My Buddy Chad

When my fake editor came to me with the chance to conduct a fake interview with Nickelback frontman Chad Kroeger – noted pants-around-your-feet enthusiast and unapologetic photo-op horn-thrower – I jumped at it like a chicken on a dough dish. It was all set. We were to meet at a location within two square kilometers of my then-current position as determined by his record company in concert with a GPS and a microchip tracking device which had been implanted at the base of my neck 48 hours hence. I would receive a call on my fake cellphone telling me where to go.

It rings.

I pick up.

Mr. Williams? says the digitally obscured voice on the other end.

‘Yes, speaking.’

Please proceed directly to the American Eagle at the Pleasantview Mall. Mr. Kroeger will be browsing the sale rack. In the men’s section.

So off I tear, practicing my ‘proper dude’ behaviour on the way. Remember: ‘chicks’ not ‘women’, ‘fag’ not ‘individual whose sexual preference, perceived or actual, threatens my prevailing sense of self.’ What was I so worried about? How hard could it be to get along with, arguably, one of the coolest dudes on the face of the earth? Shit man, just keep it light, I told myself. Talk about how much you love the Light variants of Bud and Coors or how hard you laugh at the doggedly lazy, overextended-to-the-point-of-exhaustion, PCRH (pop culture referencing humour) of Seth MacFarlane. If neither of those work, just ramble on for an uncomfortably long period of time about how much you appreciate a borderline underage ‘chick’ who shows a lot of cleavage.

‘Big, bouncing jailbait boobies are awesome. The way they look under the stress lines of a tight t-shirt. The way they swing to and fro, the way those pesky little nipples protrude at the most inappropriate of times.’

It was all Chad Kroeger could talk about the first five minutes of our acquaintance and he was downright poetic.

‘Dude,’ he said, flipping from one pair of clearance-priced pre-stressed jeans to the next, ‘you know why I wanted to meet here? Shit man, take a look around — but be subtle. Sure, sure. Take it all in. There you go — yeah, you know what I’m talking about: tits and ass, son. T and A. And I know they’re not playing it up because they haven’t even noticed me yet. Right now they’re probably just thinking I’m just some trailer trash wannabe Chad Kroeger, and you know what? That’s just what I want. This way, I can check them out when their shirts sag open when they’re busy picking up the clothes I knock down — like this.’

He drops a pair of jeans, quickly scans for detection, then moves to the full-priced jeans wall with the agility of a cat, motioning me along behind him with a spastic hand of nicotine-stained fingers.

‘Honestly dude, I’d take this sort of tail over your average stripper any day of the week and twice on Wednesday — know what I mean?’

He laughs the hyperactive trill of an over-sugared eight-year-old, feigning interest in the premium pre-holed denims hanging prostate in front of his leering lips, licking fiendishly and snorting through his nose like a butane addict.

He’s crazy, this Chad Kroeger — crazy for the poon-tang.

‘Shit man,’ he says, ‘I’m just crazy for the poon-tang. Ya know?’

I do, and nod agreement in my best ‘dude’ nod of assent.

‘Fuckin’ A, son! Fuckin’ A. That’s what it’s all about. You know that line ‘I love your pants around your feet’? Man, that shit is autobiographical! You know, about me. I really do love chicks’ pants around their feet. That wasn’t just a line, eh. You know why? Cause when they’re around their feet, they’re not between me and the poon-tang. Am I right or am I right? Fuckin’ A, son!’

He drops another pair of jeans then slides to his right, doing a spin move that would make one think ‘Karl Malone who?’ to bring himself in line with the non-pants clearance rack. This guy has got serious moves on the low post of passive sexual harassment and he’s his own John Stockton. He thrusts his pelvis against the garish pastel uniformity of the knit garments, knocking several to the floor, leans back and shakes his mane with the proficiency of a fifth-year MacDonald’s fry cook before straightening up to let out a beastly bellow.

“Aiiiiooow!”

He might have just blown his cover, but he keeps at it, stutter-stepping towards the out-of-season clearance rack.

‘You’ve got to switch between the new shit and the sale stuff, man. Gets them moving through the aisles, plus it seems more, as the French say - naturale, to spread it around randomly. I’ve got it down to a science.’

The sales associates are starting to whisper among themselves, giggling and pointing in our direction.

I’m a bit star-struck — unexpectedly so, as I’ve let Kroeger control the interview to this point. Hell, I haven’t even asked a question, so this technically isn’t even an interview. So far, I’m just an accomplice to a voyeuristic pervert with a fetish for teenage flesh. We may need a change of venue, so I strike:

‘Uh, Mr. Kroeger, I think they may be on to us.’

He looks up, alarmed.

‘Shit dude, we gotta run. It may be all fun and games now, but this shit can get ugly. Let’s go! And call me Chad.’

He grabs me by the arm and we make haste towards the door, leaving a trail of downed merchandise and slack-jawed idiots in our wake. Chad’s mood seems to have taken a turn for the worse, though, as he puts the hood up on his garish Ed Hardy hoodie and burrows deep into the pockets of his stylist-approved leather jacket, hunching his shoulders and clearing his throat repeatedly.

“Fuck man, I need a huff.”

“You mean a puff?”

“Nah dude, huff. Gas or, as the French say, l’essence. It’s the essence alright — the essence of my fucking life force, son! Come on, this way. And fucking hurry.”

We turn down a corridor leading into the administrative bowels of the mall, passing beneath a sign emblazoned with bathroom symbols and past a security guard, to whom Chad gives a knowing wink. Stopping in front of the family washroom, Chad takes a furtive glance up the hall to make sure the coast is clear, then in we slip. He locks the door, regains his bearings, opens his jacket, pulls down the table normally used for the changing of diapers and produces a swollen, red hot water bottle from beneath his arm pit. Ingenious, this Chad Kroeger.

“Grab that garbage can.”

I do.

“Put it on the table.”

I do.

Marry me.

I would.

At this point he’s in full control, this Chad Kroeger, but I need an interview. My non-paying, imaginary job depends on it, but he’s busy pouring the contents of his hot water bottle into the waste basket. Gas fumes fill the room. His grin is back.

‘Aw yeah, that’s what it’s all about right there. Unleaded. Premium. Shit yeah! And you know, old school huffers are always going on about the good old days, leaded gas and all that horseshit, but you know what? Don’t believe it. I’ve tried both and there’s no difference at all. Both get you fucked the fuck up, son!’

He licks his lips, shakes his head then runs a quick lap around the room, almost knocking me over. Then he leans over the waste basket, pulling the edges of his hood down to form a crude seal and breathes deep, his back and shoulders heaving with exertion, pleasure, or both. After five or six pulls, he lifts his head and stumbles backward, slamming into the cinder block wall in a splash of leather and testosterone against institutional white. His eyes are glazed, the grin of the easily amused and freshly lobotomized splashed across his face.

‘Doooood… awwwwyah. Dooood…’

He slumps to the floor and starts giggling, gradually working his way into hysterics. Now is the time! I strike:

‘So Chad, where do you find inspiration for your words?’

‘…Dooood… Aye-ah find id in, uh, plaisches. Like uh… like uh.. in a gaz stayshun. Ride-uh?’

‘Right. Gas station. Got it. And how do you feel about critics who say you’re a misogynist?’

‘Mizzz… odge… in itso… that, uh, riiiice, uh?’

His gas-addled brain does not know the difference between a hater of women and an Italian rice dish. They’re not even remotely similar, really.

‘No, that’s risotto. A misogynist hates women. Do you hate women, Chad?’

‘No, uh, way…. man! I fuggin loves them. Or… I loves to fugg them, I mean. Fuggin A, sun!’

He laughs hysterically at this, triggering a coughing fit, gasping for breath, flailing his legs around like a demented puppet and slapping the industrial tile floor like your drunk uncle telling an off-colour joke at the family reunion. Chad struggles to his feet, straightens his jacket up and brushes off his jeans, regaining some semblance of normality before again leaning against the changing table, hovering over the waste basket, staring intently into its depths like a sex tourist through a coin-operated sex telescope.

‘I mean, really though. I love chicks. Ya know? And it burns my ass when these fucking assholes talk shit like that about me. Listen, I love chicks. I’ve gone out of my way to learn the names of almost every one I’ve banged over the past three weeks. This is the new Chad, son! I don’t write those ballads to get laid. Do you think I’d need to? Come on! I write them because that’s how I feel about stuff. You know? Like how I feel about, like, kids and family shit like that. Shit that matters.’

With this he leans into the waste basket again and draws heavily, sucking those fumes deep into the black, tar flecked recesses of his lungs. Then, a knock at the door. Chad looks up, fighting the blissful urge of crumbling oblivion, legs shaking, hands clawing at the changing table.

‘Dude’ he whispers, “what the fuck?”

‘I don’t know man, I don’t know who -

‘SECURITY! OPEN UP!’

‘Aw shit dude! Or as the French say, merde!‘

Chad’s eyes are wild, he stumbles back from the table, produces a lighter from his jacket and… whoosh. Everything goes black.

I wake up in a field with second degree burns and the taste of gasoline in my mouth, feeling as though I’ve been violated somehow. But it was all worth it. Aw yeah, dude. It was alll worth it!

Ed Hardy Designs: 8 Steps To Perfection

1. A herd of stray dogs are brought in off the street and force-fed a diet of Appetite For Destruction album art chased with cans of Budweiser, Big Macs and several bags of sequins.

2. The animals are funneled like pigs to the slaughter into a room the size of a small warehouse whose floor is covered with pre-fab handbags, bargain-bin hoodies, knock-off Chuck Taylors and various and sundry fabric swatches in every colour you could possibly think of… if all you can think of is black and white.

3. Interns armed with cattle prods then herd the dogs onto a giant carousel in the middle of the room and lock them into place with (extremely humane) restraints before retreating to the safety of the splatter shield.

4. A giant red switch marked ‘creativity’ is flipped and the dogs begin to spin… and spin and spin and spin, faster and faster, trying desperately to stay upright, slamming into one another, trying desperately to keep their meals down, but legs buckle, eyes widen and the tell-tale heaving of design™ begins in earnest.

5. The lead intern sees this and, being a trained professional with a fashion design diploma from an online ‘university’, slows the carousel down to the proper speed for maximum dispersion. This has been determined by someone smart by using math and stuff.

6. The dogs, spewing forth a glittery torrent of suburban parking-lot couture, earn their hypothetical paycheques, coating the textile tripe with that look so desired by the thirteen-year-old in us all. Or the small-town coke dealer in us all. Or the mid-life crisis, extreme sports poser in us all. Or the d-list celebrity in us all. Or the… well, I could go on for days, couldn’t I?

7. Their job done, the dogs are euthanized by being dropped one by one from an invisible sky hook into an (extremely humane) wood chipper as the fresh designs are dried by a jet engine running on the blood of innocents and the ground-up bones of former sweatshop kids before being swept into an adjacent room by a squad of spritely street urchins whistling a jaunty tune.

8. The merch is then pushed by a bulldozer into a string of shipping containers bound for the mythical land of retail and freedom where it will be marked up by ∞% and sold to you by some fashionably lazy, smarmy know-nothing hairdo with a television accent and more chemicals in their system than Lake Ontario.

Dissonance

The existential dissonance through which we claw, searching for meaning, grasping at straws — those hollowed-out cylinders, conveyors of fluid, air and filth – clinging to what we’ve been fed as nourishment for the soul since leaving the womb, will one day reach a level whereby most of us can no longer string two clear thoughts together without collapsing into a heap of frustration and angst, screaming bloody murder into the blank faces of people who would just as soon snap our necks as they would pat our backs and say ‘it’s alright, it’s ok, at least you’re alive.’

But what is life but a perpetual struggle between the conflicting values and mores we’ve been bombarded with every single moment since leaving the womb? Oh! The angst, it overwhelms. And I realize this is cliche and sanctimony, that this block of text is the question on all of our lips when the cards are down and our numbers are up. I realize that ‘normal’ people do not pose questions such as these, do not bother themselves with that which is beyond their control, beyond their understanding of what is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, beyond that which can be bound by symbols, words and phrases. Unquantifiable. Unjust. Unfair.

Unfathomable.

But what can one do?

Well, for starters, one can swear, curse imaginary beings for being so god-damned imaginary, form fists and punch the infinitesimal brittleness of that whore we call faith. One can lash out, physically and verbally, at all that stands in the way of our definition of decency and splash with acid the smug faces of all those who oppose. One can shout ‘fuck you’ and hope someone hears and pray that someone is offended. One can buy enough things to fill the empty room in the back of their minds and tip generously their enablers. One can do enough drugs to kill an elephant.

For at the end of the day the ephemeral is constant, the inconstant eternal and the meaningless imbued with more meaning than a dead twelve-year-old soldier in a country that ninety percent of the world’s inhabitants are convinced is actually the name of a horrible disease.

So the anger fades, the depression becomes joy. We grow older. We buy more ‘product’ for our hair. We become proficient in the arts of selective cognition and denial. We pelt the ever-moving goalposts of wealth and success with our flailing attempts at the universal good. We tell ourselves it might get better, that someone, somewhere might learn from their mistake as they’ve been taught, that someone, somewhere might save us all like the overmuscled ubermen in digital, surround-sound leotards that we all worship with our box-office dollars.

Maybe we reproduce, maybe we get a hobby. Maybe we inflict as much damage as we can on those around us without breaking an emotional sweat, without so much as a doff of the cap to the magnitude of cruelty we have achieved in so short a time, without realizing that, on one level or another, we have indirectly achieved every hollow goal set for us by the quicksand of our own bullshit in which we now find ourselves gasping for breath, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of delicious, force-fed humble pie.

And we’re too complacent to bite that hand because at this point, it’s the only one that still waves, the only one that pays us any mind.

Consider It A ‘Rebranding’

Out with Unpopular Truths (although the url shall remain) and in with Invisible Drugs!

Why?

Because Unpopular Truths sounds like something I would have thought was cool when I was sixteen — and I wasn’t very cool at all when I was sixteen. Hell, I’m not very cool now, but I realize Unpopular Truths is for suckers.

It came to me last night in a fever dream: I was walking down a well-trod forest path, just enjoying the fallen pine needles and birds and stuff when, all of a sudden, some force unseen grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me from my pastoral reverie and screamed ‘invisible drugsss!’

So I woke up and it was either form an improvisational, extended-noise-excursion type band called Invisible Drugs or, well, something else using that name because god knows I won’t follow through on the band thing.

Why Invisible Drugs?

Because Invisible Pharmaceuticals is too specific — too syllabic. As well, ‘truth’ is a nebulous quantity these days and ‘unpopular’ has become the new ‘popular.’

It just makes sense.

It just sounds cooler, cool enough that I shouldn’t even have to come up with a quasi-intellectual justification for said coolness that actually makes sense. It just is.

Can we simply agree?

Great!

Invisible Drugs it is.

For now, anyways…

… and maybe I’ll even post more often without the burden of shame that comes from a lame blog name. But I wouldn’t count on it.

Doing Coke With Billy Mays

Having produced a cut-off drinking straw from the pocket of his crisp blue shirt, Billy Mays smiles broadly at me through that insanely well-groomed beard, his pearly whites lending an otherworldly glow to the confines of the storage closet, throwing the mops, buckets and various cleaning products into a dignified relief normally reserved for furniture covered in velvet. Or leather. Or torn vinyl. How did it come to this? Five minutes previous, he had been bent over a pocket-sized mirror cutting a portion of his considerable stash into six decent sized lines, the smell of Oxi-Clean still heavy in the stuffy, damp air. I had watched in rapt awe as he sprayed a liberal amount of the wonder cleaner onto the surface of his mirror then polished it to a high sheen with a pocket-sized Zorbie, all the while lecturing me in booming tones on the superiority of Oxi-Clean in comparison to the sundry products scattered at my feet.

Here I am, about to ‘blow lines’ — as he calls it — with my hero, TV pitchman Billy Mays.

He puts the straw to his left nostril, bends to the mirror and hoovers up a line, then switches the straw to his right nostril and makes another disappear. Rubbing his nose and snuffling, he lifts his head, shaking it like a dog shedding water, then grabs me by the shoulders and screams,

“Hi! Billy Mays here with benzoylmethyl ecognine! It sounds classier when you call it by its chemical name!”

I grin and shrug, trying to look impressed.

“Here, do some. It’s good shit, man!”

He hands me the straw and grabs me by the back of the head. This is not what I had in mind when he asked me if I wanted to ‘party.’ I thought we were going to smoke a joint, but I guess that isn’t Billy’s style. I pry his hand away and take a step back from the battered card table. He’s grinning like a madman now, rubbing his face and chanting ‘Oxi-Clean, Oxi-Clean, OXI-CLEAN!’

“Okay, okay. Just calm down Billy-boy. I can do it myself.”

I’m going to have to if I plan on sticking around here and not committing murder. So, I bend to the mirror and do the deed. Billy is pleased. He celebrates with two more lines. Then the talk begins and Billy’s a natural. We cover everything from Voltaire’s anti-Turkism to whether the ‘27 Yankees are the most overrated team in baseball history to the merits of the female buttocks in a pair of tight jeans vs. a tight skirt. It goes well until I bring up Vince Offer. Billy bristles. His eyes redden a deeper shade of scarlet and he gnashes his teeth, grabbing me by the shoulders again.

“What did you just say!?”

“I said, what do you think of Vince Offer?”

I shrug his hands off and step back, but he comes at me again, grabbing at my shoulders, his hot, garlic breath forcing it’s way up my clogged nostrils. He’s pissed.

“You mean Vince ‘Heywood Jablowme’ Schlomi? That’s his real name, you know. Fucker. That little weasel. Thinks he can beat me at my own game. Me! I’m Billy fucking Mays! Who the hell is he? No one. Some limp-dicked hooker beater with shitty kitchen appliances and too much goddam hair product! Fuck Vince Schlomi! That’s what I think of Vince motherfucking Offer. Fuck him with a fucking Sham-wow wrapped in sandpaper!”

I shove him back and jump into a defensive stance, fists raised, ready for some Billy Mays action. Sure, he looks tough, but I’ve got a year and a half of kick-boxing under my belt and a headful of cocaine. So does he, but he’s 50 years-old. Maybe I should go easy on him. Maybe we should talk it out. God knows we’re both in a talking mood.

“Listen man, just calm down, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just curious. I mean, he’s the only other salesman anywhere near you as far as popularity goes. I mean, you guys are celebrities. Right? It wasn’t a value-based statement. I mean, it wasn’t judgmental. Hell, Billy, you’re my hero — not Vince Offer. I own a Zorbie, not a fucking Sham-wow. Okay? And when my oak toilet sheet loses its sheen, I’m reaching for the Orange-Glo. Right?”

He relaxes somewhat and the grin returns.

“Yeah man, I know, I know. Shit. Are you trying to wind me up? Cuz it’s working. But listen, me and Vince, right? We’re people, right? I’ve got fucking feelings, man. So does he. Probably. I didn’t ask to be a goddamn celebrity, I just work hard at what I do best. Which is really the only thing I know how to do. And I’m not a real celebrity. I’m not even on par with Octo-Mom. The most press I’ll ever get is when I fucking die or if I get caught with fucking kiddie porn. That’s just how it is for someone like me. I’m a b-lister. Hell, I’m a fucking c-lister, on a good day. But you know what? Who cares? I’m filthy rich, I’ve got a huge house, a beautiful wife and more drugs than I could ever need. What else could anyone possibly want? Huh!? Tell me!”

I return his grin, wipe my brow and collapse to the bare cement floor, content in the fact that I’ve just had the one conversation I wanted to have before I die.

“Nothing Billy, nothing at all.”

This One Is About The Expos

“I would like to share this with the people in Montreal that are not going to have a team anymore, but my heart and my ring is with them too.”
– Pedro Martinez, upon winning the World Series with the Boston Red Sox, 2004.

I do not follow Major League Baseball. If you were to ask me who was leading the AL East right now, I would have no idea… I would guess either the Yankees or Red Sox and probably be right, but I would really have no clue. If you were to ask me who won the NL MVP last year, I’d say ‘no idea’ and then you would tell me and it would probably be some player I have never have heard of before.

Let me be clear: I do not follow Major League Baseball. I simply do not care. I do not care who won the World Series last year, I do not care who won the Cy Young award. In either league. It does not matter a whit to me. So why, you are probably asking yourself, would I bother making this proclamation, wasting my time writing this screed if I indeed care so little about Major League Baseball? Well, it was not always this way. In fact, there was a time when baseball was my life, my obsession. I have a good memory, see, matched with a thirst for knowledge and a love of facts and numbers, all of which made baseball an obvious choice for a young man of these inclinations. I was also an alright athlete and developed into a decent hitter in time, but all this is beside the point.

The point is, I no longer give a shit about something that mattered more to me than pretty much anything else. The average Friday night for the fifteen year-old version of myself? If there was no ballgame on, there I would be, glass of chocolate milk to my right, bag of zesty Doritos to my left, with the latest issue of Baseball America or Baseball Weekly opened in front of me on the kitchen table. I would pore over the statistics, both major and minor league — something which Baseball Weekly was indespensible for — looking for the next saviour toiling away somewhere in the minors, be it Harrisburg Pennsylvania, Burlington Vermont or Ottawa Ontario, putting up numbers which would someday lead to an MVP-caliber season for the object of my affections:

The Montreal Expos.

It should now be well clear to baseball fans why I no longer care about Major League Baseball. It was not the perpetual, ongoing PED saga, the overinflated salaries or the goddamn New York Yankees. I was – hell, still am – an Expos fan; I will go to my grave a die-hard ‘Spos fan with that ridiculous logo adorning my headstone like the marker of tragedy it is.

My beloved Expos.

I miss them more than words can fully express, that wretched team of broken promises, squandered potential and heartbreak. Sure, after 1994 I never honestly expected them to win a blessed thing, but I could always dream. 1994, in and of itself, was a microcosm of Expo fandom, an exercise in denial and false hope. ‘Oh, they won’t strike.’ Sure. ‘The Spos are gonna win the World Series!’ Yeah, right, pal. What the Spos are going to do is cruise to the best record in baseball then be neutered by a strike, a salary-shedding fire sale and more management changes and empty promises than one would care to remember, all of which contributed to a death which took ten years, culminating in a move to Washington DC.

I am not a Washington Nationals fan.

Sure, they have managed to keep the classic Expos theme of underachieving futility alive, but without any of the style or drama, without any of the arms or bats — because that is the one thing you cannot take away from the Expos: they could always provide other teams, if not themselves, with the building blocks to a successful franchise. Who knew the unfriendly confines of that crumbling concrete behemoth, Olympic Stadium — Le Stade Olypique, or more simply, The Big O — would prove such fertile grounds for world-class talent? Well, Expos fans, for one.

Larry Walker, Pedro Martinez, Vladdy Guerrero, John Wetteland, Rondell White, Orlando Cabrera, Moises Alou, Marquis Grissom — just to name a few.

But all this has been said before and, to those not in the know, will come off as so many sour grapes. So, to fellow Expos fans, I feel your pain brothers and sisters. I feel your pain. To Bud Selig and Jeffrey Loria? May you rot in baseball hell for eternity along with Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds and the rest of the unworthy scum.

With that in mind, maybe someday my Expos pain will start to fade and I will be able to sit and watch an MLB game in its entirety without thinking one painful Expos-related thought. Maybe I will rekindle the passion, stoke the embers which may yet lie smoldering somewhere in the recesses of my blackened baseball heart. Maybe I will don some ill-fitting merchandise and sit eating chips, drinking beer and yelling at the television. Maybe my new favorite team will win the World Series and I’ll turn to my future children and say ‘The Expos wouldn’t have done it that way, no siree!’

And maybe that will be just fine.

Harper’s Island

I don’t watch much television lately: I only have one channel. Two if you count Radio-Canada, but I don’t since I only understand roughly 38% of what I hear on there and, luckily, my cognitive functions only respect the majority vote. So I watch Global, but let me be perfectly clear about this: I find their prime-time programming trite and boring, their everything-else programming to be garbage and, worse yet, their “local” news to be staffed with what appear to be Albertans, with their tacky Texas-lite fashion sense and honking, adenoidal accents. Plus, I can’t stand having to see Kevin Newman’s face every fifteen minutes. Peter Mansbridge, now that’s where it’s at (unless you happen to be Wendy Mesley). I never thought I’d miss the oft overwhelming smugness of the Mansbridge in full effect as much as I do — those dulcet tones breaking the news of horrible events, always delivered in the manner best suited to the material, always softening the blow with a certain je-ne-sais-baldness. But most of all, I miss the way he drawls out Geeeoooorrrgge Strombo’s name in that half-mocking, half-affectionate, all-hilarious nightly outro on the National. Say what you want about the Mansbridge, but these are all qualities sorely lacking in Kevin “Receding Hair Line” Newman. I’m sorry, but if you’re going to gain any respect in the world of primetime network journalism, you have to commit, son. None of this half-assed shit. Bald thyself now!

But where was I?

Global sucks, right, and I probably shouldn’t kick them while they’re down but I can’t help it. You see, they have a show called Harper’s Island. I’ve never watched this show, have absolutely (overused word? I think so) no idea what it’s about, nor any desire to change this. The thing is, I’ve gone about inventing my own story for Harper’s Island. It’s quite simple and it can play out in my head whenever I want, no mere slave to network programming, no more suckling at the teet of sponsors. Here’s the premise: Steve Harper, the casual, fictional version of Prime Minister Stephen Harper, owns an island. How? Well, he’s an economist. Those guys know shit about eekanahmix. Do you know how much money someone like that makes? I have no idea, but this one makes enough to own an island. It’s not a huge island, per se, but it’s big enough to make quite the entertaining spectacle of watching a bookish, socially awkward man hunt (mostly) innocent people with a high-powered rifle and anything else at his disposal. Ten lucky contestants – each week! Steve likes to keep busy, but it’s no walk in the park. For one, the island is haunted by the ghost of Chuck Cadman, who works to thwart Steve’s every move by appearing to the prey, warning them every time the soft blue menace settles in for a headshot. Then there’s the kidney stones: every time Steve makes a kill, he is bent double by crippling abdominal pain, leaving him prone to attack. Well, prone-er. Most of the contestants are invalids, former shut-ins and bad children. That’s right, KIDS! And you better smarten up or you’ll be making a trip to Uncle Steve’s island. Not that you won’t have a fighting chance. In the name of fair play, the prey are, shall we say, riled up a bit prior to their release into the wild. Get their blood pumping, a warm-up. A frenzy! The invalids are withheld their emotional and physical validation. The RC shut-ins are ruthlessly denied Mass For Shut-Ins while the non-RC shut-ins, who aren’t really bothered by this, are slapped around by hired goons. And the kids? Well, they get a glucose-fructose iv and a headfull of Sunset Yellow FCF. Then, just as the melee is reaching it’s violent apex, the doors are thrown open to the outside and everyone stops dead for exactly one second, a siren sounds, causing the havoc to resume, and four mounted RCMP in full regalia arrive to herd the prey into the forest with aid of sharpened-pool-cue lances. No tasers here, bro.

Then the fun begins.

Steve, a true connoisseur of the hunt, does not go for any Cheney-style turkey shoots. Granted, there’s always those four or five confused prey who end up milling around outside the compound walls after the Mounties leave — usually Maritimers looking for hand-outs, or at least that’s what Steve tells himself so he can sleep at night. They’re the first to go, plucked off one by one. Sometimes he does it from inside the compound, sniping from the roof under cover of dark with the aid of an infrared scope. Sometimes he lets Jason Kenney do it. Other times, when feeling like more of a man of the people, Steve’ll go outside and get up close and personal with a gold-plated Desert Eagle and a claw hammer. After that it’s into the woods, Steve’s very own Forest of Arden, but with a lot more killing and a lot less courtly love. This is no comedy of manners, people — this is a bloodbath! Harp — that’s what his friends call him, well, they’re actually the editorial staff of the National Post, but that’s the closest thing he has to friends — stalks his prey like a red-eyed beast whose blood runs Tory blue, like your mother’s horny, alcoholic divorcee friend stalks fresh meat at the local country bar on any given Wednesday through Saturday night. Like someone who really likes killing things and, boy, does he get some killing done. Even when the specter of Cadman shows up, Steve just throws an envelope of cash in his general direction, tells the ghost to eff off and continues on his way, shrugging through the flora and fauna, brushing burdocks from his sweater. Headshot here, child dashed on the rocks Piggie-style there. Then it’s back to the compound for milk, egg salad sandwiches and bible study.

Now that’s what I call TV!

You can have your Big Brother, your Deal or No Deal, or any other number of shows designed for halfwits. Me? I’ll take Harper’s Island. There are no winners, no losers and no annoying douchebag hosts. Nor is there any Mansbridge.

But I can deal with that. I can deal with that for Uncle Steve.

The Power of Negative Thinking: A Manifesto In (Roughly) Five Hundred Words

‘Awww, don’t be a hater, maan.’

No? Why not? Negativity happens to be my existential P.F.D. Would you rather me drown in this sea of bullshit where I so often find myself suspended? Would you rather I plaster a chemical smile across my face and pretend as though everything is fine and dandy in this piss-filled wading pool of a life we aimlessly flounder about in, placated with rubber duckies, booze and porn? I shall do no such thing! The day I surrender my negativity is the day I give myself an icepick lobotomy.

Positivity is just another marketing ploy, just another irrelevant remnant of those sell-out hippies who now make up the top ten Fortune 500 Ponzi scheme hall of fame, just another residual stain from the sweaty armpit of entitled, simpering Judeo-Christian claptrap which serves no purpose other than to attempt, in vain, to assign nebulous meaning to an essentially meaningless life fueled by money, celebrity and death when the truth is staring us all in the face; a religion that serves no purpose other than to reassure the average jerkoff that those terrible things they did on the weekend won’t really matter on judgement day — so why not go out and do it all again next weekend without thought-one given to consequences or the myriad horrible potential deaths awaiting us at every turn?

For this is the essence of life: avoiding death. Positivity keeps good old death at arm’s length, convincing us it is the stuff of myth, an anonymous enemy.

Positivity! Ha! Rejoice children!

For it is a virus more virulent than any bird, swine or slug flu. Positivity saps the mind. Positivity is the enemy of critical thinking, the bane of common sense, the great softener of intellectual edge. Positivity is lazy. Positivity sleeps through the alarm then presses snooze for an hour and a half. Positivity gives it up on the first date and makes it burn when you piss.

Positivity needs get itself to yon nunnery.

In case you’ve misunderstood me, let me be clear about this: negativity is the pinnacle of human emotion. It is natural, good and – to quell the fears of the lily-livered among us – not mutually exclusive from morality; negativity does not have to be amoral. In fact, it has absolutely nothing to do with morality, existing as it does on a plane entirely removed from such base concerns. Negativity is an essence.

Negativity is not blood in the streets.

Negativity will make you happy, will make you forget how much of a loser you really are because you’ll be too busy concentrating on the losers all around you — and they’ll be doing the same, all the while envisioning a world where they might be happy. A world much better than that in which we currently hang our collective hat, sweat-stained and dandruff-flecked as it may be.

Negativity is dissatisfaction, the fuel whereby the phoenix gains upward mobility, the stepping stone to self-respect, autonomy and great hair.

Negativity is a pillow: hug it, maan.

Meeting David Adams Richards

I haven’t met many notable writers. In fact, I’ve met only one. Even then, it wasn’t so much a ‘meeting’ as it was an ‘alienating.’ I have a knack for that sort of thing. Why discriminate based on fame or notability? That’s what I say. Of course, I didn’t say a blessed thing upon meeting Mr. David Adams Richards: one of the finest living writers in the English language. And probably other languages too. But that’s not the point.

The point is, I met David Adams Richards at a book-signing a couple of years ago and behaved in a manner befitting an asshole. I was living in Miramichi that summer and got word he was appearing at a local bookstore to sign copies of his then latest novel, The Friends of Meager Fortune. I had yet to read it and decided to drop by after work to pick up a copy and maybe chew the fat with the man himself. It didn’t quite turn out that way. You see, I can be a rather awkward young man in most social situations.

I froze. Solid.

There he was, sitting at a table chatting pleasantly with an elderly lady who had probably known him since childhood, but here I come, destroyer of worlds in ill-fitting shorts and ugly sandals.

The bookstore was empty save the table’s occupants and the clerk, busying herself with godknowswhat behind the counter where another man leaned casually, nursing a mug of coffee. I made my way down the aisle, trying to look interested in a book on display in the comedy section so as not to appear too aggressive. It was too late. He had already seen me, ambling aimlessly along like a tranquilized chicken with its head cut off. We met eyes. The lady turned around to acknowledge me, cut her conversation short, shook his hand and rose slowly from her chair, making her way past me with a smile and a nod.

I sat down.

And there I was, face to face with a man whose words have often left me inspired, awed and depressed, but always in a cathartic way. I was near panic, but showed a steely calm. What do I say? What do I do? Do I ask him cliched bullshit about inspiration and integrity in the face of an ever-increasingly illiterate and apathetic public? God no. Should I mention that I write too? No, that would be ridiculous. He probably gets that all the time from every Moleskin-toting jackass on the block. Besides, what have I written? A lot of crap. Has any of it been published? Well, no, of course not. So I said nothing and sat like a bump on a log, a barnacle on the arse of time grinning like a halfwit with my hands on my knees, wringing the fabric of my shorts as though they were my only lifeline back to the place from whence I came. A place where I had never met David Adams Richards. A place where I had slightly more than average confidence in my ability to function as a generally normal human being.

I feigned a smile.

He didn’t smile back. He stared a hole through the back of my skull then gestured at a pile of novels to his left.

“You want one?”

Of course I want one. I need something to show for this spectacle of quiet suffering.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Please.”

He plucked one from the top of the stack and opened it. Still, I said nothing. Small talk? Not happening. What do I say? What do I do? Nothing. He’s waiting. What was he waiting for?

“Your name?”

Of course, my name!

“Uh, Kirk. Kirk Williams.”

Shit. I should have used a fake name. Shit, I should have used a fake me.

He scribbled something, closed the novel firmly and pushed it across the table at me and sat back in his chair looking expectant and, possibly, confrontational. That’s what I quickly told myself, silent the while, sitting there like some ignorant d-bag. This guy hates me. I interrupted his maternal bonding session and for what? This. That’s what. I put the chase to his pseudo-mom only to sit here, stealing oxygen. And still, he stares. Why is he staring? Probably because I’m sitting across from him. Why can’t there be more people? A lineup, like a mass or holy communion: here’s your autograph, you’re a good egg, now off you go. An assembly line of cursive gratification. Thank god I didn’t say that out loud. All I managed was

“Thanks.”

And up I got. But instead of leaving with a shred of dignity intact, tail between legs as it was, I wandered to the counter, nodded pleasantly to the clerk and browsed the high-end chocolates. Then I proceeded to engage the man with the coffee in a spirited fifteen minute, multi-topic, free ranging philosophical discussion on everything from potatoes to toe jam. All the while, no one else came in. David Adams Richards sat alone at his table looking confused and maybe a bit pissed off. After a couple of minutes, he got up, gathered his belongings and said his goodbyes to both the clerk and the man with the coffee.

I stood on, grinning like an idiot. He’s leaving. You’ve just met one of your favorite writers and you’ve acted atrociously. Now is the time to make amends. Say something. Say “I read your book, you magnificent son of a bitch!” and hope he gets the reference. Say, “Sorry for being such a miserable wretch.” Say anything.

But no.

There I stood, stock still and mute, slack-jawed grin firmly in place as he approached, meeting my eyes briefly then looking away with what I imagined to be a look of utter contempt. He walked past me as though I was not there and how I wished for the ground beneath to give way and swallow me whole.

How Many MC’s?

‘How many MC’s must get dissed

before somebody says don’t <beep> with Chris?’

- KRS-One

Chris likes hip-hop. Chris loves hip-hop. He quotes the above passage, uncredited, twenty times a day. Like a verbal tic. Like some pathological mission statement. Until recently, most evenings would find the lad down the pub, busting his rhymes — well, his rhyme — to a less than appreciative crowd since, after all, knowledge reigns supreme over nearly everyone, with the emphasis on ‘nearly’ swaying personified in that of our dimwitted hero.

Too drunk to stand, he takes the mic. Rather, he tries to take the mic — every five minutes of every Wednesday night hip-hop extravaganza peopled mostly with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane and people looking to have sex with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane. Chris would count himself among the latter, although his rhyme scheme would lead one to believe that his preference for sexual partner would probably have to have a child or, at the very least, be with child.

Here he goes.

‘How many MC’s must get dissssed!?
before sumbuddy says dohn fuck wit Chrissss?
don’t fuck wit Chris motherfucker!
Leave you with a black eye motherfucker!
I’m a bad motherfucker, motherfucker!’

And so on, until he either falls off or gets dragged off stage, pitched unceremoniously to the wet floor fairly shining with broken glass and bodily fluids, his patterned hoodie soiled with the sheer joy of it all. He loves his hoodie. It makes him look like a meth dealer or a half-assed mall skater/snowboarder. Whatever, man. It’s his ‘fit. He wears it with pride. Ignorant pride. Suburban, WASP pride. The pride bestowed upon the idle and shiftless by well-heeled, well-intentioned but ultimately inept parentage. The sort of pride that gets one such as Chris through his twenties with little more to show for his ‘efforts’ than a string of misdemeanors, a couple of OD’s and a hangover that will last for the rest of life. But he’s got one hell of a home-remedy.

His folks love him.

‘He’s a good kid.’

He only beats his woman when he’s drunk, after all. Hell, he even held the same job for two whole years one time. Good kid, that. And he doesn’t smoke crack, just blows the occasional rail. If we can keep him away from serious trouble, we can reward all his hard work with a business of his very own. A retail operation of some kind, bankrolled with our savings. Until then maybe we can ship him off out West where there’s enough easy work and soft-ish drugs to keep him occupied for the next few years. The difficult years. Hell, times are tough. Right? Honey? Times are tough for kids these days. Our Chris, he’s a champ. He’s the best.

He’s not a rapist. He just likes rough sex. He’s not a loser, he just plays the wrong games. Hell, times are tough. It’s tough being an upper middle-class Caucasian. He’ll come around. God, I hope he does. We spent enough money on hockey gear and road trips and video games and sneakers and clothes and booze and cops and judges and lawyers and food. He owes us. The little fucker.

He owes us.

But still, he grabs that mic. Still, he spits those lyrics on a Wednesday night. Still, he beat a bitch ass when she get outta line. And he drinks and he yells and he bitches and he whines. He freaks it. Grabs the mic and cold tweaks it. Son. So you know you better run, cause when Chris is on the mic motherfuckers get done. And you know it. But still you can’t show it. He grabs that motherfucker and he stone cold owns it. Motherfucker. And if you got beef, you can go ahead and grind it, form it to a patty in a pan and cold fry it.

Bitch.

And I’m a get mad pissed,
but how many MC’s must get dissed?