You met him at a dance / leather jacket, Catholic guilt be damned / he pretended to be German for awhile / as he darted about, trying to court you / his cheeks rosy and rough /even then, before the coast chipped away / at the mountain side / with salty waves that carried his body / down down towards gravity's innards / and led you both to being old happy ancient creatures / memory banks jammed chock full of hippy artifacts / and sunsets that might seem juvenile through wise eyes / but as he changed /and his hands lost their grip / you didn't see the leather jacket anymore / you saw his weakness / (some call it love) / and you thought he wasn't Himself / and now your son writes you a Valentine's Day poem / the day after / reminding you that your First Love /was your best love / because he was part of making me, and my brothers and my sister /some of your Best Work / so remember that first breath of air / the first time you danced/ or even the first time he invaded your family home / and prostrated himself before posterity, proclaiming / I am the man of your life / he said this over and over / and he will probably say it long after / your ears stop working / after the waves that crash / on the salted shores of your Beloved Coast
-"At A Dance" By Philip Shearing, 2014.
Tuesday, September 08, 2015
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Poem - "Let's go back to 2005"
I fell asleep on the futon and woke up wet
The walls were unfamiliar
crowded with living-space trophies and bassist equipment
Not my room, my buddy was nice enough to let me stay
I flipped the mattress and left.© Philip Shearing 2014
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Short Fiction - "To Save the World" by Philip Shearing (2001)
Gang, here's a short story that I wrote 14 years ago--ahh, to be 21 again!--and which had been published on a now defunct website called Ten Thousand Monkeys. Since it's only accessible by visiting the Internet Wayback Archive, I decided to re-post it for you to enjoy.
Cheers, JB aka Philip Shearing.
TO SAVE THE WORLD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry was an honest person. Consequently, he expected the rest of the world to act accordingly. Naive was too kind a word for our Harry. In fact, most would call him a sucker. Only a sucker would leave his Rum and Coke on the counter of the bar and, without a touch of concern, ask the barman if he could keep an eye on his drink while he was gone to the washroom? Of course, this is breaking one of the cardinal sins of the bar-hopper--never leave your drink on the bar to go and piss in a urinal, even if you hurry back without washing your hands just to see if it's still there where you left it.
When he came back, it was still there. He smiled at the bartender, who hadn't even glanced at the glass the whole time. It hadn't moved at all, which isn't surprising, considering that it was an inanimate object with no method of moving itself. Harry sat down on the high stool and put one foot on the brass rail and dangled the other in the air flippantly. He took a swig of his Rum and Coke and Everything changed Forever.
Yes, everything changed. His whole universe imploded, the heavens rang with cries and shrieks, and a barmaid dropped a bottle of Zambuca onto the tiled floor. Because while he was off in the loo, his glass was being laced with a highly concentrated form of L.S.D. Harry would never know the identity of the perpetrator. This was far more serious than a simple high-schoolish prank. But rest assured that the potent drug was added to the Rum and Coke for a reason.
As he gulped down the Rum, the substance absorbed into his stomach lining, and, before long, was taking a blind ride through his copper blood. It wasn't going to affect him until 30 minutes later, when he had arrived home to see the monopoly set spread out on his carpet, right in the middle of the living room, with God and the Devil lying on their stomachs.
No, for now, he was still in the bar, and his feet were on the sticky threadbare carpet. The waitress picked up the pieces of glass with her weathered hands. Two slightly fat cab drivers were sitting on stools beside her, looking at her slightly erotic ass. Harry felt a little tired and decided to head home. He had the car keys but he handed them to someone claiming to be a "designated driver". It turned out to be a car thief who was at least considerate enough to let Harry off at his house before rolling into the night, with Harry's Sunfire buzzing like a mosquito on 'roids.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry unlocked the door clumsily, because he had to piss and his hands were full of groceries. He had an IGA on his corner and on the way home, the man who had stolen his car had been kind enough to stop and help him pick up the necessities of life: beer, cigarettes, kraft dinner, chocolate milk, pizza pockets, and a copy of Rolling Stone, thrown in impulsively at the cash register.
Harry stepped into the house and threw the bags to the floor. He ran to the bathroom and kicked the door open, tripping over the wastebasket and nearly smacking his forehead on the wall of the shower. His bathroom was a kind of grey so ghastly that it must have had carnal relations with yellow at some point in its past. There was a thick layer of mildew on the floor of his shower, like a coat of spackled grey primer. Harry made a mental note to buy some C.L.R. next time he was at the local Kresge, K-Mart, Zellers, or other fine stores. He unzipped quickly, emptying out all those Rum and Cokes into the bowl. The L.S.D. had finally integrated itself into his brain. It was pushing all sorts of buttons, making mental connections out of loose synapse. Fractal thoughts began to swoop in, and Harry felt a little bit dizzy. He attributed this to the booze, which sometimes led him into fearsome black-outs, chains of events that seemed bizarre at the time, and which he wouldn't even remember the day after.
He re-zipped, looked himself over in the smeared mirror, and walked towards the living room. He was looking at his hands, which he had dribbled on accidentally while examining a mole. The mole was benign, so he was only suffering from paranoia. The problem was, if he let his guard down, his own body might take its revenge on him. Moles would lead to cancer or other disorders, clots within the membrane, little colonies of flesh that resisted his will to live. Traitors. So how could he ignore a mole, especially one that kind of looked like Oprah Winfrey?
He had a half-second of thought about how usually, moles don't look like television celebrities. They usually look like skin growths, not faces with real eyes and a mouth. What followed that half second was another half second of seeing God and the Devil lying down on his carpet, sprawled in front of a Monopoly board, with their money all lined up beneath the borders . God was a white wraith with a pink heart glowing faintly within Its breast. God was asexual, like a flower. The devil was most definitely male, with a round face and a sort of barrel-sized chest. He had glasses with pointy, red rims and he was wearing a Nike t-shirt and Adidas cross trainers. He had horns, but they looked suspiciously like Nokia cellphones, each growing perpendicularly from his hairless skull.
The devil smiled in a stupid sort of way and said, "Ready to rock and roll?" God shrugged and illuminated the spot across from him, a 4 foot section of carpet, which would later become one of the key attractions at St. Joseph's Oratory. Harry had imagined the carpet behind golden rope, in the Holy Shrine of Relics. Tourists from Buffalo, New York would stare at the carpet and say, "Wow. God touched that with His light... Are we going to Buffet Maharajah for supper?"
So Harry did what his instincts told him. He grew some chicken skin, meaning his hair stood on end like tent poles planted in the ground, and he crouched down in front of the Monopoly board. God had already taken the Shoe, and the devil had the Car. Harry wiped his hands on his jeans and chose the Dog. They rolled, one by one, and Harry swore that the dice felt warm after the devil handled them with his hairy, sweaty palms. He rolled a 6. All three of them had rolled a 6. The odds of this happening were one in two hundred and sixteen. God sighed and rolled again. Since he had no arms, he would simply levitate the dice, cause them to spin in the air, and then let them drop chaotically. He got an 8. Harry smiled, but stopped when the devil frowned at him. One of the cellphones lit up. The devil had received a text message from Richard Simmons. He pledged his allegiance to the dark lord, and apologized for missing that dinner party on New Year's eve. The devil would soon strike him with a light dose of cholera before forgiving him and taking more dance lessons from the master.
God made the heavens spit lightning for effect and then rolled the dice onto the board. Despite the fact that God was clearly asexual, Harry felt more comfortable thinking of him as an English-speaking man. This is how most Westerners picture their Creator. The dice plummeted to the board and landed on a 1, advancing God to Baltic Avenue. Next, the Devil, who was to his immediate right, rolled and got a 5. He cackled and handed 200 dollars to Harry, who had taken it upon himself to be the bank.
Harry felt that there was no need for conversation, or not just yet. Something told him to ride this one out. What's the point of offending one's guests, especially two so highly ranked in the food chain? He looked around at his sloppy living room, full of newspapers and "final notice" bills still in their original envelopes, unopened, and cursed himself for not having cleaned up the place after work the day before. He hoped that they hadn't looked in his bedroom. It was even worse.
It was Harry's turn. He rolled a 10 and was just visiting the Jail. The devil and God continually kept smacking each other faintheartedly, but roughly just the same. Harry, in a mood of conciliation, offered them a drink. God shook his head and the devil pulled a Fruitopia out of his knapsack that had been lying next to him. He drank it in one swig. Harry got up just the same, taking advantage of the break to stretch his legs and analyze the situation. Why were these people--not people but beings--in his living room? Where did this event rank in the cosmic scale of things? Did this pair often travel together, just to give unsuspecting people heart arrhythmias? Harry decided not to question his faith. He figured that God was just playing a little practical joke. It was the day before April fool's day, the anniversary of the holiest Pagan holiday.
Harry hadn't expected the devil to look so irreverent. He had always pictured a smiling, mustachioed imp with pointy ears and monstrous horns, not Nokia cellphones. He didn't understand why God was so small either. He didn't look at all like he was supposed to according to all those movies or even the roof of that Chapel in Italy. He was far less impressive than one would assume, especially for Someone who allegedly created the entire cosmos.
Harry ran his fingers through his stringy, unwashed hair and walked to the fridge. Fearing God's wrath, he ignored the Heinekens and palmed a bottle of water. It had come out of the cleanest, most polished tap in all of France, water drawn right out of the Seine River in Paris. Independant testing would give it away as filthy water, but luckily Harry had no idea how to check the potability of water, nor did he feel the need to. The fancy blue label looked nice, and all his friends at the gym swore by it, between sets with the rowing machine.
By the time Harry got back to the living room, God and the devil had begun an arm wrestling match. The amazing thing was that just a few moments ago, God didn't really have any arms. He must have produced them from sheer will just to challenge the dark demon at his own game. Harry didn't say anything for fear of distracting them, and sat down quietly at his place. The devil winked at him and beat God in one swift motion. God didn't utter a word, but then again, what was he supposed to say? That he was not infallible after all? Highly unlikely. He probably let the devil win, just to make him feel better for the whole "banishment from the gates of heaven" thing.
God turned to Harry. Harry felt light-headed, as if he had been climbing a mountain while carrying a rucksack on his bony back. Words seemed to emanate from all around him, not from God himself.
"Harry...my child...we are here to ask you a single question."
God paused for effect.
The devil quickly asked "Where's a good strip-joint around here? I mean a real good one, not like the ones in New Brunswick. I mean full-on, hardcore..."
God summoned two angels who restrained the devil and placed a muzzle made of spider webs over his mouth. God resumed his silence, before causing everyone to disappear except for him and Harry. Harry felt unable to move or speak. He farted and felt like a sinner.
"Don't feel ashamed. You are of Me. Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah. I Am here to ask you one question. Why did I put you here?"
"Uhh..."
Harry felt dumbfounded. What a question! He had been asking himself that one for a long, long time. He strained his brain to the seams, searching all those long lost Bible study classes and episodes of Seventh Heaven. He thought about all the things he had seen and heard, all those countless events which had impacted him all the way up to this instant. He summoned all of the courage he had in his soul, and then quietly said,
"To make a difference."
God nodded. Harry was pleased. He felt like he was getting somewhere. God scratched himself with the freshly-created arms beneath His veil, which was transparent and looked empty. Harry didn't doubt this moment for a second. It was far too authentic, like when Mohammed began to jot down those flowery phrases in a language that he barely wrote, or when Moses saw the burning bush begin to chant in ominous tones. Harry wondered if he was a prophet, like they had been.
"Harry, you're one of my favourite people. You aren't the smartest, nor the most pious...actually, you're not the best at anything. Well, I'm sort of getting off track. Really, the one saving grace that you have is your devotion to everyone else, your immense trust of strangers. Some would call you nave, or even vulnerable, but I have another name for you...The sheep of God."
"Sheep?" Harry asked.
"Yes, I know that the terminology still needs some work, but you're a Sheep. You follow the rules, for the most part, and you do this so un-spectacularly that I know that you're special. Not special in the "everyone is special in God's Eye's" way, but special in that you believe in all of my creations so completely. Even my Son (God said this word a tad bit lower) wasn't as loyal to my grand vision."
"You mean Jesus?"
"No, didn't you study the Bible? Jesus is part of me, just like the Holy Ghost. We are affiliated into the same being. No, my son, the one your people called David Koresh."
"No offense, Mr. God, but wasn't he just some wacko from Waco? Wasn't he, well wasn't he a cult leader who had false delusions of grandeur?"
"Of course not! He was my son, sent to correct all the errors on the earth. Problem is, once he became earth-bound, he figured that saving the planet was impossible, and he just started having intercourse with all of his followers and stockpiling weapons, waiting for his time to return to my side in heaven. I didn't want to interfere in the ways of man, so I let the Feds go in and take him out. That's not to say that I don't care, but remember that I love you all, and I was busy trying to save all those Africans from that horrible ebola epidemic at the time. And don't even get me started on the Tutsis and the Hutus..."
"So, if you'll pardon my ignorance, God, David Koresh was really your son?"
"Well, in human terms, no. But I created him, just as I created you."
Harry gulped. "Me?"
"Yes. I am usually against trying things twice, but I think that this time, we'll obtain our objective. You're part of the team, Harry. I want you to build a church."
"But I don't know anything about a church! All I remember from all those services is how the host tastes like Styrofoam and that we have to murmur something incoherent when the priest gives us that look."
"That part isn't important. Just make it up as you go along. All I want you to do is to remind everyone that I Exist, and that they should respect one another. And don't think that your job won't come without frills. I promise you eternal life, a seat beside me in Heaven should you ever decide to retire from ruling the earth, and a really good social benefits package. Since you're a good guy, I'll even break the rules and give you 90% dental coverage. You hear that? 90%, provided that you pay in full up front, and then I'll credit your bank account overnight."
"Well, it does sound very interesting..."
"Ah, hardball, eh? O.K., O.K., I'll even let you remain 100% human. No chastity, in other words. As long as you spread my message, feel free to spread anything else you want, know what I mean?"
Harry began to wonder if God was going through a mid-life crisis of some sort. He thought about the premise, and decided.
"God, it's a deal. When do I start?"
"Right after you beat Me and the devil at monopoly. That is your test of faith."
"Isn't this a form of gambling?"
"Just don't repeat it to anyone. I invented the whole cosmos...what do you want from me? A deity needs to have some sort of entertainment once in a thousand millenia."
"Of course. But what if I lose?"
"That's where the devil comes in. He had bet me that you couldn't convince all the humans that I was the One and Only. I argued, and we decided to challenge you to this game, just to prove that you had strength of character and good stress-management skills. I can't stand earthly avatars of my Will that can't handle pressure. I felt that this would be appropriate."
"But there's one thing I never understood. God, you are all about love and peace, yet the earth is such a place torn with conflict and anger...is it the devil's fault?"
"My plan is not for you to understand."
"That sounds suspiciously similar to what my parents used to say when I asked them..."
"O.K., O.K.," said God emphatically. "I'll fill you in. I wanted mankind to figure it out for themselves."
"For ourselves?"
"Yes, but I grew tired of waiting. So far, the only people's that have remained true to my vision are the ones that get trampled on. I've been sitting here for thousands of years, waiting for you noble savages to change your swords into lawnmowers. Peace is the only way to go. Didn't you ever hear that Beatles song? I just don't understand humanity sometimes..."
God's voiced trailed off until it grew faint and delicate. His arms had retracted to someplace unimaginable, and now Harry began to really pay attention to his features. He had a face that looked like it was made of silk, with no mouth or eyes. It reminded Harry of a pillow he had once seen at the Ikea on the outskirts of town. God had a pleasant odour; he smelled of rasberries and Old Spice. He had no feet either, but since he levitated instead of walking, he didn't really need them.
Harry sniffled. He felt like he was coming down with a cold. He wondered if God would help him out.
"Another thing I've been dying to ask you is why each religion gets so confused as to your true origin. Also, which is the one true faith?"
"Well, Personally, I am quite fond of the Society of Friends."
"Isn't that a television sitcom? You know, the one with Ross and Monica..."
"No, my son...the Friends are commonly known as the Quakers."
"Ah yes, the nice people who make all that oatmeal?"
God shook his head and his pink heart began to flutter within his breast. Harry was aware of this because God's chest was transparent. Harry started to bite his tongue so hard that it bled a little.
"Harry, the Quakers are a good people. But nobody is any better than anyone else. You humans are all from the same seed, descended from single cell creatures that I planted on the earth five hundred thousand years ago. It was my first attempt at making a perfect world. I have always been an underachiever. I think it goes back to my parents, and the way my father never let me go through that black hole...*sob*"
Harry grew deeply afraid. Somehow the idea of God crying made him feel that the world was about to end. He decided to console Him. He gulped.
"Can I put my arm around you?"
"It is better not to. Most people dissolve into ashes and dust if they even see me. But then again, I guess I am the Omnipotent One, the Lord of All Things...so...O.K. Go ahead. I promise you won't die."
The two sat side by side, staring at the monopoly board. Man put his arm around Deity, and for a moment, everyone in the world felt like they were in their mother's arms, safe and warm.
God brightened up with the display of courage Harry had unwillingly displayed. God had told a little fib. Nobody crumbles to ashes and dust. They just disperse their energy throughout all things, and their molecules spin into the stars. God had desperately wanted a hug, someone to cry out to. For once, he had a vent for all his frustration.
"Harry, I've gone astray. I should never have let those Americans louse everything up."
"But we didn't do anything so wrong...we were just trying to build a great nation, in your honour."
"Building a great nation does not equate with bombing Vietnamese schoolchildren with jellied napalm. And the way you won't share all those AIDS drugs, protecting your pharmaceutical companies...Sometimes, it's almost enough to turn me Atheist."
They shared a brief laugh, before considering the Holy Contradiction. God made a bluebird appear, and it began to chirp a springtime minuet.
"So who is the devil?"
"Well, I guess that you could say that the Hindus got most of it right. They understand that I am part of all things, that I created this big mess, and that one day, I'll cast it aside with a sweep of My Hand. But just like every other religion, they confused their own destiny and ambitions with my will. Now they want to kill all those Muslims in Pakistan...sigh..."
"Don't beat yourself up over all this. How were you supposed to know that humans would be so cruel?"
"True enough. But I started this existence. Why couldn't I have imbued all life with a sense of respect for one another, instead of this driving impulse for survival? I think that was My major screw-up."
"But we forgot my question. Who is the devil exactly?"
"He is the physical manifestation of My Own self-doubt. When I get depressed, he shows up to make me look foolish."
"Why don't you just get rid of him?"
"I can't. It wouldn't be fair."
"Why not?"
"Because if I just obey My own will, the world would be as bland and flavourless as day-old McDonalds french fries. The devil helps to spice things up. And you blame him for everything. He is as necessary to this existence as I am. Also, he throws the wildest New Year's parties. Last year, let me tell you, he got me and Jesus so drunk..."
"You drink?", Harry said meekly.
"Don't speak so low or you might just inherit the earth. Yes, I do drink occaisionally, only socially of course..."
"But you don't, well, no offense, but...uhh..."
"Spit it out, my son."
"Well, you're not human. How could you get intoxicated?"
"Through Jesus, my human form, of course."
"I thought that you said that he wasn't your son?"
"He isn't. He's like my left leg. And the Holy Ghost is more like my accountant."
"So You three are One?"
"More or less. Hey, all of these questions are getting tiresome. Let's cut to the quick."
"You'll have to excuse me, God...It's not every day that I meet a celebrity."
"What do you mean? Didn't you once meet Jerry Seinfeld back in 1997? I remember...you were at your Uncle's wake in Reno, and he happened to be walking by the Rest Home...remember?"
"Oh yeah, but You are far more important than some comedian, right?"
"Of course. But still, I'm just trying to point out the fact that your respect even extends to me. That's what I like about you. That is why I want you to beat the devil and Me at monopoly, so that you can get on with building my church."
"O.K. Bring him back, if You think that it's important."
Harry began to enter a sort of catatonic state while remaining conscious. He was quite unaware, but the L.S.D. was boring holes in his brain. It was making all sorts of illogical realities co-exist, where honest politicians danced with goodhearted executioners, and animals spoke mystical languages. If you look closely at the thoughts of a madman, you'll find a lot of scary stuff.
So the Two turned into Three, and they played that game of Monopoly. Harry suspected that God had tipped the odds into his favour, especially since he mortgaged Boardwalk for no apparent reason every time that Harry approached it on the board with his Dog. The devil was suffering from a sort of itching malady and his fingernails kept continually digging into his red pasty flesh. It was as if the itch was beneath the skin. God kept scolding him and telling him to roll the dice.
Harry won. Then, God beckoned him and made him levitate into his bed. When he woke up, the board wasn't there. God and the devil weren't there either. All he had was a dull throbbing in his head. At least his cold was gone, and even the mole that looked like Oprah was gone. He smiled. Everything was so clear now. He had to save the world, for God Himself.
© Philip Shearing 2001
Cheers, JB aka Philip Shearing.
TO SAVE THE WORLD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry was an honest person. Consequently, he expected the rest of the world to act accordingly. Naive was too kind a word for our Harry. In fact, most would call him a sucker. Only a sucker would leave his Rum and Coke on the counter of the bar and, without a touch of concern, ask the barman if he could keep an eye on his drink while he was gone to the washroom? Of course, this is breaking one of the cardinal sins of the bar-hopper--never leave your drink on the bar to go and piss in a urinal, even if you hurry back without washing your hands just to see if it's still there where you left it.
When he came back, it was still there. He smiled at the bartender, who hadn't even glanced at the glass the whole time. It hadn't moved at all, which isn't surprising, considering that it was an inanimate object with no method of moving itself. Harry sat down on the high stool and put one foot on the brass rail and dangled the other in the air flippantly. He took a swig of his Rum and Coke and Everything changed Forever.
Yes, everything changed. His whole universe imploded, the heavens rang with cries and shrieks, and a barmaid dropped a bottle of Zambuca onto the tiled floor. Because while he was off in the loo, his glass was being laced with a highly concentrated form of L.S.D. Harry would never know the identity of the perpetrator. This was far more serious than a simple high-schoolish prank. But rest assured that the potent drug was added to the Rum and Coke for a reason.
As he gulped down the Rum, the substance absorbed into his stomach lining, and, before long, was taking a blind ride through his copper blood. It wasn't going to affect him until 30 minutes later, when he had arrived home to see the monopoly set spread out on his carpet, right in the middle of the living room, with God and the Devil lying on their stomachs.
No, for now, he was still in the bar, and his feet were on the sticky threadbare carpet. The waitress picked up the pieces of glass with her weathered hands. Two slightly fat cab drivers were sitting on stools beside her, looking at her slightly erotic ass. Harry felt a little tired and decided to head home. He had the car keys but he handed them to someone claiming to be a "designated driver". It turned out to be a car thief who was at least considerate enough to let Harry off at his house before rolling into the night, with Harry's Sunfire buzzing like a mosquito on 'roids.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry unlocked the door clumsily, because he had to piss and his hands were full of groceries. He had an IGA on his corner and on the way home, the man who had stolen his car had been kind enough to stop and help him pick up the necessities of life: beer, cigarettes, kraft dinner, chocolate milk, pizza pockets, and a copy of Rolling Stone, thrown in impulsively at the cash register.
Harry stepped into the house and threw the bags to the floor. He ran to the bathroom and kicked the door open, tripping over the wastebasket and nearly smacking his forehead on the wall of the shower. His bathroom was a kind of grey so ghastly that it must have had carnal relations with yellow at some point in its past. There was a thick layer of mildew on the floor of his shower, like a coat of spackled grey primer. Harry made a mental note to buy some C.L.R. next time he was at the local Kresge, K-Mart, Zellers, or other fine stores. He unzipped quickly, emptying out all those Rum and Cokes into the bowl. The L.S.D. had finally integrated itself into his brain. It was pushing all sorts of buttons, making mental connections out of loose synapse. Fractal thoughts began to swoop in, and Harry felt a little bit dizzy. He attributed this to the booze, which sometimes led him into fearsome black-outs, chains of events that seemed bizarre at the time, and which he wouldn't even remember the day after.
He re-zipped, looked himself over in the smeared mirror, and walked towards the living room. He was looking at his hands, which he had dribbled on accidentally while examining a mole. The mole was benign, so he was only suffering from paranoia. The problem was, if he let his guard down, his own body might take its revenge on him. Moles would lead to cancer or other disorders, clots within the membrane, little colonies of flesh that resisted his will to live. Traitors. So how could he ignore a mole, especially one that kind of looked like Oprah Winfrey?
He had a half-second of thought about how usually, moles don't look like television celebrities. They usually look like skin growths, not faces with real eyes and a mouth. What followed that half second was another half second of seeing God and the Devil lying down on his carpet, sprawled in front of a Monopoly board, with their money all lined up beneath the borders . God was a white wraith with a pink heart glowing faintly within Its breast. God was asexual, like a flower. The devil was most definitely male, with a round face and a sort of barrel-sized chest. He had glasses with pointy, red rims and he was wearing a Nike t-shirt and Adidas cross trainers. He had horns, but they looked suspiciously like Nokia cellphones, each growing perpendicularly from his hairless skull.
The devil smiled in a stupid sort of way and said, "Ready to rock and roll?" God shrugged and illuminated the spot across from him, a 4 foot section of carpet, which would later become one of the key attractions at St. Joseph's Oratory. Harry had imagined the carpet behind golden rope, in the Holy Shrine of Relics. Tourists from Buffalo, New York would stare at the carpet and say, "Wow. God touched that with His light... Are we going to Buffet Maharajah for supper?"
So Harry did what his instincts told him. He grew some chicken skin, meaning his hair stood on end like tent poles planted in the ground, and he crouched down in front of the Monopoly board. God had already taken the Shoe, and the devil had the Car. Harry wiped his hands on his jeans and chose the Dog. They rolled, one by one, and Harry swore that the dice felt warm after the devil handled them with his hairy, sweaty palms. He rolled a 6. All three of them had rolled a 6. The odds of this happening were one in two hundred and sixteen. God sighed and rolled again. Since he had no arms, he would simply levitate the dice, cause them to spin in the air, and then let them drop chaotically. He got an 8. Harry smiled, but stopped when the devil frowned at him. One of the cellphones lit up. The devil had received a text message from Richard Simmons. He pledged his allegiance to the dark lord, and apologized for missing that dinner party on New Year's eve. The devil would soon strike him with a light dose of cholera before forgiving him and taking more dance lessons from the master.
God made the heavens spit lightning for effect and then rolled the dice onto the board. Despite the fact that God was clearly asexual, Harry felt more comfortable thinking of him as an English-speaking man. This is how most Westerners picture their Creator. The dice plummeted to the board and landed on a 1, advancing God to Baltic Avenue. Next, the Devil, who was to his immediate right, rolled and got a 5. He cackled and handed 200 dollars to Harry, who had taken it upon himself to be the bank.
Harry felt that there was no need for conversation, or not just yet. Something told him to ride this one out. What's the point of offending one's guests, especially two so highly ranked in the food chain? He looked around at his sloppy living room, full of newspapers and "final notice" bills still in their original envelopes, unopened, and cursed himself for not having cleaned up the place after work the day before. He hoped that they hadn't looked in his bedroom. It was even worse.
It was Harry's turn. He rolled a 10 and was just visiting the Jail. The devil and God continually kept smacking each other faintheartedly, but roughly just the same. Harry, in a mood of conciliation, offered them a drink. God shook his head and the devil pulled a Fruitopia out of his knapsack that had been lying next to him. He drank it in one swig. Harry got up just the same, taking advantage of the break to stretch his legs and analyze the situation. Why were these people--not people but beings--in his living room? Where did this event rank in the cosmic scale of things? Did this pair often travel together, just to give unsuspecting people heart arrhythmias? Harry decided not to question his faith. He figured that God was just playing a little practical joke. It was the day before April fool's day, the anniversary of the holiest Pagan holiday.
Harry hadn't expected the devil to look so irreverent. He had always pictured a smiling, mustachioed imp with pointy ears and monstrous horns, not Nokia cellphones. He didn't understand why God was so small either. He didn't look at all like he was supposed to according to all those movies or even the roof of that Chapel in Italy. He was far less impressive than one would assume, especially for Someone who allegedly created the entire cosmos.
Harry ran his fingers through his stringy, unwashed hair and walked to the fridge. Fearing God's wrath, he ignored the Heinekens and palmed a bottle of water. It had come out of the cleanest, most polished tap in all of France, water drawn right out of the Seine River in Paris. Independant testing would give it away as filthy water, but luckily Harry had no idea how to check the potability of water, nor did he feel the need to. The fancy blue label looked nice, and all his friends at the gym swore by it, between sets with the rowing machine.
By the time Harry got back to the living room, God and the devil had begun an arm wrestling match. The amazing thing was that just a few moments ago, God didn't really have any arms. He must have produced them from sheer will just to challenge the dark demon at his own game. Harry didn't say anything for fear of distracting them, and sat down quietly at his place. The devil winked at him and beat God in one swift motion. God didn't utter a word, but then again, what was he supposed to say? That he was not infallible after all? Highly unlikely. He probably let the devil win, just to make him feel better for the whole "banishment from the gates of heaven" thing.
God turned to Harry. Harry felt light-headed, as if he had been climbing a mountain while carrying a rucksack on his bony back. Words seemed to emanate from all around him, not from God himself.
"Harry...my child...we are here to ask you a single question."
God paused for effect.
The devil quickly asked "Where's a good strip-joint around here? I mean a real good one, not like the ones in New Brunswick. I mean full-on, hardcore..."
God summoned two angels who restrained the devil and placed a muzzle made of spider webs over his mouth. God resumed his silence, before causing everyone to disappear except for him and Harry. Harry felt unable to move or speak. He farted and felt like a sinner.
"Don't feel ashamed. You are of Me. Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah. I Am here to ask you one question. Why did I put you here?"
"Uhh..."
Harry felt dumbfounded. What a question! He had been asking himself that one for a long, long time. He strained his brain to the seams, searching all those long lost Bible study classes and episodes of Seventh Heaven. He thought about all the things he had seen and heard, all those countless events which had impacted him all the way up to this instant. He summoned all of the courage he had in his soul, and then quietly said,
"To make a difference."
God nodded. Harry was pleased. He felt like he was getting somewhere. God scratched himself with the freshly-created arms beneath His veil, which was transparent and looked empty. Harry didn't doubt this moment for a second. It was far too authentic, like when Mohammed began to jot down those flowery phrases in a language that he barely wrote, or when Moses saw the burning bush begin to chant in ominous tones. Harry wondered if he was a prophet, like they had been.
"Harry, you're one of my favourite people. You aren't the smartest, nor the most pious...actually, you're not the best at anything. Well, I'm sort of getting off track. Really, the one saving grace that you have is your devotion to everyone else, your immense trust of strangers. Some would call you nave, or even vulnerable, but I have another name for you...The sheep of God."
"Sheep?" Harry asked.
"Yes, I know that the terminology still needs some work, but you're a Sheep. You follow the rules, for the most part, and you do this so un-spectacularly that I know that you're special. Not special in the "everyone is special in God's Eye's" way, but special in that you believe in all of my creations so completely. Even my Son (God said this word a tad bit lower) wasn't as loyal to my grand vision."
"You mean Jesus?"
"No, didn't you study the Bible? Jesus is part of me, just like the Holy Ghost. We are affiliated into the same being. No, my son, the one your people called David Koresh."
"No offense, Mr. God, but wasn't he just some wacko from Waco? Wasn't he, well wasn't he a cult leader who had false delusions of grandeur?"
"Of course not! He was my son, sent to correct all the errors on the earth. Problem is, once he became earth-bound, he figured that saving the planet was impossible, and he just started having intercourse with all of his followers and stockpiling weapons, waiting for his time to return to my side in heaven. I didn't want to interfere in the ways of man, so I let the Feds go in and take him out. That's not to say that I don't care, but remember that I love you all, and I was busy trying to save all those Africans from that horrible ebola epidemic at the time. And don't even get me started on the Tutsis and the Hutus..."
"So, if you'll pardon my ignorance, God, David Koresh was really your son?"
"Well, in human terms, no. But I created him, just as I created you."
Harry gulped. "Me?"
"Yes. I am usually against trying things twice, but I think that this time, we'll obtain our objective. You're part of the team, Harry. I want you to build a church."
"But I don't know anything about a church! All I remember from all those services is how the host tastes like Styrofoam and that we have to murmur something incoherent when the priest gives us that look."
"That part isn't important. Just make it up as you go along. All I want you to do is to remind everyone that I Exist, and that they should respect one another. And don't think that your job won't come without frills. I promise you eternal life, a seat beside me in Heaven should you ever decide to retire from ruling the earth, and a really good social benefits package. Since you're a good guy, I'll even break the rules and give you 90% dental coverage. You hear that? 90%, provided that you pay in full up front, and then I'll credit your bank account overnight."
"Well, it does sound very interesting..."
"Ah, hardball, eh? O.K., O.K., I'll even let you remain 100% human. No chastity, in other words. As long as you spread my message, feel free to spread anything else you want, know what I mean?"
Harry began to wonder if God was going through a mid-life crisis of some sort. He thought about the premise, and decided.
"God, it's a deal. When do I start?"
"Right after you beat Me and the devil at monopoly. That is your test of faith."
"Isn't this a form of gambling?"
"Just don't repeat it to anyone. I invented the whole cosmos...what do you want from me? A deity needs to have some sort of entertainment once in a thousand millenia."
"Of course. But what if I lose?"
"That's where the devil comes in. He had bet me that you couldn't convince all the humans that I was the One and Only. I argued, and we decided to challenge you to this game, just to prove that you had strength of character and good stress-management skills. I can't stand earthly avatars of my Will that can't handle pressure. I felt that this would be appropriate."
"But there's one thing I never understood. God, you are all about love and peace, yet the earth is such a place torn with conflict and anger...is it the devil's fault?"
"My plan is not for you to understand."
"That sounds suspiciously similar to what my parents used to say when I asked them..."
"O.K., O.K.," said God emphatically. "I'll fill you in. I wanted mankind to figure it out for themselves."
"For ourselves?"
"Yes, but I grew tired of waiting. So far, the only people's that have remained true to my vision are the ones that get trampled on. I've been sitting here for thousands of years, waiting for you noble savages to change your swords into lawnmowers. Peace is the only way to go. Didn't you ever hear that Beatles song? I just don't understand humanity sometimes..."
God's voiced trailed off until it grew faint and delicate. His arms had retracted to someplace unimaginable, and now Harry began to really pay attention to his features. He had a face that looked like it was made of silk, with no mouth or eyes. It reminded Harry of a pillow he had once seen at the Ikea on the outskirts of town. God had a pleasant odour; he smelled of rasberries and Old Spice. He had no feet either, but since he levitated instead of walking, he didn't really need them.
Harry sniffled. He felt like he was coming down with a cold. He wondered if God would help him out.
"Another thing I've been dying to ask you is why each religion gets so confused as to your true origin. Also, which is the one true faith?"
"Well, Personally, I am quite fond of the Society of Friends."
"Isn't that a television sitcom? You know, the one with Ross and Monica..."
"No, my son...the Friends are commonly known as the Quakers."
"Ah yes, the nice people who make all that oatmeal?"
God shook his head and his pink heart began to flutter within his breast. Harry was aware of this because God's chest was transparent. Harry started to bite his tongue so hard that it bled a little.
"Harry, the Quakers are a good people. But nobody is any better than anyone else. You humans are all from the same seed, descended from single cell creatures that I planted on the earth five hundred thousand years ago. It was my first attempt at making a perfect world. I have always been an underachiever. I think it goes back to my parents, and the way my father never let me go through that black hole...*sob*"
Harry grew deeply afraid. Somehow the idea of God crying made him feel that the world was about to end. He decided to console Him. He gulped.
"Can I put my arm around you?"
"It is better not to. Most people dissolve into ashes and dust if they even see me. But then again, I guess I am the Omnipotent One, the Lord of All Things...so...O.K. Go ahead. I promise you won't die."
The two sat side by side, staring at the monopoly board. Man put his arm around Deity, and for a moment, everyone in the world felt like they were in their mother's arms, safe and warm.
God brightened up with the display of courage Harry had unwillingly displayed. God had told a little fib. Nobody crumbles to ashes and dust. They just disperse their energy throughout all things, and their molecules spin into the stars. God had desperately wanted a hug, someone to cry out to. For once, he had a vent for all his frustration.
"Harry, I've gone astray. I should never have let those Americans louse everything up."
"But we didn't do anything so wrong...we were just trying to build a great nation, in your honour."
"Building a great nation does not equate with bombing Vietnamese schoolchildren with jellied napalm. And the way you won't share all those AIDS drugs, protecting your pharmaceutical companies...Sometimes, it's almost enough to turn me Atheist."
They shared a brief laugh, before considering the Holy Contradiction. God made a bluebird appear, and it began to chirp a springtime minuet.
"So who is the devil?"
"Well, I guess that you could say that the Hindus got most of it right. They understand that I am part of all things, that I created this big mess, and that one day, I'll cast it aside with a sweep of My Hand. But just like every other religion, they confused their own destiny and ambitions with my will. Now they want to kill all those Muslims in Pakistan...sigh..."
"Don't beat yourself up over all this. How were you supposed to know that humans would be so cruel?"
"True enough. But I started this existence. Why couldn't I have imbued all life with a sense of respect for one another, instead of this driving impulse for survival? I think that was My major screw-up."
"But we forgot my question. Who is the devil exactly?"
"He is the physical manifestation of My Own self-doubt. When I get depressed, he shows up to make me look foolish."
"Why don't you just get rid of him?"
"I can't. It wouldn't be fair."
"Why not?"
"Because if I just obey My own will, the world would be as bland and flavourless as day-old McDonalds french fries. The devil helps to spice things up. And you blame him for everything. He is as necessary to this existence as I am. Also, he throws the wildest New Year's parties. Last year, let me tell you, he got me and Jesus so drunk..."
"You drink?", Harry said meekly.
"Don't speak so low or you might just inherit the earth. Yes, I do drink occaisionally, only socially of course..."
"But you don't, well, no offense, but...uhh..."
"Spit it out, my son."
"Well, you're not human. How could you get intoxicated?"
"Through Jesus, my human form, of course."
"I thought that you said that he wasn't your son?"
"He isn't. He's like my left leg. And the Holy Ghost is more like my accountant."
"So You three are One?"
"More or less. Hey, all of these questions are getting tiresome. Let's cut to the quick."
"You'll have to excuse me, God...It's not every day that I meet a celebrity."
"What do you mean? Didn't you once meet Jerry Seinfeld back in 1997? I remember...you were at your Uncle's wake in Reno, and he happened to be walking by the Rest Home...remember?"
"Oh yeah, but You are far more important than some comedian, right?"
"Of course. But still, I'm just trying to point out the fact that your respect even extends to me. That's what I like about you. That is why I want you to beat the devil and Me at monopoly, so that you can get on with building my church."
"O.K. Bring him back, if You think that it's important."
Harry began to enter a sort of catatonic state while remaining conscious. He was quite unaware, but the L.S.D. was boring holes in his brain. It was making all sorts of illogical realities co-exist, where honest politicians danced with goodhearted executioners, and animals spoke mystical languages. If you look closely at the thoughts of a madman, you'll find a lot of scary stuff.
So the Two turned into Three, and they played that game of Monopoly. Harry suspected that God had tipped the odds into his favour, especially since he mortgaged Boardwalk for no apparent reason every time that Harry approached it on the board with his Dog. The devil was suffering from a sort of itching malady and his fingernails kept continually digging into his red pasty flesh. It was as if the itch was beneath the skin. God kept scolding him and telling him to roll the dice.
Harry won. Then, God beckoned him and made him levitate into his bed. When he woke up, the board wasn't there. God and the devil weren't there either. All he had was a dull throbbing in his head. At least his cold was gone, and even the mole that looked like Oprah was gone. He smiled. Everything was so clear now. He had to save the world, for God Himself.
© Philip Shearing 2001
Saturday, September 27, 2014
"Brown Sugar" - Short Short Story by Jeremy Brendan
This miracle pie, this delicious mish-mash of secret sugar, this bundle of baked pleasure, good enough to make you wish you weren't born yet... The girls were chirping about this pecan pie as if it was a web woven by miracle spiders to catch your palate and feast on your salivating remains.
"What's with that pie?"
"I know!"
"I had three pieces at my house the other day...gone."
"Gone?"
"All gone."
The brunette licked her lips, straining to taste any of the pecan filling that might remain.
"There is something seriously fucked about this pie."
I pictured the quartet lying in a burned-out basement, windows shattered, a mouldy mattress lying on the bare concrete floor, Velvet Underground playing on an old mono turntable, and the four girls huddled around a brown bag.
"Hurry up!"
"Chill out!"
Out comes the round heaven dream, the epitome of bacchanalian sugar sex magick.
Within minutes, all four horsewomen are lying on their backs, lips painted brown with sweet pecan memory.(1998)
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
Poem - "Jebus Mouse with quote from Tanya about her Lab."
"Keep giving the Von Frei / make sure he's feeling okay"
Pinned to a dart board
Saline solution being administered
it takes three minutes until the brain is clear
Art wrote Maus and I think this would fit in his sphere
the ol' born again again
But don't forget, even back then
there were a hundred men accused of being him
Pinned to a dart board
Saline solution being administered
it takes three minutes until the brain is clear
Art wrote Maus and I think this would fit in his sphere
the ol' born again again
But don't forget, even back then
there were a hundred men accused of being him
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Country - Africa - Live @ Sala Rossa on May 24th, 2014- review & video
Beaver Sheppard has been making genius/frenetic lo-fi acoustic freak-folk here in Montreal for over a decade, but since starting critically-acclaimed Montreal SleazeRock band Country, his musical palette has become even more colorful and effective.
Beaver has defined a goal for SleazeRock, specifically to remain 10 years ahead of Los Angeles musically at all times. What would LA think?
Working with bandmate/DJ/Producer David Whitten, his new songs are boisterous and sometimes approaching My Bloody Valentine territory, if they were playing the Dance Revolution Arcade Game while recording their bed tracks. Think Ride (when they still had pedals) covering New Order. This is music made for when your friend Molly drops by, ancient folk wisdom married to an Asimo robot at drone-point.
Here is Country live @ Sala Rossa performing one of their notable songs "Africa" live @ Sala Rossa on May 24th 2014.
Saturday, June 07, 2014
Review - Brian Jonestown Massacre - "Revelation"
Break out the paisley, light your Colorado sticks and smile a little because Anton is back.This album is basically 60's psychedelia filtered through a fractured piece of pyrex coated in hallucinogenic remnants. It is an animal born in our day but sounds like it was frrom another time. Here you will find grooves that you can sink your incisors into. There is a lot of meat to be had on this LP. It is top grade sirloin.
Here is the full album on Youtube.Brian Jonestown Massacre - Revelation
Second Sighting is fantastic. Also, most of the other tunes will make you want to purchase a lava lamp forthwith. This record will spin for many years on a great many turntables across the world. I give it four August Spies out of five. (Look him up on wiki if you question my grading system.)
Here is the full album on Youtube.Brian Jonestown Massacre - Revelation
Second Sighting is fantastic. Also, most of the other tunes will make you want to purchase a lava lamp forthwith. This record will spin for many years on a great many turntables across the world. I give it four August Spies out of five. (Look him up on wiki if you question my grading system.)
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Clipping from the Past!
Was just trolling the internet, not in the Gawker Comments style, but in the sense of trying to see if this humble blog had extended its sinewy arms beyond the limits of this page.
Imagine my sense of excitement when I found an ancient clipping from SF Weekly (http://www.sfweekly.com/2005-09-14/music/maple-leaf-boogie-woogie/) where I saw that our landmark interview with Dan from Wolf Parade had been directly quoted.
It doesn't pay the hefty legal bills that we've amassed over the years but it does certainly make me smile like I hadn't refused those braces the minute I hit puberty. (Sorry Mom & Dad, I realize how much the spacer & retainer cost, only to see the results backslide into some sort of Great Barrier Reef Grin.)
Who will be the next band to be interviewed by Jeremy Brendan? I'm open to suggestions.
Imagine my sense of excitement when I found an ancient clipping from SF Weekly (http://www.sfweekly.com/2005-09-14/music/maple-leaf-boogie-woogie/) where I saw that our landmark interview with Dan from Wolf Parade had been directly quoted.
It doesn't pay the hefty legal bills that we've amassed over the years but it does certainly make me smile like I hadn't refused those braces the minute I hit puberty. (Sorry Mom & Dad, I realize how much the spacer & retainer cost, only to see the results backslide into some sort of Great Barrier Reef Grin.)
Who will be the next band to be interviewed by Jeremy Brendan? I'm open to suggestions.
Saturday, November 09, 2013
Million Dollar App? Or Just Stop-Gap-Sap?
I just got an idea for an app that would have a sort of virtual pet/avatar that lives on your smartphone and corresponds with fellow avatars that live on your friend's smartphones. Ideally, it would somehow serve civilization in some way so more thought will have to go into this...
I guess it's not unlike a virtual nanobaby--recall the 90's when digital trinkets powered by CR2032 batteries were all the rage--except that it could have gigaflops to play with, and maybe this could be a good thing?
I can't see how virtual pets could really solve many challenges in our society but maybe if it helps to fund research that can bring us closer to the singularity/intelligent compute, then perhaps it's a frivolity that we can tolerate for a buck or so on our iTunes account.
Even though I just invented it with my MIND, I'm already convinced that the potential developer wouldn't have a Blackberry 10 version of the app. Also, how can it help us pass the Turing Test? I would love some feedback!
I guess it's not unlike a virtual nanobaby--recall the 90's when digital trinkets powered by CR2032 batteries were all the rage--except that it could have gigaflops to play with, and maybe this could be a good thing?
I can't see how virtual pets could really solve many challenges in our society but maybe if it helps to fund research that can bring us closer to the singularity/intelligent compute, then perhaps it's a frivolity that we can tolerate for a buck or so on our iTunes account.
Even though I just invented it with my MIND, I'm already convinced that the potential developer wouldn't have a Blackberry 10 version of the app. Also, how can it help us pass the Turing Test? I would love some feedback!
Thursday, November 07, 2013
Hello World again...
The intellectual malaise that I contracted while flunking out of Concordia's Journalism program with flying colours half a decade ago--which is a very competent, kind-hearted place, but where I failed Print Journalism with a 59--has finally passed by my door, and I am again feeling that desire to write about things that matter again.
What would you be interested in reading about?
Friday, July 11, 2008
Mudhoney Eats Babies
The greedy grocer put pills in the pile
his jowls were wet
and the lights were awkward
Many stars made witness
Love was something invisible
Green clean Josephine wandered through piss alley
with a sack sewn from hemp
and salmon-skin eyes
She wanted ways to face the day
Her tiny stomach needed packing
Josephine climbed in the blue ogre
She kicked a rat and squished it ochre
Her eyes turned to summer
She saw the bread and potatoes
A plate was prepared
The grocer still hates overbites
His jowls will never jump
The lights don't love anyone
The stars are still ambivalent
But Josephine turned into sky skin
Poison the well
Get out of my dumpster
Kill your friends
Maim your neighbours
Scum
his jowls were wet
and the lights were awkward
Many stars made witness
Love was something invisible
Green clean Josephine wandered through piss alley
with a sack sewn from hemp
and salmon-skin eyes
She wanted ways to face the day
Her tiny stomach needed packing
Josephine climbed in the blue ogre
She kicked a rat and squished it ochre
Her eyes turned to summer
She saw the bread and potatoes
A plate was prepared
The grocer still hates overbites
His jowls will never jump
The lights don't love anyone
The stars are still ambivalent
But Josephine turned into sky skin
Poison the well
Get out of my dumpster
Kill your friends
Maim your neighbours
Scum
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Moral Implications of Chasing the White Mouse
I was staring at the little white mouse while kneeling in my rarely-mopped bathroom. I flicked the baggie with my index finger and a question jet-skied across my slopes; how did this get here?
It was grown in the hills of Colombia by someone who was likely toting a semi or fully automatic weapon. The FARC is a noted supplier of the North American drug market but I have read articles (on BBC?) that their paramilitary counterparts (affiliated with the US-backed Colombian government) also have their place in the drugriculture scene. After being chopped and ground up into tiny slimy yellow grains, it was packed into blocks and carried north through sweaty verdant jungles by stoic foot soldiers. Do they use boats? Planes? I have even heard reports of submarines being used to get drugs onto the American continent.
Rather than digressing on the minutia of the drug smuggling process, I would rather bring the moral case to the forefront. I am an unabashed drug consumer and have always felt that as long as a substance's positive effects outweighed its negatives, it should be legally available. I felt safe in my glistening palace of rebel dream logic and sure that I was on the moral high ground.
I fear that I was wrong.
Because the war on drugs imprisons people that get caught smuggling drugs for me, I am a bad person. With each purchase, I am buying the lives of countless mules, soldiers, police officers, innocent civilians, and even drug lords (they're people too!).
Perhaps my moral compass has finally pointed towards something that fits with a secular humanist viewpoint. Instead of reveling in my savage cityscape until all hours of the night, the morally correct thing to do would be to avoid the stuff altogether unless I can talk to the grower personally.
It was grown in the hills of Colombia by someone who was likely toting a semi or fully automatic weapon. The FARC is a noted supplier of the North American drug market but I have read articles (on BBC?) that their paramilitary counterparts (affiliated with the US-backed Colombian government) also have their place in the drugriculture scene. After being chopped and ground up into tiny slimy yellow grains, it was packed into blocks and carried north through sweaty verdant jungles by stoic foot soldiers. Do they use boats? Planes? I have even heard reports of submarines being used to get drugs onto the American continent.
Rather than digressing on the minutia of the drug smuggling process, I would rather bring the moral case to the forefront. I am an unabashed drug consumer and have always felt that as long as a substance's positive effects outweighed its negatives, it should be legally available. I felt safe in my glistening palace of rebel dream logic and sure that I was on the moral high ground.
I fear that I was wrong.
Because the war on drugs imprisons people that get caught smuggling drugs for me, I am a bad person. With each purchase, I am buying the lives of countless mules, soldiers, police officers, innocent civilians, and even drug lords (they're people too!).
Perhaps my moral compass has finally pointed towards something that fits with a secular humanist viewpoint. Instead of reveling in my savage cityscape until all hours of the night, the morally correct thing to do would be to avoid the stuff altogether unless I can talk to the grower personally.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Obama Blues
Is this really how things are going to turn out south of the border? America has been given a candidate of substance who writes his own speeches, who speaks from his heart (no matter how calculated his positions may be, he still sounds like he means what he says), and who could use his immense rhetorical powers to beat the Republicans... and he is being stymied by a slip of the tongue, an incorrect portrayal of middle America that apparently "disturbs" the populace.
Everyone says things that they regret. Most politicians offend someone just by getting out of bed with a check from a particular lobbyist in their hands. Obama committed the sin of being too "truthy" for the media, his opponents, and hence the entire population of Pennsylvania.
Did anyone ask the people of PA about their opinion on this matter? I haven't seen a lot of print devoted to this burning question. Most has been flaming crud in projectile form being tossed at Obama because he dared to say that people who lose their jobs turn to religion or other red-meat issues because of their frustration with the failure of the political process to protect them.
I am not specifically against Hillary Clinton per se but I certainly have my reservations about her, mainly because of her uncanny resemblance to another candidate from days gone by who went by the name of John Kerry: another monied elite with nuanced opinions but no cogent way to present ones point; another Washington-fed politician who will say anything to keep one's post; another part of the system, assuring us all that he/she will be the ONE to fix everything and make the world spin properly again.
If Obama is seriously damaged by this minor gaffe and loses the Democratic nomination, expect John McCain to coast to a relatively easy victory in the general election in the fall. Hillary is a great person & has some good ideas but she has been co-opted by the entrenched corporate & political interests to really change things. Obama is our only hope, and he is being targeted by both camps.
The question is, should one phrase plucked from a campaign of rock-solid ideas derail Obama's whole campaign? Let the American voter be the judge. We all know that they follow the news & form independent opinions & are worthy to analyze the myriad political maneuvers that go on from day to day.
Obama in 2008, one hundred percent. I don't get to vote (being a Canadian) but if I could, I would have voted for Kucinich (Obama was my safety).
Love & Brotherhood to you all,
Philip
Bleeding Heart Liberal Whose Heart is Actually Not Bleeding (It's in great shape!)
Everyone says things that they regret. Most politicians offend someone just by getting out of bed with a check from a particular lobbyist in their hands. Obama committed the sin of being too "truthy" for the media, his opponents, and hence the entire population of Pennsylvania.
Did anyone ask the people of PA about their opinion on this matter? I haven't seen a lot of print devoted to this burning question. Most has been flaming crud in projectile form being tossed at Obama because he dared to say that people who lose their jobs turn to religion or other red-meat issues because of their frustration with the failure of the political process to protect them.
I am not specifically against Hillary Clinton per se but I certainly have my reservations about her, mainly because of her uncanny resemblance to another candidate from days gone by who went by the name of John Kerry: another monied elite with nuanced opinions but no cogent way to present ones point; another Washington-fed politician who will say anything to keep one's post; another part of the system, assuring us all that he/she will be the ONE to fix everything and make the world spin properly again.
If Obama is seriously damaged by this minor gaffe and loses the Democratic nomination, expect John McCain to coast to a relatively easy victory in the general election in the fall. Hillary is a great person & has some good ideas but she has been co-opted by the entrenched corporate & political interests to really change things. Obama is our only hope, and he is being targeted by both camps.
The question is, should one phrase plucked from a campaign of rock-solid ideas derail Obama's whole campaign? Let the American voter be the judge. We all know that they follow the news & form independent opinions & are worthy to analyze the myriad political maneuvers that go on from day to day.
Obama in 2008, one hundred percent. I don't get to vote (being a Canadian) but if I could, I would have voted for Kucinich (Obama was my safety).
Love & Brotherhood to you all,
Philip
Bleeding Heart Liberal Whose Heart is Actually Not Bleeding (It's in great shape!)
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Van Morrison @ LeBreton Flats, Ottawa ON
I awoke Wednesday morning to the sight of my parents looming over my bed. "Get up," my father said curtly. "We're going to see Van Morrison." They got into my Parc Avenue apartment without assistance thanks to my roommates who are allergic to locking doors. I hopped into a phone booth, donned some dirty pants and a Telefauna t-shirt, and was ready to swoop down on Ottawa, city of bureaucrats and power-wielders. After a few brief stops and a lunch at Pizza Donini, we were en route to what promised to be a great rock show.
After unloading their luggage at the Quality Inn on Rideau Street, we took a bus towards LeBreton Flats, a large field near the water where the Ottawa Blues Festival is being held this year.
On the way, I struck up a conversation with a long-haired street person who was also going to the concert. He had been entertaining the entire bus with his personal take on "Brown Eyed Girl" only minutes earlier. I asked him if he was looking forward to the show. "I don't have the fifty bucks," he said. "But I'm going to be up on the hill sitting and listening. If it rains, I'll be standing." I advised him to find a hole in the fence to gate-crash. "Oh no," he said quickly. "I'm not that kind of guy."
Before long, we were at the site and joined one of two enormous lines of people waiting to be admitted to the show. Ottawaians are always prepared, like Boy Scouts, and most of them brandished a ticket bought in advance. The lines moved relatively slowly but we were in after 30 minutes or so.
Standing about 100 feet from the stage, I surveyed the scene. It was certainly a good turnout. By my rough count, at least 30 thousand people showed up to stand in circles and talk about office politics (more on this later) while drinking the reasonably priced Molson Canadian ($5.50 per cup, which is less than I have seen on Ile-Jean-Drapeau in Montreal).
A prozac-blunted middle-aged blonde P.R. flack took the stage and began cooing at the crowd. "We've been waiting for him for over 42 years...Van MORRISON!" Of course, he didn't appear for several more minutes since he apparently begins all his shows at the scheduled time of 7:30 PM, not a minute sooner nor later.
As he & his band of seasoned professionals took the stage, the crowd cheered weakly and then resumed chatting. This irritated my parents, veteran hippy rock-and-roll troopers who had been at Isle of Wight to see Jimi Hendrix and up front in NYC to catch the Doors, and my usually pacifist father began to grumble. "I hope these people don't talk during the show."
Van's voice has gotten deeper in the past 4 decades, and as he wobbled through his opening number (which was a bluesy sort of bop), I remarked that he rarely used his higher register, leaving it to his 30-year old backup singers.
On the two video screens, you could see him in his white fedora, eyes glued shut, sipping from a water bottle between songs. He only said 6 words during the whole set as far as I can tell--and that was at the end of the show, ie. "Let's hear it for the band"--and I was disappointed that I had caught an artist of his calibre on autopilot.
As the set dragged on, my parents began to whisper that the crowd was ruining the show. Although we were by no means far back, it was plain to see that many of the people were treating the show as if it were a social schmooze-fest. Some weren't even facing the stage, preferring to talk to Judy from Accounting about her new 2008 Highlander while sipping from a $6 glass of red wine. "I want to hit the guys behind us," said my father, teeth clenched. My mom silenced him and tried to dance in this sea of talking squares.
When Van began singing "Into the Mystic", my current favourite from his back catalogue, my hopes bloomed for a spell. "Maybe he'll let loose," I thought. Instead, he limped through the song with all the ferocity of a pampered housecat, phoning it in like some post-alcoholic lounge singer. By this point, I realized that half of the problem was the rinky-dink sound system.
I've never organized a major music festival but I have been to several, including Maximum Blues in Carleton, PQ and Osheaga in Montreal. I've never been so disappointed with the sound levels before. Despite what Patrick "50 bucks will get you 4 stars" Langston said on the front page of the Ottawa Citizen, the music was barely audible through most of the crowd, although Van's vocals were clear and rose above the mix.
Why didn't someone from the mainstream press point this out? How much money has exchanged hands for someone to print a lie like this, courtesy of Langston from the Ottawa Citizen (italics mine):
One bright point was the tight performance of Van's backing band. Though I had to strain to hear them at all, they were definately on time and faithful to his Celtic Soul and rhythm & blues stylings.
I am sure the folks at the front of the stage, ie. within spitting distance of Van's Gucci loafers, got to hear it but for the rest of us, all 29 thousand of us, this concert was a bust. Even mildly upbeat performances of "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Gloria" didn't silence the chattering fools, and as Van exited stage right at 9 PM with no encores, my father opined bitterly, "I'm never coming back to the Ottawa Blues Festival. It's lost its intimacy."
"Remember John Prine last year?" my mother said. "Now THAT was a show."
If you will do me the pleasure, allow me to use the rest of this screed to write an open blog post to Van Morrison.
~~~
Dearest Van,
Hello, Mystical Sailor. Your album "Moondance" from 1971 has become a core part of my musical history, bringing back Proustian levels of childhood memories with each listen. My parents practically raised me on your works. Up until today, I would consider myself a big fan of Van.
You should consider your options. If you are going to piss all over your legacy by putting on heartless, soulless soul performances at Big Ticket Festivals, then retire. Leave the stage to people who actually give a damn.
Yes, Van, I'm aware that you've been in the music business for decades. Why should you listen to me? What do I know? I'm an unwashed, mostly broke troubador with greasy hair and some drug problems. I don't even know my scales on guitar. I get bad gas on regular occasion. Still, I know that I want my music served hot, steaming hot, not bland and tasteless like a bag full of Rice Cakes.
How come people in your age group like Eric Clapton can still put their heart into it? I saw him at Corel Centre in the fall of '06 and he thundered his way through classics like "Layla" and "Cocaine" as if the Rock and Roll gods were holding a '45 to his temple. And don't blame the sobriety. Clapton has been clean and sober since his son fell out that window.
Point is, some people play music because they love it. You used to. What happened to that moony, pukey, bittersweet poet, that powerful little mountain of a man? Is your reservoir depleted? Are you punching a clock? I sincerely hope that this was just a fluke and not representative of all of your shows these days.
Let your spirit fly!
-JB
After unloading their luggage at the Quality Inn on Rideau Street, we took a bus towards LeBreton Flats, a large field near the water where the Ottawa Blues Festival is being held this year.
On the way, I struck up a conversation with a long-haired street person who was also going to the concert. He had been entertaining the entire bus with his personal take on "Brown Eyed Girl" only minutes earlier. I asked him if he was looking forward to the show. "I don't have the fifty bucks," he said. "But I'm going to be up on the hill sitting and listening. If it rains, I'll be standing." I advised him to find a hole in the fence to gate-crash. "Oh no," he said quickly. "I'm not that kind of guy."
Before long, we were at the site and joined one of two enormous lines of people waiting to be admitted to the show. Ottawaians are always prepared, like Boy Scouts, and most of them brandished a ticket bought in advance. The lines moved relatively slowly but we were in after 30 minutes or so.
Standing about 100 feet from the stage, I surveyed the scene. It was certainly a good turnout. By my rough count, at least 30 thousand people showed up to stand in circles and talk about office politics (more on this later) while drinking the reasonably priced Molson Canadian ($5.50 per cup, which is less than I have seen on Ile-Jean-Drapeau in Montreal).
A prozac-blunted middle-aged blonde P.R. flack took the stage and began cooing at the crowd. "We've been waiting for him for over 42 years...Van MORRISON!" Of course, he didn't appear for several more minutes since he apparently begins all his shows at the scheduled time of 7:30 PM, not a minute sooner nor later.
As he & his band of seasoned professionals took the stage, the crowd cheered weakly and then resumed chatting. This irritated my parents, veteran hippy rock-and-roll troopers who had been at Isle of Wight to see Jimi Hendrix and up front in NYC to catch the Doors, and my usually pacifist father began to grumble. "I hope these people don't talk during the show."
Van's voice has gotten deeper in the past 4 decades, and as he wobbled through his opening number (which was a bluesy sort of bop), I remarked that he rarely used his higher register, leaving it to his 30-year old backup singers.
On the two video screens, you could see him in his white fedora, eyes glued shut, sipping from a water bottle between songs. He only said 6 words during the whole set as far as I can tell--and that was at the end of the show, ie. "Let's hear it for the band"--and I was disappointed that I had caught an artist of his calibre on autopilot.
As the set dragged on, my parents began to whisper that the crowd was ruining the show. Although we were by no means far back, it was plain to see that many of the people were treating the show as if it were a social schmooze-fest. Some weren't even facing the stage, preferring to talk to Judy from Accounting about her new 2008 Highlander while sipping from a $6 glass of red wine. "I want to hit the guys behind us," said my father, teeth clenched. My mom silenced him and tried to dance in this sea of talking squares.
When Van began singing "Into the Mystic", my current favourite from his back catalogue, my hopes bloomed for a spell. "Maybe he'll let loose," I thought. Instead, he limped through the song with all the ferocity of a pampered housecat, phoning it in like some post-alcoholic lounge singer. By this point, I realized that half of the problem was the rinky-dink sound system.
I've never organized a major music festival but I have been to several, including Maximum Blues in Carleton, PQ and Osheaga in Montreal. I've never been so disappointed with the sound levels before. Despite what Patrick "50 bucks will get you 4 stars" Langston said on the front page of the Ottawa Citizen, the music was barely audible through most of the crowd, although Van's vocals were clear and rose above the mix.
Why didn't someone from the mainstream press point this out? How much money has exchanged hands for someone to print a lie like this, courtesy of Langston from the Ottawa Citizen (italics mine):
"Clean and crisp from almost anywhere on the grounds, it was good enough that most fans said they didn't care that they could only see Morrison and his band by watching the two large, bright video screens looking out over the grassed rectangular site."
One bright point was the tight performance of Van's backing band. Though I had to strain to hear them at all, they were definately on time and faithful to his Celtic Soul and rhythm & blues stylings.
I am sure the folks at the front of the stage, ie. within spitting distance of Van's Gucci loafers, got to hear it but for the rest of us, all 29 thousand of us, this concert was a bust. Even mildly upbeat performances of "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Gloria" didn't silence the chattering fools, and as Van exited stage right at 9 PM with no encores, my father opined bitterly, "I'm never coming back to the Ottawa Blues Festival. It's lost its intimacy."
"Remember John Prine last year?" my mother said. "Now THAT was a show."
If you will do me the pleasure, allow me to use the rest of this screed to write an open blog post to Van Morrison.
~~~
Dearest Van,
Hello, Mystical Sailor. Your album "Moondance" from 1971 has become a core part of my musical history, bringing back Proustian levels of childhood memories with each listen. My parents practically raised me on your works. Up until today, I would consider myself a big fan of Van.
You should consider your options. If you are going to piss all over your legacy by putting on heartless, soulless soul performances at Big Ticket Festivals, then retire. Leave the stage to people who actually give a damn.
Yes, Van, I'm aware that you've been in the music business for decades. Why should you listen to me? What do I know? I'm an unwashed, mostly broke troubador with greasy hair and some drug problems. I don't even know my scales on guitar. I get bad gas on regular occasion. Still, I know that I want my music served hot, steaming hot, not bland and tasteless like a bag full of Rice Cakes.
How come people in your age group like Eric Clapton can still put their heart into it? I saw him at Corel Centre in the fall of '06 and he thundered his way through classics like "Layla" and "Cocaine" as if the Rock and Roll gods were holding a '45 to his temple. And don't blame the sobriety. Clapton has been clean and sober since his son fell out that window.
Point is, some people play music because they love it. You used to. What happened to that moony, pukey, bittersweet poet, that powerful little mountain of a man? Is your reservoir depleted? Are you punching a clock? I sincerely hope that this was just a fluke and not representative of all of your shows these days.
Let your spirit fly!
-JB
Monday, May 21, 2007
Philip Shearing invited you to the event "Chemical Swings, Kieran Blake & New California Republic @ ...
Philip invited you to "Chemical Swings, Kieran Blake & New California Republic @ 1221 Crescent" on Friday, June 1 at 9:00pm.
Event: Chemical Swings, Kieran Blake & New California Republic @ 1221 Crescent
"Phil's 27th birthday shindig/boozefest/rock show"
What: Performance
Host: Philip Shearing
When: Friday, June 1 at 9:00pm
Where: 1221 Crescent Street Pub (Corner St-Catherine)
To see more details and RSVP, follow the link below:
http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=777670709&k=f29af87753
Now everyone can join Facebook, even if you couldn't before. To register, go to:
http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=777670709&k=f29af87753&r
Thanks,
The Facebook Team
___________________
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Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Friday, December 29, 2006
20 years
We skirt the issues, clothe them in silk
and disregard the painted signs
You perch on kiss-yous, loaded with guilt
You turn the tainted blood to wine
I could become your ravenous joy
We'd make the town turn ox-blood red
Our children would build their own new toys
If we could smile outside our bed...
You are not god, you're not the prince
Evacuate the sunny beach
We've been the cod, our fins in splints
Emasculate the hungry leach
Engage our conscience 'till it's full
We've waited ages for your gall
It's time for real sailors to pull
because the sky's about to squall.
and disregard the painted signs
You perch on kiss-yous, loaded with guilt
You turn the tainted blood to wine
I could become your ravenous joy
We'd make the town turn ox-blood red
Our children would build their own new toys
If we could smile outside our bed...
You are not god, you're not the prince
Evacuate the sunny beach
We've been the cod, our fins in splints
Emasculate the hungry leach
Engage our conscience 'till it's full
We've waited ages for your gall
It's time for real sailors to pull
because the sky's about to squall.
Paparazzi
Phony barnyard photo-shoots,
sponsored by the lucky brands.
If the readers were astute,
they would incarcerate their hands.
We are not a pantomime.
People can still use their hearts.
Being famous ain't a crime.
Just keep the ass before the cart!
Hormone soup is ankle-deep,
those plastic grins turn to ice.
Smile to try to fight the sleep,
the maze is lost in all the mice.
Smile and make us think you love,
bring us herbs and tumbleweed.
Make us shame our only loves,
and lick our flesh to taste our needs.
~~~
The only clean mothafucka is Hollywood! Got some change for a brotha from anotha motha? Let me know how the real deal gets a feel, y'all.
sponsored by the lucky brands.
If the readers were astute,
they would incarcerate their hands.
We are not a pantomime.
People can still use their hearts.
Being famous ain't a crime.
Just keep the ass before the cart!
Hormone soup is ankle-deep,
those plastic grins turn to ice.
Smile to try to fight the sleep,
the maze is lost in all the mice.
Smile and make us think you love,
bring us herbs and tumbleweed.
Make us shame our only loves,
and lick our flesh to taste our needs.
~~~
The only clean mothafucka is Hollywood! Got some change for a brotha from anotha motha? Let me know how the real deal gets a feel, y'all.
My Return
Ten thousand delving debutantes,
with spaghetti hair that glowed blood black
Expressed their deepest needs and wants,
while the dish-washer hung in the back.
His hands were wrinkled pink latrines,
the soap made them become bivouacs.
They slept on soapy miles of clean
Ate the whole diner in Chilliwack
I had the school before grade 2.
They forced me to behave askant.
My principal lost all his shoes,
We hid his camera at the dance.
~~~
Feed me critical chicken MacNuggets.
with spaghetti hair that glowed blood black
Expressed their deepest needs and wants,
while the dish-washer hung in the back.
His hands were wrinkled pink latrines,
the soap made them become bivouacs.
They slept on soapy miles of clean
Ate the whole diner in Chilliwack
I had the school before grade 2.
They forced me to behave askant.
My principal lost all his shoes,
We hid his camera at the dance.
~~~
Feed me critical chicken MacNuggets.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Perpetual Distractions
I haven't blogged in ages. I've been working hard at the Deaf Relay job, ordering pizzas and doing phone sex--it is hard to explain, you had to be there etc.--but I realize that I haven't cursed you with an entry in many moons.
The music thing is going well... recently, we've been promised recording time, provided sans contrat, assuming that we can afford to manufacture 500 CDs and sell them while paying back the financier. We also have a show pending at 1221 Crescent Street Pub, scheduled for New Years Eve...I guess that would be the 30th of December, or maybe the 31st ??? I am not calendar equipped at this moment (excluding the Windows thing and there is no way I am clicking a mouse during this typing extravaganza.)
Once my internet connection is resurrected (praise Ethernet) I will be posting a little more regularily. I am sure that my former readers have disowned me, left me for dead, and ejaculated on my grave. Such is how business goes. Understood. In the meantime, watch Stephen Colbert every weeknight and drink as much alcohol as you can without missing your rent deadline.
I love every single person that breathes on this mispelled planett.
The music thing is going well... recently, we've been promised recording time, provided sans contrat, assuming that we can afford to manufacture 500 CDs and sell them while paying back the financier. We also have a show pending at 1221 Crescent Street Pub, scheduled for New Years Eve...I guess that would be the 30th of December, or maybe the 31st ??? I am not calendar equipped at this moment (excluding the Windows thing and there is no way I am clicking a mouse during this typing extravaganza.)
Once my internet connection is resurrected (praise Ethernet) I will be posting a little more regularily. I am sure that my former readers have disowned me, left me for dead, and ejaculated on my grave. Such is how business goes. Understood. In the meantime, watch Stephen Colbert every weeknight and drink as much alcohol as you can without missing your rent deadline.
I love every single person that breathes on this mispelled planett.
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