You need a team of psychiatrists working round the clock thinking about you, having conferences, observing you. That’s the only way you’re going to get better.

It seems I have another quiz this evening. Although I feel somewhat prepared, I could use a little extra study time.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to maintain my positive vibe as I can become quite frustrated when faced with too many tasks. Sometimes I miss the days where I was simply a producer of content with zero responsibility. They were good days with plenty of ideas thrown about in everyday life. It was just as though I was living that show about nothing. Whether I was being assaulted by a bum or fighting City Hall on its latest skatepark proposal, I had time to invest in a project. I was the King of my domain with nothing to fear but time itself.

Things were going to happen and they were all the result of yours truly.

This is not to say I lead an extraordinary life or am extraordinary in any meaningful way. It just means I felt capable of taking the ordinary and making it seem like an adventure of some kind. However, now, I’m required to provide content for my independent projects as well as assignments for my classes at the University. How did my life become so full and complicated? It used to be so empty in terms of activity but full in terms of content. Now I’m overwhelmed with things to do and void of content. There has to be a happy medium in here somewhere but I guess it’s all about sacrifice and priorities these days. Unfortunately, this will not change until I am paid to do absolutely nothing.

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Smoke too much? Well you better cut down a little then!

Everybody has demons. Everybody has to exorcise them. Mine are Japanese Tentacle Porn and Denial (which I am told is more than a river in Egypt).

While trying to find a cure to my tentacle porn addiction, I came across this wonderfully informative article on WebMD.com. It appears that others on earth are far more afflicted than myself (to tentacle porn). Check out the last paragraph especially.

Read this ok?

Wow! 350 joints a week! It’s a wonder there is no mention of your hands falling off from all that rolling (around in tentacle porn, that is). Absolutely astonishing!

That kinda of consumption is a full time job. You’d have to fire yourself for sleeping in and not meeting production quotas. Then again, you’d probably forget to do that and just keep going and going and going… you get the idea.

Ok then… uh… hmm… what were we just talking about ?

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"Holy Crapola! What did they put in the soup?"

So I’m shopping for a new weasel on Ebay and my eyes fall upon this little beauty.

Clean lines, mint exterior, a real gem of an ermine. Starting bid - a ridiculous $15.00!! Is it just me or do we all wish we could get back to simpler pre-9/11 times where everyone could afford a decent weasel. Curse you terrorists! You have won…

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So, I was drinking to kill the pain of my drinking-induced knee injury when I decided it would be a great idea to check out this band, The Hurtin’ Unit.

I’m a little bit Country… Iz a l’il soooouuulllllllll!!!

Some background:
Way back in the twentieth century, at a mostly empty shitkicker joint in Buttfuck, Georgia, a certain Hank Williams was sippin’ bourbon with his good friend Mr. James Brown. At the only other inhabited table sat Ol’ Bill Monroe and an acne-scarred girl from Texas who called herself Janis. Bill was playing Janis with Southern Comfort and singing her sad mountain songs, with the eventual intention of making his way into her pants. Hank and James, amused by Bill’s transparent attempts at seduction and strangely aroused by Janis’ knowing eyes and wailing voice (she was a little drunk and had started to Sing the Blues^TM), left off their conversation about mixing up country and soul (a pipe dream, they decided, “Who ever heard of country and soul in the same band?”) and moseyed on over to see if Bill and Janis would let them in on the fun.

Introductions were made, rounds were bought, and soon it was closing time. It was agreed that the party would adjourn to a little place Hank had on the river nearby (a tourbus, and a smelly one, it turned out). No one remembers much about the rest of that full-mooned humid evening, but about nine months later, a baby was born. A baby wearing a cowboy hat, playing a fiddle, doing the splits, and screaming blue, bloody murder.

The baby’s name was The Hurtin’ Unit.

Are they country? Oh yeah! Sad-eyed and blue as the kentucky grass.

Soul? Shit, motherfucker-these cats got more soul than Memphis.

Bluegrass? A touch of the jug.

They were, in fact, so good that, forgetting the fact that I was on crutches, I was moved to dance. I danced myself into a sweat. I whirled. I leapt. I sang. I jumped. I broke my crutches and injured my good leg.

I waited until the last set was over, staggered up to the stage, And said,”YERR TH’BESS’FUGGIN’ BAND I SEEN IN AGES ‘N AGES!!” I got a copy of the cd, went home, and listened to it. It was good — not as good as live, but good enough to cause my thumping, aching, abused foot to anger my neighbors into calling the police on me. Now I’m missing more time at work, my rent is late, I can’t walk, I need new crutches and I have this noise fine to pay. But I’ve found a good band-even though they get me in trouble.

The Hurtin’ Unit are mood music for a romantic dinner in the drunk tank. They are the houseband at a rodeo in Harlem. They are dissolute. They are crispy around the edges. They’ll break your heart, make you laugh, buy you a drink when you’re supposed to be on the wagon, and hit on your sister. They are the perfect band to dance to on crutches.

They are country soul.

They’ll be coming to your town someday. Be warned.

Check ‘em bad boys out

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so i’ve just had an awakening. i now believe it. rock and roll will never die. i’d thought it was something you yelled at the wind in defiance of all the crap in the world. well, it just turns out to be true.

but like most things with fan participation, its the minor leagues that’s the source of truth. there’s this band up in toronto, white cowbell oklahoma, that’s figuring it all out. right in the middle of the show, one of them jumps out of his clothes ‘ceptin for his boots and hat, calls up a couple of gals from the crowd to hold his guitar parallel to the ground, and with great ceremony fixes a shot glass to the end of his pecker. what happens next is next to rock-godliness. the band kicks it and he plays the best version of ‘freebird’ i’ve heard, on slide guitar no less. note to self: learn to play guitar.

Off! Off! Off!

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this fucking city can’t handle winter. every fucking thirty feet its another awful but different half-assed attempt at shovelling the sidewalk. no mini-tanks in toronto. no grit. no plows. no fucking relief.

and, because the vast majority of its inhabitants are pussies when it comes to the weather, even in the best of times, they stay at home and shut themselves in. minus twenty with a breeze and its a ghost-town. minus thirty and its like the moon. being a montrealer, means, however, that the colder it gets the better i’m off. the humidity in toronto in the winter is ridiculous, off the lake, you understand? what i mean to say, by getting to the point, is that winters are worse here because the city falls apart. they give up. whatever. i am so fucking tired of winter. gimme some fucking heat. i’ll say “please”, if i get some fucking heat. all that aside, when it does get off its sizable ass, toronto puts together a good music scene. i won’t presume to flog anybody i’ve seen, just look into it for your own edification.

from this i would get food poisoning

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Well Happy Valentine’s Day to the TOASTER. My ex just broke my knee. Actually, it’s not broken (ACL-how cool is that?), but it has rendered me a temporary cripple.

We love getting screwed!

We were returning from a party and horsing around. She pushed me. I fell awkwardly. My kneecap got scared. Ran around to the back of my leg to hide. Next up: the ambulance ride, the saline drip, and a nice person gave me a shot of some kind of opiate that sent me to a beautiful dream world. Then I got horny and tried to convince the ex or the pretty nurse to climb into the cot with me and ‘cuddle’.

If anyone asks, of course, I was protecting vigorously the honor of a flock of nuns (flocks or herds?) against the unwanted advances of Motley Crue — it’ll be in edition 3 of “The Dirt.” I WAS NOT BEATEN UP BY A GIRL! I’m counting on you to spread pro-TOASTER propaganda to the masses — THEY MUST NOT KNOW THE TRUTH.

Yes, I was drunk.

No, we are not back together.

What has 79 balls and screws old ladies?
BINGO!

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Although he probably wouldn’t admit it, John Peel stood head and shoulders above his radio host contemporaries. In an age of formulated radio hosted by DJs with overcharged metabolisms, he brought a self-effacing style that continued to deliver the latest and greatest. He will be sorely missed.

John Peel, 40 year veteran DJ at BBC’s Radio One and Four, brought us radio in it’s purest form — broadcasting music that he, a music lover, deemed worthy — not what was considered worthy by the marketers in corporate boardrooms which “own” radio.

He played a major role in the career of many great bands. Former Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr said the band’s early success was “largely due to the John Peel show”. “If it wasn’t for John Peel, there would be no Joy Division and no New Order,” adds Bernard Sumner.

John Peel was the first to play the music of many great bands, from Pink Floyd to T. Rex to Blur. His influence was greatest in North America through the many John Peel Session albums he released.

Music lovers have lost one of the last real DJs.

Click here for a listen to Canadian Broadcasting’s salute to John Peel.

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