I’ve Got

Nothing’s coming out.  Got lots to say, but nothing to say about it.  World’s moving too fast these days, no time to think about it.  No time to construct proper sentences.

I’ve got longings.  I’ve got things I wished I never done.  I’ve got wonderings about girls I crossed paths with once upon a time, a long long time ago.

I’ve got disappointments in people.  Got disappointments in myself.  I’ve got musings fuelled by disappointments.

I’ve got a hankering to undress a beautiful woman.

I’ve got shit to do.  Shit I ain’t never done before.  I got shit I’ve done a thousand times before.  I’ve got other shit I’ve been putting off.

I’ve got a stream of consciousness racing against the clock.  Got somewhere to be in 14 minutes.

Got coffee to finish.

Typical Thursday Night

The music was so good, I caught myself forgetting to breathe at times.  Roberto Foncesca danced his fingertips across the keyboard and cast his spell, drawing me in so deep from the world outside, the room shrunk down to the size of me inside my own consciousness.  His saxophone man tickled the melodies, yielding and driving at just the right moments, in just the right ways.  So too with the percussion and bass.  They all took turns taking over, keeping us moving, keeping us tapping, casting us spellbound, and sending us diving into our drinks for just long enough to sip before the next wave overtook us.

Mojitos gave way to seven year old Havana Club rum straight, no ice.  It seemed more real this way.  More real like this city, more real like the music, more real like this club.  For decades the legendary Fox & Troll played host to all the legends.  Photographs of all the greats graced the walls and you could feel the history dripping off its walls.

The room itself wasn’t even that big.  Maybe a dozen tables crammed tightly together.  The band was playing no more than a couple of feet away from me.  All that intimacy slammed up against all that Jazz to create an experience that was perhaps one of the greatest things I’d ever seen.

And it was only a typical Thursday night in Havana.

Sad Zamboni Driver

There is no such thing as an unhappy Zamboni Driver reference.  Just pronouncing the word forces one to smile due to the ‘i’ at the end of the word (it’s the same with the word ‘boobies’ by the way).  I challenge someone to invoke the phrase ‘Zamboni Driver’ and make it sad.  I’ll even give it  a shot….

The really sad Zamboni Driver, in a fit of suicidal depression, piloted his Zamboni out the rink after the 2nd intermission and headed for the highway.  The second Zamboni Driver gave chase.  Drinking heavily from a bottle of Jack Daniels, the first Zamboni Driver stepped on the gas, and laid down a thin layer of ice.  The second Zamboni Driver skidded out of control and ran over a pack of baby seals.  His ‘Peter’s Sewer Service Sign’ flew off upon impact and beheaded a sweet old lady who was feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons.  The pigeons then promptly set about shitting all over the sweet old lady’s corpse.

The first Zamboni Driver turned the corner and headed down a small residential side street.  Suddenly a large large group of Kindergarden children crossed the street in front of him.  The Jack Daniels fueled, bleary eyed first Zamboni Driver didn’t see them, and his machine barrelled towards them at 15 km/h.  The Kindergarden children stopped in the middle of the street and instinctually began to wave at the Zamboni Driver playfully, as they had done so many times before, in so many hockey rinks.  The Zamboni hurled towards them.  The children waved.  Closer and closer it came.  Until…. the second Zamboni Driver came out of nowhere, leaped aboard the first Zamboni and wrestled for control.  The Zamboni weaved back and forth.  The children waved.  The Zamboni accelerated.  The children smiled back innocently.  The Zamboni loomed closer.  The children started running towards it in excited glee.  The second Zamboni Driver saw what was happening and suddenly at the last minute turned the wheel.  The Zamboni dashed wildly to the right and crashed into a telephone pole.  Both Zamboni drivers died.  The children were traumatized and back at the rink, the game went into overtime and no one was around to clean the ice.  The home team lost.


Motherfucker done stole the booty I done stole from the ashes of the memories we left behind, we left behind, we left rewind back to the place we were when we first started out.  It’s motherfucking sacrilegious for the motherfucker to even be messing with that shit, guessing with that wit, pressing with that mitt strung through his coat sleeves from back in the day, backing away from matriarchal over complications of embarrassinations  of childhood reciprocations.  It’s your photograph on the wall that makes me shy away from digging too forcefully, looking intercoursally upon a desire to lay with you in my head.  These memories reveal the motherfucker’s a part of me, he is in me, a me I was, I am, I feel to be.  It’s in this dichotomy reciprocal to the rest of me, a great big holistic vision that eats the shit and feeds the shit in as much the same way as it spawns the light and darkens the light.  It’s all ash in the end, a booty of ash left for the taking, for the motherfucker and me and you and every other memory.

Crapsmithing Worseness

Today’s blog is a real shit show, a crapfestive delvation into the murky underworld of literary underwear (and not the sexy kind either… we’re talking granny gotch here).  Every word entering your mind will be a complete waste of your time, and may possibly leave you feeling stupider for the experience.  Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING about this article will measure up to any kind of standard, except perhaps for the standard of living, which has now been diminished by several minutes in your case.  The time you wasted reading this will never come back to you.

This article is a purge, a wordsmithing purge of completely selfish vainish proportions and is designed to twist my ego into submission for daring to fuck with my sense of fun in recent posts.  There no doubt will be better, more betterer articles in the near future, but they will only come as a result of fun, inspiration, and a desire to satisfy my own personal insights into the world, and NOT to make you admire me for my self proclaimed brilliance.

Make no mistake.  Today’s article is not a self loathing, self pitying, make you feel sorry for me, plea for attention.  Despite walking to Atlantis this morning in the -34 bright sunny weather (a contrast of epic proportions), I am in a great mood, and an even greater headspace.  Today’s article is merely a public declaration of war upon my ego, and the carnage thereof is for you to behold.  Like a train wreck unfolding in slow motion, you can’t look away cuz you already made it this far into the read.

This smoking twisted wreckage is a promise left behind, a vow to myself that I will never again sit down to write something designed for the purpose of having you stroke my own ego.  If I can’t first be honest with myself with my craft, I won’t write at all.  My writing is the first thing I ever learned about myself, in that I myself can only bring into the world the words I let slip off my fingertips, for the purpose of allowing me to see the world, in only the way I can see it.  That last sentence is a convoluted mumble jumble, but it makes perfect sense to me.

Thank you for bearing witness to this mess.  I also promise to keep the ride as something worth your while too.  That way, we’ll both be happy.  After-all, who wants to write in a vacuum?


The placement of mirrors near the elevators of all hotels is intentional.  People don’t notice the wait as much when they can look at themselves in the mirror.  It makes for a more pleasant ‘waiting for the elevator’ experience.  In casinos you’d be hard pressed to find a clock on the wall, or a window to the outside.  They also don’t want you to become aware of the passage of time.

At controlled intersections throughout the city, you’ll find buttons on traffic lights that pedestrians may press, presumably to let the traffic light know that it should change so pedestrians may proceed safely across the street.

Some buttons are fancier than others… they make a sound when you touch them.  It makes you feel like a change in the light is imminent.  Perhaps even more imminentier.  You stand there and you feel powerful.  With one touch of your finger, you stop traffic.  Machines bend to your will, and a clear path is made for you.  They all stop for you… big semi trucks, buses, beaters, luxury cars… all of them.  They stop for you – a mere pedestrian.

So you’re standing at the intersection feeling all powerful and smug, waiting for your light to change.  Then along come some schmoe who walks up to your traffic light, the one you’re standing beside, and presses a different button, the one that points in the opposite direction.  He wants the traffic light to bend to his will, and not yours.  He’s fucking with your traffic light!

But you say nothing.  You stand there and you wait for your light to change.  You pressed the button first, and you’re going to cross first… and indeed, your light does change first.  You proceed to cross and you try to forget about the schmoe who dared infringe on your day.  You look over your shoulder as you cross safely in front of all that traffic, and you see him standing there, waiting for his light to change.  Sucker!

Then a thought crosses your mind.  It’s a disturbing thought.  What if these buttons didn’t do shit, and they were simply the traffic light’s way of keeping you content.  Keeping you captive, like some voluntary captive just waiting… waiting… waiting for the light to take its sweet time to change.  And you don’t notice because you pushed the button.  You’re standing there feeling all powerful and smug and the traffic light just stands there, laughing at you.

You stop in the middle of traffic.  The light starts blinking and you turn around and stare at it.  It blinks.  It threatens you with another imminent change.   And with everyone staring at you, sitting in their cars, trucks, buses, or watching from street corners next to their own traffic lights, you hold your ground.  You’re not going to let that light run your life.

Canada is a democracy, and you have free will.  You are not going to let some stupid traffic light control your life.  It blinks faster now… more threatening.  And you think about hotel elevators, and casinos, and perfectly centred progress bars on computer screens, and raising your hand before you speak… and then the honking starts.

You’re standing amongst a sea of cars and they all want the piece of real estate that you currently occupy.  You see ‘em lining up, waiting… waiting… waiting… and now you’re in control.  But it’s an uncomfortable control.  People are yelling at you now, and cars are swirling around you.  There’s nowhere to go.  It’s chaos.  And you look over and you see the traffic light, patronizing you.  One blink and it can fix your predicament.

You can chart your own path, oblivious to all the stuff going on around you, or you can work within the system.  What’s it gonna be?

Court From the Fort

One bottle of wine, a measure of love, an eye for detail, and several electric moments of inspiration, conjured one breathtaking evening for the ages.  Courtney came over to my apartment last night and with lights burning, camera churning, and minds turning, we captured several images of beautiful moments frozen in time.  We were both incredibly moved by how things turned out.

She never modeled before, and she was nervous, but as the hours passed, and the energy in the room electrified, we created something special that will never be forgotten.  She even sang for me as she picked at her guitar.

It was a magical happening, a transcendence of words.  We became something more than just our individual selves.  We became a communion of creativity, of intimacy, of vulnerability, and of mindful exploration.  For several hours, we became as one.


I came home from my coffee date feeling… not myself.  I was light and airy.  My skin tingled and my heart was beating erratically… as if it were captured by some kind of alien who forged an opening into my soul.  My feet weren’t even touching the ground when I walked.  Maybe the fog in my London Fog came from a bad part of town.  Maybe it was an extreme case of vertigo.  Maybe it was the way she took my breath away when she touched her lips to mine.

Time froze with my eyes closed and all I could think about was not thinking about anything but this one perfect frozen moment inside a moment, captured and set free, to be forever living among the best of my memories.


I’m waiting patient for the scene to unfold, for the way to show itself towards the door, for the ideas in my mind to play out, for the shadows to reveal the details of the aether all around.

I’m trying not to lose my perspective on the situation, to stay above the fray, to be apart from all the motion in the swirls, to become clear about the balls bouncing in the air.

Yet my breath gets takening, my pulse gets to quickening, my soul to shakening, and the earth starts to break away from beneath my feet.

I fall in contact with the motion doing the swirling and commotion, finding myself becoming distant from that place I came to know as once upon a time my point of view.

And 15 minutes pass, marking every shaking thing and nothing seems to end up everywhere.  I have to reacquaint the surroundings I contemplate with the once broken bits of memory lost in space.

And as I free fall down the stream, upon the currents taking me, the one truth striking into me is her to thank for words that stir inside of me.

Light Hearted

And then, just like that, it all goes sideways, unrecognizable, and completely unexpected.  My heart pounds stronger, my thoughts linger longer and all I want to do is dive off the cliff,  take the plunge and drown in her sea, blissfully.