NUNT Command Centre
About Mingus Tourette
Links & Props
Mission Statement

Nunt: The Book
Publishing Details

Tourette's In Progress

Daily Mingus Archive
July 2007
December 2006
November 2006
October 2006
September 2006
August 2006
July 2006
June 2006
May 2006
April 2006
March 2006
February 2006
January 2006
December 2005
November 2005
October 03 2005
September 19 2005
September 05 2005
August 22 2005
July 25 2005
July 11 2005
July 04 2005
June 27 2005
June 20 2005
June 13 2005
June 06 2005
May 23 2005
May 16 2005
May 09 2005
May 02 2005
April 25 2005
April 18 2005
April 11 2005
April 04 2005
March 28 2005
March 21 2005
March 14 2005
March 07 2005
February 28 2005
February 21 2005
February 14 2005
February 07 2005
January 31 2005
January 24 2005
January 17 2005
January 10 2005
January 03 2005
December 27 2004
December 20 2004
December 13 2004
December 06 2004
November 29 2004
November 22 2004
November 15 2004
November 08 2004
November 07 2004
October 04 2004
September 27 2004
September 20 2004
September 13 2004
September 06 2004
August 30 2004
August 23 2004
August 16 2004
August 09 2004
August 02 2004
July 26 2004
July 19 2004
July 12 2004
July 05 2004
June 21 2004
June 07 2004
May 31 2004
May 24 2004
May 17 2004
May 10 2004
May 03 2004
April 26 2004
April 19 2004
April 12 2004
April 05 2004
March 29 2004
March 22 2004
March 15 2004
March 08 2004
March 01 2004
February 23 2004
February 16 2004
February 09 2004
February 02 2004
January 26 2004
January 19 2004
January 12 2004
January 05 2004

March 01 - 05, 2004
March 5, 2004
Temporal Dissolution

Metro I
nine lights shining blue
old lady pops the lid off
cold beer in the cold night

Metro II
bars cast long shadows
the moon taunting me
with her freedom

Metro III
still writing cinquain
after a disastrous late night
of drinks and hurried lust

Metro IV

an older woman
with her strong body waning
hoping for a lover - a child

Metro V
the lights dim - music
step into another skin
and dance

Metro VI

typewriter tick tock
past midnight says the clock
bitter taste of scotch

Metro VII
mother's shining pride
her daughter in the news
grappa's phone rings

Metro VIII

the water swirls
in the bath - the girl steams
absently scrubbing

Metro IX

she says - touch my face
run your fingers through my hair
soft skin against mine

Metro X
eyes locked across the bath
unable to speak - unwilling
to break the moment

Metro XI
too long in stillness
the last train departs - without
errant passengers

Metro XII
walking in the cold
the long metal bridge
endless in the night

March 4, 2004
Mars Needs Women

The Daily Mingus is proud to announce that around the same time that John Kerry became the unofficial candidate for the Democratic party, we reached another traffic milestone: 8000 visitors. It may seem irrelevant, but this sort of thing has been known to make certain prison-bound nerdiopaths spontaneously ejaculate. Whatever you're doing Sweaty, I hope that one makes your day.

In real news, it became suddenly apparent to NASA that Mars used to have water. Good old National Geographic covers it in some detail, and so does one of the world's premier nerderies, New Scientist. Between that, and Lord of the Rings' Oscar win a couple of nights ago, it's been a real bonanza week for the socially challenged. But there is more to this than just a world-wide rod-rub for geeks.

If water existed on Mars, life may have existed on Mars.

If life existed on Mars, it may have come from Earth, or Earth's life may have come from Mars. Or from outside the solar system. Scientists have long postulated that comets could carry microorganisms from planet to planet. Because bacteria can certainly survive in the vacuum of space over ridiculous periods of time and space.

Which means: all life on Earth could have originated on Mars.

It's possible. Our biological ancestors might be buried under the bright red dust of the Martian plains. Who knows, there might be nothing up there but brick and mortar, but now that we know water was present, there's a possibility that some bacterial culture might have bloomed on the red planet, many years ago. Life flourishes in some inhospitable places - hydrothermic vents on the bottom of the ocean, for example, where there is no light, and little oxygen, or even beneath 50 km of dirt. In September, NASA decided to crash the spacecraft Galileo into Jupiter rather than have it impact the moon Europa. Europa is essentially one giant ball of ice, but it might have oceans beneath its surface, and therefore, life. Whether it does or not, they didn't want to contaminate it.

At this point, it's obviously premature to say we're all martians. Or extra-terrestrials. But we could be. The importance of the discovery of water on Mars cannot be underlined enough. It's something people have wondered about for centuries. And now that we know Mars once had water, we take another step closer to the possibility of fully understanding the origin of life on Earth. And the implications that might have.

For if at some point it looks like Earth's life began on Mars, I will have some pointed questions for Mel Gibson and the rest of the religioti flagellating themselves with the brooms of Christ these days. Life originating on Mars throws the regular creationism rhetoric into the shitter. At least, I don't remember any mention of Mars in the book of Genesis, or the Garden of Eden being located on Mars, or Adam and Eve being born on Mars, or God starting life on Mars, culturing it for awhile, sending it via asteroid to earth, and then annihilating it on Mars. Am I wrong?

Who knows, it might never come to pass that we find life on Mars, but it's something for religioti to take and ponder in the heart in case it happens. 'Cause you know an asshole like Mingus is going to ask the question, all innocent-like:

Hey Mel. Was Jesus a Martian?

March 3, 2004
Heart Swellings

After the excitement of signing off on the book, which goes to press tomorrow, I took a moment to flip through a couple of my regular sites.

I read, with some alarm, that old Marcuse had been hospitalized with swelling around the heart and blood in the spinal cord. I don't know the medical term for this sort of thing, but it can't be good. According to the site, he's out of the hospital now, and taking it easy, so visit Marcuse, and wish him a swift recovery on his comment board. It sounds like he'll be ok, but still, bit of a mindfuck.

Just another reminder.

This can all be changed in an instant. This can all disappear in a flash of yellow as the Brick truck goes through the red light. Anyone can go to the office one day, cough up something red, and be told, hours later, that they have swelling of the heart or the spine or a raging virus and shake as they feel that clinical coldness creep in from sitting on the white paper sheets.

Yes, the ever present obsidian wall.

And how best to live with that? Art? Fucking? Drinking? Women? Believing in a god that may or may not be entirely fabricated? Family and friends, good times had while watching hockey? Smoking enough weed every night that making toast seems like an adventure? Punching out a man who is knocking on your woman, even if she's a crazy pent-up stage freak? Dreaming of what it would be like to be a slightly-built, nineteen-year old lesbian in a French town during a summer heat wave?

Or, writing down the fear for others to read and understand and shake their heads, and maybe say, yes, Mingus, I too, am afraid of the obsidian wall. I, too, have no greater fear than dying, and ending this ever-shortening existence, for I love it, whatever it is. How best to live in the presence of the obsidian wall, without living in its shadow? What to do, but cut one's self a unique life, the life one wants, with the work and the leisure one wants, and the people one wants? To pursue that endlessly and obsessively, knowing that there is but one fucking chance to do so? Yes. Write, fuck, drink, walk, and talk. And love, of course, whatever that means to one.

March 2, 2004

Just when you thought the web was good for nothing but busting the odd nut and checking yer email, something worthwhile and humanitarian comes along. That's right, it is time to worship the Cyborg Name Generator!

And it's so easy! You punch in your name, and you get something like this:

M.I.N.G.U.S.: Mechanical Intelligent Neohuman Generated for Ultimate Sabotage

You can only hope yours is as cool as mine. It probably isn't. And then when you're real excited about it, you can buy a t-shirt or a mug with your Android name on it.


This is what makes the world a great place to live. That, and on a related note, sex dolls. And even more so, Jack Daniels.

Motherfucker never lets me down. Though he's no Crown Royal. Yum!

March 1, 2004
Oilers Panic, Lose Again
I have to confess, that like any other red-blooded Albertan north of Red Deer who drinks Pilsner and eats beef, Mingus is an Oiler's fan. And I must also confess that watching the Oil lose again, to Dallas, in overtime, is like losing a street fight against a hobo armed with a dull fork.

God, what have we done to deserve such an infuriatingly inconsistent team?

And there is no answer.

There is only the question: will these fuckers arouse themselves from the subpar ice masturbation they've played all year and win a dozen of the next seventeen games, or will they continue to fumble the puck in the dying moments of the game, twenty-odd fellows reaching for the steering wheel when they should be reaching for the brake, as the truck rolls towards the edge of the cliff? Of course, if they do make the playoffs, they'll be annihilated by Detroit or Colorado in the first round, as always, but at least it gives us hope. And pride. Especially in what could be the final year of the NHL. I would like to be able to sit down in the pub with Harv for this last go-round, and scream and cheer and hope that even if they don't win, they'll at least make us look tough and respectable. Like always. Because every Canadian city lives through their hockey team. And maybe, like way back in 1997, they'll have a couple of miracles, and break some overachieving team with a superior payroll on the grist-mill of youth and hard work. Ah, the thrills of memory.

But it looks bad this year. Even Smyttie's mullet may not carry the day. Which is sad, cause this could be it for awhile. Forsberg may have signed with a Swedish team next year, which is sort of the painting on the wall. Which makes me wonder, what will Canadians do without hockey? Without the Leafs, the Habs or the mighty Oil? What will fill the void, that chasm in our collective souls? What will warm our hearts in the winter of our discontent?

Poetry, of course. Poetry, is the answer to everything.

In other news, the Bow Mariner sank off the coast of Virginia with 13 million liters of ethanol onboard. If it leaks, there's gonna be a lot of drunk fish out there. Not that I'm envious.

Click For Previous Week's Daily Mingii