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Lonesome Betty says, "Go fuck yourself..."

Captions like this just make people angry. If you think you can do better, drop an idea in the comments section and you'll automatically be entered in a draw to WIN free transportation to and from Mohawk Raceway Slots and a free roll of quarters.*

So enter now and enter often cuz at these prices this shit ain't gonna last...

*ten bucks each entry (better'n Lonesome Betty's rate), transportation via shuttle from downtown, contest not open to kids unless accompanied by an adult (+ ten bucks)

POSITIVE SPACE

Ten Good Things About Lougans

1 - Most people'll start hackin' on ya as soon as ya leave the room. A lougan will hack on you to your face so like, at least we're honest. 2 - Lougan chicks can be pretty hot and they put out. 3 - You watch porn, we invented it. 4 - Show me a hockey player (other than Gretsky) who isn't a lougan. 5 - Ah fuck it... 6 - I can fix your car. 7 - I'm ballin' your wife. 8 - Whatever. 9 - I dunno. 10 - A lot of musicians are total lougans so why do people listen to them?

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

On the outskirts of town, before the first ring of warehouses, lay older suburbs where the lots were big and the foyers bigger. The invasion of monster homes had long since swept through and ornate soul-deprived fortresses stood front and centre. The occasional glimpse of a coach house or stone wall, cast iron street lamp or orchard let you know that at one time, big money lived here. Current residents would have been alarmed at the sound of May's little four-banger as we pounded down the street - that is, if they could here us at all... Most were buried deep in their home theatres, sipping tumblers of single malt whiskey and applauding pale screen imitations of real life.

May pulled up to a gate and punched a code into a keypad on a pole next to the driveway. The gate opened by tilting up like a garage door. "Height restrictions," she said to me, "lot's of low branches."

We were in a tunnel formed by the limbs of dozens of Maple trees. It was dark now and the headlights moved in a veil ahead of us.

"Must be pretty in the fall." I said momentarily gayishly.

"Yeah," said May, "Wouldn't want to be the one to clean it up though, hey?"

The house was a dilapitated pile of shit after the long winding drive. A saging rancher with moss covered windows and no practical relationship to its surroundings. The grounds created an expectation of grandeur- a mansion or small castle perhaps. Somewhere along the line those dreams were shattered and a rectangular box with a tar-pebbled roof sat in it's place like a retired crack-whore at Tim Horton's on a Tuesday night after midnight in July...

"My butt isn't wet is it?" I said to May as we got out of the car. I turned to show her my denim clad cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she said, "My car is a piece of crap. That side's a little leaky..." She wiped at it with the sleeve of her jacket, which felt kinda good, "Just keep your back to the wall."

At the entrance, May knocked hard on the door. The rain had stopped but the trees and eaves were still dripping - giving the place an added creepiness which of course I refused to acknowledge. Grape vines had taken over the soffit and obscured most of the light from the single bare bulb above. Little green bunches of marbles hung all around and a shadowy mess in the flower beds looked like it hadn't been weeded in years. May gave the finger to a new looking camera in the corner and pushed the door open. It swung with a heavy squeal.

Interview with Jack the Dog Barker

Internationally renowned canine communicator speaks to Lougan Watch at the lougan headquarters on Barton Street.

Grunter Stevenson: Jack, you've been called both a charlatan and a bit of a wanker. How do you respond to these allegations?

Jack the Dog Barker: Well... first of all Grunter, I'd like to say what a pleasure it is to be here. Nice to see you again.

GS: Whatever.

JB: Yes, well... I can understand some people's hesitancy to accept the canine perspective...

GS: But you're really a dog right?

JB: Yes. I'm a Jack Russell.

GS: So how do you talk, like - ruff-ruff?

JB: That may be a common misconception, I don't actually talk, per-say... rather I transmit my thoughts via the ether.

GS: Is that like, gasoline?

JB: Uh, no. It's a term to well, it can be a colourless liquid distillate or uh, the sky, but I'm using it to describe what formerly was thought to be a kind of substance that filled all space and acted as a medium for the transmission of radio waves which does in fact, exist to this day...

GS: Ooohhh... Can you spell that?

JB: Spell what?

GS: Never mind. So Jack, can you lick your own balls?

JB: I uh...

GS: C'mon...

JB: Ahem. Well, yes I, for hygenic purposes. Yes. I don't really see the point in this...

GS: Sorry bud, just givin' ya a hard time. How's the ol' lady?

JB: Fine.

GS: Cool. So uh, you got twenty bucks I can borrow?

JB: What?

GS: I'm a bit strapped right now...

JB: Where am I going to put twenty bucks?

GS: I don't know... Up your ass?

JB: See you later Grunter.

GS: Okay, see ya... Hey come back. Let's go for a beer. No? Okay... motherfucker.

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

The tape cut and the next scene was a series of pans and focuses through a sliding glass door into the yard. There were a series of camera drops, repositions and black outs - like someone using it for the first time. Then came a length of static, followed by a slow pan over a dimly lit room. The fireplace was burning. A woman enters wearing a black wedding dress. It looks second hand and hand-dyed. Her hair is black and wavy. She has heavy make-up on and seems to be going for the un-dead look. A man appears in a red suit. He has a receding hairline and a penciled-in moustache. He must be evil because no one else could get away with that suit.

The couple turn for the camera as though showing off their new Halloween costumes. The film quality is very stunted and amateurish until a small pair of hands sprout out of the evil guy's forehead where his horns should be and start flailing around fairly realistically. The woman manages to somehow pop her head off her shoulders and goo starts to drain out of her neck. Lots of it.

Next, the guy with the little hands coming out of his head goes over and starts rummaging around in her neck. He seems pretty proud of the fact he can do this while his real hands are in his pockets. It takes a little while and gets a little messy but now he seems to have gotten hold of something. It turns out to be a lamb or a goat. A real one - ping - out her neck. She sticks her head back on and wipes away some of the puss like it was a bad sneeze. The next thing you know, the devil guy takes the baby goat over to a table and starts wiping it down tenderly. The goat gets up on it's front knees and stands there braying and wobbling - something bad is going to happen to this poor little neck-breech baby but no, all of a sudden we're in a car driving along like a regular evil family. (It would be nice if he was using his little hands which now look pretty much like rubber but then he'd have to look at the floorboards so that wouldn't work...)

Anyway's they're drivin' along and the girl, who is hot by the way, starts pulling sausage casing out of her ears and nose. It is totally excessive and uncalled for but not as bad as the offal is building up on the outside of the car because the air outside is made of people and oh my god it's too awful for words, you'll just have to see it for yourself...

Lougan Faq's *

1. Judge me and we're fightin'.
2. Your hair sucks too, Dexter.
3. Nellie Furtado was known as "The Headmaster" in high-school.
4. "Oh there you are..." - all purpose phrase meant to imply laziness.
5. FUBAR - classic louganesque cinema.
6. "It's like they never realized the eighties started" - Mike Skinner

* frequently answered questions

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

I remember playing pool with May at a tittie bar about five years ago. She left me hung up on the top rail on the break and then cleared the table on her next turn. I stood there like a fuckin' monkey in a banana factory. The next game I did a little better, but I think she was just takin' it easy on me. I tried to cover my embarrassment with stupid lines like, "Next you'll want me to wallpaper your kitchen," or, "Hey lady, where'd ya get the man hands?" Just as she was lining up the eight-ball I said, "Did you just fart?"

She just looked up at me and sighed, "You don't have to act like an idiot all the time you know."

Now she was explaining how she had met her filmaking buddies, her words blending perfectly with the recalled images in my head - "You know... parties, somehow you keep meeting the same people so evidently you have something in common."

"Yeah, like crack addiction." May stared ahead and had the same expression she had way back at the pool table. I actually waited for her to say the same thing again...

"Look," she said instead, "this movie is going to change your life."

"In what way?"

"In which way?" She paused again, "In all ways. You will always be different after this."

"I can't wait."

"Seriously."

"No it's good. I believe you."

We drove for a while. May went on with some story about how she and her genius boyfriend were coming out of a restaurant and she saw a bug and she was all like, ew, and he was all didn't know what there was to be squeemish about because cockroaches were pre-historic and would outlast humanity and should be revered as the master race and how we are speeding up this process by using anti-bacterial soap and therefore creating super-strains of bacteria which the cockroaches eat and gain super-powers so I said something like how estrogen from the pill in the water table is making men all girlie-girl and she slapped my knee and said she knew we would all get along. I was beginning to feel like Boo the Bear, kinda trapped... Outside the car a light drizzle fell. The water ran down the outside of the glass and played with my reflection. Bending it as the streetlights made more patterns and even May seemed to move at a different speed. Slower, on a different frequency than the rest of the world. Outside, the people flew by.

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

It was a Tuesday evening in July. The sky was beginning to cloud over and the sun was about to set. Soft light bounced off one side of a ridge of low pressure. The city looked warm and inviting. The air could be described as seasonably cool. I lived in a part of town yet to be claimed by developers. Houses fronted on tiny lawns, barely large enough to need a mower.

We left the building, my landlay nowhere in sight, into the vibrant community full of shops, restaurants and events. The parkette across the street supported a small group of diligent dog owners. The school hosted art classes at night and photography on weekends. A community garden was sponsored by the local synagogue. I could not walk down the street for half a block without stopping to chat with someone.

But being with May was like being with a girl jesus. She would, at the same time, be plowing ahead and looking at you, smiling, seeking confirmation and still, knowing it's all good. She swung her arms as she walked, the weight of fabric fascinated her - the way it folded and fell. Heft. Fluid movement. Type and texture. Grain. Poorly designmed or ill-fitting. Renovated second hand. Seasonal shifts, styles... this is what she talked about. Nothing so immediately obvious as an outdated look she used to complain about.

I remember working with her and how clothes had drawn her into archetcture, desirablity of a structure "the estetic then clearly had to do with the people inside." Many times, in refering to something technical - the use of this material over that - one colour to the next - it was she who would connect the thing to the occupant. "Nothing so lonely as a foam-core model with no little people around it." Once in the car, May squeeked out of a parking spot smaller than the car itself. The passenger seat was damp, which made it hard to relax.

"Why a cowboy?" I asked, shifting around in the seat.

May took this as a sign to turn on the radio, which she shouted over, "I better let him explain. It's kind of convoluted but I think in the end it'll work. There isn't a whole lot to it but I don't think there'll be any sound. Maybe ambient stuff like surf and water falls, but not new-agey... Kind of 'representative'. He's looking for a broader scope, you know what I mean?"

"Uh, sure."

Poetry Corner - feat. The P.W.

i am a weed
the lurid clang of the switching yard
reminded me of you
the fluid crash of metal back and forth
changing your mind too easy a comparison
the sound was all i knew

so long as one of us knows the truth
like a wiretap
so long as one knows it's being recorded
but i think we both knew the truth
so what does that make it

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

Already she was kind of annoying me, how long had she been there? Five minutes? Almost on cue she stood up and said, "I want you to be in a movie."

"I uh," I said, "what do you mean a movie..." I gave her my trademark raised eyebrow which didn't seem to faze her. She took a sip of her drink and said, "Not that kind of movie you silly, I want you to be in a real movie."

"A real movie."

"Yes, a real movie."

"Like a Hollywood movie."

"No. Like a short film."

"That's not a real movie."

"Excuse me?"

I got up and paced the room, "I thought you meant like a romantic comedy or something."

She regarded me with mild disgust. "My friend is making a film and he needs someone to play a cowboy so I natually thought of you."

"What kind of cowboy."

"I don't know, the real kind."

"When people picture a cowboy, they picture a Village People lookin' cowboy. Anyways, I hate country music."

"So what's with the song writing and shit?"

Ooops. Why had I said I was writing a country song. That was the thing about May. She projected energy so strong that coincidence and premonition seemed commonplace. She called it the luck of the devil. Could she, by walking down the street towards my place have affected my thinking so directly that before she even arrived, the little visited notion of a carrer in country music have entered my mind? Probably not.

"I'll think about it."

"Yeehhaaa!" she yelped. She drained her beer, "Let's get out of this shithole!"

This may seem like old news but I just goy it via snail mail from my buddy Jack the Dog Barker. He's a bit old fashioned and so sent me a photocopy of a letter he had received from Boo the Bear. Boo the Bear was in the news recently for having escaped once or twice from the fine officials at B.C. Parks:

Dear Jack,

They want to cut my cocobas off dude! All's I want is to sit on my ass all day, eating, getting set up for winter when these fuckin' stick insects trap me in a cage, like which, I shoulda seen comin' and then they pop me with some heavy shit, like, no mushrooms I ever ate before and boom - I wake up in a bigger cage with a concrete floor! I've crapped my last berry if I wasn't madder than I've ever been!!!
I fuckin' got outta there as fast as I could - don't ask me how - but I was only out for a few days before they nailed me again with that sweet beesting shit and boom - I'm back in the can again. Fuck me, so I got outta there again by basically pulling the fence apart with my teeth and now I'm like, miles away in a secret location bangin' bitches and eatin' some crunchy-sweet carpenter ants... Anyways Bro, if they get me again, I heard by a grapevine in some suburb I stumbled upon - word is they wanna deep six my testicles cuz I'm an "aggresive bear". Fuck that shit, I'm layin' on my back gettin' my dick licked and then maybe wanderin' down to the water to see how the fish look. "Aggresive Bear" my ass. Take my nuts and you might as well take me.
Fight the power.

Regards,

Boo-yah

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

Her voice crackled through the intercom wires like an errant radio signal. "C'mon in." I croaked into the wall. May. Oh my god. Time stood still. She was crazy and soon would be standing in front of me, smelling like sea-salt and cedar trees. I went out into the hall and could hear her coming, her shoes slapping the soles of her feet. It was a small hall and then she was there and I couldn't stop smiling.

"How the hell are ya?" she said, arms open wide.

"Good." I said stupidly as I hugged her and went in for a kiss which she neatly deflected to her cheek. Her hair smelled just the same. She stepped back and slipped the light jacket she was wearing off her shoulders and held it out for him to take. Same thing, uninhibited, nice body, her hair was a lot longer now. We had worked together on a youth assistance program years ago where the government pays part of your wage and then you get fired as soon as the money ran out. I had kept in touch with her for a while as a friend but we never did anything which nobody believed but still, it was probably better that way. May went back to school and we kind of drifted apart although I thought about her all the time but now it seemed like I hadn't thought about her for a long, long time.

The job we had was to assist a publisher with research into a guide to historical buildings in the city. I had lied on my application which apparently the never checked, and was hired on as an assistant. The people there saw straight through me but were decent enough to keep me around to clean the bathroom and take lunch orders and comic relief I guess. May and I struck up an instant friendship because we both started on the same day and were as green as a pool table that's just been cleaned.

"They tore down The Warrant Building, hey?"

"I know," I said, refering to one of our mutual favourite project subject buildings, "Godless bastards..."

"Did you get anything?"

"I got a railing. I think it came from the fourth floor where they had that little mezzanine thing? They didn't bother to melt it down so maybe somebody else had set it aside... There's no market for that kind of thing anymore, now they've pretty well run out of original shit and all the manufacturers jumped all over it so nobody's willing to spend money on the real stuff." I paused for a moment because May was looking at my eyes and then my mouth and back so I like, could feel some wood taking shape. "I uh, think I might use it as a roof-rack if I ever get a car."

She smiled. She had once told me she liked me because I always found a way to utilize things outside of their original design or intention. I just thought it was because I was a cheap motherfucker.

We sat down. When we had met, it had been a more innocent time, the 90's. I couldn't remember the last time we had seen each other and neither could she. Apart from the hair she looked exactly the same. I did a discreet examination of my gut, to see if it was big but it proved nothing. After a moment my brain slowed to a crawl and was soon blocked by the low hum of the refrigerator which was now painfully evident sitting in the living room. The kitchen was more of a hallway actually and I hadn't seemed to mind the set up so much until now.

"So, uh... got anything to drink?" said May, breaking the silence.

I jumped up and fished two beer out of the fridge, taking care not to open the door too wide lest she should see the barren moonscape within. I apologized for being so direct but I had to ask her what she was doing here as I didn't think she had this address, having so recently moved in. May said my old landlord gave it to me and I thought, shit, she's been talking to Jen and then I realized she probably meant the landlord previous that I had in a moment of responsibilty, given this address to so he could forward my cheques. May sipped her beer and said she didn't know why, that she had been thinking of me and thought she'd just drop by to see what I was up to. I don't know why but I suddenly could remember coming out of a movie with her, years ago, and all they could talk about was the locations in the film. Like an old part of me was being re-awakened and then I could see she was waiting for an answer so I blurted out something stupid like, "I don't know, I was thinking of writing a country music song..."

"Ha!" she snorted into her beer, "Ya see? You kill me. That's why I wanted to see you." She continued to laugh which I thought was a bit excessive because I was kind of serious about the song.

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

Now I'm lying on the couch, pining for big skies and wondering if those are stretch marks on my toes. I'm imagining that a move to the country would cure all my woes - I'd drive up to the place with a rented truck and load all my shit in the back and hit the fuckin' road y'all know what I'm sayin'? Maybe open a bar somewhere or maybe even get a job. Money always seems to find me and everything would be fine and dandy.

Looking around, I realize I've already got about fifty heavy boxes of crap from the last move, in fact, most of it I'm not entirely sure what it is and maybe if I put it into storage this place would seem a lot larger. The furniture was worn outta shape in a few places but what I mean to say is, how did I manage to accumulate all of this shit? The stacks of boxes literally block access to areas of my life and like, how limiting an existence it is. I should dump it all on the curb... nah, too much like work. There's a photo on the wall it's I haven't seen it in ten years but I only hung it up there last month and look how young I am.

At the bottom of one stack there's a shoebox full of receipts for meals long eaten and forgotten... the dates and places a few of which no longer in business. Had I been expecting an audit? Boxes of books never read could go to a used book store and a numbness... just kind of standing there...

The door buzzer wheezed. Shit.

"Hullo?"

"It's me. May."

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

All that was after I'd moved out anyway. We were seeing each other, me and Jen, for about a month and I'd let her know a little about me and she let me know a little about her. She was friends with an old girlfriend of mine and one night, after I got tired of waiting for her to call I went downtown and gotr drunk and on my way home I bump into the two of them out bar-hopping. Another night as I'm patiently waiting her arrival the idea that perhaps I'm not alone creeps into my head so I hop on my bicycle and peddle over to her place. The lights are out but her car is warm and the stereo is on inside the house. My stereo!

I thought I'd knock but I didn't want to disturb anybody so I figured I better look in the window first. Anyways, the obvious was happening so I sat down and had a smoke and the occassional peek yah, and thought about was to spoil it for everyone and then chickened out and went home and then called her and let the phone ring off the hook, which know that I think about it was pretty dumb because she always unplugged it probably for that very same reason. In the morning I called back really early and to my surprise she answered it,

"Fuck. Offf." Was all she said and hung up. So I called back and explained that I needed to pick up the rest of my stuff and she said fine and said she'd drop it by later. So next I called the old girlfriend and without getting into too many details let her know I'd been sleeping with Jen. Later she calls me back saying I'm an asshole and why am I talking all this shit about Jen and how she just got off the phone with her and how she said she wouldn't sleep with me if her life depended on it and so I told her about the night I met them downtown I was supposed to be seeing her and then I found the two of them together and so she says she knew I'd do this and she knew I'd sleep with one of her friends because she had slept with my buddy Dave and I said I didn't care about that and she said that I was always eyein' her girlfriends... Finally I said what's done is done and could we have some closure here but she said she still didn't believe me and that I should go fuck myself while I'm at it.

Then a car screeches to a halt outside, followed by a loud knock on the door. Jen comes in with a plastic garbage bag full of laundry, which was still dirty by the way, which she threw at me. She came back in with a box of stuff and I said just wait a minute so she said, "Take your fucking mug and your stupid condoms and never, NEVER call me again. Then she came back with the speakers which I took before she had a chance to drop them. She seemed to have a hard time giving up stereos. I barely had time to blurt out, "Hey..." I never saw or heard from her again.

Regaining consciousness was better the first time than the second. The first time I was about ten and hit the basketball net pole with my head in order not to be "it". I was the first to the pole and the last to get up. Evidently once I did get up I was walking around like nothing happened for quite a while. Once the swelling started I must have slipped back under because all's I knew was I was being carried upstairs to the nurses' office by two hot looking older girls.

I think the nurse was pretty useless as I had to loll around feeling like I was going to puke for what seemed hours until my mom showed up. I wonder what that was like for her? The next time was years later - I woke up in Jen's bed with by buddy Errol passed out on the couch. He said, "Go look in the mirror," Which I did and goddamn if my right eye wasn't swolled shut.

It has often been said that an idiot is only as smart as you want him to be... A true idiot could not even begin to formulate that thought. But if you could hold that thought even for a little while... now, wouldn't that be something? Being able to hold your thoughts in your hands. You'd have to take the nuts out of your hands first but don't worry, I don't think you'll lose 'em - more likely you won't be able to find 'em you nutless fucker.

I'm sorry, maybe that was a bit much. But it feel well within the bounds of The Lougan Creed. The Lougan Creed recognizes with full regard the right of the individual to resort to violence, nay, initiate violence for any fucking reason we like. So if that little outburst earlier somehow upset you then BAM (fist on top of head a la cartoon I saw as a kid) Out Go The Lights carrot face.

Evidentially, I had dragged my belt-buckle along the paintwork of a Porsche which had pulled out of aan alley a little too fast for my liking. Pimp gets out of the car and plants a foot in my face. I remember seeing the pavement come up at me pretty fast. Errol said I came around in the cab for a while and then pissed myself in the doorway.

Anyway, which one do you think that I prefer?

On my way back from getting groceries at the dollar store, I saw a picture of Natalie Maynes in a window. Because she is shorter than the other two Chicks, she seems somehow attainable. A lot of my buddies don't listen to her music and are totally unaware that she was ashamed the President was from Texas. But to me she represents the height of Lougan achievement and should be applauded as such. Evidently she was shut out by her fans and even dropped from their record label maybe. More significantly, she has been accepted by a new audience who would never have listened to her music. She has developed a style and substance which transends class boundaries. So go buy her album buttwad.

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

I gave her the rent and she already had her kid's things moved out and I said I'd be moving in over the next few days which was fine by her so she gave me the key and a receipt even and, there you go. When my friend got back from Mexico - I'll call her a "friend" because I didn't know what else to call her at that time.
"I'd call her a bitch." said the expression on Denise's face when I mentioned her. But at that time Jen was way out of my league or whatever. A University Professor and had asked me if I needed a place to stay when she got back which I thought was very friendly but I told her I already had a place but it seemed like we were mutually in no hurry for me to move out so I left my stereo for last because she had thrown her last one out the door at her ex-boyfriend. You know, dribs and drabs you pick up from other people's lives.
Denise said that months later, when I was in New Zealand pullin' tits (milking cows) Jen had come around a couple of times which I found to be very interesting because she tried her best to keep me from leaving the country in the first place. When she came back from El Salvador she was going all mental because my ex-girlfriend had told her that I was drinking and screwing chicks in her place all day and night which sounds great but was like, totally untrue. Anyway, a couple of weeks later she had acted as my guarantor (Jen) on my passport application and had evidentally tried to have it revoked because she had only known me for two weeks and had therefore lied - isn't that her bad, not mine? She also ratted me out to welfare 'cuz I got to the office to pick up my cheque and they've got a hold on it so I sit down and wait with this forged note in my pocket to get a clothing voucher for a new job eh? But the job is in fuckin' New Zealand which I'm not going to tell them and out walks this big guy with his name on my lips,
"Mister Stevenson?"
All my i.d. had the wrong addresses and he knew where I was going and when and who I'd been working for and what vehicles I had sold and for how much and I was like, never open your mouth to anybody. So after all that I ended up signing something which says I owe six-hundred and fifty bucks to be paid back over the next however many months on my next claim - which they still haven't collected I'm proud to say. I walked out of there with a food voucher for fifty bucks as well. Bam!

The Plant Whisperer pt III

So how did all this start? How did I become a Plant Whisperer? As a toddler I was amazed by the interplay of light and shadow, air and earth, smell and texture of the lawn. As I grew, trees beckoned me to climb them. I helped to plant and harvest - enjoy nature's bounty and was drawn to plants... their silky smooth leaves and textured bark. Their mystery and magnificence. Then one night I was at a party and was verbally assaulted by an Aspidistra and well, it's been that way ever since.

In college I met a girl who had braces on her teeth and fire in her eyes. We'd canoe down the Don River until we bottomed out on some silt and then make out until it was time to be rescued. In that time I would also sing to her the songs of the trees and we'd lie in the bottom of the boat, looking up and were free... I think she's a real estate agent now. Maybe I'll Google her.

Anywho, I better sum things up before people say I've been spending too much Thyme with Ivy and goin' all over the place, ha-ha-ha... Exactly. Look people, what plants are really saying is, give us a break will ya? Go eat something else for a change, like rocks or maybe each other forchrizakes. The last palnt I talked to, the one who inspired me to write nthis, had a worried look on his/her base. I said, "Ooommmm..." (What? You think plants speak English? Arrogant mammal.) The plant said, and I'm translating here, "Go back to the planet from whence you came."

Disturbing. I kid you not.

The Disillusionists. cont'd...

"These two buildings were built by my neighbour's father twenty years ago. They sold this one to Mr Easton, who leases this place to me." Denise was wearing a loose fitting sweat shirt and black tights. She was in her mid-forties and had a peculiar habit of blinking very slowly and intently - as though erasing an image or thought. "When I moved in two years ago he mentioned something about the neighbours, the people who had sold this place to him. He said he didn't do what they said he did, that they were giving him a hard time because he got the place for less than they were asking."
She blinked. I figured I'd better act locally and asked about movin' my stuff in so I could bang 'er. I asked her when I could pick up the key. This was just before the first of the month and she told me to come around with the deposit, so I did. Then she told me she had actually been served with a notice of eviction for renting out the suite. She said that it had happened before and that the landlord was just being a prick and that she wasn't worried and neither should I be. It was getting close to when I hadda move out of the place I was in like I said and I thought so what, I'll withhold my rent next month if we're getting kicked out anyway. Maybe buy an extra pack of smokes.

The Plant Whisperer pt II

Last Tuesday I was leafing through the latest Plant Annual looking at pictures mostly, when I vame accross an article on high-yeild tomatoes. Forcing plants to produce fruit is just wrong. Plants can be sharing, caring individuals and want to help. They need desperately to spread their seed and they want you to enjoy it... They really do. But you can't keep spraying and slpaying them like you do. It takes time. No Fir ever complained about being turned into a house. They are interested in archetecture - it's in their roots. They particularly appreciate organic structures which take into account their inner strength and esthetic charm. The Haida revere wood for these very reasons and allow their story-poles to topple eventually, as all living things must do.

Drums. boats, furniture - the list goes on. Books. Ever read a book? The glasses on your face not only don't suit you but were once little bi-valves getting along quite nicely until time ground them down and Karl Lagerhead sketched up a design. Well, you get the picture I hope... Even bi-valves gotta eat. Fast food? A French-fry is no more a plant than the Leafs are a hockey team. I saw a movie once where these astronauts go ahead in time and it turns out the place is inhabited by apes but it left me empty because it still wasn't clear as to wether they were carnivorous or not.

But I'm not here to lecture, just to pass some things along. Hybrids? What're ya going to do? I tried to enjoy some toast while I was reading and a crispy bit scratched the roof of my mouth so like, did some grain try to attack me for turning it into a mutant? I was just doing my bit to return it to the sea. Aquatics? Don't go there... except for the floaty stuff. Any deeper and you are the food. Just stay away.

The Disillusionists.

I thought I'd take the place before I even looked at it. I was never any good at looking for a place to live. Just making the effort to see something meant I might as well take it. There were plenty of places I hadn't seen... I hadn't taken all of them too. People asking too much and knowing sooner or later that someone would come along and take the place regardless of weather (sic) it was too much worth what they were asking. If someone is providing a service you expect to get what you pay for.
Anyway, the rent was cheap and the landlay's kids were using it as a playroom when I came over to see it. A little fixing up... one of those nice to have a man around situations, ya know what I'm sayin'? I took it for the beginning of next month. I didn't have to be out of the place I was house-sitting until the eleventh but I liked having a few days to move my stuff and get settled. I wanted to have someplace together before the friend of my old girlfriend came back from Guatamala. I can easily become one of those people who never leave. By doing something I all of a sudden wasn't one of those people. No matter... I took the first place that I looked.

to be continued...

The Plant Whisperer pt I

I am a plant whisperer and I can tell you that celery does not scream when it is cut. It's more like a sigh of relief... I mean, use your eyes people - it grew up in jail. Avacadoes are different, I feel sorry for them because most have had a good life, but they're just so darn tasty. Any ways, to answer the question most people ask, which is, "so mister smarty-trousers, what are they saying?" I say, "Are you nuts? It's not what they're saying, it's how they're saying it... dumbass."

Most plants, granted, are saying things like, eat me, or, smell me, or feed me to that four legged creature before it takes a crap on me - no wait, I'm hungry, never mind. Remember, plants are angry, thorny, scaly creatures that only have sex once a year but then quite a bit let me tell you. They deal with bugs. They are probed by birds. Rubbed by passers by. Trees stick together - talk about your clique mentality. I was chattin' with a cedar in the park the other day and he said he had to wait a long time before there was an opening. Then a dog bit me. Something about his territory but I didn't have a clue at the time. Had to call my buddy Jack the Dog Barker to figure that one out.

So back to the topic at hand - which is your haircut. Loser. Just kidding, but that's what it's like in the plant world these days. They're pissed and frankly, I don't blame them. Some claim to like the extra cee-oh-too but most decry the solid particles, diminished sunshine and the slippery water. Makes for lackadaisical cell structure and honestly, I've had more interesting conversations with fake plants in a bank than some of the produce that's on the shelves these days. (Don't get me started on hydroponics 'cuz I'd like to keep my job, capeesh?)