far between.
Being a doctor pays really well, but I have the bedside manner of a drunken wise-ass.
That said, whisky, guitar strings and lap dances don't pay for themselves. Right now, Barb pays for them. GO BARB!
But eventually I'll ride that Sugar Mama into the ground - so to speak. In that spirit, here are a few job finding tips I wish someone had clued me into before I started my present, half-hearted, ultimately futile search.

Don’t punctuate your interview with Dukes of Hazzard style narration.
example: "Well how 'bout that... looks like Ol' Hipster done stirred up a nest a trouble and got his potential employer all riled up like a big ol' hive of yellowjackets!"
Potential employers find a fake southern accent and a banjo off-putting.

Your resume should not tell potential employers that you “only feel hopeful between (your) fifth and twelfth vodka gimlets”.

While on the subject of resumes, no employer cares about your interests. Really don’t mention your interests if they include the phrases “shenanigans and tom-foolery”, “dancing like a robot” or “reverse cowgirl”.

Also, resumes are no place to list your internal demons. In my case: Alcohol ... Internet Porn ... Pills ... Actual Demons.

‘Three-drink charming’ has only worked once for me in a job interview – and it wasn’t a very good job.

Never, ever shout “NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED” even if your potential employer says, “…and the doctor said.” The temptation will be very strong, but try to fight it. The very thought of it may make you giggle for days afterward but it won't get you the job. Trust me.

If you get the job, never quizzically say “Friend?” in a Frankenstein voice.

If you get the job, despite doing all of the things I told you not to do above?
Keep it.

If I Had a Million Dollars ... I'd Buy Some Blow

I don't think anyone saw this one coming.
Far be it for me to mock anyone for using illegal drugs -- aside from Andy Dick. Drugs are quite fun ... and if you use them people think that you're cool.
This past Wednesday, Steven Page, singer for the Barenaked Ladies took one step closer to becoming the Keith Richards of East York. He was arrested in upstate New York for possession of cocaine and marijuana.
This may hamstring the sales of the his band's latest album, "Snacktime", a collection of two dozen original children's songs.
Perhaps it won't. The Friendly Giant was, allegedly, coked to the gills. Mr. Rogers was more of a beer and Qualudes man. Mister Dress-Up, despite his lucrative CBC contract, loved to huff paint.
I genuinely hope that Page beats this drug charge. He's good at what he does - a certain Mr. George Laramee (though he denies it) and I once enjoyed a show of his at the Danforth Music Hall. He and his band do a lot for charity - various food banks, leukemia, Jack Layton. What he chooses to put up his nose has never affected me - or you I'll wager - in the slightest. Unless you are one of his three children, in which case: I'm sorry for what happened to your daddy and STOP READING THIS WEBSITE! IT ISN"T APPROPRIATE FOR KIDS! DON'T YOUR PARENTS EV ... uh, never mind.

In other news:

Christ just e-mailed and and asked that his name be taken off of the project. Christianity is now to be known as AlanSmitheeism ... Fuck You Nazis for trying to deprive us of all of our best comics ... 90210 was a horrible television show but it encouraged the growth of sideburns ... I miss the Beverly Hillbillies on television, Mostly I miss Ellie May Clampett. Christ, I'd like to have fucked her ... You can talk all you want about your Makarovs and your Lugers but the Colt .45 is still the best sidearm for scaring the fuck outta people ... Jesus, just Google Alan Smithee if you don't get the joke ... Scotch Whisky, Irish Whisky and Canadian Whisky taste pretty much the same unless you shell out for the good stuff ... the Leafs will lose many games this year but I hope they will be an unpleasant team to play against ... Did Freddy Mercury popularize the Big Gay Mustache? Was he wearing a Big Mustache because it was popular amongst the Gays? I'm just wondering ... Sometimes I think George Clinton's P-Funk just exist so white people can feel hip ... I'm gonna go off on Barb all Andy Capp-style if she ever belittles me in front of an optometrist again ... Wow, that Randy Newman really hated midgets. I hope he has smartened up ... Barack Obama and his handlers need to be cool - criticizing satire because dumb people might not understand is no way to gain my non-existent vote ... Quebec seperatists are angry Paul MacCartney is playing Quebec City's 400th anniversary because he represents a "second English Invasion" . A direct quote, that last one... Hmm - American Liberals or Quebec Separatists -- who has the thinnest skin?

Who is Mystery Dave ...

... and can I buy him a drink?

Sources as diverse as India's The Money Times, the UK's NME and Canada's Welland Tribune were reporting that the Ontario Provincial Police pulled over an erratic driver in Oakland, Ontario and, lo and behold, it was Van Halen frontman David Lee Roth with a giant head (insert your own joke here) suffering an allergic reaction to nuts (insert your own joke here).
Nice story, but Roth denies the incident. He has a pretty strong alibi with 20 thousand witnesses. He was busy on stage in New York at the time.
"I had no encounters or incidents with the police," said Diamond Dave, through his publicist. "The only thing I'm allergic to is criticism."
Ontario's finest waited with the man who claimed to be Roth until an ambulance arrived. He was whisked to the nearest hospital for one dose of epinephrine and two nurses, according to the excellently named Graham Rockingham in the Toronto Star.
Cubic Zirconia Dave, having recovered from his near fatal nut poisoning, reputedly hightailed it to the Liquid Lounge in nearby Brantford, escorted by two of Ontario's more dedicated healthcare professionals/groupies. Purely outpatient follow-up, no doubt.
The owner of the bar, Cheri Welsh, was sure it was Roth because he wore alligator shoes and, well, because he said so, according to Rockingham's article,
I can't understand his motives," she told the Star. "It's not like he was getting free drinks or anything. He was putting money on the table."
The fake rock star also jumped up on stage and performed the Van Halen classic Ice Cream Man with a local band.
You have to admit, Mystery Dave has style. He even pays for his own drinks. Bravo Mystery Dave, you are a first class hornswaggler.
The best part, though, is that neither the cops, the intake nurse or the bouncers bothered to ask for some identification. How do you get pulled over by police and not asked for ID? Wouldn't an Ontario heath card throw up a red flag? Some kid with a web browser couldn't have figured out that 'Dave' was actually on stage at Madison Square Garden at the time?

In related news a man 'POSING' as former VH singer Sammy Hagar was found panhandling in front of a Second Cup in Ajax. He was, by all accounts, thrilled with his $12.58 haul.

Nonsense 101: A Comprehensive History of Incompetance

Welcome to the first in my series of lectures on the WORLD'S GREATEST FUCK-UPS.
When I call them the world's greatest fuck-ups, I mean no disrespect -- well, not much disrespect. Most of us are just regular stumble bums. The best of us are given to the occasional social faux pas.
Some of us have too much credit card debt. Some of us couldn't get laid in Reno with an 8-ball and a Gold Card. Some of us (ahem) are inconsequential poseurs with drinking problems.
It takes not only a complete lack of talent, luck or charm to be a world class sad-sack.
It takes intestinal fortitude. It takes perseverance. It takes testicles the size of bowling balls.

This month: WILLIAM MCGONAGALL

William Topaz McGonagall was a hand loom operator in 19th Century Scotland. Had he been born in 20th Century North America, I'm pretty sure his middle name would have doomed him to life as a stripper.
He may have been one hell of a weaver. Sadly, we will never know as none of his fabrics have survived.
He may have been one hell of a dancer. One erotic etching allegedly survived, but remains in the hands of a wealthy collector who wants to "maintain McGonagall's dignity".
What did survive was some of the worst poetry ever committed to print.
Academics rarely agree on much. The general consensus is, however, that McGonagall (Douglas Adams opinions notwithstanding) was 'THE WORST POET IN THE HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE'.

After finding his voice in 1877, McGonagall fired off his first poem in praise of a local vicar to the Dundee Weekly News. A sample - best read aloud in a thick Scottish burr:

"Rev George Gilfillan of Dundee, I must conclude my muse,
And to write in praise of thee my pen does not refuse,
Nor does it give me pain to tell the world fearlessly, that when
You are dead they shall not look upon your like again."

The editor smirkingly printed it with sarcastic 'praise' underneath. But, as many a journalist has learned the hard way -- there is no such font as Times New Ironic.

The encouraged McGonagall, tired of weaving tartan, set off on a twenty-five year bender of really crappy verse. Calling himself "Her Majesty's Poet" McGonagall would often write about the news of the day. His shining moment came when the Tay Bridge collapsed, plunging a train carrying 75 passengers to their death. It remains one of the worst railway disasters in British history. McGonagall was moved to write this memorial, if inaccurate, prose:

"Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time."

Six (sort of) stanzas later, full of the bizarre rhyme schemes, disregard for metaphor and the lack of poetic metre that characterized his work, he concludes:

"Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed."


He was also a Temperance advocate -- with good reason. Wife-beating, burglary and general naughtiness aside, a bartender was "the first man to throw peas at" McGonagall while reading his poems to a pub's clientele, according to his self-published autobiography.

McGonagall would have his revenge on the tipplers with immortal lines like:

"Then the Angel cried, "Thank God, Christ's Kingdom's near at hand,
And there will soon be peace and plenty throughout the land,
And the ravages of the demon Drink no more will be seen."
But, alas, I started up in bed, and behold it was a dream!"

In the wake of this poem, thousands of Scots stopped buying strong drink.
Oh, they kept right on drinking. They just stopped buying.

Some claim McGonagall was a pioneer in performance art; writing bad poems to get any reaction from his audience. Most say he was just completely oblivious. But despite a willingness to be pelted with eggs and vegetables for five pence, McGonagall died penniless in 1902.

In 2008, a book of 35 McGonagall poems, signed by the author, sold for $15,000 at an auction house in Edinburgh.

Happy Canada Day

Belated though it may be.

The above T-shirt design is brought to you by the good people who support the Vermont secession movement.

In 2007, a poll by the University of Vermont's Center for Rural Studies found that 13 percent surveyed support secession from the United States of America, up from 8 percent a year before.

Why not? They were the first state in the union to outlaw slavery. They elected a Bernie Sanders, the first openly-socialist American senator, in 2006. They have maple syrup, beautiful foliage and they seemed very polite the last time I visited.

I hope you had a very smug and self-satisfied Canada Day. Though few of us had a choice about being Canadians, let us be thankful for that accident of birth. It could be much, much worse.

We now return to the previously scheduled drinking of beer, picking up after ourselves and complaining that the weather is either too hot or too cold.