Sorry I Have Not Posted In A While

I've been getting over extreme tooth pain so:
In the spirit of half-assed malling it in, I present my favourite in-joke punchlines:

Go Team Norsub!

A Skunk fucking a flowery pig!

He was DEE-RICIOUS!
(not as racist as it sounds)

A man who dismantles his own cat has a fool for a vet.

You've hosed me out of my split-apart!

Why would she french her daddy?
(More of a News Radio punch line ... but I'll allow it)

SCARF!

Really? Pornocolyse Now?

Je suis une grande canard vert dans mon pantalons

Wait ... Be Cool ... He's not gay ... he's just British.

That's Right, Barb ... Keep Fiddling While Rome Burns.

Well, more to the point, keep watching The Bachelorette On Demand while the economy collapses, 'abortion doctors' are murdered by Right-To-Lifers and trains in Oshawa are derailing willy-nilly.

While you watch the crappiest television show I've ever seen -- and that includes Walker, Texas Ranger -- some of us are trying to change the world. And those "some of us" would be me.
And this time, I'm trying to change it for the better.

Why, I've been signing on-line petitions. For example to "help free American journalists Laura Ling and Euna Lee who are in a North Korean prison being held on 'illegal entry' and 'hostile acts'.
They were in China reporting for Al Gore’s Current TV and never meant to enter North Korea. But, they are now on trial and looking at possibly spending 10 years in a labor camp in North Korea if they are found guilty."
You can sign the petition by clicking the title. (I should probably learn how to embed links in the copy of my blog.). It likely won't do any good but it also won't do any harm ... unless you are Mark McConkey from Blind River, Ontario. Please do NOT sign this petition, Mark. Kim Jong-Il really dislikes you since the 'pantsing' incident and, at this point, it will only antagonize him. I suspect your relationship is beyond repair.

So keep watching your stupid reality television Barbara. If my IPod needs charging and the TV upstairs is on the fritz - as was the case tonight - it will only encourage me to spend 30 seconds making the world a better place in which to live!

Thank you to Olivia Munn (photo above) for bringing this story to my attention. I visit your site for updates on social issues ... not the lingerie pictures. I promise!

BTW ... R.I.P. ... Jay Bennett (formerly of Wilco) - musical genius and a man very forgiving of stupid interview questions (ahem)... Peter Zezel - best face-off man I've ever seen and by all accounts, one of the nicest guys in hockey, ever ... David Carradine - whose movie Kill Bill still gives Barb nightmares ... Everyone who died on the Beaches of Normandy sixty-five years ago today - for having more stones than I ever will.

An Open Letter To An Uncaring God Concerning My Tooth Pain

Look God ... I know you and I have had our differences. I bitch you out for being an insecure prick who doesn't exist... You claim I don't exist and curse me with male pattern baldness and a pretty serious drinking problem.
Our relationship works. We know where we stand with each other.
But lately, you've raised the fucking stakes, haven't you? This extreme tooth pain is a game changer. You've upped the ante ... little insecure non-existent bitch that you are.
I know I've started baiting your more misguided followers on Twitter, but calling out some closeted queer who was 'nauseated' by the five times he watched Milk is not a satisfying payback for you making my jaw swell up to the size of a dirigible.
Look ... I understand natural disasters ... sometimes you have to clear the decks of poor people to make room for all the unwanted babies you've saved from blissful non-existence.
I understand war ... You need to make your believers fight it out to see which of them "want it more". By the way, I'd like to cast my vote for the faction that don't believe in the Afghani Rape Law, but you aren't listening to me right now, are you?
Because, if you were listening to me, you wouldn't have given me this incredibly excruciating tooth pain.
I know I've had a, let's say British, attitude towards my teeth all of these years. I know I have had said in the past "May God strike me down with incredible tooth pain if I ever drink again" while hungover. I have done nothing to deserve your non-existent mercy except ...
I'm a White North American Male. Remember? I get special treatment?
If you could take this tooth pain and give it to some poor deserving bugger in Sri Lanka I'd really appreciate it.

Thanks,
Your (other) Nemesis,

The Aging Hipster

The Care and Feeding of a Stage Mother

I've had to deal with quite a few stage mothers in the past couple of weeks. It was kind of a new experience for me and I wish I had a list of rules to follow -- much like this one I've just made. You are welcome, future generations of theatre workers. Just try to pay it forward.

1.) Never tell stage mothers -- or dance teachers, for that matter -- how creepy it is to see a nine-year-old tarted up in make-up and a short dress. They assume just because you noticed -- whether it makes your skin crawl or not -- there is something genetically wrong with you.

2.) Have plenty of Vodka, Triple Sec, and cranberry juice on hand. Stage Moms ADORE Sex and The City and love to drink Cosmopolitans. They are often single as most right-thinking husbands have left them. However, the courts being how they are:

3.) Have plenty of faux independent beer on hand for the husbands who stuck around (or feel obligated) to watch. Keith's and Rickard's Red seem to be the most popular.

4.) Never tell Stage Mothers/Gary Bettman/Dance Teachers to hurry it the Hell up because of the Crosby/Ovechkin playoff match-up. They don't appreciate the savage ballet that is Professional Ice Hockey. Instead, just pour yourself a scotch and water, no ice, and figure out how to watch it in your office. Not that I did.

5.) Always invoke the safety of their creepy, overly-sexualized child -- because someone has to. God knows, someone has to. "I'm sorry but you can't go back there. What if someone was trying get to your child? We can't let anyone back there except ushers and teachers." Promise the ushers extra hours if they try to convince the kids to wipe off the make-up and play hopscotch or jacks or whatever kids used to do.

6.) Never Let dogs in the theatre -- really this one is just for me. Really, bitch, you thought I'd let your yappy little dog into the theatre? Your Yorkeshire Terrier would really benefit from seeing your stupid, probably untalented niece dancing to Cuban Pete, or some other tired routine? I won't let a can of Coca Cola into my theatre. What makes you think I'd let you bring a yapping, pissing, shitting little dog into my realm?
I notice you did not lodge the complaint with my superiors you claimed you would. So be it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

RUSTY TROMBONE!

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.

RUSTY TROMBONE!

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.

Thank You All For a Very Special Day

I wish I could shake the hand of everyone who attended Barb's Birthday Celebration on Saturday afternoon. I salute everyone whose planning and dedication turned the day into such a success. Planners -- whether you were able to attend or not -- you made the day really unforgettable. Kudos!
The floral arrangements were exquisite, the menu was delightful and the service was impeccable.
Whether you travelled across the province or across the city, your attendance truly made Barb feel as special as she deserves.
Those of you who were unable to attend for medical reasons -- your presence was missed but understood. Most, but not all, of us hope you are feeling better.

For those of you unable to attend or remember the after party, I have a few notes:

Three pairs of pants -- two unsoiled -- were turned in to Lost and Found. If you think these pants may be yours, please contact Cory with the size and description of the trousers in question.

Barbara will not be charged with sexual harassment of our waitress, the pizza delivery guy and the paramedic who arrived later in the evening. I would like to thank all three for accepting a written apology in lieu of a lengthy and messy civil suit that I think, we can all agree, would have cast a pall on the festivities.

While Greg claims he can "imitate an elephant", pulling one's pockets out and unzipping one's fly is not an accurate representation.

The "underpants optional" version of the invitation was an editing mistake and Neal would like to apologize to any hot chicks who received it in error.

George's parting declaration of "suck it bitches" was uncharacteristic and, quite frankly, rude but he has been under a lot of pressure recently. I think he misses working on Degrassi: The Next Generation.

Craig's potassium level -- due to the ingestion of banana cake -- remained relatively stable throughout the evening.

I don't actually believe Barbara is "worse than Hitler and Octomom combined" due to her love of The Celebrity Apprentice, People Magazine and spreading nasty cold germs. What I said was rooted in alcohol and anger and I would like to assure people Barbara is "still cool" despite my vehement assertions otherwise.

Once again, thank you to all who attended for contributing to a truly classy event.
If anyone knows the whereabouts of my own pants -- I've already contacted Cory without luck -- please let me know via this blog.