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February 2006
Feb 28th, 2006
Kozub and the Brown Family

For those who remember the infamous launch of MAN PUDDING, we're happy to mention that the team behind that evening of wine rips and rock & roll are revving it up again. That's right. Kozub & Hamilton are about to crank it up to eleven, this Thursday:

(EDMONTON) Thursday, March 2 @ 7:30 p.m., Greenwoods’ Bookshoppe (7925 – 104 Street) hosts the launch of The Brown Family, the debut novel by Edmonton author Mark Kozub, best known as the often over-the-line performance poet “The Alberta Beatnik” of Edmonton’s Raving Poets.

The Brown Family is a bittersweet comedy about how the comfortable life of a pleasantly square family is altered when “Mom” (Mrs. Brown) undergoes surgery and comes through it with the belief that: a) she may only have months to live, and b) she was recently visited by God.

“I wanted to write something my mother would like,” says Kozub. It must have been a challenge. Some of his previous works include a twisted cartoon video poem When I Was a Kid, which ran on CBC TV, The Ugly Albertan, a Fringe play about redneck racism, and countless open stage poetry events with the Raving Poets. The Ugly Albertan received reviews ranging from tepid to angry. Raving Poets readings are often startling and subversive. As for that video poem, Kozub laughs. “When my mother saw it, she said, ‘I can’t believe you showed yourself as a kid wearing panties… on TV! I said, ‘Yeah, but it wasn’t me, Mom. It was just a drawing of me!”

For Kozub, co-author of a coffee table book called A Calgary Album: Glimpses of the Way We Were (Dundurn), The Brown Family, published by the local and highly independent Dramatic Situations, is nice, clean, and heartfelt. Heck, even local Journal scribe, Todd Babiak, dug it.

“The Brown Family is a sweet and engrossing Edmonton novel, filled with moments of humour and compassion,” said Babiak.

There is no word yet about 'the el Dorado after-party', but DJ Clue, expected to host the event, will likely fill in party-goers on the 411.

February 24th, 2006

If you can't read what that note says, it says MISSING.

As in, I am missing one of my infamous 128 page cop notebooks that I carry everywhere except when I am swimming, showering or making sweet homily to a woman.

It is the notebook which covers July to December 2005. Which means, if it is truly gone, I have lost all kinds of notes on Roast Kraken, Nadia, this Korean project I am working on, and a book's worth of love stories and poems from the Perpetual Motion Roadshow. It means there may be no New York City poems, or stories of the (potentially) legendary crossing of the American border with contraband nunts and drug-sniffing dogs and the great illegal lie and everything else that was so fucking great about that trip. And love poems. Which are rare and precious for me.

So, if you see it kicking around somewhere, I'll give you a hundred bucks for it, or a pink ambulance. Whichever you think might be easier. No shit. It might not seem like much to most people, but most people don't feel naked without their notebook and two pens. Right now, it feels like I'm missing six months of my life, or one of my children, and I feel a bit sick. A lot sick, really, and I don't care if that sounds fucking stupid or not. I've rifled my apartment three times so far, and there's fucking nothing. And I know I was copying shit out of it just six weeks ago, at most, so it's not long gone. Fucking hell. If I lost it drinking, that's fucking it for that. Fuck sleeping anyhow. Motherfucker. Six fucking months.


February 22nd, 2006
that fat east shakedown

Lucas gives Anderson the balls
to hustle a chubby twenty-year old
gas station attendant
with slumping tits
into buying his gloss-coated book

she says
she just loves to read out here
nodding to the
white-tinned jerkey stop
on highway 40 south of Oka

Lucas fast-talks a record sale
and when she looks at me
expectant and primed

all I got is the pink book with that
fucking nun in the Gasmask

she recoils when I show her
the reflected fear
staring at my bald freak power head
shaved for burning flags and sticking wrenches
into the spokes of wheelchairs
A shorn devil setting gleaming hooves onto a forest floor
formed entirely of prepubescent pubic hair

I give the book to her
free, with a crooked grin
but she's not sure if she should touch it
holding that bright cherry cover
like a busted motel condom

so I pay the forty-six dollar gas bill
in coins
and aim that cinderspitting six-cylinder charger
at roaring Montreal
where they don't speak bitchwhip small-town priscilla
and my boots don't leave
charcoal hoofprints as we walk

somewhere, on a nearby farm
the goats cackle

February 17th, 2006
Full Lengths

so it's minus thirty for the first time this winter and people are chilly, but me, i'm like FUCK YEAH, cause I can bust out the FULL LENGTH LONG JOHNS with the chuck shute and everything.

hell, i see my pall Jay today, and i'm like, fuck Jay, you got the blues on? and he's like, fuck yeah. and i'm like, yeah!!

and then there's a moment of silence because I already know that his full-length long johns are blue, and he already knows that mine are grey.

but, fuck whatever, it's manly to wear long underwear.

February 14th, 2006
vag day

For fun, I sometimes take old journal entries, photocopy them, black out the names and dates and throw them up in the air. When they settle on my floor, I walk amongst them naked and try to remember who and where. For extra fun, I keep all the holiday entries in one pile — Christmas, Birthday and Valentine's Day.

Go on, give it a shot!

As such:


After I chased #### out of my basement last weekend during a codeine induced rage, I didn't expect she would resurface for some time. However, some tragedy struck her circle of black book lovers, and she had to settle for a Mingus Valentine, or spend Saturday night staring at the wall and contemplating what a razor blade would look like against her skin. She asked, very nicely, if I would like to spend the evening with her. It seemed like the thing to do.

I made reservations somewhere pleasant. I scraped together a few dollars. I put on a nice sweater. #### arrived in a black dress. We went. And we ate. And we drank. And I have no idea what we discussed. It's a buttery haze. We returned to my basement, crawled on top of each other and made a sort of pale, limpid love. Nothing like what I remember from funerals gone by. And when #### came, she was looking out the window, and probably thinking of somebody else. And when I came, I took my turn, and cast my eyes away, and did the same.

#### fell asleep without saying anything. I poured a quick drink, stepped outside for a last cigarette, and watched the headlights pass. Wondered what the #### was doing. Let the smoke ripple. Let the liquor drain as the light streaked through the metal bars of the staircase. Let the fire singe the snow as it fell.


February 10th, 2006
Rory Buzzcock Redux

The other day, my publisher asked where the next fucking book was. I looked up from my gin and said, there is nothing even close to finished. Not the book about the Tour, Tento, the Roast Kraken or even another chapter of Chrome Rigby or Divinity. Nothing. And it's all Morrie Xanadu's fault, curse him to hell.

He said, well, goddamnit, make something up. That's what you do. At least write me a back cover copy so I can go and lie to some distributors and say we have something, anything, even if we have nothing.

And I said, fine, fuck, whatever, and cranked this piece out in four minutes while he ate a tin of Spork. He was not impressed, but like many desperate men, found himself with few options, preparing to defend an ill-prepared straw pallisade ready for the torch. Later, I did get a bit stiff thinking about a book with Duke Warback, Rory Buzzcock and Adam Cranberry. Now that's 'quel disastre'.


"Rory Buzzcock and Duke Warback were lovers of a kind. Warback was a twelve dollar homo pimp who ran a couple of a hard-titted lesbians. They never fucked each other and he kept them off the rock, and for that, they respected him, though he never tossed them a single collection-plate fin. There were sixteen days when this might have mattered.

But those days are long gone and now the only thing that matters is the killing. As Zack Ed would say; at some point, its not about anything except the bone-splitting eye-pulp squeezing vengeance. So that’s where we’re going: into a world of spiked bats, broken testicles, sledgehammers, dead-end whores, gutterwench eyestabbers, asbestos-lined whiskey, knocked-off cowboy boots, red-dripping cocks, syphillitic screamings and the stolid lies of a leadpaint chewing tranny named Rory Buzzcock who shot, fucked and stabbed his way through the slithering back alleys of that great cunt we call Fat Black City. This is not a story of redemption."


If only I had a fucking agent, maybe I wouldn't get fucked up the ass on this deal.
But I don't. So I will.

PS: I'll be in Rycroft for the next four days at a Welshman's wake. Don't try to contact me. If you do get ahold of someone claiming to be Mingus Tourette, he won't be speaking English.

February 8th, 2006
Administrative Notes

Due to new mailscanning technologies, if you have sent me an email in the past day or two, I may or may not have received it. So please resend. Or lemme know that you are pissed at me for not replying in the comments below. Or something. Maybe talk to me. In person. Or phone. Or send something to one of my other seventeen emails. Or just talk. That's what we all want, really. And, to be held gently after some fisticuff fucking.

In general though, sometimes email is the devil.

Sometimes though, it's just me.

In other news, the grand winner of the Akira Competition was deemed to be possibly illegible due to import restrictions on his passport, and a lack of a VCR. Which seems to mean that Gravel may be the winner, whether he wanted to be or not. Danish officials have refused to comment on the incident, blaming an incendiary imam for the issues. The situation should be rectified by a qualified rector as soon as we can get one back from the civil rights funeral in the states.

Also , a man who looked just like Doctor Law was sighted by Navy Seal Team Six members in Afghanistan. This may be a problem.

February 6th, 2006
Raving Poets Ride Again Into the Wild Kasbah Night

From the RP Files Press Release:

Alright Ravers and Rockers. The time has come to put aside this winter of dallying and inaction. It is time to go to work.

The Raving Poets latest reading series, "Rock the Kasbar", starts on Wednesday, February 8, 2006.

Yianni's Taverna – Downstairs Kasbar Lounge. 10444 – 82 Avenue,

Edmonton, Canada.

The poetic moshpit begins at 8:00pm.

Ripping skizz begins at 10.30 or so.

An open mic experience with 20 readers and music provided by the world-famous Raving Poets Band. There is not doubt that this series will send you into a lyrical frenzy. We recommend a double Ouzo to keep calm. Join us on Wednesday!

Also, check out Raving Poets Founding Father Mark Kozub's NEW website,



imagine a world
without gin.

It is like a rainbow
of six colours only.

February 1st, 2006

And now, we must hand out the prize - a vintage VHS copy of AKIRA!!!

Awhile ago, I challenged readers to decide whether this photo was a result of:

A. Chapters suddenly ordering 30 books and putting them on display.

B. Mingus Tourette and three notorious shitheads engaging in culture jamming, and creating their own display of nunt in the world's largest mall.

The following answers were given in response to The Great Chapters Question:

A: I have never seen a volume of poetry, not even Billy Collins, who is safe enough to leave your infants with at the pool, ever put on a main display in any store anywhere.

Hmm...when I search Chapter's website for "nunt" I get the following message: "Search term 'nunt' corrected to 'nun'.

B: I'd say scenario B. Why set the camera on a time-delay setting and place it on a stack of books when you could get one of your cohorts to snap the shot?

B: The book caught me off guard when I walked into Chapters in WEM, so I bought it. Top book so far.

B: ...we wander into the chapters and there is your pink book...

C: Through sheer force of will, Mingus caused the entire Young Readers section of Chapters to became copies of Nunt for one hour.

The hoody is shielding Chapters patrons from the resultant low-frequency Delta EEG waves. Mingus is known to cure lesions at five feet with the hoody down.

The Big Decision: There are some great logical answers, and some lovely creative thinking, but I just can't decide. Please help me choose who wins AKIRA!!! You pick the winner! And when you have picked, maybe I will tell you the real answer!!!

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