January 21st, 2005
Nun sequitur

As expected, the national broadcast drove up sales by approximately 14%, leading to a gross one day net of 1.7 million dollars. Traffic eclipsed our October 14th high of 2.6 million readers, who were treated to what Esquire called "a riveting piece of fiction, a tangential instrospection on semitism, barnyard politics and the writing life". The Financial Post, critical as ever of Tourette Industries, noted that it marked "a clear sign that the poetry industry has watermarked, and may now begin a raw steel orientation. Tourette's recycling of old material has all the signs of 'the Asian flu' of '97, when Canadian poetry suffered cyclical downward sales, and barely cleared 6 Billion USD in total sales".

The Post quoted an anonymous source within the organization who said that, "the only way we will be able to meet projected third-quarter earnings is to reopen the Fish, and I don't think anybody is quite prepared to do that at this point. Especially with [Mr.] Sweaty Charles still incarcerated."

To the Post, I would simply say as I always say: thanks for the speculation, but we'll keep running our multimillion dollar poetry operation the same way we always have: hard, clean and highly lucrative. Brand recognition has never been higher, and projections on the 'Say It With Pink' Valentine's Day sales campaign looks to be exceeding initial margins.

To quell any rumours about the Valentine's campaign, I must say that we have been highly impressed with latex production in Vietnam, as per the 'Nunt Gift Basket'. I shouldn't give anything away, but we may incorporate yet another multinational ambulance delivery service on the 14th. Details will be forthcoming very soon.

So, to our millions of loyal poetry consumers: keep enjoying the world's premier poetry brand. Without you, we'd just be a bunch of naively hopeful punk kids selling words out of the back of a pink van.

MT
CEO & Chief Visionary
Tourette Poetry Industries Inc.

January 19th, 2005
From ZeD to Classic

Tonight, the pink ambulance rides again, this time through the hallowed halls of the CBC. If you're still awake at 11.25pm, tune in to ZeD for an all-poetry episode starring Bukowski, Burroughs and a bunch of unknown shitheads in a fuschia emergency vehicle. Learn more...

Coinciding with this special event, we now present the first of the highly anticipated Classic Mingus. This handpicked beauty dates from June 2003, when I drove Chloe down to Cowtown for her Grandfather's funeral. The article her family mentions featured me shirtless, hands raised to the sky, wearing a gasmask beside a caption reading 'One Day Writers Will Be Treated Like Rock Stars'. If you don't know what the hell is going on anymore, keep reading:

Funeralis

I never did explain what exactly happened down there in Cowtown, which has led to a certain instability in my current situation with old Chloe.

You see, I didn't exactly warn her about the article, and she in turn, didn't warn her parents. I met them the first day we got down there, a Thursday, and I was introduced to the parents as a nice intellectual student sort of writer, who hoped to someday write the Great Canadian Novel. It was a short visit and we were able to leave fairly quickly after Chloe and her mother'd had a decent cry.

We spent that day and the Friday after in a cheap hotel room watching throw away porn, drinking red wine and smoking weed and fucking uncontrollably. Chloe was, as I had predicted, dead set on trying to drown out any sound of death with her own echoing voice. It was fucking fantastic.

Of course, Saturday came soon enough, the day of the planting, and we were up early to get to the house to make sandwiches and shake hands. We smoked one last joint before getting out of her car and walking in.

The parent's house was way more crowded than Thursday, and this time I was quickly introduced to several uncles and a sister-in-law whom I was to understand were all involved in cattle ranching of some kind. While Chloe went to see her Grandma, I was left standing in the kitchen with the uncles. The room was perfectly fucking silent.

Eventually, one of the uncles spoke.

Uncle Number 1- So you're a writer.

Mingus Tourette - Yes.

U1 - Who do you write for?

MT - Sorry?

U1-Who do you write for, what paper?

MT - Oh no, I don't write for a paper.

U1 -Well then, who do you write for?

MT -At the moment, I do some freelance work, but mostly I work on my own material.

U1 - What kind of material?

MT- Novels, screenplays, poetry, that kind of thing.

U1 - Like Tom Clancy?

MT - Sort of.

U1 - He's a good fucking writer, eh? You ever read The Sum of All Fears?

MT - No, no I haven't.

U1 - It was a good movie.
(pause)
So you write books? What's your books about?

MT - It's sort of difficult to explain - I guess it's partly autobiographical, some political commentary, social commentary...

U1 - Sounds sort of like the shit that Jew from Quebec writes. The Frog Jew. What's his name?

MT - Sorry?

U1 - He sings, too.

Uncle Number 2 - Leonard Cohen. He sang that 'I'm your Man'.

U1 - Yeah, that's him.

MT - I don't know if he's French.

Sister-In-Law - He's French, but I think I read somewhere he's a buddhist now.

MT - I don't think Cohen is French, actually. I think you're thinking of Mordecai Richler. Wrote Duddy Kravitz?

U1 - Nope, it's the singer. Who's Duddy Kravitz?
(pause)
You mean Lenny Kravitz. He's a jew, you know. Black jew.

MT - No, Mordecai Richler wrote a book called Duddy Kravitz. Richler's a Montreal Jewish writer, or at least, he was a Montrealer Jewish writer, but he died a couple of years ago. He wrote Jacob Two-Two and the Hooded Fang.

U2 - I read that book! It was fucking awesome. Loved it!

Sister-In-Law - Passed away.

MT - Pardon me?

SIL - We're trying not to say 'died' this weekend. It's 'passed away', or better yet, 'passed on'.
(bows head briefly, crosses herself)

MT - I'm sorry.

U1 - There any money in poetry?

MT - Not much, at least, not yet. Unless I can sell a pile of books.

U1 - You know, there was some fucking writer in the EdmonChuck paper that Laurence brought down who was bitching about how little money he made. And get this, this guy was dressed like a fucking Iraqi, with the gasmask and everything. Fuck, you should read this.
(yells to backroom)
Hey Laurence, bring that EdmonChuck rag out here. I want to show this young writer something.

Laurence - What young writer?

U1 - The one that Chloe brought down, does it fucking matter? Get off yer ass and bring me that piece of shit, will you?

MT - Oh, don't worry about it. I can check it out at home. It's no big deal.

U1 - No, you should see this. This guy's a regular fucking asshole. Thinks he's funny.

Laurence brings out paper. Laurence is the youngest uncle, just over thirty, wears glasses and works as an accountant clerk and farmer. He comes in, helps himself to coffee, puts the paper down on the table. Uncle One goes through it, pulls out the Ed Magazine. I am on the front cover in my gasmask. It is an absolutely thrilling moment to see the photo - words on the chest came out perfectly, caption reads 'One day writers will be treated like rock stars - Mingus Tourette'.

My excitement is shortlived, however, as he opens the paper, and I see my face on the second page of the article. On the rest of the photos, I am wearing the gasmask, but The Uncle also sees my face on the paper, and looks back at me. He looks back at the paper. He looks back at me and sees that I see it, and that I see him.

There is a long fucking silence. Nobody says anything. Laurence bumbles around the kitchen. Uncle Number One reads the article again, carefully. It's as though I have cut a rancid fart that smells nothing like the family fart, and everyone knows it. Eventually, the mother and father and grandmother enter the room with Chloe, and everyone's in black and solemn and waiting to grieve. Uncle Number One, finishes the article and speaks without looking up.

U1 - Hey Chloe. Your boyfriend's in the paper. Take a look.

At this point, Chloe and mother and father huddle around paper excitedly. The father nods at me approvingly, before looking at the paper. Chloe is confused, raises her eyebrow. Turns to read the paper. More silence as they read the paper. Chloe looks up first, her face red, eyes wide. The mother turns up her head, not really understanding. When the father raises his head, he is obviously disgusted.

Mother - What's a nunt?

At that point, there was more stuttered conversation, poor explanations that beat around the point, more long silences, more confusion and lots of disappointment. Chloe didn't say much, and I didn't ask her about what she thought of the article. We stayed high as much as possible for the weekend and she cried when her grandfather went into the ground, and I cried, and maybe that was a little redeeming, 'cause she wanted more Mingus that night, and nobody mentioned the article for the rest of the weekend, but there was certainly no heartfelt conversation about writing or life or death or future endeavours, and when I left, the handshakes and the thanks were limper than they should have been.

And now, since we've come home, Chloe and I haven't seen much of each other, except late at night, when she calls around eleven or so and wants me to give her a solid once over. Earlier this week she didn't call one night because she had to go for coffee with her old boyfriend who happens to be an accountant and is thoroughly acceptable and was well loved by the family. They were just going to catch up, because he had heard about Grappa and was being a nice guy.

So that's all fine and fucking dandy, but I can smell the fuckover just around the corner. I can already hear the conversation when she's suddenly reconsidered the accountant's proposal and weighs his paycheck, house and straight teeth against a lunatic who doesn't have a proper job and is mostly embarrassing in public, and whose only real value lies in his ability to balance a woman on his thighs in a standing lotus position after drinking three bottles of red wine.

If I had to bet, I would say that I shall soon be found wanting and Chloe will be marrying off her old accountant. I have run this gambit before, but it will still surprise me, as all betrayals do, grand or small. But I want to make it clear that I know, because I know how people work. I can see it coming. And that's all I know. And the reason I'm saying this is to say that I know and I don't want to look like a fucking patsy, so this is simply for the record, and not at all because I'm starting to get attached and that I'm worried about it falling apart and that if it happens I will be far more alone than before.

Nothing like that at all.

January 18th, 2005
Bushica Part Two: Iran

It was one of my unwritten resolutions to avoid any discussion of President Bush or his neo-conservative administrators this year. I've already broken that resolution once. I'm having an easier time not smoking.

However, for a guy who considered starting up BetOnSyria.com to allow citizens to gamble on the Syrian invasion date, I feel I should mention this one.

A reporter named Seymour Hersh blew his whistle on CNN in an interview about his upcoming New Yorker article. The CNN.com headline stated "The Bush administration has been carrying out secret reconnaissance missions to learn about nuclear, chemical and missile sites in Iran in preparation for possible airstrikes there"

Before the White House spin masters have their way with him, it should be noted that Hersh is a respected journalist, and was the first person to write about many of the details of the abuses that occured at Abu Ghraib. He is also a Pulitzer Prize winner. As well, there isn't much motivation for someone like Hersh to bring this to light unless it is true. The election is done, Bush is in for four more years, and Hersh probably doesn't need any more awards. But he's saying it:

"The planning for Iran is going ahead even though Iraq is a mess," Hersh said. "I think they really think there's a chance to do something in Iran, perhaps by summer, to get the intelligence on the sites."

He added, "The guys on the inside really want to do this."

Hersh identified those inside people as the "neoconservative" civilian leadership in the Pentagon. That includes Rumsfeld, Deputy Defense Secretary Paul Wolfowitz and Undersecretary of Defense Doug Feith -- "the sort of war hawks that we talk about in connection with the war in Iraq."

And he said the preparation goes beyond contingency planning and includes detailed plans for air attacks:

"The next step is Iran. It's definitely there. They're definitely planning ... But they need the intelligence first." - CNN.com

January 17th, 2005
The Big Excitement

E-Ville's cultural scene is about to be blasted by the old defibrillator over the next couple of weeks, so break out your calendars and start making plans.

Next Tuesday marks the first performance of Mostly Water Theatre's 'Maturity'. It is sketch comedy as art. It runs from Tuesday, January 25th to Saturday January 29th, at the Jekyll and Hyde Pub downtown (100st and 106 Ave), and it will include a dramatization of the infamous Incident on Balmoral Street with Ben Mulroney. If this isn't a cultural watershed moment, I don't know what is. When asked what the story meant to him, writer / actor / producer Trent Wilkie replied:

"It's basically a story about boy meets girl, girl steals boy's meth, boy's grandfather goes on an expired herbal ecstacy trip and hits on girl, girl buys faulty condoms and boy and girl kill puppies. Its a classic tale like Terms of Endearment meets The Littlest Hobo meets D-cup Dykes do Boob-fuck Madness. You know...fun for the family."

I highly recommend you attend, if only for the inevitable fistfighting.

Next up is Shelley Rothenburger's art show 'The Proteans', which runs January 28th at the U of A Extension Centre Gallery, on the 2nd floor, 8303 - 112 st. Regular readers will recognize Rothenburger as the artist who painted the groundbreaking 'Effervescent fuckaroo' portrait, lauded for its interpretation of a hugely egotistical Canadian writer. In addition to the wine, cheese, and fascinating conversation about cubism, this art show sfeatures a poetry reading by Mingus Tourette. Again, I highly recommend you attend. Show up for the culture - stay for the fist fights.

Stay tuned for more as these stories develop.





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