Category: humour

night market

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A thoroughly enjoyable evening, after last night’s thoroughly enjoyable oyster bar.

Followed tomorrow, probably by thoroughly enjoyable heartburn.

My scale is crying.

Why would a man eat an entire buffalo chicken and blue cheese pizza to himself?

What could possess him?

Devil’s work, if you ask me.

But don’t. The shame won’t allow me to answer.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 3020 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Complete Poetical Works, Edgar Allan Poe
Comics: Fables 24-27
Music: Wrecking Ball, Bruce Springsteen

i’m about to have a nervous breakdown

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Sung in the key of Keith Morris.

That’s where I’m at. I kill myself, all day, starting at 4:50AM (yes, IN THE GODDAMN MORNING), bust ass getting ready, taking care of dogs and cats, work my ass off for 8 hours, come home, walk dogs, make dinner, and by the time I’m all done, it’s 6:30, 7 o’clock at night.

Fourteen straight hours of hard go, every day, and what do I get for it? Slippery tongs that send the roast I made halfway across the fucking kitchen to land in a pile of dog fur.

Grilled cheese sandwiches it fucking is.

Fuck today, all the way off.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1357 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Prozac Nation, Elizabeth Wurtzel
Comics: Fables 13-15, Fables: The Last Castle 1
Music: Working On A Dream, Bruce Springsteen (more like nightmare, today)

well how about that

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I’m still writing about feces and doormats.

Steinbeck wrote about the Great Depression. Fitzgerald about the vapidity of the rich.

Shakespeare wrote of love and loss and tragedy, of empire and family.

And I’m writing about feces on a doormat.

Perhaps I’m not really cut out for this whole literary genius thing. I’m the Meatballs of the Great Canadian Novel. This generation’s A Clockwork Orange is actually a rendition of Porky’s, by way of American Pie.

Porky’s did bring us Kim Cattrall, however, and that’s a fucking gift.

Screw Sarah Jessica Parker. I never liked her anyway.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 2321 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Never-Ending Present, Michael Barclay (and now I'm crying, damn it)
Comics: Fables 1-4 (finally, something good)
Music: Workbook, Bob Mould

icons i won’t be

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I used to want to be William Gibson or George Orwell or J.R.R. Tolkien. Even in my modern days, I idolize Doris Lessing, Andrzej Sapkowski and Thomas Wolfe.

I doubt any of them ever had to write a scene where a fat boor took a messy dump on someone’s front stoop.

Perhaps I should set my sights lower.

Like, MAD magazine or National Lampoon lower.

I’d love to be e.e. cummings or Gord Downie. I’d love to write with the sensitivity of Alan Moore or the abstraction of Kelly Sue Deconnick. Kafka, Chekhov, Palahniuk.

And I’m writing about a fat guy’s feces.

Maybe someday, I could reach even Second City.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1488 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Never-Ending Present, Michael Barclay
Comics: Youngblood v7 #1 (oh dear god, another reboot, with a storytelling style that's no better than it was in the first Youngblood miniseries.  Give up, man.  This shit ain't working.)
Music: Woody Guthrie Essentials, Woody Guthrie (how apropos is Lindbergh?)

the things that come up

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You know, it’s really tough to write a scene-ending line about the possibility of a prostate massage.

Technically, an objection to it, a total horrifying of the moral senses.

(Except, you know, get your prostate checked. That shit’s important, fellas, both in a medical sense, and a what’s good for the goose sense.)

Polyps is no joke, kids.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1483 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde (prostates, you say?)
Comics: Brigade v3 1, Youngblood Bloodsport 1, Youngblood Genesis 1-2
Music: Wind It Up (Rewound), The Prodigy

thanksgiving

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What am I thankful for?

My dogs. My cats.

My family.

My job, unsteady as it is right now with Carney’s cuts looming.

A world on the brink that hasn’t quite made it there yet.

I can still write.

I am not banned.

I may be in the future.

Fuck ’em. I’d want nothing more than to be censored.

Call me A Clockwork Orange.

Madmenny and a malenky bit of the old in and out, right, me droogs?

Fuck it. Banned books for all.

I am thankful there’s still outrage over that.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1476 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Magic Kingdom For Sale - Sold!, Terry Brooks
Comics: Youngblood 9, Youngblood Strikefile 7, Brigade v2 13, Badrock And Company 3
Music: The Very Best Of The Original Dubliners, The Dubliners

in the weeds now

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I mean, I’m working harder than ever, and tomorrow’s a holiday, so we can sit and think about what we’ve done, which admittedly, is a weird reason for a holiday, and I’m not sure it’s tangible help to native communities, but here we are.

It’s probably better to ask them than me, but I suspect the answer is that we’re not doing enough to reconcile the sins of past with creating a better future for the indigenous.

In any case, not to make light, but I’ve spent the last fifty minutes trying to have a character explain why he’s still consider liberal if he’s opposed to butt stuff.

It’s a hygiene thing, not a commentary on homosexuality.

(The character, not me. You get your freak on, boys and girls. As long as it’s consensual and doesn’t involve children, animals or those not capable of making that decision, then you get on getting on.)

Anyway, life’s weird and horrible things that require solemnity often overlap with the absurd.

I think we’d die if we had to take it all so seriously (which ironically, sums out how we got to our current edge-of-Armageddon political apocalypse). We all got too sensitive, hunkered down, doubled down, doubled down again and instead of letting shit go a little and talking it out, we’re about to have a civil war a hundred kilometres or so to the south of us.

Lighten up, jerks. Drop the militants, and get back to using your words.

Target: 1300 words
Written: 1249 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Born For This, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Brigade v2 0, 3, Team Youngblood 1, Bloodstrike 4
Music: Where The Fuck Is The Revolution?, Closet Monster

don’t judge me

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Eighty-three words may not seem like a lot, but I had to pore through the entire manuscript to find a few scraps of information that I need to keep straight for the next draft. I’ll be making my notes on the next draft next, and then, working on a larger ‘out-of-context’ grouping, where I got through the whole manuscript again, and all my notes and try to find where I’ve made notes on scenes other than the one I was supposed to be making notes on (a problem of mine I’ll need to learn to track better). If I make a great suggestion in a note because I had a thought while making notes on scene five, but for scene twenty-eight, well, I’ll never remember by the time I reach that point.

So, yeah.

If I want it all included later, I need to get more organized.

Still, I’m a bit better than I was, though The Mungk needed less organization, given it was so short. A better framework will be needed going forward.

No more flying by the seat of my pants.

Maybe not even any pants at all.

Maybe a nice skirt, or a pair of waders.

Sorry.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 356 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Almayer's Folly, Joseph Conrad
Comics: Fear Agent 5-8
Music: Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, Various

happy birthday, sis

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Sly Stone dies and my sister lives another year. Good for her.

Not that she shouldn’t live another year. Like all the people I love, I hope she lives until I die, at least. After that, well, I hope for her sake she lives a long time, but hell, I’ll be dead. What would it matter to me?

Then again, there’s always reincarnation. Maybe I’ll come back as a vibrator.

Assuming I’m bought by a Hollywood starlet, that’d be cool, I guess.

Or a carrier of the Republican virus, in that it only targets individuals who voted Republican, and rewires their brains to be permanently set on Mr. Rogers.

Now, wouldn’t that be a nice cleanse?

Sometimes, I think the stars aligned and decided: there is something truly, profoundly wrong with this guy.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1715 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card
Comics: Fathom v6 1-4
Music: Equal Strain On All Parts, Jimmy Buffett (fuck you, it's better than you think)

easter monday

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Jesus is hungover. Or rather, he’s been on a bender all night watching pornography and eating Cheetos, and now, he’s wondering if he can turn those powers of water into wine into returning his foreskin to its original colour.

But, hey, it’s a day off, right?

(For the record, I’m not Jesus, and Cheetos are terrible lube.)

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1177 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe
Comics: Hit-Girl v3 11-12, Kick-Ass vs. Hit-Girl 1-2
Music: Early Trax, Ministry