Monday, July 16, 2007

Fest Thought Express

Stampede is over and you are wondering what to do this weekend. Why not experience something different? Come see the wide variety of culture that Calgary has to offer. Calgary isn't just "cowtown" anymore.
Thought Express is an artist run company focused on bringing like-minded artists of different mediums together through collaboration and community. An artist run, performance company, that has been hosting monthly events since its inception in the spring of 2006. Thought Express showcases a variety of crafts and each of our shows is influenced by the cabaret style of performance. Within any given event, the audience would be prevy to a varied program of performances and in some cases a collaboration of mixed mediums. Having poets, dancers and the visual arts collaborate on a single piece is a common feature at a Thought Express event.
This summer we are proud to be hosting the first four-day festival in the downtown core. Highlights include Ken Swift (Dance) from New York and Members from the Canadian National Slam Poetry Champions. Below is a breakdown our events. Please take the time to come and support your local artists. Come to the Auburn on Friday Night to witness a true Thought Express event. The purpose of Thought Express is to encourage multi-disciplinary collaboration between artists. This sense of community enables our performance company to flourish and sustain itself within a growing market like that of our city. Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver are the three major cities in Canada. This is usually the common census of all Canadians. The argument begins when Canadians are asked which city is fourth on the list of major Canadian cities.Ottawa, Quebec City, Calgary, Winnipeg, St.Johns, Victoria or...Edmonton? I am excited to be in Calgary and know that in the coming years, this city will be recognized as a world class city. I see this festival as an integral part of Calgary's progression and predict in the years to come that music, culture and art will help define this.

July 19th Event #1 Thursday night at the Well

Music by Roofeo and Mama Miche

Introduction to the festival. Volunteer party and Media Releases.

DKenvy and SHE lingerie

Art by Sonia Rakchaev and Photo by Heather Saitz

free event

July 20th Event#2

Fri july 20th at the auburn $10

Music by Roofeo and Rocky the Vinyl Idol

Lady Mot, Brian Batista, Shone Abot, sabo, Swallow a Bicycle Performance Co-Op, Oroonamamu, Jocelyn Grosse, Micah Stone,

Dance by Jaimie Marr, Ed Mitchell, Latin Corner, One Circle, Ken Swift, Cuban Casino,

Literature provided by Oxfam

July 21st/22nd Event #3

Saturday/Sunday afternoon at Eau claire market

Get Down 2007 Dance Workshops and Capoiera Gingativa

Indoor and outdoor showcases

Ken Swift and the Seven Gems

Register@wilsondanceprojects.com

July 21st Event #4 at the Broken City

Spoken Word in conjunction with afternoon jazz jam 3-7

readings by Vancouver Poetry Slam, Sean McGarragle, Magpie Ulysses,Fernando Raguero, Chris Gilpin , Christain Bok, Jesse Switzer, Emily Elder

free event

July 21st Event #5 at the Broken City

Saturday night at 8pm. $5

Readings by James Dangerous, Melanie Haywood, Moe Clark, Sean McGarragle, Magpie Ulysses, Fernando Raguero, Chris Gilpin

Dance by Wilson Dance Projects, Ken Swift, Full Flava ,Triple7movement, Capoeira Gingativa

July 22nd Event #6 Sun and Salsa Kensington and the Latino Festival Olympic Plaza

Sunday afternoon

free

Come visit the Thought Express

Dance includes Latin Corner, One Circle,Cuban Casino

July 22nd Event #7 at the Tequila NiteClub

Sunday Evening $22

Music by Del tha Funky Homosapien, Grand Analog, Roofeo

Dance by Ken Swift, Latin Corner, Original Rudes,Aviva Fleising, Caroline Fraser, Wilsondanceprojects.

Readings by Wakefield Brewster and Sabo

Thursday, May 17, 2007

seven songs

A.Raw tagged me in her blog with a survey of seven songs in heavy rotation on my (mp3 player). One thing's sure, she lives a lot farther off the highway than I.

Hmm...here goes:

1: Fuck the System//System of a Down
2: Individual//Bad Religion
3: The Man Came Around//Johnny Cash
4: Big Lizard in My Backyard//Dead Milkmen
5: Freedom//Colin James
6: Right Hand Man//Joan Osborne
7: Black Curtains//Megadeth

If you see this, consider yourself tagged.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Of reversable belts and tire tubes

Thursday was a hell of a day. It rained, I forgot my gaitors and my shoes and the feet in them got soaked on the way to and from work; it was cold, work was busy and I realized when I arrived at work that I had three client meetings scheduled and I had forgotten the belt to my pants.

The downside to not dressing at home.

At least the pants have a really high waist to 'em. Just call me poindexter. Or Woody - who, when I bemoaned my stupidity to him, pulled up his sweater, whipped off his belt and said "black or brown? hmmm...looks like brown". He then reversed the buckle from his black belt, whipped it to its brown nether region and handed it to me noting it was a good thing he wore a sweater that day.

Damn straight. Hell of a thing; thank you Woody.

On the way home, I stopped at the Chiropractor to have my hamstring stripped (if you know what I'm talking about, you KNOW what I'm talking about) loose from my sciatic nerve and swing by the pet food store to buy dog food. Yes; still raining and still cold.

The thing about rain is its adhesive quality. Small rocks, bits of glass, miscellaneous car parts; all remain glued to the road when your bike tire hits them. So rain inevitably leads to flat tires, as those little bits of debris fail to skitter loose when struck by bike tires. I was about 20 blocks from home when the back tire on my ten speed hissed flat. I had tools and a patch kit but no spare tube and patching road-tubes in the rain quickly illustrates its lubricating quality. Glue don't work in the wet, my friends. So, I wiped the water from my glasses and started jogging the bike home, cursing my darling baby's inability to drive the car to come pick my soggy ass up.

I was about six blocks from the house when an old pickup truck squealed to a halt on the far side of fourth street and an old flat-topped army drill sargeant of a man jumped out and hollared "need a TUBE?"

Dumbstruck, I nod...wondering what the hell he's talking about. Cognitive function had long since ceased at this point. He runs to the back of his pickup, opens the shell and rummages around in clinking bits for a moment or two. Then he comes running hell bent across the street and proudly hands me a Continental racing tube with a presta valve: the exact match for the tube currently lying flaccid in my back tire. He glances at my bike, notes the lack of quick-releases and barks: got a wrench. I nod yes. Hands me the tube - presta valve, remember, and barks again: got a REAL pump? I'm good now, in the conversation. I smile and nod once more. He nods back, turns around and marches back to his pickup. Tires squeal and he's gone.

I've been saved by the bike tube fairy. And he has a buzz cut and a whole lot of wrinkles.

My first thought is to get the bike home and fix it in the warm and dry. But no - you don't repay the bike fairy with that kind of pansy ingratitude. So I pulled out my tools and stripped 'er down on the spot, ignoring the (very wet, very large) dog poop I had apparently stepped in when I pulled off the sidewalk. My old Apollo isn't the easiest bike to change tubes on but I managed to get the job done before my fingers went completely numb and had the pride of riding my bike up to the front door.

Did 'er right; just the way the bike fairy would have wanted. You ride in crappy weather, be prepared to fix yer fricking bike in it too.

Day was a lot better after that - there are some great people out there and I look forward to paying some of that forward. Better start packing some extra tubes.

The Godfather is dead; long live the King.

When James Brown died on Christmas morning I was heartbroken. That heartbreak intensified when my brother called in tears that afternoon to tell me that my Christmas present was two tickets for us to see the Godfather of Soul on January 10th.

Against much misgiving, he returned the tickets to ticketmaster for a refund - they're likely in the pocket of some employee now and waiting for their highly inflated emergence on Ebay. But he did it, assuring me that he would find a way to come up with something as cool.

Boy, did he ever.

BB King still has it. He barely walks; he performs the show slouched into a rickety little chair and his band aren't much younger than he. But the music is relentless; the emotional rollercoaster exciting and loaded with thrills, not least of which are BB King's voice, which hasn't ebbed a moment in all these years of using it and of course, Lucille. He still plays her sweet.

Yes, he brought out the hits in a show that was designed as a conversation between BB and his fans. He also brought out the chops, repeatedly showcasing the "young men" in his band (I'd put their average age around 60). He waxed nostalgic about growing up in the cotton fields of the south during the age of segregation - "one one side of the tracks was us. on the other side, all of y'all. on the other side were two fountains. one said 'colored'. the other was labeled 'white'. at night, when i had a beer and a half in me, i would sneak across the tracks and drink some of that white water. funny, it didn't taste no different. didn't even look different"..."sometimes, in july or august, which were the truly hot time down in mississippi, i would be plowing the cotton with the mule, big ben. he was a good mule, very kindly, very considerate. on a really hot 'un, when the air wasn't stirring at all, he'd be so kind as to give me a little wind to cool me down. that's a good mule".

Lots of talk, lots of play and a whole lot of seated-down dancing that repeatedly brought home to the audience that this showman is a far cry from finished putting on the show.

Thank you Graham; the concert was absolutely awesome.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

a voice into space

I've had this blog a couple of years now. I post from time to time. I also have a mySpace blog, where I post from time to time. I've had that some time less than this. Largely, I've used this space as the place where I post updates on me, on my life, that sort of thing. These days, I guess it gets funneled to my facebook profile. None of this is really new. I had a Bolt profile once upon a time. Pyroto Mountain - few of you likely to have been part of that but I was on it for a couple of years. Bulletin boards before that; before the term blog ever came into being.

I largely keep the impetus of the two blogs apart. Here, I post some semblance of Colin. On mySpace, I promote the culture events I take part in. In a couple of years, some 600 people have bothered to look at this blog; several thousand have read the other. I wish my life was more interesting than my lifestyle, but a lot more people take part in a lifestyle, I suppose. Whatever. I cheat all of you by writing the shit that really hurts or joys in a journal. Yes, paper. So it doesn't really matter what you read here because, really, it all is for show. It couldn't be any other way and I quite misunderstand those who fail to hold something out for the people who can touch their hands.

I've been writing most of the day today so I'm a little kvetchy right now. It takes a lot out of me, regardless of the type of material. Leaves me moody and unstable. Not really sure why. I certainly can't say it's a cathartic process, despite the avowals by others that nothing quite else can do.

Ash leaves for Victoria next week. I think that's good for all of us. I can write and not have to worry about the bitch I'm being meanwhile. She gets to hang out in Tofino with her best friend. The dog will stress out and behave remarkably well for a while.

Her dad is sicker than hoped. The lymphoma is in his bone marrow and the form has no cure. It can be managed. He's home with a cold right now and she respects it when he says he doesn't feel like having company. I...have a tough time with that. He shouldn't protect her from the bad things that happen anymore; it's time for him to understand that he needs to share those burdens; that she needs to be a part of his sickness as well as part of his healing process. The one doesn't work without the other.

Sometimes, when mom was in the hospital for long stays, I would climb into her cage and nap beside her. She smelled like formaldehyde. Her skin was tacky and her hair, when she had some, was lank and damp. Those naps were highlight moments for both of us. I wouldn't trade them for anything. We can't all be strong all the time. Even moms and dads.

I suppose there's a lot more I could say right now. I'll hold out a while longer.

Saturday, March 31, 2007

bionic superdads

been an upheaving time for the fathers of the Love Shack residents...

mines' been doing stuff like this:

or this...



or lately, even this!



apparently we need to do a better job of beating the old man down. the flipside to this coin is that we still await the results of Ash's dad's biopsy from last week. that he has lymphoma, we know...but the type and extent are still unknown.

i do not share my parent's faith in storybook tales - the very concept strikes me as particularly asinine - but i'm a big believer in parents, in and of themselves.

so from me to Ash's dad...you're what i believe in, man. and i don't think that's a misplaced faith.

Friday, February 16, 2007

stupid young people

My friend Billy came to me at work the other day with a shocking development contained in some massive tome with results from a comprehensive study of young people aged 15-25. The results of the study amazed the scientists and marketing people who ran the study: apparently young people are stupid. And ignorant. And sexist, racist, limited neo-conservatives with little ambition beyond getting a shitty job that requires little training so they can buy a house and raise broods of stupid children.

You see, Billy has ideals and she hasn't been paying attention to what the young people think because her gen-X children are neither stupid nor lazy. She therefore believes that her generation fought the good fight in the 60's and the 70's and made the world a better place to live; or at least presented a template outlining how the world can be made a better place. She can't believe today's young people have no interest in a better place; that they don't give two shits about the environment. That what they do give a shit about is culture garbage like IPODS and Hurley Jeans and Jessica Simpson.

What does she expect? The parents of these children are not permitted to physically punish them and compensate by rewarding them for increasingly negligible levels of good behavior. The kids have to do less and less to be rewarded and eventually get whatever they like by merely doing nothing - knowing full well that the threat of bad behavior is all they need. The teachers of these children cannot hold them back or fail them anymore for fear of applying negative stigma to their delicate constitutions during these all-important formative years.

The consequence? Lack of consequence. These kids do not fear failure because, in their coddled developmental environment, they have never failed at anything (even the video games have become easier; imagine a fifteen-year-old you know finishing "Metroid"), no matter how little effort they applied to any given task. When they hit adulthood and its requisite challenges they are poorly adapted to coping with the demands grownup tasks place upon them. They have not ever had to assume responsibility in the face of adversity.

Does this mean failure for our delicate sun-dappled flowers? Hardly. If they got into University (thanks, Sylvan Learning Centres!) under the lower entry requirements, they need only achieve a grade in their courses for the first year to cash in the RESPs their doting parents put away for them. Not a passing grade. A grade. After the first year, they don't even need to do that - they just have to register and need never attend another class to have their living expenses covered for the school year.

If they leave school for the work force they can now earn more money than their parents by driving a truck in the oilpatch or answering the line at the phone company, where there really is no requirement that they be nice to people they don't know. And the aging baby boomer generation, now that they have reformed the world (they believe) for the better, are looking for the door and their increasingly desperate exit strategy depends heavily on the soft shoulders of the "me generation" to take the workload. The boomers have reformed the workplace to provide a gentle, caring work environment for the youngsters where their well-being and general level of happiness becomes paramount. Espresso machines and comprehensive benefit packages to cover the wee-me's masseuse needs become standard renumeration. The lunchroom at Telus has leather couches, pool tables, foosball, HD TV, X-boxes and a stack of pc's so everone can check their hit-counters on MySpace during breaks. The wee-me's are made to feel important in even the most entry level jobs, where their appalling lack of competence makes them drains on corporate resources, rather than contributors.

It gets better. The environment? Fuck that. Parents who bemoan their kid's desensitivity to violence on TV and in video games only look at one side of the coin. In a world where the sweet young daisies will never be allowed to go hungry, homeless or shirtless (except at the beach, of course) they can no longer accurately separate want from need. Thanks to TV and the internet, they learned young how to interpret social code and that in a world where nobody needs anything, what matters is the strata into which they fit, according to that skewed social code. That means status and that means money. Cheap t-shirts by expensive designers confer that status. Remember Degrassi Jr. High? The kids were ugly, had spots on their faces and bad hair, and they dealt with shit like getting knocked up at 14 and racial profiling in adolescence. In the new Degrassi TNG, the kids are all uniformly hot, there's not a pimple among them and they spend most of their time stressing about who fucks whom and for what petty slight betrayal becomes justified. Marshall Mcluhan told you so: kids get the message. They don't listen to the script, they absorb its presentation. So when some pretty, spotless youth yammers at them about the environment, wearing Hurley Jeans and giving them websites to visit on their cell-phones, they tune out the speech (which might disturb their slovenly equilibrium) and focus on the presentation. They don't become so much de-sensitized as re-sensitized.

So what do they need? Moto-razrs, Ipods, Clearasil and clothes that push the fat around their stomachs up to their chests and into their pants without making them look like little Michelin boys and girls. And when they say they need these things, they're not kidding, pun aside. Employers will hire the ones that best look the part they apply for. Boyfriends and girlfriends are shopping for them right now on LavaLife and they damn well better look good at first sight because otherwise the first look will be the only one. And exercise is hard, so they'll likely need a little nip here and tuck there, because they eat like wee piggys and have the plump tummy rolls to prove it.

The best part is that they will likely never have to change. If they look the part, they will get the job - they need never get particularly good at doing it - and if shit goes wrong, they never need to take responsibility. They can sue someone, instead. They can (successfully) sue the restaurant for serving them hot coffee. They can (successfully) sue the bar for getting them impaired and leading them to the ruthless auto-slaughter of the neighbor's kids crossing the street. Our wee blossoms can (successfully) sue their mothers for not getting them orthodontics and chest implants, so they stand a better chance of "fitting in" and attracting mates and livelihoods. They can (successfully) sue the company when they get hurt while working without their safety equipment, they can (successfully) sue the car maker for not protecting them when they crashed without wearing a seatbelt, they can (successfully) sue artists and TV producers and movie makers and poets for disturbing their sensibilities.

Thus, they remain at the mercy of the marketing companies, who produced the TV shows they watched growing up, who find imaginitive solutions for helping them become exactly like each other and who train them to alienate any others who fail to assimilate correctly - the kids saw the after school specials and, rather than learn that hurting people who are different is wrong, they correctly learned to become the hurters and that punishing difference is proper protocol. These kids are sheep who have been told all their lives that they have a particular wolfish charm and, having been carefully maintained in their pens since birth, they remain simply too stupid to know better. They plug our classrooms and offices with their blissfully unaware "brilliance" and we're shocked to find out that our little treasures have rotted into trash.

That's a pretty general statement - I know many exceptions: for instance, you - if you managed to read through this much unrelieving text to the bottom, rest assured you're doing all right. No flash simulations or youTube videos to break up the nearly three minutes of monotony, here. Now go to work or to school and smack someone who's behaving like an ass - not the program-resistant ass; the making noise-without-meaning one. Then throw your Ipod in the trash, you fucking ass.

Artie Gold

I like this poem - not my usual style but now that he's dead, we can support his work, right? Isn't that how it's supposed to go?

Don't Stop Clapping Till I'm Famous


It was the greatest poetry reading Canada ever had
AJM Smith was there with his Polaroid land camera
Earle Birney stood by the door flipping his lucky
both-sides-beaver nickel
The Governor-General smiled like a Parisian-born trick
you could hear everywhere hoofbeats of moose & windblown birch boughs
Everyone was related to everybody else.
Across the audience smiles broke like quebec bridges
I kept thinking the face on the very next guy to read was the
spitting image of an autumn-blown maple leaf atop Mount Royal
we threw the critics out early in the show
(they asked the poets the wrong kind of questions and we just knew
they'd leave early and cause trouble for us
/ at the banks)
famous people read aloud and no smart-asses coughed at crucial points
the concluding speech told you what the next fifty years of Canadian
poetry would be like, whereupon
All stood
And the flag
was raised & lowered by the unseen hands
of Robert Service's ghost who'd been with us since intermission.
I was proud
alka-seltzer-proud …

a patriot was stationed at each exit and it was the patriot's duty
to after each poet read / fling open the door to the subzero howling
winds which beat at all our faces and cold that turned the sweat on our
cheeks to icicles / while a sign was held up above the stage's dais which
read:
DON'T STOP CLAPPING FOR A MINUTE FOLKS
OR YOU'LL NEVER HOLD ANOTHER PENCIL BETWEEN
YOUR FROSTBITTEN FINGERS
- thank you
- merci

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

another day, more like a new one

I went to Abbotsford last week to visit my dad for his birthday. Needed that. A lot. I thought I would cry like a baby when I saw him but honestly, he looks so much better and he's doing so well that all I could feel was happy. Maria and I went through some of the photos from the accident...the woman who called it in stayed throughout and took some pictures with her phone. As you can see from the last one, taken by Maria the following morning, there wasn't much left of the truck afterwards. At any rate, it was wonderful to see him, even if he does look like Frankenstein with the row of stitches running across his forehead - that scar will heal; many of the others already have.

I've started my new job at Merlin Edge - I work as an account executive now, putting together annual reports and such for our oil and gas clients. I love being in a self-motivated environment. Telus had some good people and the company tries quite hard to be a career path for its staff but the level of micromanagement they require just didn't make me happy. Now I micromanage; proofing and editing copy and layout. As my role expands in the next couple of months, I shall dramatically improve my skill set in publishing. A huge huge thing for me - I expect I'll be making books and other printed material of one kind or another for the rest of my life.

Meanwhile, I continue to try making friends of Jasmine and Shadow: the office cats.

In other news, Ash has been accepted into Concordia: one down, two to go (and two for me). An auspicious start. Hmmm....life in Montreal; heartbreaking prospect.

Now it's time for a rant. My topic today is Blogs and the apparent belief by web content providers that blogs constitute journalism. Get bent. When I go to my home page at Yahoo or Google or MSN, I expect properly researched articles written by people who have some kind of training or familiarity with the topics they write on. I do NOT think that news constitutes society gossip regarding Pickton, or the British Museum, or suicide bombers. A word to everyone who reads this: your opinion does not constitute news, journalism, or research. Your trite, poorly written, slang-ridden opine that Hilton and Moore should just, like, scrap it out has no fucking place as a cover story on my portal. My condemnation expands to include the pea-brained editorial staff who mistakenly believe I'm going to read that shit in that place. I come here for that, you dumb asses.

But don't feel bad, bloggers who think they're journalists...hearken to this little piece I found in the paper while visiting Abbotsford:

"Victoria kayaker's body found after search in canyon: It required nearly 24 hours, dozens of metres of rope, 14 rescuers and two devoted friends. But a search-and-rescue mission for a 36-year-old Victoria man still ended with a dead kayaker."

What a slap in the face to the friends and family of the man who died. The writer, Unnati Gandhi, in all his wry, cynical glory has dismissed this man as nothing more than meat, of interest only because of its packaging. He has ridiculed the efforts of the man's friends and the labours of the rescuers by saying they have no greater importance than rope. Post-modern sardonics have no place in this story: Mr Gandhi, you are not merely a bad writer, you are an asshole. Go to hell.

Darryl Janz once offered to pass me with a reasonable grade in Television Journalism at MRC on the condition that I never go into journalism. After all these years, I understand why. Until you know ,a little bit about suffering and humanity, you have no place reporting it to others. I took Darryl's advice and stayed out of journalism. I remain out and, given what passes for it these days, I wonder who else should have taken that course.

Take whatever you like from this blog. I don't call myself a journalist, even as I appropriate my father's experience as part of my online identity. That just makes me a blogger. I just wish others identified themselves a little more realistically.

PS, I really hate the way this fricking program randomly chooses what edits to accept. Nice interface. Enjoy the small text up top.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

More Dad


Dad says hi.

He's in Abbotsford now and while he'll likely be in hospital for a couple of months more, he's recovering well and has nearly become quick enough to beat my sister Kathleen to his desserts.

A lot of people have contacted me lately to share thoughts and feelings and support. If you place any worth in the adage "judge a man by his friends" all I can say is that I'm a god-damned rock star. To everyone who has called and emailed and written and visited in the last few weeks,


thank you.

We all thank you.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

dad

Ashleigh's dad took this pic of Graham, dad, and me at convocation, November 14/06. Ash and I got our BA's, Jeremy got his MA, Larissa her PhD, all super cool.

Dad could make it out because he has cashed out his RSP's and bought a couple of trucks: he's driving again for the first time in about 10 years. Or he was. On Sunday, driving through a blizzard on the Koke, another truck hit the brakes in front of him and he smashed into it. Three rolls of paper weighing 36 000 pounds went through the cab of his truck and deposited the upper half of it on top of the engine in the trailer of the other rig. Emergency crews took three and a half hours to cut him loose.

The impact snapped both of his legs, crushed his knees, and broke his pelvis in what they call a "suitcase fracture". He has two broken ribs and a broken cheekbone and he suffers a pretty thorough case of exposure.

No internal organs suffer damage. No major blood vessels burst - in fact, the doctors at the hospital in Merrit originally thought he just had a few bruises, despite the femur sticking out of his leg. After all, he kept walking on it.

The surgery in Kamloops on Monday to pin his leg and pelvic bones back together took six hours. The surgery on Wednesday to rebuild his knees took eight. The doctors say he'll make a full recovery and will likely be playing golf again next summer. When I spoke with him tonight he laughed and complained that the damage to his pelvis and soft tissue might hamper his love life a little for the next few months.

On November 14th my dad went out of his way to tell me how proud he is of me. Now, it's my turn. Who's the Ironman in this photo?

His name is Bill Martin. He's my dad and I'm damn proud of him. The thought of his broken body makes me shudder: fathers aren't supposed to break.

Turns out, dad hasn't.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

The Chosen One

My friends,

I have grave news for the writers, artists, movie-makers, and benevolent tyrants among us. The great one has arrived. His sense of humour is guaranteed, his prose inspiring and leavened by moral sensibility, his movies shall be superlative and his stewardship of North America and eventially the world will be mandated for the bettership of all. You can tell because he's from Halifax. Bask in the new leader. Go here. Now. He is destiny's hero. And a virgin.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

In the Dark

Hi All,

Just a quick note to let you know that the first batch of copies of In the Dark: Stories From the Supernatural has arrived and they look wonderful!



The anthology features, along with pieces from many other fantastic writers, an excerpt from my forthcoming novel Victor. Many of you at the NōD Magazine launch expressed interest in the book so here's how to get your hands on a copy:

1) You can order copies directly from me - they are $21.95 (trade paperback) plus $3.00 shipping, tax included. Yes, I will sign them, if requested.

2) You can order from the publisher, Tightrope Books or check out the list of Toronto booksellers currently carrying their titles here. This means tax but may be more convenient for those of you in the GMT area.

3) Copies of the book may also be purchased at Amazon.com The publishers don't make a lot of money this way but use whatever method of purchase is most convenient for you.

Feel free to spread the word to whomever you think would be interested in getting a copy of the book and I hope to hear back from lots and lots of you!

PS...Jason Christie's book of poetry, I Robot, has just been launched by Edge Books. It may be the best book of poetry you read this year. I highly recommend getting a copy.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

The Last Supper

Last night I was Judas Iscariot. No, I didn't betray my beloved brother, though he was maddingly obtuse as usual. The role of betrayer fell to Simon the Zealot (beware of zealots) while my girlfriend, Simon Peter, wound up writing the Revelations. Perhaps not surprisingly, I became a revisionist evengelist.

The premise, sitting around a large goblet of wine at the last supper, is to enjoy a meal with Christ the soon-to-be redeemer. The conversation, punctuated by revelations, or "ripples in the wine" shapes the desitiny of the apostles and their beliefs, resulting in a reshaping of the western world as Christianity forms beneath our tongues. The game is still in the development phase and we participated as a beta group at the behest of one of the religious study professors at the U of C, who is planning to present its use as a pedagogical tool at a conference in November.

The game has a lot of potential as a tool to relearn and re-imagine the tenets of Christianity and their later codification and as an intriguing world-building game for intelligent people who need not actually have a comprehensive knowledge of Christianity or even Judeaism. It does need streamlining; Christ as GM is an "anti-GM", he is deliberately vague and deals in parable and metaphor unlike your standard GM whose role is to crystalize meaning and environment. This puts a great deal of pressure on the imagination of the players and I think their characters need traits: beginning the free debate over supper would start more easily if the players had a starting ground with their own characters.

One of the players suggested that the game be removed from the specific setting of Christ's last supper and made into a more generic leader-and-followers model that could be liberally applied to any religious fundament. From the perspective of development of this game for market consumption, that may be a good idea, perhaps even a necessary one...but I heartily appreciated the specific opportunity to grill Christ on just what the hell his beliefs were anyway. Having said that, I think the desire to tackle Jesus would have characterized our group anyway...different groups would play vastly different games. This could be an excellent activity for Church groups, Seminarians, religioun students, intelligent groupings of people from many of the dominant faith backgrounds...I'd love to see what a group of Moslems would do with it.

The mission cards that Christ assigns to his followers at the end of their participation in the revelations are a great touch. The PC gets to choose what either their (future, after the supper) history will be...or what will be their fate. Christ supplies whichever one the player doesn't. I.e., during gameplay I had a revelation that a man who could not die would wander the desert forever, preaching to the sand until he lost the ability to speak. My fate as I related it at the end of my game was to live a great life, become renowned throughout the world in my lifetime, and reviled centuries after my death. Christ (very ably played by the Professor's husband who also teaches religious studies) related my history thus: I was the revisionist evangelist. My preachings and gospels brought many to the church and spread Christianity like wildfire. Everywhere I went, I was greeted with the News of the Lord and the redemption of the people. And the News steadily bore less resemblance to my gospels and the faith took on meanings I never intended and my efforts to stamp my own personality on the body of Christ echoed throughout the congregation as others followed my example. I will never die. I will never be believed again, as my context has been forgotten.

I played a lot of "ego" and "immanence" cards during my gameplay, when crafting my revelations. As you can see, in the hands of a clever Jesus, this really came back to bite me in the ass. The game was marvellous. I would play it again when the beta for a commercial version comes down the pipeline and if any of you folks out there are interested, let me know and I'll pass the info back down the grapevine to the designer who would likely be delighted to have a dedicated group of test subjects.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Some August for YouP

The month ended with a bang. The sound of my head hitting an overhanging shelf at the Lazy Loaf and Kettle for the very last time. The bang was followed by a call to a friend with a sawsall and I sawed the shelf down and wrote a little note to my (former) co-workers. It didn't last an hour without someone editing the writing (loafiteers?) Since the restaurant wasn't about to give me a party (after seven years work) I shut the place down early and went drinking (the photo on the mug all too prophetic - time to hit the road). A few loafers showed up to get me going and the "gang" came en masse from the first night of the Calgary Blowout to help see me off and get ripped...




stone drunk is the only excuse I can possibly come up with for this embarassing little bit of sneakery my darling Ashleigh and her little dog committed upon my prostrate form.


Next day, Ashleigh and I hit the road for Penticton...Ironman weekend. No race for me this time around, but one has to be there in person to sign up for next year - the 25th anniversary race. We stopped to pick up our friend Cassidy's poodle...after all, travelling with a miniature dachshund can't possibly be manly enough (and I am one rugged motherfucker)...and hit the road.

After a spot of car trouble, we traded in the deSoto for something a little better on gas - a Dodge Caravan. I joke, but the minivan was actually better on gas than the "compact" Dodge Caliber that we rented for an earlier trip to Manitoba...basic common sense, really; you can't power a tracter with a lawnmower engine and expect it to be efficient. The upshot is that the Caliber is a piece of shit and the Caravan is a...minivan.
We stayed at the same Campground as last year and - for those interested - I've booked a site there for next year's race. If anyone wants to come out to cheer me on during the race, let me know and I'll add you to the list of folks who'll camp out with us...this pic shows a little taste of the view from our site. Next year's spot isn't right on the water but it's not bad...for the last availible spot at the campground. Our special secret place to stay has become a lot less secret. That and three RV lots have been closed down around Penticton to make room for condos...with another slated for closure this winter. The tourism board in the Okanagan better get off their asses if they still expect tourists. No place to stay=go somewhere else. Pretty basic.

I'm pretty fond of this particular sign...we managed to break every single one of the rules with our little party of women and girly-dogs (and me, now a gainfully employed union-member).





We managed to catch some of the race on Sunday; the swim start - a little smaller than last year's, only about 2350 swimmers - was crazy as usual and I was really impressed with the dedicated core of fans who stayed standing in the water for the 2:20 duration of the swim. Anyone who can't finish in that amount of time is disqualified from the race and given a DNF. There were two guys who were right on the bubble and the racer who made it in under the cutoff probably got the loudest support of any swimmer - including the world champion who was just one of several favorites to win this year's Ironman Canada.

Anyway, the guy who made it got the huge props - and you could see it help. When he heard the crowd screaming he hauled his fat ass out and sprinted through the time zone with less than 20 seconds to spare. His race continued (and I'll bet he rocked the bike) but the fellow right behind him didn't quite make it, though he sported a fine escort of kayaks and volunteers - the triathlon honour guard.

After the bikes started rolling out of town we went for a wander and killed the day roaming Penticton...and as anyone who's ever been foolish enough to disagree with me will attest, we found inviolate proof that Martin Street is a one-way. And that way is law; breaking it will cost you.

Before the race had even finished, racers had already begun camping in line to sign up for next year's race. You see, in order to sign up, you have to be present at 9:00 am the morning after the race - and next year's race is a very big deal. So, I had the joy of pitching my sleeping bag on the lawn (at 8pm, already three blocks from the entrance to the registration tent) and spending the night under the stars while the girls and dogs went back to tents and campfires.

Imagine my shock when the guy next to me turned and asked if I had brought him a Ginger Cream (a huge Lazy Loaf cookie). He was one of my regulars from the restaurant who'd moved to Vancouver a few weeks earlier and turned out to also be a triathlete. That place will haunt me til I rot into dirt. It was cool to see him - it meant I had someone to chat with and, later, someone to help me tackle the FUCKING FIREHOSE OF A SPRINKLER that went off at 1:00 completely soaking us all while we (briefly) slept. While I tried to fend the water off the line with my tiny, nearly flat air mattress, he and a couple of others jumped the sprinkler with a tent fly and some big rocks. We subdued it long enough for someone to find the shut-off valve and kill the water flow.

The night was much colder after that. But at least camping out was completely unnecessary. Turns out, since Ironman is expecting 3500+ athletes for next year, they've completely revamped their signup process. They had everyone processed by 11:00am - including the people who had a warm, sprinkler-free sleep and didn't bother to show up until 10:00. We're all delighted they finally got their system down.

After signup, I hopped into the minivan and returned to Calgary - the girls have a lakeside holiday planned but I had to start work at my new job on Tuesday. Yes, I work at Telus now. I'm back in the call centre. Yes it's as gay and culty as anyone would guess it to be...but they have a shower room in the parkade for cyclists and a deserted full-service gym availible 24-7. With training, writing, publishing, preparing for grad school, and making sure the rent gets paid, this job fits a whole lot of my bills. Job's a job and they were totally cool to hire me when they know I'm planning to leave in a year. Turns out, my training group are the first full-time CSR's they've ever hired. Crazy market in Calgary, man.

So...that's my last week, more or less...oh, except that I have a picture of Graham's naked ass and balls to post just as soon as I figure out what he did to my camera. Never bet against me over Winnipeg Jets trivia.

Monday, August 21, 2006

call for submissions

NoD is ready to get back into action! He's had a pretty laid back summer, (and hopes you did too.) He's done a bit of traveling, blogging, relaxing and would now like to invite you all to submit to his fourth issue. NoD is quite excited to see all the amazing new work he knows you've been slaving over all summer.

The deadline for submissions for this issue will be September 20th with the release and launch party around Halloween. Why is that you ask? Well, the theme for this next issue will be none other than 'paranormal phenomena'. You guessed it; we want rabid werewolves, hairy witches, gloating goblins, drunken UFO sightings, kleptomaniac ghosts, psychotic headless horsemen, undead murderers- I think you get the point-anything to do with the supernatural. Our mandate and submissions guideline is included below.

Looking forward to receiving your submissions,


Felicia Pacentrilli


PS- I will be taking over as editor of the mag and am excited for an awesome year! Hope to meet you all at the launch party, it's going to be killer! (sorry, couldn't resist)

Our mandate is to provide a nexus for creative communities in the literary and visual arts, on campus and off. To make a place where both new and experienced artists can publish and perform their work in a professional journal that encourages efforts to replace their creative boundaries.

The magazine is currently published as a 5x8 perfect bound codex on white stock with a glossy cover. Interior work is black and white.

Submission guidelines for poetry: 6-8 pages/poems. Electronic submissions are acceptable as attached files, preferably but not necessarily Word files, jpegs, or pdf's with a density of 300dpi or greater. For fiction/prose, submissions under 1500 words will be given preference; they may be complete pieces or self-contained excerpts from longer works. Hard copy submissions are acceptable provided they are print-ready. If you want them returned, please include a SASE and be aware that hard copy submissions may be defaced in the editorial process. Any work submitted in languages other than English must include an accurate English translation.

Visual work follows essentially the same guidelines: 6-8 pages worth of material max, 300 dpi resolution for e-files, SASE with hard copy. Please note, that while we endeavor to alter submissions as little as possible, some reformatting may be required to publish submitted works.

Any work accepted for publication will be published with a 3 line author/artist's biography and a contributor copy will be sent to the artist. Any work that is deemed hateful or hurtful will be refused: NoD Magazine has a strict fuck hate policy.

We publish 3 times a year: in fall, winter, and spring. Individual copies are $6, subscriptions (three issues) are $15, plus a $1.50 shipping charge per copy. To purchase issues, contact us here, email us at nodmagazine@gmail.com or mail a cheque/money order made out to ELSS (English Literature Student's Society) c/o department of English, University of Calgary, 2500 University Drive NW , Calgary AB T2T 1N4.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

a good day in comics

This about sums it up...


Welcome to the new normal.

CV2 Call for submissions

Hey kids --

CV2 magazine is trying to break out of their mold by putting together an issue of the kind of poetry they don't normally publish. The call for submissions is here:

WINTER 2007 -- CONTRA VERSE

What's your beef with today's poetry? Can't see yourself in the modern lyric tradition -- doing something completely new and different? Then tell CV2 where we can find you!

Deadline for submissions: October 15, 2006

If you are writing anything you think fits the bill, I would encourage you to submit. CV2 is a good magazine that is fairly open to submissions, but for a number of reasons, gets a fairly narrow range of material submitted to them, when they are potentially interested in a wider range of material. So, since they are making a concerted effort to seek out the kind of stuff they don't normally publish, I would encourage you to support them. Their website is http://www.contemporaryverse2.ca and you can find their guidelines there, but this call for submissions is, for some reason, not yet posted on their site.

If you live in Canada, they will accept e-mail submissions. Contact Clarise Foster at cv2@mts.net if you have questions -- but as I said, the submission guidelines are available online.

-- jonathan

Thursday, July 06, 2006

On Father(s)

I wonder sometimes about the impacts of Fathers, present or absent. My dad was in town a couple of weeks ago to help my brother move. I love my dad. It's good to see him. Playing the most storm-ridden, swamp-mosquito infested round of golf with him and his sister Janet, I marveled at the amount of self that my father and I have in common; how easy it is for us to get along and how frankly comfortable we are in each other's presence.

And yet.

My father was the last of my four "parents" to convert to Christianity. My mother was born again at the behest of her sisters, while she lay in a hospital with morphine coursing through her veins, desperate to believe that she was a good person. She was. But her illness, combined with personal distaste at trying to align her life with a belief system she had earlier rejected, turned her into a crotchety old bitch. She died while selling herself a faith she didn't buy.

Her husband James was devastated by her death. Not one to turn to drink or drugs and always a man of his word, James involved himself in the church, helping youth groups, volunteering time and labour to the creation of non-alcoholic night clubs where kids could dance and party sober. James' faith renewed his hope in the people who surround him. I can not and will not ever fault that.

My dad's wife Maria had surgery a couple of years ago. A massive benign cyst was removed from her body and she emerged convinced that she'd had a near-death experience and she went burnin' to the nearest church to become a believer. Maria is a wonderful woman but surgery is a work of human hands. Controlled and not miraculous. For a more complete understanding of near-death experiences, I suggest becoming a Calgary bike courier. There is no need for an afterlife: the great scam of Christianity has always been the myth of the soul and its continued existence after death. Christ was a helluva guy with some great advice about how to live here on earth. Learn from him on that. Cram heaven. Write a book. Have some kids. Set a world record in cheeseburger eating. Live your afterlife here on earth where you know you truly have some investment in your surroundings.

My father, perhaps in order to save his marriage, perhaps as a way of forming another business network, certainly because he managed to convince himself fully that it's a good idea, has joined his wife in the holier side of their matrimony by joining a particularly virulent and noxious brand of evangelical Christianity called the Victory Church. I used to play some of their sermons during my Sunday morning show on XL radio. They're nuts. Or would be, if they weren't so calculating in their methodology. Perhaps it's more accurate to say they sell nuts.

Seeing my father succumb in this way hurt a great deal more than I possibly could have expected. My dad was the rebel, the strong man who lived his life his way, told you how it was, and showed you how he thought it should be. Yeah, he was the black sheep. That was the measure of strength in his personality. He would tell anyone to fuck off if they weren't shooting straight with him. So, after decades of telling organized religion to pound it, my dad becomes a bible thumping preacher-type. After our round of golf, he hands me a book called "Wild at Heart"; a treatise on how to discover your masculinity within Christianity.

There are two things I have to say about that. The first, dad, is that you never lacked masculinity. I always saw you as a man who represented a masculine ideal of strength. Sure, that ideal is flawed, but the book offers no solutions to those flaws. Its premise and methodology is pedantic, trite, and obvious. And it remains flawed. Second; I have no trouble finding my manhood outside the strictures of the Christian church. My life and body have been consciously shaped and moulded by my will for the last six years. I have an honours degree in the field of my choice, a national award for my work in that field, and a thirteen hour Ironman under my belt. And here's a not-so-secret: anyone can do it, male or female. All it takes is the ability to place your faith in your self. That faith will bring others to you, people who have gifts to match yours and the will to use them.

Dad, your life has been an inspiration to me. You've always been the guy who's done it all and who, on many levels, drove me to do more for myself. You are no less present in my work than mom or my brothers or my lover. Sometimes that work takes the form of a rant. One of the reasons I love you is because I believe you understand that when I tell you how I feel, positive or negative, I'm telling you that you continue to matter; that you still have relevance in my life. So many parents of adult children don't.

Somehow this has become a personal address, rather than a third-person account. Perhaps you'll actually read it. You're welcome to comment, if you do...I don't share your faith but I still want to hear what you have to say, even if we disagree. Have a good week and know that I'm thinking of you as I write my next piece, or drive across the country, or smoke a bowl at a party with some friends, or ride my bicycle up the side of another mountain.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

dandelion

dandelion has a lot of hair
says his daddy lion beams pride
dandelion smiles and winks
such a pretty birdy
ants frolic in dandelion's
beard he roars roars - mewmew-
shakes his head of majesty

oh dandelion nestled into my bed
you snuggle among the ruddy
clover's roots woody grin in drowsy
where puppys pee good girl, good girl!
seed grassy carpet stain deep beneath
lap up morning's fresh towel shower,
baby jesus likes brisk running

dandelion clever babies tucked
into your toes peeping peep peep
tonight's knotty rustling burst
loose pop pop spread the marmalade
right to the edges savory drip drip
sometimes on the crust fingers
sticky dandy for breakfast

dandelion stoops and groans
oh woe heavy headed dandelion!
dust covers his bed burning
sere blanket muffles drooping
family. taking back brings home the
hoary dandelion thinks it's
too hot for this kind of work

dandelion should shut his
tufts of teeth breaking
like white puss snap snap
snap the satisfying crunch
of bitter sweet christians
dandelion's maw crumbles open
falls, serpentine leaves clutch
at my fucking covers

good bye dandelion,
come again real soon.