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February 09 - 15, 2004
February 13, 2004
Due to Failures

Of a technical and lugubrious nature, there shall be no Daily Mingus, today. So far. Until Mingus sobers up just a bit.

Such is the nature of things.


February 12, 2004
Mingus Tourette for Governor General

In major news today, Mingus Tourette was publicly begged to 'quietly - but effectively' overthrow the current Governor General Adrienne Clarkson and install his own brand of nuanced idiocy in the capital. The request hoped that the new reign would:

...change the mundane, pedestrian and homogenized artistic community within this country for the better. A Governor General with just enough humane-socialist-facism within himself to call crap "shit" and let loose a barrage of Gilgamesh-Ruskin-Marcuse-Layton-Palahniuk inspired propaganda upon the lemmings of this fine nation. - Marcuse

And so, I have decided that I will take up the weighty mantle, and cut down the imperial dogs in power, but I will need you, loyal subjects, to bear me upon your lofty brows, and carry me forth to victory. Lo, there shall be a new deity to represent the queen, and his name shall be MINGUS.

For in the new order, the old ways will be king. And the king himself, dead as he is, will once again, be supreme. Remember, minions, that the Governor General holds sway over all the government, and though this position has been reduced to but a rubber stamp for the last ninety years, the time is upon us for all of that to change. With your backing, your muscle, your belief, and yay, your steel, the office of the Governor General shall again be feared.

As the Supreme Commander of all Canadian troops, and head of the freshly minted Ministries of Fear, Happiness, Sovereignty and Information, I shall ensure that the revolution shall truly begin. No more will we be held paean to the mighty States of the Americas. We will drink wine. We will shed blood. We will hold vast Nero-esque orgies as the cities burn. And we will sacrifice virgins upon the altar.

Yay! We shall taste the untethered goats. We shall cast down the old icons. We shall crush the asses of the prophecied and the politicking. We shall nihil what has been made law. Nominate, and all will be done. I ask you. To do this.

Ignite the Propaganda Machine.

Engender the newly empowered Office of the Clones.

Heavily fund the Armoured Man Division.

Tear down the crucifixes. Remove your childish head dress. We all dress in unison now. Every one of us the same. Every one of us unique.

And every one of us worships the poets of old.

And every one of drinks the nectar. We worship at the waters of the Miskwedo.


Install Mingus as the new, and all-powerful Governor General of the Canadas.

Those who stand with me now, stand with me forever.

Those who turn their heads from my fearsome gaze, it will soon be as though they had never existed. So nominate now, or nominate never, and never shall you be.

And the followers, ever shall they be.

Thus Spake Mingus, in the Year of the Monkey.

---- ---- ----

Sober Post script: In all honesty, it's in all of our best interests if you go here to nominate me for Governor General. Or check Marcuse's original post. He's started a great site, especially for the lit-minded.

And when you fill out the form, mention the Daily Mingus. Quote me at your leisure. And when you have filed your witness to the miracle, let me know what you said.

Because. I'm going to keep track of the numbers of entries, and some of the more memorable quotes, and we can start our first real political movement. I figure I can win. According to Mr. Mercer, there are three qualifications to be Governor General: able to hold one's liquor (holy fuck do I win there), in touch with the kids (unqualified street credit here), and to be a former CBC personality (so I lose here. But I was memorably on once. Where it says CBC show on the form, put 'The Daily Mingus'.)

So nominate a new world order. Nominate Mingus!

Seriously. If I get more than three nominations, I'm starting a whole new section. Please, tempt me. I'm that fucking stupid. And more. You want to see my campaign promises. Ninja cadres, snow hippo breeding programs, and CEO Kumites. And a new national anthem. With a serious fucking beat.


February 11, 2004
Perhaps There is a Point to This Thing

In small news today, Mingus was called a poet. And wished peace.

Who knew words could be used to spread serenity as well as inflammation?

See, the other day there was this guy who runs a very sweet little site, and he posted a line expressing his personal frustration at the world. And seeing as we've had interesting conversations about the nature of the world and what happens when we die, and he doesn't judge me poorly for my unrepentant atheism, or my penchant for wearing nun's habits after Halloween, I replied to him, and said that I knew how he felt. And apparently, he appreciated it. And somehow, for this, I felt better about my own daily psychosis.

And yesterday, this fellah that I used to talk to every day before he up and moved away to Korea, he sent me an email. It was filled with cock and ball jokes. And it made me laugh. And I thought of all the interesting things we used to talk about. And how much we would both put into our respective arts. How we would put all our money and all our waking hours and all our favours and sanity and love into projects that ended up beautiful, but didn't make our careers.

And a couple of hours ago, Colette finally got back to me. And she said of course she would be interested in having a drink and talking about the progress of her poems, and she apologized about not being able to respond faster, but she had been out of town last weekend, and busy catching up. And maybe I could bring some of my haiku sephirot? She would be interested in reading some of Mingus' new works.

And I felt good for that.

So yes, maybe yes, once in awhile, this site, these machines, these glowing boxes we stare at, actually do something to make people feel as though they are not quite alone. Yes. Maybe there is a point to this thing.

February 10, 2004
Bitte, Zeitgeist

This is probably ill-advised, but then, everything i do is ill-advised. The book is ill-advised. Marching near-nude down the street in an American flag diaper is ill-advised, making love to Iraqi these days, is ill-advised.

Thuslike, about an hour ago, I have ingested three T3s, the kind with codeine, in an effort to destroy whatever viruses are left in the system. The ContacC wasn't doing it, sudafed wasn't cutting the mustard, neofuckingcitran, brandy and hot toddies weren't slicing the cheese, marijuana and 151 Jamaican fell by the wayside, so I've gone rooting around in my cellar for something a little stronger, something old school and opiated, and I got three old white pills left over from the famous hand incision of '02.

And so now, an hour later. The world is fading away and old Kob sits up, brave and foolhardy as ever. His hand on the pike, and he says, whats the world to do, and what's the world without a man and his stallion. What's the matter? Worlds not making sense any more? Does it make sense? Sense? Sense? No. These ones really don't make sense. Not at all.

Seeing as words are failing me in this newly opiated world, I am turning to art. Sweet, sweet art. And seeing as I haven't felt quite like this since the time I cut the finger to the bone, I believe I will create my sweet sweet art based on that time, based on the exciting 'Love Song to God' video that came out of those halycon days. It guest-stars my dear dear Sweaty.

Yes. Yes!! Download your new art, your new wallpaper here.


February 09, 2004
License to Ill

Mingus is unwell.

After a marathon session of lager and bud on Friday night with a couple of local hiphop gurus, Mingus wokeup on Saturday morning with something more than a hangover. Namely, he found himself with a cough and a pile of snot dripping from my face. At first, I thought the rough throat was just a reminder of the several bong loads we enjoyed while listening to the best of E-Ville's underground on vinyl. I lay in bed to shake off the feeling, but around noon, when Chloe dropped by for lunch and a cattle punch, the cough refused to go away.

She looked at me as I rummaged through my jeans, looking for a cigarette, and said, "You really look like shit."

I didn't look up, but replied, "You inspire me to look my best."

She went into a bit of snit, and started rifling the drawers, looking for something to make sandwiches. I found a smoke, walked outside and lit it. I could hear her telling me to put a shirt on, but fuck, it wasn't even below zero.

The smoke was a bad idea. I lit it up, took about three pulls off it, and felt this wave of revulsion expand right from the centre of my chest out to the end of my fingers. They started to shake, and I felt way too fucking lightheaded and I leaned against the steps and sat down, just for a minute, in the snow. And then i fucking knew. Sick. Ill. Virus. Weakness. Cold. Flu. Whatever. Terminus. 'Cause after I spat out the taste of tobacco, I could taste the sick, smell it, feel it in my fingers, along the muscles of my back. And then i was fucking mad. I didn't have time for this bullshit.

I went back inside. Chloe had found some anemic lettuce and was busy laying it into old hotdog buns with some garlic sausage. Apparently, that was the best my fridge could offer.

"You look sick," she said.

"I am."

"You've been working too much. That's why. You're body's telling you to ease off."

"You look healthy," I said. "What's your body telling you?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"It's telling you to work harder and maybe you'll get a lead role instead of all these shitty third-stringers you keep getting."

Apparently, that was too much. She called me an asshole and left the sandwiches where they were and picked up her bag and walked out.

I haven't talked to her since. I have slept and lay in my own drug-enhanced filth and rotted and slept some more. I have tried to work, but I can not. I haven't heard back from Colette yet, either. No one has called for 36 hours. I think I have a fever.

The moral of this story is not apparent to me.

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