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Sept 5th - Sept 18th, 2005
September 15th, 2005
The Butcher

Gander's back in town, which is a good time. Nice to light up some fattie arbuckles and talk shit.

Gander:...and what else are you working on now?

Tourette: Morrie and Sierra and I are still punching each other in the face with Roast Kraken.
And Sierra and I are just straight-up punching each other in the face. So I like to pretend I'm working on that.
And I've started writing another book-length poem. Like the divinity or nunt.

Gander: I thought you were done with bloody poetry.

Tourette: Me too. Fucking bullshit. But I've been zeroed in on this story for six or seven years, and it won't go away. It come back seriously a few weeks now.

Gander: Why? I thought you were still banging out that Nadia thing.

Well, I am. I told you that thing about the banana, right? What a mess...
But, a couple of weeks ago, while Rideout and Carroll were dancing in that bar with no name, this fucker named Alexander Pearce walked up to me and told me that I should stop fucking around and tell his story in an epic poem.

Gander: In Brandon?

Tourette: Yup. Which was a bit shitsoboshed, 'cause this Pearce died about two hundred years ago. In Australia. Executed for cannibalism.

Gander: And you're sure it wasn't just the gin talking? Or Coleridge whispering in your ear?

Tourette: I'm sure. There was no gin that night, just beer.
Which really isn't like drinking at all. And there was no mariner.

Gander: So you're thinking of writing an epic poem about a man executed for cannibalism two hundred years ago?

Tourette: And murder, I think. And it would be a hundred poems. Or so. Or a hundred cantos, properly. Something like that. I think it'll be called Greenhill the Butcher.
After one of the other cannibals. The one that did most of the killing. Because this wasn't just eating dead people - these convicts killed each other to eat.

Gander: (long pause) Well, I must admit I was wondering what the next project would be, and I have to say - perfect, Tourette. Just fucking perfect. And absolutely charming, as usual...

September 14th, 2005
As She Said

Just to clarify - nobody should believe a goddamn thing they read here.

That is, starting tomorrow.

I've been writing too much Roast Kraken to write much Daily Mingus, so I'm copying in one of Nadia's postcards for your consumption. The card is from Madrid, with a photo of a red-streaked bull on the front, full of banderillas, staring down a bullfighter. The card wasn't mailed from Madrid, but the sentiment is rather charming. Nadia's handwriting is as small and block-like as ever, written in black ink.

--- --- ---


I thought you would say that to me.

Because this morning,
I noticed a distinct chill in the air.


Though it is late for cranes
and strange for them
to be in the city

the birds took flight suddenly
from a grassy rise
near the Church of Mary
down in the Valley.

Breaking into the air without warning.


As I walked - later

a dog ran out into the street
bled from the ears

and died.

I did not see a car strike him,
but he still died

and I knew you would want to leave me.

But I won't let you.


--- --- ---

September 12th, 2005
Garneau Block Today

I shouldn't try writing articles when I'm completely asbestosized on gin. Somehow I missed the discussion board for the Garneau Block on the Journal's site.

But there it is - discussing.

So if you have witty comments about the
G Block, blast them off there. And, if you are enjoying the Novel, let those Journal bastards know. Why not email the publisher? I certainly enjoy doing so.

Remember - if this one is a success, rumours abound that Mingus Tourette's Roast Kraken could show up the following year. Or Mingus Tourette's Weekly Poetry Corner. I forget which.

Did I mention that the new site for the Roar on '24th is in full swing? If you haven't signed up to read at Canada's hottest new poetry festival, you should do it before all spots are filled. I think there are something like seventy poets signed up to date. That party's going to be a squid-knocker, for sure. A hundred drunk poets in one room? Good times!!!

September 9th, 2005
Garneau Block Today


That an under-reported, highly imporant literary event begins today when Todd Babiak's serialized novel THE GARNEAU BLOCK kicks off in the Edmonton Journal.

If you live in Edmonton and have ever complained about being culturally insignificant, and you skip reading this book in the paper, you should retire. From life.

You can't miss it. It's on the front page of the Edmonton Journal, and will appear on page B2 for the remainder of 2005 (almost). And it's a bloody mystery. If you want the penultimate in water cooler talk, this is it. And, due to heavy negotiations on the part of Doctor Law, the first week is entirely free. That's right. You can tune in for the first week FREE.

So go read chapter one of one hundred right bloody now.
Notice the punchy hook and the well-defined 'Madison' character.

Early reviews have compared Babiak's novel to a 'Pynchonesque-Delillo sabatique'. Of course, the media, and especially the lit media, has woefully under-reported this event, leaving Nuntcom staff as the only legitimate source of Frye-Mann-based criticism. Early talks with Marvin Gander indicate that 'this mystery makes Robertson and Ian Rankin look woefully barren - like the pedantic midwives they are...'. The Globe and Mail, MacLeans and the National Post - especially Martin Levin and Brian Bethune, (who collectively did not review nunt), have been entirely negligent in tackling this innovative approach to bringing fiction to the people. As has everyone else in this tight-assed country.

In the meantime, rumours persist that one of the major characters is modelled after Mingus Tourette. Most editors have claimed that such a thing is quite false, in the legal sense, in which case it may be entirely so, except in the other sense.

So go on. Read chapter one. And discuss. Seeing as the Journal site won't let you. How 'bout it- the old Nuntcom book club? Yup... Still innovatin'...

September 8th, 2005
The Perpetual Motion Roadshow
East Coast Tour October 21st - 28th
aka. Mingus Tourette's Big City American Blitzkrieg Tour

The rumours are true.

This fall, Mingus Tourette will be touring America - smashing in faces from New York to Chicago. He will also make a highly anticipated return to Eastern Canada to shove depleted-uranium shells up people's asses all the way from Toronto to Montreal.

And he will not be alone.

A couple of months ago, Mingus was approached by the people running the prestigious underground Perpetual Motion Roadshow to join a leg of the East Coast tour. So when Mingus rolls through your town setting churches on fire, deflowering virgins and drinking cheap American beer by the 48 pack, he will have the god-like wrath of the PMR's marketing machine behind him. He'll also have the much lauded novelistic virtuoso of Jason Anderson to kidney-punch any nasty literary critics in the spleen - AND - he'll have the mic blasting gangster rhymes of the one and only Rap Asian-Caucasian COOLHANDLUKE to meltdown any motherfucking audience with the simple-minded audacity to blink in the midst of one of our sets.

How hot is this fucking tour?

The American press recently labelled this forthcoming PMR as 'the most dangerous group of Canadians to invade the United States since 1812...I'd certainly lock up my daughters that week if I had any sense whatsoever...''.

To ensure maximum moral indignation, fistfights and possible property damage, Tourette has ensured that his bio states that he has been detained by police for wearing nothing but an American flag diaper and a gasmask. It looks good on a New York City flier. And if you think he's lying about that - FUCK YOU.

And no, the Canadian madmen won't be driving the pink ambulance, but they will be riding in a totally pimped out Oldsmobile with velour buck seats. AND they will be carrying an inordinate number of pink books, pink ladies and pink bandaids for you to tape up your second asshole after they're done tearing it open for ya.

So if you live in America (or Eastern Canuckistan), in one of the following cities, scream HOLY FUCKING SHIT MINGUS IS COMING TO TOWN out the window RIGHT NOW, change your panties, start printing the handbills by the hundreds, mark the date on your calendar in blood and start telling your friends and your lovers and your enemies (via email RIGHT NOW) that if there is one thing that they do this fall, they must get shitfaced and challenge Mingus Motherfucking Tourette to some fist fighting or fucking in the middle of a goddamned poetry set. AND WHY? 'Cause you'll never get Tourette louder drunker or angrier than you will at the END OF OCTOBER - right before he self-destructs in a spectacular burn-out reminiscent of a space shuttle hitting the upper stratosphere at 26000 miles an hour with 1200 copies of nunt Elmer-Glued to its hull in place of ceramic heat panels. JESUS - this is no time for pussyfooting around - this is AMERICA in the 21st CENTURY in the time of the HIGH PRIEST George Bush and this is the HIGH WATER MARK of fanaticism and you might as bloody well apply some of that CRAZY to promoting the FUCK out of POETRY - ESPECIALLY if you live in one of the following cities:


Buckle yourself in, 'cause after this, I'm burning all my fucking books and moving to Iceland. And after this tour, they'll never let me back into the country again.

September 7th, 2005

"Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea." - Robert A. Heinlein


To echo what Mr. Good said, if you read one thing on the internet today, it should be Tony Pierce.

I would write more, but it's Wednesday morning, so I've obviously got a gin hangover.

September 6th, 2005
Three Standard Labels

Standard label beer
with Carroll and Rideout
in a prairie hotel bar
with no name

and while they are waltzing
on a deserted dance floor
to a country song
dying on the radio

the young bucks
are outside fighting
and the old bucks
are watching jealously

and I
am watching our beer
and my back

protecting them from the overzealous bar maid
who wants to go home
and the sleeping drunk slumped over in the next chair
who can't

and I realize

it's the real poets
who stay up
after the band's gone home

because we're not done figuring
how the love works


I'm not done
offering to kill a man

But What Happened Last Week? By God, Find Out Here!