April 8th, 2005
Nominations
Drinking coffee at midnight. Smells like the
first night of spring. No blooms yet, but the
air was damp with the scent of lilacs and dogshit
when I went walking.
It was good to clear my head after a long talk
with my publisher about today's events. Still
hasn't all settled in, but it's a pretty fucking
amazing development.
In summary:
For Immediate Release
April 7, 2005
2005 ALBERTA BOOK AWARDS : Finalists Announced
EDMONTON, AB After reviewing this year’s
entries, the judges have announced the finalists
for the 2005 Alberta Book Awards. 51 nominees
have been shortlisted in 15 categories for writing
and publishing.
Award recipients will be named on Saturday, May
14th at the Alberta Book Awards Gala at The Fairmont
Hotel Macdonald in Edmonton. Join emcee Chris
Allen from CKUA to celebrate the finalists and
winners, and recognize excellence in Alberta writing
and publishing.
The Book Awards Gala evening includes cocktails,
dinner, awards presentations, and entertainment
and is hosted jointly by the Book Publishers Association
of Alberta, the Writers Guild of Alberta and Alberta
Community Development. Everyone is welcome to
be a part of this celebration of Alberta books,
authors and publishers.
Georges Bugnet Award for Novel
• Paul Anderson (Calgary); Hunger’s
Brides, Random House Canada
• Greg Hollingshead (Edmonton); Bedlam,
HarperCollins Canada
• Marie Jakober (Calgary); Even the Stones,
Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing
Howard O’Hagan Award for Short Fiction
• Ken Rivard (Calgary); Whiskey Eyes, Black
Moss Press
• Chava Rosenfarb (Lethbridge); Survivors:
Seven Short Stories, Cormorant Books,
translated by Goldie Morgentaler
• Thomas Wharton (Edmonton); The Logogryph,
Gaspereau Press
Stephan G. Stephansson Award for Poetry
• Tim Bowling (Edmonton); The Memory Orchard,
Brick Books
• Walter Hildebrandt (Calgary); Where the
Land Gets Broken, Ekstasis Editions
• Mingus Tourette (Edmonton); nunt, Zygote
Publishing
Click here for the
full press release, as posted on the Writer's
Guild of Alberta site. More on this next week
when it sinks in a bit.
April 7th, 2005
Immolation, Revisited
Found one of Chloe’s hairs on an old jacket
I put on today. There it was, fine and black.
As though she were just wearing it. Reminded me
of this time about a year ago, before we went
completely into the gutter and the raven shit
in my eye. From last March:
Desultory Immolation
and after i pull my cock out of her and step
over to the counter to pour myself another rum
and coke and there is a knock at the door and
it is two in the fucking morning and she is looking
at me confused-like and uncertain and then a bit
fearful and the moon plays well on her features
and her tits shine through the sheets
so i answer the door and there is a man there
and i knew who it is. the money lender. and so
i don't bother to put my pants on. cause i got
no respect for that fucker and yeah maybe i want
him to see me standing there with her joice still
sprayed all over my legs and so i answer the door
and he is shocked.
but i don't care so i ask what the fuk he wants
and he aint got nothing cause he is all bitch
whip paul when it comes to this business but i
can tell he was thinking that it wouldnt be me
answering the door naked and when i look back
at her i can tell that maybe this wouldnt be the
first time that fucker showed up at two in the
morning.
so i feel that foul mood sink in. like it sank
in all day. like it been sinking in for weeks,
every time i think the word cuckold and think
the money counter on top of my stage hand, and
it sinks in right behind the eyes. murderous like.
and i forget all about everything my old polish
fighting coach said and i splash the rum in his
face and when he is still standing there shocked
and wet i twist the body one way and back and
follow it up with that hard right hook that hits
just below the left eye. and the knuckle hits
it just right on the cheekbone that it splits
and there is blood. just a trickle. leaking out.
sounding like a dropped grapefruit on concrete
when it hits.
i wait a second to see if hes got any more but
hes too shocked or too stupid or too unaware of
how pathetic he looks to step back up the stair
and take a run at me. i spit. it hits his jacket.
and i dont say anything but shrug at him and close
the door. girl still looking at me from the sheets
two nipples staring at me like angry caterpillar
heads but i dont give a fuck. shes still wet and
hungry and waiting for the rest of her fuck.
so i walk over to the counter where the rum bottle
is still out and i pour a shot in and look in
the fridge and theres no coke and the top knuckle
of my right hand is throbbing but i dont give
a fuck. fill the glass with a bit of water. slug
it back. go back to bed. give her a kiss that
tastes like thick thick liquor and roll over and
let her sit there wet and let her fuck herself
cause fuck you moneylender come to fuck you and
i got your blood on me and his blood on me and
maybe like donnes flea you two are fucking.
whatever. go fuck yourselves. just seeing his
blood got me off
April 6th, 2005
A Cool Pastis
The other day, Morrie ordered a Pastis. Ever
since, I have been considering taking it up for
the summer, in place of gin. Or Pernod. This may
not seem important, but I have been thinking about
it for a couple of hours.
Big week for poetry lovers -
The Griffin Poetry Prize short list should
be announced today. It is highly unlikely that
I will be on it. In fact, it is more likely that
John Paul II will stand up in St Peter's Square
and begin to moonwalk. However, these things are
good for promoting poetry, and some poet gets
$50 000 in the end, so that's a good deal. I'm
telling you, this poetry business is unbelievably
lucrative.
Closer to home, the Alberta
Book Awards are announced tomorrow. Specifically,
the Stephan G. Stephansson Award for Poetry shortlist
will be announced. There is only a short list
of three for the whole province, which fits nicely
with Mingus Tourette's
Rule of Fourth™, sometimes referred
to as the N + 1 Losing Formula. Again, the chances
of making the list are minimal, to be positive.
Point is, this is National
Poetry Month, so if you only read award nominees,
now is the time to pick up some books. And - to
keep celebrating the Poetry Month, we're proud
to say that we'll post a couple more hot poems
over the next few weeks from Alex
Boyd and Jordan
Fry, who just put out a new issue of
Grey Borders. You've got to love a magazine
who's mandate reads:
We
are the badasses of the Niagara Region. Our goal
is not to simply produce work that is good, we
want to bring to the literary world a sense of
meaning and importance. We are sick of reading
bullshit poems and stories that don't have anything
to offer except an indepth look into the writer's
life. Fuck it. The writing found in our mag is
supposed to evoke thinking, not understanding.
We don't provide answers, but ask a hell of a
lot of questions. If you think that you've got
something to say, or you want a forum to say it
in, then submit work, ideas or questions to us.
So go buy some Griffin
Books today, or order some
Grey Borders.
Poetry Month: Goes Nicely with a Cool Pastis™.
April 5th, 2005
A Civilized Conversation over Mint Tea, Somewhere
Near Balmoral
I was hungover, and flying back from a poetry
reading in Brandon. I stunk of gin, and I was
unhappy with Ben Mulroney. The woman beside me
was attractive, but she knew I was a dangerous
libertine, and she avoided my gaze. I wanted to
finish reading my Houllebecq novel, but I couldn't
focus on the words. Nor could I sleep. I found
myself faced with the ignominy of watching airline
television. Unfortunately, Ben was on the air,
still embarrassing himself after our chat. He
was shilling for the preteens again, this time
on the red carpet of the Juno Awards, Canada's
ass-bottom Grammies.
The Junos, I said to the frightened woman beside
me, are an embarrassing collection of dildos sucking
off a bunch of dickheads. She pretended not to
hear me. I watched the little screen in muted
disappointment.
Mulroney turned in his most sycophantic performance
to date. It was clear that he had an erection
for most of the broadcast. I had warned him earlier
that he must try to be less demeaning to himself,
but it obviously didn't catch. At one point, his
co-host told Fefe Dobson that Mulroney used her
song as his cellular ring tone. He giggled like
a young Belgian nun. Within seconds, he used the
phrase 'To sum it up' as a segue over to the Sum
41 interview. Everyone was humiliated. My eyes
hurt. I imagined that Neil Young had faked his
aneurysm to avoid such a spectacle.
The problem Ben has is: no matter what kind of
advice I ply him with, and no matter what his
condition - drunk, high, straight - nothing sinks
in. That afternoon, between the Brandon shuttlebus
and the flight out of Winnipeg, we had a conversation
over mint tea. Mostly, he worked on his hair while
I talked and read Phyllis Webb. I told him that
if he spent another year on this pap, he would
never have a shot at a political career, much
less a journalism career. In my opinion he had
to start doing some serious reporting under a
real editor. His columns for the Sun read as though
they'd been written by a sixteen-year old Gap
employee. I said that he should use his clout
to get a post in Iraq. There, he could let the
sight of burnt dead men with their boots blown
off transform him. Something to give him a hint
of credibility.
He didn't react to my idea. He added mousse and
did some more combing.
Ben, I said, you have to start thinking about
this situation soon. Otherwise, you'll be smiling
blankly at Cabinet Minister Justin Trudeau in
20 years, trying to compliment him into giving
you a shot with the Liberals. It will fail miserably.
Later, when your producers realize that you're
starting to look like Joan Rivers on the red carpet,
driving away their core demographic, they'll cut
you loose. You'll be out on the street, trying
to find Mike Bullard in the phone book so you
can commiserate about getting fucked over for
shitty ratings.
That afternoon, as he blow-dried his hair for
the third time, Ben asked why I kept at him. He
asked why I kept trying to get him drunk on Sunday
afternoons and shove Kafka down his throat. So
I told him, straight ahead.
Ben, you can do anything you want - politics,
travel-writing, even television. Though you don't
know it, that is an incredibly rare thing. If
I had your genetic code, I have to say that I
would be tempted to try them all. You could have
written and published half a dozen books by now,
with real marketing campaigns instead of half-cocked
shit-head pink ambulance fiascos. You could have
recorded hiphop albums, directed experimental
films and learned to be a sommelier in Paris.
You could have run for office for a new political
party called 'The Responsible Libertarians' by
now. You could have married a film star and divorced
her, and then married another. You could have
borne film star chidren, then squandered it all
for a dalliance with a Swiss underwear model.
Then, at this point in your life, after everything
fell apart, you could return to Canada, live out
your disgrace, rebuild, and run for a proper seat
in the House. You could be elected, overwhelm
Harper and McKay with your god-given Irish charm
to become the PM, and settle in to run the fucking
country the way it should be done.
So, goddamnit, buy yourself a George Plimpton
biography, read it, start staring at those wrinkles
in the mirror and think twenty years down the
road. Do it soon. Otherwise, you'll be sucking
off dickheads on national television till you
get too old, and they'll take you into the board
room on a Thursday afternoon, put the muzzle under
your left ear like an unsuspecting dog and pull
the trigger.
He flipped his hair back, one final time, satisfied.
I didn't know if he'd heard anything I'd said,
and I was saddened. I sipped my tea and thought
of the Pope's final words.
Some men are born with nothing, and rise up through
sheer force of will to head the greatest religion
in the world, under God. They do great and horrible
things, but they are remembered long after they
lie in state. Millions pray for their soul.
Other men are born with everything, and do nothing
but blow bubbles in their milk. Such is the tragedy
of the well-born. - Poet John Paul II
April 4th, 2005
Sundogs
Brandon was a good time - rode around in an
electric car, drank gin and white russians, and
worked on an art installation - an amazing mixture
of photographs, audio design and spatial displacement.
The reading itself was surreal - the Alice in
Wonderland theme was in full effect - tea cups,
doilies, the hookah, and almost a dozen readers.
Lots of poetry, Lewis Carroll and even some interesting
lit non-fiction about Che Guevara and Argentina.
My reading went fine; some of the new work was
well-received, and I screamed out some John Newlove,
which made me happy. Finished off with my recitation
of The Jabberwocky, which was rolling
along at 11, until I said loudly that the boy
went 'galumphing black', instead of 'galumphing
back'. People were nice enough not to hurl their
tea cups. And I found something to put on my tombstone:
Mingus Tourette
Gone Galumphing Black
(never much cared for god)
So, cheers to the MacNeill sisters for working
so hard to put the Sundogs on and have me out
there. You're doing a great thing with your series,
giving Brandon a place to read and hear poetry,
a place for people to express themselves and talk
about art and philosophy. Lots of those people
would never experience that without your efforts.
And just so we're all clear - I was in Brandon,
Manitoba this weekend. There are several witnesses
to this. I was not in Italy, I was nowhere near
the Vatican, and I had nothing to do with the
Pope's death.
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April 4th - April 10th, 2005