Misanthropic Tendencies

Happy(?) New Year

2012-01-01T15:45:00.000-08:00

Well, what to say... Where to start... This year has to be better than the way the last one ended. I had my soul stomped on by a woman who ate my heart and forced me to watch, I alienated myself from half of my family, and managed to get into a fist-fight with my kid brother on Christmas Eve. All in all, I'd say that last year was a train-wreck.

How are you?

Funeral

2011-08-29T01:50:00.001-07:00

Please be there by 7:15, show starts at 8:00pm.

Doors open, "Make It Rain" by Tom Waits plays. (Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Version.)

MC: Matt Duke (Family Funeral Theme)

Says something he figures he should.

Introduces Mike Kanaroski.

Mike tells anecdote he thinks is funny, falls flat.

Matt Resumes, people clap for Mike.

Kerry (assuming still alive) Fraser speaks.

Break for David Kanaroski short film, (Tom Kanaroski film if David dead). Arranged to Jimi Hendrix's "Little Wing" as performed by Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Assuming smoking is still legal, people smoke.

Assuming smoking is not legal, people smoke twice.

Sevie takes Mic.

Sevie breaks down.

Matt, consoling Sevie, introduces Stacey Mee.

Stacey tells everyone something nice. No tears. She's soldered her tear ducts.

(Jordyn screeches obscenities in background)

Matt introduces Janet Noyle (nee Mckie)

Janet isn't there, next guest.

Kara Knight is introduced.

Relays funny story about how we relate. Nobody gets it.

Break: Kris Kristofferson's "The Pilgrim (Chapter 33)"

Bad recording of original song.

Everyone cries on cue.

Matt introduces Keith Richards, Kerry(assuming still alive) Fraser hands Matt a letter excusing Keith...

Mom makes a public appearance.

Dad and Lee arrange outfits.

Dad doesn't know how to act, cries to self. Hugs Mike.

Matt introduces Stacey (insert last name here) nee Craig.

City and Colour's "The Girl" plays.

Stacey throws darts at coffin.

Cries, walks off stage.

Uncle Bruce takes place behind Mic.

Reminds everyone that "we're all here because of the love/hate we felt for someone who wouldn't let us know him".

Reception held at Ship & Anchor.

House Band: The Plaid Tongued Devils.

Pleasantries exchanged.

Terrible self recorded song played.

Life goes on.

Sixteen Scars From a Fairly Odd Chick

2011-01-06T20:32:00.001-08:00

Today I'm going to try something a little different. Normally, the beginning of any entry I make is a funny (to me at least) diatribe having very little to do with what follows it. Today all I'll say is that if you, dear reader, do not want to know what has been filling my days over the last two years, STOP READING NOW!! Seriously. Everything following this paragraph is true (by my memory at least) and I'm fairly certain that not every eye is going to like what it sees. So read on if you must, and enjoy. If you're able.

"Why the fuck did I move to Chilliwack? I didn't mean to, it was just one of those things. I'd love to be able to tell anyone that I didn't have any fun, but..." - Fishbait

Chapter One

I met her, or rather, I met her in person on June 6, 2009. In order to tell this story properly though, I need to start a week earlier when I jumped in a car heading west with a woman I'd met only once before, three days prior.

Her name was Stephanie, she lived in Abbotsford, and she offered to drive me coastal. I had twelve dollars, a half pack of cigarettes, and only a vague idea of where I would stay once I got to wherever it was I was going. But as Steph and I had enjoyed each other's company while ignoring a movie the night that we'd met, I was really looking forward to this road trip. I had it in my mind that the tedium of the drive would be relieved by frequent rest stops involving animalistic carnal rituals. It wasn't. In fact, we made the drive in less than ten hours.

When we had reached Hope, I finally managed to get a hold of my good friend Darcy. And when Steph dropped me in Chilliwack, there he stood, guitar in hand, looking like a worn out, ragged, taller version of Kurt Cobain, whom he claimed to hate, but couldn't and didn't seem to want to stop resembling. Darcy and I had met a few years earlier while I was living in Nanaimo. Our friendship was based on a shared love of good books, great music, cold beer and hard drugs.

We wandered to the closest bar to have ourselves a reunion drink. Between the two of us, we had enough cash for one each and after denying a woman "D" later told me was a hooker a drink of her own, we left. As it turned out, Darcy had "borrowed" his mother's Visa so our next stop was to the liquor store to procure a bottle of Vodka. Then, and only then could we continue the walk to his place. By "his place" I mean of course, his parents' house.

About half a block from the bar Darcy stopped walking and asked if I was still using cocaine. I said I wasn't, which I didn't view as a lie because I'd been out of work for three months and couldn't afford groceries much less cocaine. That's when he decided to tell me that he wasn't either. He'd "graduated", as he put it, to crack. By week's end I'd discover that he was also shooting heroin, thankfully he never offered any. He did however offer a blast of the rock he'd just packed his straight shooter with. I accepted and that was about as much catching up as we seemed to need.

It took nearly an hour to get to his folks' place, though the walk shouldn't have taken more than twenty minutes. But between stopping to get high every ten or twenty steps, and me having to drag my enormous travel bag, things took a wee bit longer than normal.

D's parents were cool enough, even offering me a bed to use until I could find a job and a place. Darcy later told me that I was the first friend he'd introduced them to that they liked. He said they thought all of his friends were manipulative, drug head losers. And they were. So was I for that matter, I think I just played it down a little better than most.

I tried to help out around the house the best I could. One thing I am, at first at least, is a lovely house guest. So I'd cook dinner every night, help out in the garden and try my damnedest to get Darcy out of bed. I think one of the reasons D's parents let me stay for as long as I did, was that they were hoping, and not so secretly, that I'd be taking Darcy with me once I found a place.

On top of wanting to show Darcy's folks that I wasn't a fuck-up like the other people he normally hung out with, I had another reason for wanting to help out: Darcy's mother had been the victim of a horrible accident years earlier that had left her blind and disfigured.

From what I understand, she'd been trying to clear a sewage drain at work and when the industrial grade Drain-O didn't do the trick, she'd decided to pour Lye into the drain as a chaser. The reacting chemicals blew up and basically erased her face. Years of skin grafts later, she was left with little more than a skull with patch work skin pulled tight enough to snap. She had no lips to speak of and her eyes had been eaten entirely, so the doctors had grafted skin over the sockets. While this woman cooked, washed the dishes by hand and went as far as to clean D's room when he was out, Darcy and I spent the little time we were awake drinking or driving around (without insurance) looking for crack or coke or anything else to kill the boredom.

As thankful as I was D's parents for letting me stay, we all knew it wasn't going to be a permanent situation so I started looking for a job and a girl. Thankfully it seemed easy enough to find both online, and over the next few days, I made contact with two women. One, Lani, lived on the Island. The other, Cylena, lived in Chilliwack. I talked with both of them on the phone a few times and when I mentioned to Cylena that I was looking for a job, she offered to buy me lunch if I wanted to meet up with her at Earl's. She had told me that she was a massage therapist and not being one to say "no" to a free lunch, I gladly accepted.

Well folks, that's what I've got so far. There's a helluva lot more and it only gets darker and more depraved, so I'll only be sending out following posts to those that request them. Take care everyone,

Fishbait.

Really? Gowan?!

2010-09-10T22:01:00.000-07:00

So spoke, well typed I suppose, my one time love in response to having read the fifteen albums that were the first to come to my mind when I was asked about quality music. Whatever the medium used, the sentiment is the same: Gowan isn't cool.

And instead of serving up a steaming pile of reasons to the contrary defending a Canadian treasure, I'll leave it, it being her of course, with these words: You're fuckin' wrong!!!

Now that I have that outta my system, on to the bits and pieces I humbly refer to as my life.

Somewhere along this twisted path I stumble, I decided that I deserve better than waking up in hospital psych wards. Waking up next to coke addled whores who resolve their issues by hurling glassware. Waking up next to convenience stores missing a shoe, but gaining someones cell phone and $26. Somewhere I decided I deserve better than waking up.

I would think that any of those situations would inspire some to sit down and really look at their lives. I would be, most likely, correct(read: corrupt) in thinking the above thought. Of course, I'm only basing that latter assumption on the fact that I haven't learned much from my past. If given the opportunity to do even half of those damnable things again, I most likely would. And with crippling fucking patience at that.

I'm sure, somewhere, there's some very large, pseudo-scientific acronym pertaining to this condition. But I gotta tell all three of you reading this: I'm not all that concerned about what some bespectacled, overinflated, undersexed pinhead community has to say about what may, or may not be, an actual problem.

And though normally, I would be trying my damndest to defend my past behavior, right now I find myself starting to consider the ramifications of such a shallow learning curve. Seriously.

2009-03-16T03:34:00.000-07:00

It's with painted nails, I begin this tale of verbal abuse, comedic sex, and sobbing socialites. Come join me at this written orgy where, instead of pleasuring all involved, I satisfy only myself, leaving all others dejected and ill amused.

He sat up late.
Listening vapidly for answers that seemed unavailable.
He felt.
At least he thought that he did.
He just didn't know what it was that he was feeling about.
Or thinking about for that matter and...

Things went on.
They always do.

He woke up early.
He did that sometimes.
He yawned, and tried to find out where the roommate's had hidden the coffee and...

Things went on.
They always seemed to.

He ate lunch.
It filled his belly but it wasn't what he was hungry for.
He only seemed to think that it was.
That he was full of something, of that much he was certain.
He went back to work and...

Things went on.
He noticed that now

Things will be,
Good and bad,
Hectic, sad,
Frustrating and balanced,
And all for the taking.

He stopped.
Beside a Willow.
The branches held his thoughts.
A star held his wishes.

He slept then.
Held tight.

He found a dream of a smile.
It broke a heart at paces.
How many?
Jesus, who has time to count?

Things went on.
He knew that they would.

Morning came.
He fought the afternoon.

Afternoon reared.

He prayed for evening.
It invited him for beverages.
Evening sent him home.

He sat up late.

What Can Flowers Say That Handcuffs Can't?

2007-08-31T10:30:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well, it's been awhile, hasn't it my friends? (I'm referring, of course, to the masses I imagine reading my all too indulgent entries) Well fear not, I've once again found myself depressed long enough to scrape some sort of inspiration from the underside of my colon, all for you dear reader, all for you. And now, w/only another minute's hesitation...........

We begin this tale about three weeks ago, and seeing as most of my behaviour since then can be reduced, if not entirely blamed, on the severe romantic shit-kicking I received that Thursday evening, that strikes me as good a place as any to start.

It was Thursday morning when the aforementioned kicker of shit finished getting dressed, leaned over to give me a kiss, professed her love and left for work. My day, like most of the week leading up to this particular one was spent doing housework, patching holes in the drywall, hanging photos, taking down blinds, setting up entertainment systems, etc. But when 5 o'clock strutted by, there was I, still alone in the house. After deciding to wait for my wonderful girlfriend to get home before once again cooking dinner, I settled down for an early evening nap. Startled awake by the slamming of the front door, and the high pitched whine of heavy machinery screeching "Wake up!", I took firm hold of my bearings and found an angry, and quite possibly drunk, cohabitant explaining expletively how we were once again finished.

Now, having rehearsed this part of the the play at least once every two weeks for the last seven months, I was finally told that there would be no encore this time. Having grabbed most of my things, I was about to leave when she offered to drive me where ever I needed to go. I declined on the grounds that there was no reason to make things more uncomfortable by sitting next to her and considering she hadn't actually said anything since my rude awakening except: "I can't deal with this" and "Can I drive you?", I failed to see the point in not listening to someone not talk.

On Friday I received a call from my personal Delilah. Still in the fetal position I took up immediately upon getting home from work, I cradled the phone to my newly shaved noggin and asked what she wanted to do to me now. What I got still makes me laugh, it was an apology for her timing in this matter. Not for the heartbreak, the stomach pains, or the crying myself to sleep, but for her timing. Don't be so hard on yourself baby, I said, you waited until I moved your apartment, set everything up in your new place, and only a few hours after saying you love me. Your timing was spot fuckin' on!!

Saturday night came, as it so often does, pulled in a flaming chariot by whores on horseback.

To the bar to drown the image of her in the cheapest pint available, seemed to me the best course of action, and luckily enough, I found a nice little 19 yr old to help ease the pain in my balls, if not the one in my heart.

Things went mostly the same until Wednesday. Why Wednesday? Why not? Wednesday happened to be payday and depression and a thousand dollars do not go hand in hand. Well they might, but it's not a slow romantic stroll on the beach, it's more of an old school knife fight, combatants lashed together at the wrist and neither victorious.

I called in sick for work the next day, explaining that I had spent most of the morning strapped to the toilet and aiming carefully for the bathtub. All I needed was a doctor's note I was told. Well that should be no problem for someone lacking Alberta Health Care, doncha think?

Anyway, that day I ended up chatting with someone who found my profile info funny:

I'm a 6 ft tall, 29 yr old musician, working as a bartender, who spends his off time talking to walls, sleeping in books and used coffee filters, tracking the elusive Quadraduck, and smelling the backs of postage stamps. I'm just looking for a nice girl that will let me duct tape her to the wall, and test her for food allergies. Hmmm perhaps that's a little much. How about someone who doesn't bug me? Too general perhaps.... hmmmm, let's try this: I'm looking for people that are a little less than normal, a little more than interesting, and somewhere between a bus and the colour orange.

She responded to this by telling me that she's allergic to chocolate.

My kinda grrl!!

We made a date to grab a beer and I went to buy some sort of a greeting gift. Hmmm... what would someone with a similar sense of humour appreciate? Flowers are right out, too much money to spend on someone I don't know. Her nickname is Twinkle, maybe I should get some glow in the dark stars for her to look at while she's on her back? Naw, that's just childish and crude. What else is there here at the dollar store? AHA!!!!! Handcuffs!!! Perfect.

Walking into the dark, dank, disheveled local, she stood out immediately. Tall brunette, great body. This is gonna be good. Grabbing a table and a couple pints of Grasshopper, we started chatting. Laughs all around, good times to be had and handcuffs to be given, I did just that.

Perfect, she said, what can flowers say that handcuffs can't?

Perfect indeed, that is until I found the wheels on the bottom of the chairs. How did I find them? Well, you may already have an idea, but let me enlighten you. Better yet, let me impart some free advice: don't lean backwards in a chair on wheels.

Things kinda went downhill after that.

The bartender cut me off, and girly suggested I get a cab. This would all be hysterically entertaining if I had been drunk, but as I'd only had a pint and a half, sad is probably a better description.

I'm sure there are other dangerous and debaucherous things that have happened over the course of three weeks, but I've either decided to not include them or they happen to be too mentally scarring and I've simply blocked them out. Whatever the case, that's it for now.

Take care all,

Fishbait

This Is Disney Land

2007-04-27T02:00:00.000-07:00

I'd like to share a story with you all, this is assuming of course that anyone reads these self indulgent writtings of mine, about the ten or so months I spent in Banff as a Steward's Labourer. To clarify,in the hotel industry, a Steward's Labourer is basiclly a fancy title for a dishwasher or garbage man. But that's really not the point that I'm trying to make, so we'll continue now, shall we?

I was 18, had lost my virginity to a girl I loath and had recently noticed that, whilst naked, I could actually see my penis instead of a fat roll, when my roommate at that time, nameless by his request, said to me during one of my frequent breakdowns, that we were living in DisneyLand(tm).

At the time, I thought: wow, wasn't that fucking profound.

Now though, I think to a point he was right. He just forgot to mention that we're all just waiting in line for an illusionistic view of excitment that will never, ever, fulfill our overblown expectations.

That may seem fatalistic, but I'm of the opinion that the above statement represents a nice balance.

Let me explain, it may the most wonderful place in the world to some, but there is always a line between you and euphoria. There are choices of course, you could butt in front of people, push your way to the front, perhaps even pick a different line but, as with every choice, there are concequences to be considered.

This is the part that bothers me I think. The idea that in order to move forward, you will hurt, step on, back stab, and try to forget about those affected by your selfish pursuit to be at the front of the line. What I wonder about is whether or not this ride I'm standing in line for is even operational.

Don't get me wrong, there are nice,interesting people in line with me, but really, what the fuck are we waiting for?

Those ahead of us just got there first, and those behind chose not to pay attention when this the event was announced. (That's assuming that there was an annoucment at all).

What the fuck is he getting at, you may well be asking. Hell, not sure I know myself, but given enough time I'm bound to figure it out.

Hey, I'm almost willing to pray to some invisible being what controls destiny in order to figure this all out.

fishbait.

The Game Has Been Tied! (But Then So Have My Hands)

2007-01-12T03:31:00.000-08:00

Ya know looking at that title, I think that one day it may make a good lyric. Well, maybe not a lyric, but a half decent epitaph, or a variation of that at least: The Game Was Tied, But Then, So Were His Hands.

Anyway, as I sit down to microwaved hotdogs and a very stiff drink, I give myself time to reflect on what a long, strange trip it's been.

And where have I found myself? Comfortable? Content? Of reasonable mind? Perhaps, but does any of that really amount to a hill of beans in the greater scheme of things? Who the hell knows, but I have decided to have as much fun in this time, that I'm probably just imagining anyway, before I have none left.

Have I found myself happy? Well happier than I've been in years to be sure, but just as scared, lost, confused, and entertained as ever.

Does this grant me wisdom? Does it matter? I'm still here to ask these questions. I would assume that this place, if any, would be good for a start. Then again, I'm a traveller without a map and wouldn't know the start even if I were at it, would I?

Probably not, but as it's been said before: Buy the ticket, take the ride. So be it then, don't bother holding onto the bar in front of you, it's just for show, and pray that you learn to fly before the whole damn thing flys off of the rails, crashing to the ground with you thinking that you werestrapped in to begin with. Scary, eh? Well get used to it bubba, cuz the fun ain't over yet. Not by a damn site.

Not that I'm complaining you understand, I'm just trying to make sense out of this mess of a life I've created for myself. Yes, that's right, I take full blame for the position I'm in. In the end, regardless of advice or teachings, I make the final desicion. Not a very comforting thought some days, but as all seem to do, these days too will pass.

Where to, I sometimes wonder. Does the time and thought of yesterday decide to leave? Float around in the colective unconscience? Turn itself into plant food? Do it matter where it goes?

Wow, it looks like I really need some answers before I continue. Answers or some peace of mind at least, wouldn't you say? You being, of course, person(s) I imagine taking the time to actually read this drivell.

On the up side of things, Ihave a new job, a new girlfriend, and a new guitar. So in the outward areas of my life, things have the appearance of normalacy. And to a certain degree, I would have to admit that things are. And honestly, that creeps me out a little. And I think that fear can sometimes be a great motivator, it doesn't always push you in the right direction, but there's no denying it's push. Oh let the good times roll. That's all for tonite I think,

fishbait

Is Death A Gift?

2006-12-29T09:03:00.000-08:00

It is this year I guess.

How can Christmas be merry when The Godfather of soul leaves us that morning?

At the same time, how perfect is that exit for a true showman? What does everyone see on the front page of every newspaper in the world see come boxing day? James Brown, Mutha Fugga!!!

With that in mind I bid farwell to the only man I would let stand four feet away whilst grunting and sweating on me, anyone else, or any other situation, would strike me as more than a little creepy.

Thanks for makin' us dance, shuffle, shake, and feel good. Send Soul Brother # 1 out in style and give the man a "Heh"!

fishbait

Ha Ha!!!

2006-12-23T02:59:00.000-08:00

Here's to everyone I love.
Here's to your happiness.
Here's to a day I would wish out of existance if I had the power.
Here's to sitting alone on that day.
Here's to the joy that I wish for others.
Here's to another late sleep.
Here's to being with family.
Here's to wanting to die.
Here's to fighting for life.
Here's to being frustrated.
Here's to being thankful for everything I have.
Here's to having what I need.
Here's to missing my friends.
Here's to being lonely.
Here's to pain.
Here's to drinking it away.
Here's to everyone who cares for me.
Here's to your dreams.
Here's to them coming true.
Here is my wish: Everything for everyone.
Here's my name:

fishbait.

Fifteen Bucks? No Chance!

2006-12-16T13:21:00.000-08:00

So here's my situation: I bought a Bell mobility quality product whilst residing in the greater Vancouver area and, since moving to the Island, I've been putting off changing the phone # to a local one. Now, about two weeks ago I called the Bell support line to change said number and was told that it wouldn't be a problem as long as I could provide the # and recite the address that the company has on file under my name. I don't know my address right now, for-fucking-get where I stayed for three weeks six months ago, but hey, I'll just look it up and I'll call back.

Today I get the information that I need to change the number and I call the closest store, because the offices out east are closed on weekends, and I'm gently told that there will be a thirty five dollar in store charge for that particular service, and could I please hold? Sure.... I'll hold alright, I'll hold your goddamned head in the toilet until you stop squirming you shifty little fuck!!!! As it turns out, I'm overreacting... it's not thirty five dollars after all.

It's fifteen.

I beg your pardon?

Sixteen and change with tax.

I'm sorry, you'll have to give me a minute to wrap my head around this. So... if I call out east and change the number over the phone it's free, but if I spend the time and energy to get myself to the closet local representative of the company, it costs me money? Why would I pay to stay with the company? I would think that this type of loyalty from a customer would be rewarded, not punished. In light of this wholly depressing revelation I've come up with a response to Bell Mobility's customer service practices.

Twice a day I'm going to call a Bell location at random, and once on the line with a living, breathing, poop throwing monkey trained to answer the phone, release a long, steaming, frothing, bleeding stream of unnecessary obscenities.

I realize that taking this type of action will not result in getting what I want, but hey, I don't have fifteen bucks.

Sorry, sixteen and change.

Fishbait

Gotta Love It.

2006-12-03T05:57:00.000-08:00

Here I am. Sure of all things. Happy progress. General content. Smiling daily.

Do any of these things describe my actions, frame of mind, or overall mood?

I dunno.

Things are strange.

I know a little.

Fishbait.

Never Again II

2006-11-23T04:45:00.000-08:00

That's the name of a yaght? yaught? yauht? a boat that I saw in the harbour here in Nanaimo when my family came to visit two months ago. I think it's a pretty good philosophy? philosofy? no, the first spelling was closer if not right.

For those of you that don't know, I was let go from my various positions with the Cambie/Malones Group about three weeks ago.

After being assured that my $20 hockey bet w/ the general manager was still on, that I would be recieving a severence and that the standard practice of a 90 day ban for dismissees had been reduced to 30, I settled in for a relaxing week of drowing my feelings in copious amounts of alcohol, and far too many hours on the couch watching CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. (Which, incidently, I was able to view almost 24 hrs a day). But, as always, the fun/denial must eventually come to an end, and so I find myself less cocksure and currently employed through the Downtown Entertainment Group.

Of course, the first step was admiting that there was a problem. Unfortunatly, I wasn't prepared to admit that the problem may be my own.

I may not have a grasp on what that particular problem presents itself to me as, but rest assured, it's quite aware of itself. But, as all things, this too shall pass.

I find it quite ironic, if I may be so bold as to use that word, that the fact that I held four positions was inevitably my down fall. Not so ironic, but perhaps more scathing, is the fact that my 30 day ban was what ruined my frame of mind; I had tried during my time at the Cambie to try and acctually know, not just aquaint myself w/ the regular customers, and in doing so, I made the Cambie and it's regulars, my entire social circle.

Losing the job didn't hurt because of the job, it hurt because the relationships I was trying to cultivate are now on hold.

These, among many other reasons are why I now find myself more than a little confused.

That aside, I find myself exausted but unable to sleep this morning. I thought a cigarette may help unfrazzle what nerves I have left, but, like the snow that's falling today, that recourse quickly turned to slop, and was sucked down by the terrra. Alright, so that's not entirely true, the snow hasn't evaporated or sunk into anything really, it just snows slush out here. The cab companies are at least an hour behind schedule and the roads have turned to a brilliant black ice that no driver in their right, or any other, mind, would dare attempt.

It's not cold by Calgary standards, but it sure as shit ain't all that cheary either. I'm not as sure, assuming I was ever, that the Island is a conquerable situation. I'm not really comfortable here and, though I loathe to admit it, I miss Calgary a lot. What I'd give for a coffee at Weed's right now and a pint of Trad at the Ship & Anchor in a few hours. It may be time to start looking for a job back in my good ol' home town.

Anyway the tone of this entry isn't all that inspiring, so I'm gonna sign off now, try my damndest to take a nap and do some laundry before my date. What? Didn't mention the date? Oh well, I guess things out here arent' all that bad.

fishbait.

Morons and Technology

2006-10-20T08:29:00.000-07:00

Is it really surprising to anyone that those two things tend to go hand in hand more often that coffee and cigarettes? Didn't think so, and it's with that thought that I'll be taking you with me on this coffee and alcohol induced rant. Time to go, don't forget your helmet.

Ya know, I'm all for the idea of protecting one's identity from those who would ruin my credit, but seeing as I'm broke and have incured so much debt as to ensure the poverty of my grandchildren, would it really be so bad to just let me have photo ID w/out having to provide 19 different types of identification? Some of which I'm unable to obtain w/out photo ID?

Now I'll admit some of this is my fault. I did come out west w/ no ID at all. I was a ghost, a spook, a spectre, a hidden entity, the missing variable. But never did I dream it would be so difficult to set up an identity in a new province. I thought after having my birth certificate sent from Alberta, I'd just walk into the dmv and get my ID. WRONG!

Perhaps I can set up a bank account. NOPE!

Alright, what do I need?

Well, in order to get photo ID I need a primary piece of ID. This could include a birth certificate, SIN card, passport, or photo ID from another province.

Is having two of these enough for me to get the damn ID? No. Why? Because you need the actual SIN CARD, not just the # that everyone was told to memorize at the age of 11 because those cheap plastic cards splinter by the time you turn 12.

Fine. Ten dollars and two weeks later, I try again. SIN card in hand, I walk up to the counter, only to be turned away yet again. It seems that the new version of the SIN card does not posess a signature strip. You know, the little, funny feeling strip that's on the back of credit cards etc? Yeah, that thing.

Apparently, one of my primary pieces needs to have my name embosed on it and also contain a signature. Ok, what next?

Get a bank account. Cool, can do. I can be paid by direct deposit, so this works to my advantage. The bank can issue me a card with my name embossed, that I can sign, and then take to the dmv and everything will work out fine, right? NO! The bank I chose doesn't issue those cards and are quite reluctant to let me even sign for my account w/out a piece of ID that has a signature or a photo.

Of course.

So now I have three pieces of ID. Can I get photo ID yet? No.

Well, what's the next step? I have to get BC health. Fine. Ya never know when you'll need a doctor, and I'm able to think of a few people that may the next time I visit the dmv, so this isn't really an issue, is it? Of course it is. I need my Alberta health care #.

I'm sorry, I need to hit the bar and cry on the shoulder of a big burly man named Susan right about now.

I stopped paying Ab health about two years ago and they cut my coverage, so that's info I not only lack, but probably isn't pertinant.

As I write this, I'm waiting to hear from BC health to see if my application has been accepted. If it hasn't been, I'm going to storm our sorry excuse for a dmv, take hostages and begin shaving armpits until my demands are met, or I'm taken out in a hail of government gunfire.

But on a happier note:
today is international disadvantaged people day.
please send an encourageing message to a retarded friend as I have just done.
I don't care if you lick windows, interfere w/farm animals, vote liberal, or occasionally shit yourself.
You hang in there Sunshine.
You're something special.

Take care all,

fishbait

He Lives!

2006-10-01T03:09:00.000-07:00

Well I think I survived.

I may still need a few days to be sure, but right now I'm home, and I'm off to bed soon. I'm in the middle of trying to transcribe all of the events of the past week, so stay tuned for the misadventures of your twisted little narrarator.

Thank you,

fishbait.

Tonight is the Night

2006-09-22T11:57:00.000-07:00

So tomorrow is my 29th birthday or, as my buddy Ty calls it, my "screaming into the blinding void of terror that is life" day. (It's also his birthday so I'm hoping he doesn't feel too bad about turning 40 or about me telling people how old he really is). Anyway, this blog is just to let everyone know that my brother and I are going out tonite to celebrate, an although we will most likey survive, this entry is just in case I don't wake up, or either of us are found behind a dumpster in the good area of town, bleeding from massive head wounds and missing our shoes.

Check back tomorrow to see if we make it.

fishbait

Let Me Tell You About My Night.

2006-09-12T14:53:00.000-07:00

Allo everyone, thank you for once again coming along with me as I sweat nonsense from every pore, all for your viewing and reading pleasure.

I must admit that when I dragged my sorry, hungover carcas from my sleep chamber sometime around the ungodly hour of 5pm, I had no idea what an eerie and twisted situation I would find myself entangled.

The evening started out ordinarily enough, I showed up late for work, I ate my dinner/breakfast, and after my habitual, digestive cigarrette, settled into my nightly routine of ignoring my guests and deciphering my daily crossword puzzle. Things were well, and aside from my chronically drunk co-workers, there was not a body to be found in the joint, that is until the birthday party arrived.

Like pedeophiles at a junior high dance, they came grinding and sacheing through the front door, demanding booze and flesh. Hair askew and legs akimbo, they took their seats shouting for shooters and requesting topless service, to which of course I was happy to oblige.

Pictures taken and my clothing reasembled, I proceeded to serve the copious amounts of intoxicant the table had so elequently requested. For a crew as loaded and rowdy as they seemed at first, they were great tippers, so I felt it nessessary, for the sake of my wallet, to keep a close eye on their drinks and attitude toward the staff and overall environment.

The bartender Paul, and I had been drinking double shots of Wild Turkey since the beginning of our shift and it was time for my hourly bathroom check,(that of course should be read as: I needed to piss) so off I went. I must say that I was quite surprised to find two of the partiers standing by the sinks in a bathroom with the prestigeous honour of being rated "worst on Vancouver Island", having a chat. Normally this wouldn't even induce an eyelash bat, but as one of the people was female, I was uncharacteristicly taken aback.

Out they went, "sorry"'s flying hither and tither, to regroup with the rest of the revellers on the patio. Thinking this to be very odd behaviour, a closer eye on this crew of miscreants should be kept, I decided. After reassuring myself that my pocket knife and wrap of piano wire were both in the pockets I normally reserved for them, I went back out to the smoking pit to reassert control over the situation.

Finding everyone on their best behaviour again, I returned inside to assist Paul in an unmerciful beating of a crack head who had wandered in moments earlier, swinging his arms like a boxing monk, silent and savagly, and had proceeded to knock an entire rack of highball glasses into our ice well. After severing the tendons, along with the veins in his wrist with my piano wire, we then heaved his body into the dumpster behind our quaint little tavern.

Back inside I discovered that the two party goers I had encountered in the bathroom, were once again missing. Straight to the bathroom was my route, luckily this time it was empty. Next course of action was to check the women's bathroom. What I discovered there has been burned, scarred into my memory so badly that no amount of liquer or illicit drug can cleanse the terrible scene.

There, in the stall farthest from the door, stood two pairs of bare legs, clothes strewn about the room with no regard for ponds of urine, vomit, or liquid feces. "Good lord, man!" I shouted. "What the hell would inspire you to ream your girlfriend is a place as festering as this?"

"It's her birthday" he slurred, removing her from him and stagering out of the stall to reclaim his pants from their make shift hanger, between security bars on the window. Trying vainly to button his fly, he looked to me for help.

"Not a chance, Fuck-o! I've no time for this." Gripping his lady friend by the ankles I started towards the front door.

"What the fuck?" asked Paul.

"She's too fucked to walk, figured I'd put her with the crack head." I said.

What a happy birthday that would make for her we thought, waking next to a deceased, diseased waste of life. Perhaps she'd think twice before coming to this end of town again.
Seeing this, the rest of the party ran for the safety of the street outside, waving frantically for any passing car to stop and help.

The only one left to deal with was the boyfriend. Grabbing the "ugly stick" from behind the bar, Paul leapt over the taps and connected with the back of both the drunken simian's legs, and after romoving his nipples with my knife, we threw his kicking and screeching, flabby ass to the curb.

Sometime around 4am, we finished cleaning the blood and drool out of our clothing, and sat ourselves down for a well deserved drink.

Alright, so maybe this isn't an entirely true story, but it is based in fact. I did wake up at 5pm, I did take the drink order from a birthday party w/out my shirt, a crack head did break a glass into our ice well, and two of the people from the birthday party were indeed caught enjoying each other in the bathroom. And as far as the rateing of "worst on Van Isle", go to www.urinal.net/cambie_nanaimo/ and see for yourself.

That's it for now,

fishbait

Toasted Peanut Butter Sandwichs

2006-09-08T16:11:00.000-07:00

Two month check in:

I can't believe I've been away from Calgary for two months now. I was just talking with my brother and we were both sort of shocked when it was realized that I haven't gotten laid since being out here. It was decided that I need to find my mojo.

I checked behind the fridge, as that's usually where things go missing, but it wasn't there. Perhaps I dropped it while bar hopping one night, I thought, but after checking the lost and found of each of the bars I've been to, I came up empty handed.

I think the main reason is that I'm not really settled here. I mean I love it, but I sort of still feel like a tourist, and I think that comes out. It almost seems that I'm not comfortable in my own skin. Also, it's a lot different finding confidence w/out some sort of sythentic. I think that's what's holding me back the most. I know I used to be able to do it, it's not like I spent my whole life high, but as much as you need to learn to hide being high sometimes, you also need to hide being sober.

That may not make a lot of sense but all it means is that I have to fool myself into that same sort of security. I'm still learning how to be sober and my social skills aren't quite up to par yet, but they are getting better.

Or not, last night there was a woman at the Cambie who, friendly as she was, really got on my nerves. Maybe it was just my mood that night, but there's something about people that's been rubbing me the wrong way lately. My favorite thing is when people think that they're cheering me up when I'm not down. Ya know, bein' silly and demanding your attention when all you want to do is read the paper? Despite what they may be used to encountering, I'm not there seeking attention from the masses. I really just want to have a beer and read my paper. It's not a cry for help.

Anyway, I have to leave for work now so until next time,

fishbait

Hmmmm Work.

2006-09-06T10:25:00.000-07:00

Written at home:

Ya know, at one point, I thought about making this blog a bitch fest about everything that's an outside influence on me. That is until I realized, there aren't any. All negativity comes from w/in me and that's where I have to start.

Ok, great. Breakthrough. So what?

So what indeed.

Well, how about this: I used to get upset when I found out that people don't like me.
Now, I'm learning to not care, not only about whether or not they like me, but about them. I've decided to distance myself from the human race.

Fuck 'em.

Don't like me. I don't want you to. In fact, I may even make it my duty to have you completely fucking loath me.

Written at work:
Having said all that, I'm feeling an odd sort of peace. I don't want to fool myself into thinking it's anything but a premature spiritual ejaculation, but it's comforting anyway, so I'll take it for what it's worth.

The chatterings of the madmen recede.
Even my own bad thoughts hide from the light toward which I run.
They aren't gone, but distant, softer.
And the less I try, the easier things seem to be.

Fuck it, I'm drunk. I was going to make this a happy entry, but in order to keep myself honest, I need to faithfully reproduce each and every word of this excretion.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still happy......

Written moments ago:

I don't really remember much of what happened after that, I'm just happy I didn't lose the paper it was written on. I did forget it at work however. I'm lucky enough to have people around that don't throw things out.

Fishbait

Feeling Cranky

2006-09-05T14:23:00.000-07:00

My mood is beyond foul today. I want to kick cute, fluffy kittens all the way to the chinese restaurant half a mile down the road, and where do I have the displeasure to spend my afternoon? Surounded by morons and several sharp knives. Too bad really, that none of said morons breached the kitchen line. It would have been more than mildly satisfying to leave one of those blades buried to the hilt in the rib cage of one of our "loved and respected" regulars.

The world does not contain enough of the sweet ambrosia, that I know as "nicotine", to give me a "rainbows and pots o' gold" outlook on life today.

I offer a prayer: O sweet lord, free me from the idiocy of the masses. Turn the clock back and let their drunken whore mothers stand up, after being fucked behind a cardboard bin, to let the load of whiskey laden sperm run down lesion pocked thighs instead of find seed.

I read that to a friend of mine earlier. After listening to him snort and spill coffee on his lap, I answered his question in the negative. He didn't believe me, but it's true; I'm not back on drugs. Scary, huh? This is part of my mind all of the time. I'd like to blame it on the music I listen to, but I can't. I've been listening to very melodic, and lyricly beautiful music. I'm reading books that are challenging and classical in nature. I'm spending my time with itelligent, witty people. When I really think about it, I think what it comes down to, is that I'm just an asshole sometimes.

And I'm not going to apologize for that.

Fishbait

Experiment in Madness

2006-09-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

I've stopped taking their medications. You know the ones. Those giant, powdery horse pills that turn your stool into a thick, coffee coloured paste. But finally, the side effects, like sleep for instance, are begining to wear off.

A most distracting thing, that sleep. All those dreams, giving face to the voices. Dark hallways. Shadow figures breaking my fingers. A woman in the distance, eyes covered, following but never catching me. I deal with most of it just fine, but those teeth. Those goddamned teeth. Just the ends, scratching against my neck, past my nipple. Razor sharp and six inches long, it sometimes seems almost erotic. As I've never wittnessed any jaw or mouth to contain them though, that illusion is quickly splintered. Jump awake, sweats, breath lost to the shock. Yes, I'm most happy to be rid of sleep.

I don't need food anymore either. I know what's being done to it. Slowly poisoning my already fragile system. Drugs before the food. After the food. In the food. They won't get me that way. I just had to eliminate the source. Finding out how they were getting into the cans and jars, supposedly sealed for protection was the hard part, but that doesn't matter anymore. Besides, they have their ways, and they don't think I'm paying attention. Oh, but I am. That's why the pills you see, they want me to sleep and not notice what's going on.

They even tried to drive me mad. I can't tell you how they did it, but I came home and my key didn't work. Well, that certainly wouldn't do. So I snuck into the building when a delivery driver was let up. I would have buzzed myself, but I wasn't inside to answer the call you see. When I tried my apartment door, a woman I've never seen before answered, kind of. The chain was on. But I'm crafty you see, I pretended to leave. Then, after breaking into the janitor's room, I showered and changed into his coveralls. Not a bad fit really. Little tight in the crotch, but what's to be done? The best find down there was a pair of bolt cutters lying behind the furnace.

I went back upstairs to my apartment and knocked again, keeping my face hidden by the brim of the cap I found sitting beside the bolt cutters. This time, when the door began to open, I quickly used the cutters on the chain. I must admit, I didn't expect two different screams; the woman's and the baby's in the next room.

I started screaching at her: "What are you doing in my home, you fucking bitch? Who let you in here? Who changed the lock?"

She was yelling back at me in what must have been Atlantian, so I made a connection between her temple and the corner of an end table. I almost feel bad for that, that table must have been sixty years old. Then I was off to silence the brat. I'll spare you the details, but it's truly amazing what you can do with a utility knife and some electrical tape. Sufice to say, it's going to be a very long time before that little shit makes any kind of noise. That is unless I left the window open. Did I leave the window open? Too late now, doesn't matter.

Going back into the living room, I grabbed the woman by the hair and hauled her gravitationaly challenged body into the kitchen. I'm not trying to imply that she was fat, just that dead weight is a bitch to move, but move the bitch I did, and after lifting her into a chair, I secured her to it.

I wanted to ask more questions, but there were no answers, hell, there wasn't even a pulse. Too bad really, I was quite looking forward to showing her the tongue of her son. I had it in my pocket you see. Sorry, the janitor's pocket.

Anyway, thinking that I may have made too much noise, I figured I should work fast. What would the police think, I wonder, if they found me in my apartment surrounded by someone else's furniture, a dead woman in my bath tub (shaved from head to groin) and a mobile in the nursery made out of a toddler?

I still wonder what they thought, but none of them will tell me, they just force me to take the pills they bring.

Fishbait

An Open Letter

2006-09-01T14:29:00.000-07:00

Hey mang, thanks for getting back to me.
I must say that's quite the reaction. To be honest, I wrote that last entry in the bar last night and it took about two mins. It really wasn't intended as "sympathy inducing prose", though I suppose it could be seen that was, I just thought it was something to use in my blog. I'd like to think that people read these, but I'm aware that there are other things to do. But whether or not people read them has never really been the point. This is a pergutory for all of my thoughts, good and bad, but I will admit that getting any response does carry a certain sense of validation with it.

That being said, my move to the coast has put me in a pretty good head space. There's a sense of freedom here that I was missing in Calgary, it's just a slower pace. Now I'm not going to say that I'm completly reformed, lets be real, but if you look at the dates of the entries, I think, for the most part, they do get lighter in mood. And though it may seem that I'm too focused on addiction, to a degree I have to be. If I let my guard down, I might fall, and that's not something that I can afford to do.

Most of what's written here, it should be said, is with tongue planted firmly in cheek. (hopfully a 19 yr old blonde's ass cheek, but cheek nonetheless.)

I'm sorry if anyone has been taking this stuff as a real representation of my mind, it's just me clearing some of the cobwebs to make room for the more important things that I know I deserve.

Anyhow, that's all for now. Thanks to all for your prayers and feedback. May you all find happiness in the life giving light that radiates from all hearts.

Fishbait.

Three Weeks 'Till 29

2006-09-01T03:31:00.000-07:00

Find a/any beast to eat my pain.
I want to scream tears from my testicles.
End this fear of frustration.
let me go, and give me my wings

fishbait

Now-published "Gems"

2006-08-31T00:36:00.000-07:00

I really don't know if I'll ever publish the last two entries I made, they were more for ranting's sake than any real reason. But considering it's been a couple weeks since I published anything, I offer my version of a greatest hits kind of thing. More like an "unpublished gems" entry. Basically this entry is composed of lyrics to songs that I've written in the last two years.

Enjoy, or don't, whatever.

Fishbait

Far Away.

Well I'm far away from yesterday
And where I go, it's got to be
Away from here

The things I know, they never stay
And where they go, it's got to be
Away from here

Now how 'bout you, what could you do?
To help me stay away from here.
Jan 2006

Headache

She sees my perfection through banches and leaves and I cry at night,
There's no love for me here in the dying light of forests of kindness
Round the outskirts of the town where her body lies empty
Waiting for me.

I sit feeling nothing, smoke all of the thoughts that I can't forget
While I lie awake wanting a cigarette and search for my mistress on unholy ground
Where she's dying 'lone slowly in extasy.

S'only you that I follow and lonely I suffer.
Wandering aimlessly down paths unkept that I'll never see.
And you're just too much for this poor kid to handle,
But when I dream in the evening you're here with me.
Nov 2004

untitled

If we could only walk hand in hand together,
And lock ourselves in a lovers embrace,
Stroll through life forever this way,
Tongues intertwined, savoring kisses.

Til our hearts decide to break yet part only briefly.
Only to find that there's nothing in magick to
Hide the feelings we both knew wouldn't grow old

Passions so frantic,
We can't afford to miss any moment sharing delusions.
Say that you want me and proove that you mean it.
Now again, while I flirt w/desire.
Kicking it's windows and falling from heights.
And all in the hope that you'll be waiting to catch me.
co-writter: Melanie Keller.
Nov 2004.

Clever

I wander down the roads not knowing
I wonder where the stories are
Thinking that nothing will rob me
From time in my mind for these holes in my heart

Thinking only of things that don't matter anymore
As you finally find your way out of my door
There's no room for your shit
Or any and all of your reasons to sleep on the floor

And you think you're so clever
But you push and you pull and you've made me unsure.
And you know that there's nothing for me to do anymore
But you still think you're so clever

I'm fighting all of the reasons to keep you beside me
But I'm much better off w/out a psycho to guide me
The things that you told me were never the truth
And there's no way I'm crawling my way back to you.

So take all of your problems to somebody else
There's no chance of me helping you out of your hell
See I've got my own issues, like you couldn't tell
Why don't you solve them for me, you know me so well

And you think that you're so clever
But you push and you pull and you've made me unsure
And you know that there's nothing for me to do any more
But you still think that you're so clever.
Jan 2006

Dirty Mistress

She sings my reflection through whispers of trees and there's nothing to save me
I'm here on my knees while she mocks and she taunts me
W/words all obsene
And there's nothing to find in this hole
Where I hide all my thoughts and my fears they fall on the deafs ears
It's all fuelling the fire and it has been for years
And now I'm waiting for someone to sweep up the tears while I'm high in my room
And I wonder where things all went wrong.

There's no way out for me, at least that I can see
I'm dying slowly inside, cuz I just shouldn't be
Fighting daily an anger that festers in me
And I can't even justify watching t.v.
So I'll go for a walk, but I'm not willing to talk
To the friendliest of faces that skulk down my block
They're all shadows to me and I really don't see
Any reason in finding a better disease.

And releasing aggressions through therapy sessions
Does nothing to subvert or change my direction
I've gone too far now past the whys and the hows
So I'll raise both my hands just to scream at the ground
I feel lonely up here, trapped in hate and w/fear
Sucking up to the barmaid for "just one more beer"
Is there no help for me in this rich company
Only cheaters and liars in this miscreant sea
Now I'm hopeing that nobody's home
'Cuz it's safer when I'm all alone.
Aug 2005

It Always Happens When I Give Up

2006-08-18T02:39:00.000-07:00

Part One of something that I thought I wouldn't publish:

Some of you may be asking what I'm refering to in the title, others will know what I'm talking about. Those that do understand, get to be the lucky ones this time, 'cuz I don't feel like defining exactly what I mean. Yes that's right, tonite I feel like holding back a little.

I just got back from a stange set of days in Vancouver, and far be it from me to not enjoy a lite bit of weirdness, but I'm still trying to readjust to the slower pace of island life.

I think I'll share the story with you, but I'm going to fuck with the time stucture of my narrative.

Your reading of the story begins with me being dropped off at work by a woman named Tip, her nephew Mike, and her niece Marissa. They were heading to Tophino, and seeing as I had hung out and chatted with Tip through out the entire ferry ride, they were kind enough to drop my sweaty ass at the doors of the Cambie. What would have happened I wonder, if I hadn't guarded her blanket from the wind while I was on the sun deck enjoying my lunch?

I really don't have an answer for that, but lunch was just what I needed after waiting in the ferry terminal for over an hour because I caught the earlier bus than I had intended. Said bus catching would not have been possible, of course, w/out the selfless effort of a woman I had really only met two days ago, but more about her earlier. I will say though, I was very surprised to wake up in my dorm room this morning missing one sandle. That aside, it was a fantastic sleep. I had stayed up until about three watching bad television and trying to figure out why hookers would want to invite me for "fun" after being told that I had no money with me. Flatering though it was, I really hadn't prepared a speech.

The walk itself started at Dan and Lisa's apartment that night at about 11:30 pm. We finished it by drinking decaf coffee, which is really the only way to recover from an evening of napping and watching the food network. Dinner was delicious and eagerly consumed having walked an hour on the way there to drop off a Cambie t-shirt for Dan.

Yes that's what I did when I finished my shower at 4:00pm, I certainly needed one, having slept on the couch in the common room all day. Why the common room? Well, my dorm room bed wasn't ready when I was. Upon being awakend, most likely still drunk, and told that it was after 10 am and that I had missed the chance to re-rent the room I was curently in, I was left with a slight paradox: go home or sleep on a leather couch and have people pretend I didn't exist.

Stay tuned for part two,
fishbait

Oh, Sweet Responsibility, How I Loathe Thee

2006-08-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

How do I get myself into these messes? No. Really. Tell me. I need to figure this out, but perhaps I should first tell you what the hell I'm on about. Well, it involves my gainful employ at the Cambie here in Nanaimo, and it's shitstick (I think I'm going to use that phrase quite a bit in the next little while) excuse for a kitchen. Yes, that's right, I've been given permission to fix it. Fix the menu, fix the ordering, fix the whole damn scene.

How ironic, that I've spent five yrs in the kitchen trying to get out, and when I get a job where that's not my first priority, I make it my only one. And this after almost having to quit two days ago after being offered another job at a different bar. I'm still not sure why I can't work at another bar while employed at the Cambie, some sort of conflict of interest clause in my work agreement. Yeah right, thirty hours a week at 9/h is not enough to let me live, so after discussing this particular policy with my GM, we decided that it's horse shit, not to mention completely unrealistic and that I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want and if the Cambie doesn't like it, they can go fuck themselves.

An 11 am wake up call, three cups of coffee and the Supersuckers make for an intersting morning, let me tell you. I'm starting to get a lil homesick sometimes, this afternoon has been spent calling my family and friends back in Calgary, so that they all know I'm alright (really though, I think it's so that I know I'm alright), and I should be spending it working on my proposal for the kitchen.

But fuck it, it's my day off, I'm still in my pajamas, I haven't showered, I'm wired for sound, it's two in the afternoon, and after dealing with all kinds of wierdos and fuckups while working the door last night, the only thing I want to do right now is take a shower and head out for a beer.

What kind of wierdos and fuckups you may inquire, where to start? The liquor laws are a little different out here than they are back in Alberta, and the policies are a lot tighter. You need two pieces of ID out here, no exceptions, so there are a lot of people that don't get into my bar. Is this my fault? No. Am I the one that takes the piss? You bet yer sweet bippy, baby. "C'mon man, I have grey hair, I'm old enough to be yer dad". Yes you do, and no, you're not, but that aside, I can't let you in. This is usually when they hang around and explain: it's okay man, I used to work in a bar. Fan-fuckin-tastic, but now I need to ask: if you know this is the way it works, why are you giving me grief about it? I'm not there(at the door) to make friends, I'm there to make sure that the bar doesn't get shut down for serving a minor. It's not personal, it's just my job.

The cover charge at the door is also my fault. Yes, you have to pay, no I won't let you in cuz you used to work here. Do you work here now? No? Then pay up sucker. "I know the band". Great, do you want them to get paid for this gig? Yes? Then pay the goddamned cover!!!!!

The list of excuses is literally endless, but I can deal w/ drunk assholes, it's the crack heads, and they are plentiful, that really make me want hurt small house pets. My new door policy concerning them is: If you can't afford to keep teeth in your skull, you can't afford to drink in this bar. No, I don't want to buy the porn dvds you "found" in the trash, and our bathroom is not a place to sleep! What the fuck is wrong with these people? Wait, I know first hand what's wrong with these people. Nevermind, I retract the question. I will, for the record state though, that I have never tried to sleep in a pub's bathroom.

Well, to everyone out there, take care of yourselves and I'll see you soon,

Fishbait

I May be Humble, but I'm Also an Idiot

2006-07-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

Alright, now I'm pissed. I'm also an idiot. Instead of saving all my ranting from the last two hours of typing, I reloaded the page and lost it all. Most of it was dribble, but I'm sure that there were a couple of golden kernels of corn in that shit I excreted. Now if I just had the mental capacity remaining to remember where that particular tangent was heading.

The fact that I'm not at home anymore is really just starting to set in and the realization that I have no fucking idea what I'm doing out here is scaring the piss out of me, and my inner child just shit himself. Fortunatly I have good friends here and am slowly making new ones. The drugs that plauged me not that far in the past are very prevelant here and it's certainly a test of my will power to stay away from them. I have known for a long time that everybody smokes pot, but ending up in a situation where almost everybody is doin' something else is tough. But I have to put all that aside to tell you about something that learned yesterday: Shane Mack, one of my favorite people in Calgary, died about 10 days ago. He was 26.

Having met Shane about 5 yrs ago, hearing this felt like a steel toed boot to the balls. I'd like to think that in that time we considered each other friends, and I certainly wasn't ready to hear that I won't talk to him again, at least not anytime soon. So I guess this is my goodbye to a brilliant wit, a beautiful artist, a mostly kind heart and a good friend. May you find the peace in death that you forever sought in life. I'll see you again when it's my turn, have a drink ready for me.

Fishbait

The Prodigal Son Returns.....Sorta.

2006-07-19T21:19:00.000-07:00

Finally!!! After 27 yrs of servitude to the city of Calgary, I've finally flown the coop. I went as far west as I possibly could. I'm now on Vancouver Island. The land of the clean air and fresh water and lil mountains that look like pimples on the horizon.

Tecnically I've been here a week, but four days were spent in this lil speck of a town called Qualicum. What's in Qualicum? Old people are in Qualicum.

Now on to bigger and better things, for instance: work. Lucky me, five resumes handed out and four interviews in two days. How good am I? That fuckin' good, that's how good. Picture me as a bouncer. Now try and do it w/out laughing, cuz that's what I'm gonna be doin', and you better not be fuckin' around on my watch.

Yes, it's true, this humble creature that I be shall be deciding whether or not you get to spend your hard earned dollar in a lil place called the Cambie. For a couple months anyway, I'll also be serving, cooking and bartending, though not during the same shift, unlike a bar in Calgary that shall remain nameless. Who am I kidding, Manhattan's sucked and I'm happy to be away. Threre's nothing more irritating than working for a woman who's too fucking stupid to operate a soda gun, unless it's trying to have a conversation with her while she's breathing through her mouth and drooling like a deranged psychopath denied her medication.

But enough about bad things that I am unable nor willing to change. I need the negative experiences to help me appreciate the good ones, and it's all about learning to respond rather than react. Like that time I responded by kicking the guy who ripped me on a bad deal down a flight of concrete stairs. Now, it I had just reacted, who knows what kind of trouble I would have found in that. There would have been no escape route forming in my mind as early as the raising of my foot to his abdomen. There would have been no stopping at the store to buy bleach on my way home to clean my trousers. Yes indeed, responding is the way to go. Damn, I've got issues.

Tha's it for now,
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How To Lose A Job In Less Than Two Weeks

2005-04-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

Well, that's easy, stop showing up.
Now that we've got that problem out of the way, what's next? Get a job? Sit in stairwells waiting for victims? Hmmmm...... of the two which would be the better Karmic move?

Just think, that last bit was written a week ago and now, by the grace of some sadistic power beyond my knowledge, I'm gainfully employed yet again. The whole idea of selling my self for the production of things I can't stand, makes me want to vomit dayglo. It's not the people, it's not the customers, it's not even the job itself. Something doesn't work right and it's me.

As Your Attorney

2005-03-26T19:28:00.000-08:00

Fuck it, I'm through.

No more time will be spent wallowing in self pity and delusion. No more will I wait for the kindness and foresight of others to mend the broken shards of this shell I call home. No more.

I will say one thing in defense of frustration and depression: the creativity garnered from these undeniably kicks the ass of anything to come out of enthusiasm and merriment. The energy robbed though, is not worth the payout.

Easter weekend and all still is. In a sense I feel a kinship with this character called Christ. I look at it as a chance to be reborn. A spiritual resurection following the spiritual death of my mind. In the last two weeks I've written more songs, though not words for them, than any other time in memory. Though this purging of my head could be considered healthy, I worry that I need to be in some sort of distress in order to create. This can't be entirerly true though, as I still need words and melody for these snips of musical scitzophrenia. These will come, I'm sure, late one night after tossing and turning in a pale light, while foaming at the mouth and praying to the door knob of the great kingdom of Bath. Strictly a personal prayer, no time for others here, my madness dies with the sunrise, revealing in it's glorious light, the intricate path of word and metephore to complete said sonets.

Wish me luck, and don't block the bathroom door.

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Tales From a Cardboard Life

2005-03-23T12:41:00.000-08:00

This madness must end. Sleeping late, not eating right, smoking too much, crying at comedies, all of these things need to stop. My brain is slowly melting into a chemical soup, drying my pores and sickening my innards. The cravings aren't as bad this week, and though there's not any light at the end yet, at least I'm aware that I'm in the tunnel. Tensing at the smallest provocation, grinning like a maniac, and cold shakes in a warm room. This is hell. Or at least a personal aproximation.

Would I revert back to the drugs and the drink to ease these symptoms? No. The person who did that no longer resides here. That part of me died last Friday along with another. It's lonely here. And cold. And dark. And damp. But it seems fitting that way.

The job should help. It will at least distract me from most everything else. Meet new people, try new things and hope that I don't screw it all up again as is my way. Maybe I'll even meet a grrl, but I'm hardly in a frame of mind to appreciate one. I'd end up showering her with shit and baggage or withdrawing so far inward that she'd resent me. Which of course would lead me to the drink, triggering a craving and three days later, after not sleeping and spending my rent on anphetamines, I'd be back at the start. Looking for a way to get more, going to get my final paycheque and mourning the death of my personality.

No thanks, I'm on an upswing.

I hope.

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Coffee Shop Worker O.D.s

2005-03-22T12:22:00.000-08:00

Coffee, I love it. Almost as much as oxygen. But ours is a fickle relationship and regardless of attention paid to this mistress of mine, she won't leave me alone long enough to sleep. And now it seems I'm to be her helpless servant yet again.

If my own addiction weren't enough, I'll be feeding the monkey that sits on all coffee drinker's backs. That's what it looks like anyway, a large drooling simian, slowly licking it's recently severed apendages. Aparently, I'm over qualified to work in a coffee shop. How does that work exactly? Can you make a cappucino too well? Not that I've ever found, in fact some of the people pouring mine could use a little more practice. So it's to a low paying, bad hour job I go. At least until I find one that stimulates my mind and refuses to over exert my body. Seeing as that possiblity is unlikely, a coffee shop it is. Good people, mediochre food, and cups of luke warm drainings of filthy dish rags being sold as coffee.

It's a mindless, tedious, socially retarded way to spend my time and earn my money, but I'm going milk the communist manifesto it represents for all that it's worth.

Wish me luck.

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The Love of a Parent

2005-03-21T13:49:00.000-08:00

Insanity. That's the only excuse that I can figure to justify the actions of one Father O' Mine yesterday afternoon. And the night before, really, but yesterday was the kicker.

My dad, my 7 yr old sister and I arrived at my apartment around 3, and after being warned that it was messy, but not dirty, he proceeded to comment and critisize everything that happened to be in sight, like he expected me to clean up while he was there. While I was asking if he'd like something to drink, he looks at me and tells, not asks, me to turn the stereo off, because it's irritating. What I find interesting is, that after driving me home to satisfy some sort of irrational spurt of parenting energy, he would stand in MY apartment and tell ME what to do. That would be my own definition of irritating. When I offered to turn it down, he said that wasn't enough and said that if I didn't turn it off, he and my sister would leave. You can't have music on and enjoy a conversation apparently. What did I do? I turned it off. Less than three mins later, he says he's leaving anyway. FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!

Perhaps this is why I don't call him. Why would I subject myself to shit and abuse for appearences sake? Will he ever understand this? Probably not.

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Madness, Mayhem, Cigarettes and Taxes

2005-03-15T13:08:00.000-08:00

So get this: Last year I filed my taxes and they held some money back to pay the government. This year when I did my taxes, I had to pay $90 to revenscrew Canada for something that should have been paid last year. What to do, what to do? Well, I head down to the place that handled my things(no, not those things, my taxes) last year only to find out that everything in their files is correct and so the problem lies with the government.(don't it always?) So now I'm out twice what I should be, and I'm so desperate for cash that I'm signing up for focus groups on smokers.

I attended one of these before and they paid me $30 and gave me four packs of smokes. My buddy Kerry, who came with me, didn't really smoke and gave me his cigarettes. (He just wanted the money) This time around they're offering $50-$100 for an hour or two. which mostly involves listening to propaganda and filling out a questionaire. Easy work, easier money. Hell, if I can get into a couple of these things a month, I might not need to get a real job. Wouldn't that be fucked?

The madness is simple. When you spend most of your time alone in an apartment, drinking coffee and smoking too many cigarettes, you tend to go a little shack happy. It probably wouldn't be so bad if I could watch t.v. to numb my mind, but I don't have cable.

Another way around this would be to go out and wreck havoc, but without any money, there is no mayhem, so I suppose that part of the title is false. Shit. Well, I can't be expected to be right all the time. I am going mad after all.

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Now What Bubba?

2005-03-13T18:51:00.000-08:00

Sunday night. Just spent the last two hours watching Dogma with no sound other than the comentary. How bored am I?

Last night was another ill advised drunken rampage and sobbing phone call evening. Too bad really, I could probably work through a lot more if I didn't drink so much. Tonite then, I'll be goin' out with Ian and presumably getting into some sort of trouble involving alcohol. Lucky me. I don't really enjoy drinking to that point, or smoking for that matter, but it seems that once a glass is in front of me, I don't stop until I'm on the floor, passed out in a pool of spittle, usually some time before 10:00 pm. You'd think after so many years of drinking heavily, I'd have developed some sort of tolerance. No such luck.

Now it seems, I need to get laid. In a very bad way in fact. And of course, one of the frustrating things about being in this situation, is that every woman I run into can tell. You end up with a certain smell, something to do with pheromones I'm sure, and they stay away in droves. Of course, the second you end up with one, they all want you. Twisted injustice that. It makes sense to be sure, it's just the universe fucking with you.

Other than having no sex life and a very limited social life, I still need to get my things back from the gruesome twosome that I called my roommates for months. "What things"? you may well ask, well, my vaccuum cleaner for one, my cell phone for another, my pride, dignity and various cds. I swear: From this moment, I will never live with another roommate. Unless she's really cute and puts out on a regular basis.

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