December 27, 2003
Everybody's Favourite Iconoclast
Although my ass has been pounded in the Asian
NonAsian Blogorama, good news abounds. I was quoted
by the lovely and amusing Misty Harris in this
week's
Ed magazine. To check the article online and
marvel at my powerhouse media presence stretching
past the world of nerds, click
here. And freak out when they call me their
favourite iconoclast. I am hard. And then, vote
for me again in the blog contest of great mourning.
The end is near.
For those wondering, a night of Lorna's Cocaine
is a wonderful thing. The only problem is the
very same one that certain lactose intolerant
people encounter when sucking back white russians.
Too much milk gives you explosive diarrhea. Ah
fuck, that's what toilets are for. Violating.
December 26, 2003
Pornicoccus
I am having my ass crushed by this
coolio fellow in the big Asia Weblog Awards.
I may yet finish out of the medals. My poor ego.
Ah well, at least I'm not DFL.
Christmas festivities were about as pleasant as
can be, if one excludes the part where Chloe and
I visited her uncle who still
believes that I murder children and plan to
assassinate the Prime Minister. The lunch was
like one long wet fart on a leather couch. The
only good thing that came out of it was that Chloe
was so distraught after seeing her family and
missing her Grappa that as soon as we got home,
she started crying and pushed me down on the bed
and went at me like a rabid ferret. There's nothing
better than a bitch that's overwhelmed by the
fear of dying and thinks that fucking the living
is the only way to stave off the obsidian wall.
Good times.
And tonight, lining myself up with a little alcoholic
concoction that goes by the name of 'Lorna's Cocaine'.
I plan to lose cohesive thinking skills around
nine and enter a lucid dream state by eleven.
If anyone sees me waltzing through the downtown
streets in a prom dress, promptly phone K and
warn him that he's gonna need that bail money
again. Or the taser.
Happy Box Day. My Best to all the Lesbians.
December 24, 2003
T'was
Big fucking props to whoever went out and voted
for the Daily Mingus over the past day or so.
The Daily Mingus and its loyal readers have vaulted
into third place in the Asia
Weblog Awards 2003: Best Foreign (non Asian) blog
category. This is the only Christmas present
so far that has meant anything to me. So thank
you again. And if you haven't given me anything
yet, just go out and vote with your heart, your
cunt, your cock and your mind, and vote often.
And so, because I am so touched, I would like
to do what little I can to return the favour.
For those of you looking for laughs, please go
to google, type in tourette's
drunk, tourette's
fucking, or tourette's
religion. Top notch ratings, I'd say. Or as
my marketing department would like to say:
Nunt.com.
Ruining the internet one keyword at a time.
Or, if you're a man looking for a great anecdote
to make a Christmas three-way with your girlfriend
and her sister seem like a naturally brilliant
idea, read up on a great example of man's essential
polygamist nature by checking out the bitches
on Akot.
Akot, the fellow in profile, is 68 years old,
has 76 wives, 65 sons, and 86 daughters.
He laughed at the notion
of a man with only one wife. "There must
have been a problem with your grandfathers,"
Akot told a visitor. "When you love a woman
and then love another, you should stay with both.
"When I had one wife," he said, "it
seemed I had nothing to do."
Or, if you're a woman wishing you had a man obsessed
about you that would drill you like crazy in a
Harvey's parking lot, and you can close your eyes
and imagine what it would be like to get yourself
a good old fashioned Mingus whiskey dicking, scroll
on down to the December 22 blowout. It seems to
be popular with the ladies and stream of consciousness
fans. It's Nuntastic!™
Or, If you think you still haven't had enough
of Mingus' christmas cheer, we present the first
part of Mingus' much vaunted Haiku Sephirot. Enjoy!
--- --- ---
Women's cigarettes
taste like an affair - ending
in winter darkness
--- --- ---
December 23, 2003
Still Spinnin'
What the fuck one is supposed to write after that?
No sleep last night, not much, rolling around
the bed, waking up, thinking about a woman i shouldn't
be thinking bout. Chloe comes a looking for love
and i got none for her. And Christmas is coming
and what the fuck that means anymore, means nothing,
got nothing, and there it is.
Because everything else, including this fucking
book that I am supposed to be finishing becomes
secondary when Nat is fucking walking through
the walls. The only saving grace to that, is that
the book is Nat. And Nat is the book, and there
it is
And now, the insomnia.
I think I need to get high and watch the ceiling
and listen to motherfucking hiphop. Or should
I say, I need to get higher than I am and listen
to some motherfucking E-Ville hip hop. Not that
I would endorse drug use in a public forum like
this, but sometimes
there's nothing else to be done. Drunk is good,
high is good, fucked is best. And so yeah, roll
another J, turn out the lights, phone up that
girl and turn her over and make do. Merry Christmas,
a-darling. Our favourite time of year.
December 22, 2003
And Out of Nowhere Comes Your Messiah
Walking through the used book store, looking for
an Al Purdy book to give to Colette. Floating
through the aisles, hands behind my back, as is
my custom, reaching out to touch the old books
when I find one I recognize. Old friends, old
names that carried me through old times; Henry,
Fyodor, Vladimir, Margaret. Standing and turning,
then, looking for poetry, and everything changes
in one short, visceral second, like the instant
I cut myself to the bone with an old butcher knife,
and couldn't move, just for a moment, looking
down at the open meat. Intake of breath rooted
to the spot, staring, cause Nat is standing next
to the poetry section and she is down on her knees,
reading the back of an Emily Dickenson collection.
And before I can move, turn my back, run like
hell, she puts it away, stands up and looks at
me. And there is my bewildered reflection.
And that's all it is. Shock. None of the old
anger, the old lust, the old love, the old nights
of fucking and fucking and staring at my ring
in the winter moonlight and the old drunks and
the old fights and the old tears, there is nothing
old, just a moment of shock that neither one of
us can cover up.
I believe she recovers first, thinking of it.
She looks at the books for a moment, bows her
head, thinks, turns back slowly and says hello.
I mumble and look away. She asks how I am. I say
I am fine, and how is she, and she is fine and
that is good and i'm just buying a few last minute
christmas presents, something for K, which is
a lie, cause if anything, it would be natural
to lie to Nat before saying anything truthful,
and she nods and she can probably tell that I
am lying and that I think I am doing it to protect
her from some other woman. Cause there was always
some other woman. And the pleasantries are almost
finished, and i can almost say that i am late
and that I have to go and she is very quiet for
a moment, and before we say goodbye, she looks
at me. And she says Maybe we should talk, now.
And I say i would like that, but I have to meet
K, so, Oh, I don't mean now, some other time,
after Christmas, just to talk, and that would
be nice, I guess, we could go for a drink, I guess,
and she grimaces just a bit at that, and i say,
well then, maybe a coffee, and that would be nice,
and everything would be, wouldn't it, my old wife,
if we were back as we were tucked in under deep
covers in a small bedroom with a small tree and
a small god and presents and it was a few days
before our first christmas together and i wasn't
old and ruined for other women and you weren't
old and ruined for other men.
And smile, and awkward leaving, its not a handshake,
it ends up being a quick hug in the book store
and i step into it too quickly and knock a book
off the shelf and it is leonard cohen and we bend
together to pick it up and knock our heads against
each other and laugh stupidly, and apologize,
and when i put it back, we are silent because
we were beautiful losers too and we are and i
was her beautiful fucked up husband and she was
the drug i couldn't do without and so we look
away and we turn our backs on each other and i
walk out in the cold and start walking hard and
fast like i used to in order to get the cold off
my legs, but its no good and my coffee with colette
will be no good, no matter how she looks at me
with her barely restrained lust, because I can't
concentrate, and Christmas is going to be no good,
because it is going to be lived in the past, in
that small room held together by rings and some
sort of belief in what the days meant, instead
of what it is now and how empty it is now and
how all those old things are dead, and a bitter
laugh to the falling darkness that even now, girl,
we can ruin the birth of christ for each other.
yes. turn it all into ashes.
Fuck, nat. Fuck. Fucking christmas. Fucking nat.
FUcking mingus. Fuck it all.
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December 22, 2003 - Dec. 28, 2003