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March 15 - 19, 2004
March 19, 2004
Torpor Rising

It'll be interesting if the rest of the so-called Coalition of the willing start to pull out of Iraq. Spain is certainly on its way, and now Poland is making noise. Poland has about double the number of troops Spain does, and the action in Iraq is only getting worse. This weekend could be terrible. And, things are going to the shits in Kosovo, which always breaks my fucking heart. Good night, Pristina.

What a lovely fucking species we are.

In other news, The Assman invited me over to see THE house. He's not allowed to bring men around when the girls are around, but he's gonna slide me through one day when no one's working. Strangely enough, this is what I have to live for.

Rumours abound that the final proof from the book printer may be circulated my way soon enough. Which reminds me. Any of you paffs actually have any good ideas about taglines / promotional postcards for Mingus Tourette / Nunt? I'm supposed to help come up with some good thoughts on what would be an exciting bookmark. So think!!! Or think about images to go with these:

Why Vote Bush When You Can Vote Nunt?

Nunt: Think Inside the Box

Anyone for Vatican Roulette?

X-Canada Nunt Cream Tour: This Is Not Your Father's Blitzkrieg

Sprechen Sie Nunt?

To give you an example of some of the current mock-ups, here's a turn on the classic Sweaty Charles shot, which is garnering some serious consideration. And before you open your can, here's another brilliant idea to get you sparked.

March 18, 2004
Rum, Sodomy & The Lash

six pints of green beer is the way its done and me and gander trying to figure out if chloe is the one and whether or not that clusterfuck with colette two weeks ago will ever right itself.

a good night. the way saint patty's should be. always memorable. always a hundred times better than fucking new years, cause really, new years is amateur hour, cause every clown goes out and puts on a suit and tie and sips bubbly wine and wakes up the next day and giggles about how old they're getting, but most of them stay home in the middle of the week, because when you drink on st. pattys, it is the day it is and if you got to get up and work the next day, tough fucking luck son. amateur hour's over. welcome to the show.

reminds me of this st. patty's day about five years ago, the last time i saw kenny zero. he and i were co-conspirators in the heavy drink game, and every time I would end up at one of those ridiculous after-bar parties where the air is grey with hash smoke and every set of knives in the kitchen has duct tape on the handles, he would be sitting alone on a stool with a marlboro in his mouth and his shirt open and flipping that fucking bullet back and forth over his knuckles. kenny played guitar and sang death metal and was a bisexual who never properly came out of the closet and quite uncomfortably intimated at times how much a hole was just a hole in the night and it didn't matter who it belonged to and he worshipped at the altar of the legions of rock gods who had overcooked themselves or shot themselves or quit christianity and married three lovely muslim wives and dropped away from the face of society.

the last time we saw him, we heard he was just divorced from his second wife, and even worse, had just dissolved his rock and roll band. we were drinking green beer somewhere on the ave when he walked into the bar alone and he saw us and wandered over and i could tell by the way he wasn't really looking at us that he was high high high and he started talking about his wife and his rock and roll band and the waitress came over and interrupted and asked if he wanted a drink and he snorted and said what he really wanted was a gun. she fucked off and he pulled out that fucking bullet, which we knew he carved his name into with his dad's buck knife, and he looked at us and really strangely nodded his head and said.

tonight might be the night. lucky sevens, I'm telling you.

shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the bar. wasn't wearing a coat, and it was almost spring, but it was way too cold to be walking far without a coat and neither one of us have seen him since.

don't know how i got to thinking about kenny zero last night. maybe cause i like to recollect on st. patty's, maybe its cause I'm getting old and only drank six pints instead of twelve. maybe cause i always wondered if he just left town or shot himself or found some fine-skinned muslim woman and her two sisters and sighed about his luck with the rock and roll band and decided it would be a good time to repent and move to egypt and raise egyptian sons. who knows. maybe i just wanted one more excuse to drink one more beer and what better reason that to raise one for an old drinking partner and say cheers and wish him well, wherever he would be - with his new wives in Cairo, with his cold bed under the earth, or sitting perched in someone's kitchen with red knives cooking on the stove, staring at a bullet with his name scratched onto it and wondering if tonight would be his lucky night.

March 17, 2004
Happy Saint Patty's Day

Congratulations to all on another Saint Patrick's Day. Well done. As such, I have made a list of resolutions.

1. Hang out with more poets.

2. Ride on more trains.

3. Return to the middle of nowhere in BC and lie on my back for some time and think about the way things are and drink more rum and read books and fuck.

4. Ignore American politics for just a short while. The rhetoric, frankly, is a bit sickening. Some of the material about Spain is intelligent, but the whole thing is disheartening. After spending two days surrounded by poets in the misty mountains, it seems quite pointless. The situations will get worse before it gets better, and the empire will never go away. It's a human institution. I say this now, knowing full well that something else Bush says will piss me off in the week, and I'll be back on the rage wagon.

5. Read some Bill Bissett books. The guy is one of the most unique, heartfelt and entertaining individuals I've ever met.

6. Start thinking seriously about the Nunt Cream Tour, and ways to promote it. Why can't a man make a living selling books. Some people certainly do. How about something like this on the side of a bus?

March 15, 2004
Spanish Requisitions & the Poetry Train

A follow up to last week's Madrid bombing story: Spain's ruling government lost the election by a landslide.

I have mixed feelings about the elections results. It is great that an administration which allied itself with Washington against the will of its public (up to 90% of Spain's populace was against joining the US war in Iraq) has been turfed. They deserved to be eliminated for acting against the will of their people, which is not how democracy is supposed to work.

However, voting them out directly after a terrorist attack of this magnitude gives a clear signal to the bombers that their tactic worked brilliantly. And if it worked in Spain, it can work elsewhere, even in America. It is no coincidence that the Madrid bombing happened exactly two and a half years after the 9/11 attacks. It would not surprise me to see some sort of attack in the lead up to the American election in November; either on the anniversary in September, or mirroring the Madrid attack, in the week previous to the election. Frightening thoughts, and us Canadians have an election coming up ourselves.

In other news, Mingus is catching the Poetry Train west on a bright and early Monday morning. The poetry train starts Sunday evening and goes from Winnipeg through to Prince George. On board will be a number of real, published Canadian poets; Jon Paul Fiorentino, Jay MillAr, bill bissett, Chandra Mayor, Deborah Stiles and Kate Braid. The deal is, the poets get off and on the train and make readings all across western Canada. I'll be hopping on here in E-Ville and following the troupe through to Dunster.

This is the most brilliant thing to promote Canadian poetry in a long time. It gives me hope that my coming X-Canada Nunt Cream Tour might actually work.

In any case, I'll be gone till Wednesday, talking to poets, discussing things with poets, getting drunk with poets, finding out the truth with poets. Truly, exciting.

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