December 13, 2003
Happy Birthday K
K gets older, and as often happens, we're not in the same city, so we can't get together and celebrate it. A couple of weeks though, and we'll do it up right. In the meantime, I'll have one for you tonight, as you've done for me in the past.

This evening, two of my publishers are holding a Christmas party at their house. Maybe I'll get some photos. It's a rum and whiskey party, so I'll probably be convincingly shitfaced. They asked me what I would like to give away as a door prize and I suggested a gas mask. And so it is. I'll try not to embarrass myself, but I wouldn't put any respectable odds on it.

Chloe showed up at my house late last night. She wasn't drunk, she wasn't nervous about her play and she was all about taking a bath and rolling through some good old fashioned snort-em-up-the-ass clean-fucking. I was certainly more than happy to oblige, and we tore into each other like we hadn't done for a couple of weeks. And when we couldn't fuck no more, we sat and read and dozed off, and later, we got up in the early morning to have a glass of wine and when it was finished and with the grit lingering in our teeth, I poured the remnants of the bottle down her neck and over her skin and went to get drunk like that.

Not drunk on the alcohol, just drunk on breathing through a woman's thighs, covered in red wine, crouched over her in the kitchen, my fingers deep inside her as I licked her clean. Sweet to get drunk on this woman, let the music run, let old Thelonious dance his way up and down the piano keys and when we were a wine soaked mass of exausted flesh, cast us asleep on the couch to watch the candles burn down to ashes and wake us up to the white noise of falling snow on a crisp winter morning, my face stained crimson and her short hair stiff with dry wine.

It felt like her grappa's funeral, but without the death. I can't ask for anything more. There are gentle nights like this, when there is no doppleganger effect, when there is no colette, no Nat, no film stars. There is just me and chloe and we treat each other with respect and with that old fierce heat and we get drunk on each other and if it were like that every night I would have no reason to ever leave her.

Christ, woman. Why can't we do that?

Don't comment on this one. We'll just pretend it never happened...

December 12, 2003
Goodbye Jean, Hello Nunto #63
Chretien does his final turn today as Canada's PM. His legacy? Kept Canada together was a big one that we often forget about. And of course, kept us out of the war. So hats off, Jean. You were a tough old bastard and when you came in I didn't give a shit about you, but somehow you earned my respect. Maybe it was that time some protestor tried to fuck with you and you choked that fucker to the ground with your bare hands instead of waiting for your security guards to do it. Yup, that'll do it.

And after that... Paul's in. And local hard-assed bitch Anne McLennan will be deputy Prime Minister. Imagine that. A western number 2. The excitement is rampant.

Got a note back from Colette. She agreed with my point about her poem, and decided she would focus on building a thematic structure before randomly tossing cinquain into the wind and hoping for a masterpiece. A wise idea. She unfortunately asked how my haiku sephirot was progressing. I said, of course, that I was focussing on building a thematic structure before randomly tossing haiku into the wind and hoping for a groundbreaking poetic whole. Now I got to cook something up over the weekend.

After I wrote her, I thought about it and realized I hadn't written a poem in over a week, and thought that must be wrong, and searched through my notebook and found this little gem from Saturday night. It was barely legible, and I don't particularly remember writing it, although there was a moment where I hung onto the side of the bar and thought about throwing up a straight rye shot I'd just knocked back and I must have been struck by something at that point. Could almost be Nunto #63. Except it has a title.

--- --- ---

Note found pinned to a man's chest on a sunday morning after he has awakened to find his house in ruins, the door open, the liquor and his car and his wife gone and his brother lying comatose in the bathtub

Conrad,
We got drunk
And
Maybe I got out of hand and
Maybe
You got out of hand

And maybe your missus got out of hand
And there was some fucking
And some fighting
And your brother took six kicks to the balls

But I got to say
It is your own fault

You get me talking bout god
And Americans
And nuns

And somebody said that Dostoyevsky
Was nothing but a drunk and an epileptic
And never wrote nothing worth a ruble covered in shit

What the fuck you expect?
You're lucky I didn’t burn down the cabin

Yours truly,
Mingus Tourette

December 11, 2003
The Bitch Move
For anybody who thought that the bitches running America weren't a bunch of complete fucking assholes, read this. It's not just the audacity of this move that is shocking, it's the sheer stupidity of a government pissing in the face of everyone who was just starting to ante up and kick in to help out in Iraq. If you're too tired to learn anything about the world we live in and the grudge holding empire we are living slightly north of, here's a quick sample:

The Pentagon's decision to exclude countries that opposed the Iraq invasion from bidding for reconstruction contracts provoked anger and incredulity in the capitals involved yesterday.

The first casualty was Washington's attempt to have Iraq's international debts written off, which is being led by a special White House envoy, the former secretary of state James Baker.

Russia's defence minister, Sergei Ivanov, declared that Moscow was not interested in a deal, reversing the Putin government's readiness to negotiate.

The foreign minister, Joschka Fischer, said Germany had greeted the news with "astonishment".

The German government spokesman, Bela Anda, said the decision was "not acceptable" and in contravention of "a spirit of looking to the future together".

The Canadian government threatened to cut off its contributions to the international reconstruction effort. In Paris a government spokesman questioned the legality of the restrictions under international trade regulations.

Remember, even though we didn't go in and shoot up a bunch of civilians, we did pledge $300 Million to rebuilding Iraq. Guess what, assholes. We don't know if we're going to give it to you anymore. We'll spend it cleaning up Afghanistan. Sure, you'll let Rwanda bid on your stinking projects, but not your friendly northern neighbours. Is this payback? Is this it? Is this one of the lessons we get for not bending over and pitching in on an illegal invasion? What's the lesson? Should we do everything that America wants and stop asking questions? Should we allow America to essentially run the world with impunity? What are you trying to teach us?

Learn more about Europe's reaction. Here. And learn about how Bush is asking everyone to forgive debts at the same time. Here. What Paul is doing about it. Here. Or learn a little more about the specific slap in Canada's face. Here.

In conclusion: Bush and crew not even assholes. This is a bitch move. This is a pussy lawyer-toting, slimy backseat barrister snatch paw that any self respecting used car salesman would have a hard time feeding to an ex-con, let alone one of his so-called friends.

Man, what an embarrassing time to be an American.

December 10, 2003
Dear Concerned Readers
Thanks to all the people writing in these days. Lots of good suggestions for taglines. So far we have a two way tie between Sweaty Charles and Terrible John for the best possible tagline in the history of taglines. Nice work, you geniuses. Now THIS is the art of branding. Yes, THIS is the essence of identity:

Heres a tag line... I mean a tag team line... Mingus and Terrible John with their frankfurter's in Shania's twink and her lip-syncing other anus. Squish that country cooch like an accordion... - Terrible John

Heres a tag line... Mingus Tourette - A giant talking penis wrapped in maple smoked bacon! - Sweaty Charles

Thanks fellas. Keep up the tremendous work.

And to Miriam: no, I did not photoshop my eyebrows in the contact photo. They naturally do that when I want them to. I think the photo nicely expresses my personal anger toward American imperialism and George Bush's foreign policy, so I also made it into wallpaper you can put on your personal computer. Check it out! Download it!

And to Jack: neither of the girls read the Daily Mingus, as neither one is particularly web literate and neither one understands what a blog is. Colette saw it once, signed the guestbook because I told her too, and I believe that's it. If she ever returns, I'm in deep shit. Chloe knows that I write, but to her, it is all one enormous scrolling wall of text. Of course, if she ever reads any of the Daily Mingus, she will probably impale me with whatever she is holding in her hand. If she is sitting at my computer keyboard when it happens, there's a good chance she will throw the monitor at me, follow up with the old CPU attack to the nuts and finish it off with a good old fashioned mouse whipping.

Yep. Imagine being beaten to death with a computer mouse. I just did.

December 9, 2003
Incoming
Hats off to the Lillerant for alerting blogmasters and other nerds to the opportunity to help the world understand a little something about George "Miserable Failure" Bush. For those who don't know, this kind of link up is known as 'Google Bombing". If you still don't understand, go to Google, type in the words 'Miserable Failure' and laugh at the results on the first line. In related news, some shitheads have started making George "Top Gun" Bush action figures. I may purchase several in order to make custom dildos out of them. Or I may not.

Tried to come up with something nice to say to Colette about her work. I don't know why this was the first one to come through the door - she has written much better stuff.

Something like this, I think:

Colette,

Hey, nice work! I really like the dichotomy of your poem, and what I perceive to be the sense of loss it is describing. Is this your focus for this quintet? If so, it might be easier to start with something a little less specific, maybe less symbolic and more straight forward. It is hard to tell how this fits into your work as a whole, but that would be my suggestion at this point. Am I right? Are you trying to describe loss? Something about a father-figure? What is your focus here? What is your plan for the overall arc?

Ming.

PS. I am naked as I write this and I am thinking of you. Here's your cinquain, rewritten to properly reflect my own personal sense of loss.

Erect
Throbbing, restless
Darting, dipping, swimming
Searching frantically for the absent
Goose

December 8, 2003
Wow

Rarely have I put on such a vociferous drunk as I showcased on Saturday night. It is now late Sunday evening and I can barely type. I may still be hung over tomorrow. I tried to count how many drinks I took down, but I don't have enough digits. My best estimate would be somewhere around twenty. I looked in my wallet, hoping to see forty bucks or so, but there was nothing. Rum and rum and absinthe and another double rum and coke, please. I hadn't been that loaded for awhile. Sort of built up and went off. I vaguely remember being on stage crooning a Doors song, falling into the drum set and throwing up on somebody's wife. The moral of this story is: get drunk more often, or risk the sort of social destruction I wreaked on myself by not getting drunk beforehand. Normal men would have been embarrassed by such a performance, but I prefer to think of it as a legend in the making.

I'm supposed to write up some sort of haiku, too, which is going to be a fucking prize, I'm sure. Colette turned in her cinquain today. Here it is.

Duckling
Yellow, restless
Darting, dipping, swimming
Searching frantically for the absent
Gander

I have no idea if this is good or not, but I'm leaning towards not. What do I say to this? I'm thinking of saying 'Try something less specific' or 'How does this fit into your quintet'. What I really want to say is 'Where's my fucking love poem?'

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