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2003-10-27 - 7:21 p.m.

"No Man Is an Island." No shit Sherlock.

OK. I�m comin� clean. Out of the closet. I, over time, have come to terms with something and I am comfortable with it.

From time to time, I can come across as an arrogant, cock-sure asshole.

No, it�s true. In real life I�m no different. Through the years there�ve been few people progress through the ranks from Acquaintance to Friend and most of them have told me as much.

I don�t care. Really. S�who I am and I like it.

See, that�s something most people fail to notice. When I�m right, I�m FUCKING RIGHT. But when I�m wrong, I�ll admit it. I know many of my limits and faults and weaknesses and truly am working on them � honestly � but at best it�s one-armed paper hanging.

Where the fuck is this going�oh yeah. Early in my adult life I was more fault than facet. If I were a flavour of ice cream I�da been Vanilla-Camembert. But as I was saying, I�ve been fortunate enough to have met some pretty strange cats over the years. These few helped me on the, as Dr. Phil would say, �helped me onto the path of being me.� Inadvertent Mentors.

My first real Boss (and friend for 15 years) gave me my 2nd job in advertising and was a rabid jazz freak. I incessantly razzed him about his jazz days in Montreal and how in my minds eye he was a leotard-wearing, Sprokets-typed character with a beret and a cigarette holder.

At this time in my life I was taken with drinking magnums of Baby Duck sparkling wine from a stemmed, cut-glass fruit bowl which I appropriately referred to as �Chalice�. Just sos you can reference the smallness of my shadow in those days.

One day I stood holding a Thelonius Monk CD�this�JAZZ was growing on me and I asked, (Maritimer accent) �Hey�mind I take a few�a these?�

Marc came over and looked at the jewel case in my hand, shook his head and took it from me, �You�re not ready, yet.� Handed me Miles Davis and Oscar Peterson. �Kind of Blue� is always the CD I recommend when asked where to start in Jazz.

Early in my �uber-career� days in the Big City, I worked with a guy 20 years my senior. He�d dropped out of Bible U two months before being ordained. He knows more about history and religion than is non-secularly healthy. He�s an ex-coke head. He plays with GI Joes and Star Wars figures. He�s also The Smartest Man I�ve ever met.

�God�s Hammer� was his screen name when he was arguing online and he�d say things like, �I�m NOT an Atheist, I�m a NONtheist. It�s not that I�m not willing to believe, it�s just that nobody can give prove anything and so it�s a non-issue.�

G.H. introduced me to Harlan Ellison and his concept of �Elitism,� wherein, �People are never ENTITLED to an opinion. They are entitled to an INFORMED opinion.�

My next and last job in the Big City, I shared an office with a 45 year old alcoholic nee ex-heroin addict who was bar none The Most Unabashedly Original Person I�ve ever met. His wife left him and their two daughters for two lesbians. Gin Soaked Boy was his online name.

One day G.S.B. handed me a CD called �The Black Rider.� My life changed that first time I heard Tom Waits sing the story of Jack and the Silver Bullets.

He said I talked like Hunter S. Thompson writes and that I had a, ��personality like a broken straight-razor.� Out of the blue, he�d also said shit like, �Y�ever get REAL horny and go pick up a whore and end up smoking so much crack neither one of you could fuck?�

Uhh�

Mentors, teachers, peers, whatever you wanna call �em, are the only way a person can develop PAST a certain point. Why do small towns seem so fucking dull? They�ve bred all the interesting out of them, that�s why. Not saying that type of person ain�t there, but they usually don�t stick around.

Maybe that�s why blogs are so goddamned addictive. They�re Condensed People. Prosaic takes on unusual life events and weighted opinions from oddly compelling and distinct (or not) personalities. And you don�t have to contribute a fucking thing.

Exhibitionist mentoring. Yeah. I�m sure there�s a buck in there.

It�s a very fucking boss aspect of the internet, a forum no other medium could expediently afford us. But it�s not the real thing. Reading a book online cannot compare with holding cellulose and ink. You just can�t idly dog-ear the pages of a monitor, anymore than you can fuck it or punch it or share contagious laughter with it.

The Net rocks. But sometimes I think it allows people a back door to slink out from the party without even trying.

Oh, if I were an ice cream flavour today, it�d be Salt-Roasted Almond Dark Chocolate Chunk and Chilies in a choco-rimmed waffle cone.


Spit it OUT, Snapperhead!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.


old shit. - newer shit.

2003-10-27 - 1:43 p.m.

Jamming.

I consider Telemarketing to be the guileless brood-child of a lesser Pandemonic Devil, sent along with its horror siblings, SPAM and Advertising. Telemarketers are just doing their fucking job, sure, but that excuse din�t work in Nurenburg so don�t bother with that premise.

Worst part is, is that ya can�t beat the fuckers! I mean you really cannot physically harm them because if they were plying their taint door-to-door, my entrance would look like I was warding killer archangels away.

But, y�know what? I�ve begun to actually sort of ENJOY those cum-buckets calling me, in a �pinch my nipples� sort of way. Wanna know why?

�Cause I learned you can FUCK with �em REAL easy, like.

Now when I hear, �For a limited time the Vancouver Sun is offering doorstep delivery, including Saturday and Sunday issues�� I hear them out. Then I point blank tell �em, �I get the National Post (I don�t). If you can give me three reasons why your paper is better than the one I get now, I�ll consider a subscription. You have 90 seconds starting�.NOW.�

They usually can�t give me one reason, let alone three.

Mormons? I invite them in and offer them beer, then drink and smoke in front of them and start tearing holes in their dogmatic holy-babble.

They usually leave within 5-8 minutes and never leave their god swag

.Now I�ve learned, from a reliable Telemarketing source, that there are four majick words that can grind a telemarketing service to a halt. Before they can spill their shpeel say, �Hold the line please.� Then get on with your night.

And y�know what? They�ll hold for a REAL long time. They�ll put you on hold too, but don�t hang up until they do. Why? �Cause you�re tying up one of THEIR lines as well as yours. And they have to keep coming back to your call, so it wastes MORE time. And while it�s not breaking short ribs, it�s something.

And that�s more than nothing, Fuckos.


Spit it OUT, Snapperhead!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.


old shit. - newer shit.


Y'can't Keep a Fringe Man Down. - 2005-08-03
So Long, Fucko's. - 2004-02-02
Feedback. - 2004-01-31
Chapter 1 - Clang-Bang - 2004-01-30
The Tattooed Infant - 2004-01-29

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