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.
(beat)
And Sierra and I are just straight-up punching
each other in the face. So I like to pretend I'm
working on that.
(beat)
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.
Tourette: Well, I am. I told you that
thing about the banana, right? What a mess...
(beat)
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.
(beat)
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.
(beat)
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.
--- --- ---
M.
I thought you would say that to me.
Because this morning,
I noticed a distinct chill in the air.
And.
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.
Also.
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.
N.
--- --- ---
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
Remember.
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 BIG FUCKING ANNOUNCEMENT
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:
TORONTO
OTTAWA
MONTREAL
NEW YORK MOTHERFUCKING CITY
PITTSBURGH
CINCINATTI
CHICAGO
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
Meow
"Women and cats will do as they please,
and men and dogs should relax and get used to
the idea." - Robert A. Heinlein
And.
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
drinking
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
and
I'm not done
offering to kill a man
|
Sept 5th - Sept 18th, 2005