Old guy comes in. He passes by the counter, we exchange a few pleasantries about the weather. He browses around the store for about a half hour while I busy myself reading a novel. Finished browsing, he strikes up a conversation with me about a recent trip he made to Denmark, where he visited an adult video store not unlike this one.

"They had all sorts of videos there," he continues. He has a European accent of some kind. "Men with women, men with men, women with women..." I nod.

"...Men with animals..."

I nod again.

"You have anything like that here?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"You know...under the counter?"

I tell him I think not.

He begins to relate the story of a particular video he saw in Europe, featuring "a beautiful little pony...about this big." He holds his hand about waist height. "There was a man there, brushing her down...then he lifted up her tail..."

I tell him that I don't think we have anything like that here.

Then he describes an adventure in the Canary Islands, where a friend invited him to a "special live show" featuring a donkey and a man. After the performance, the audience members were invited to spend some private time with the donkey, at twenty dollars a head. "There was quite a lineup," he concludes, winking.

I nod knowingly.

"Yes, you get tired of seeing the same old thing. Men with men. Women with women. But men with animals...that's something to see."

Yes, I say. Then I excuse myself to help another customer who's wandered in. While I am preoccupied, the old man slips out without saying goodbye.

***

Mentally handicapped guy. About forty, overweight. Spends a few minutes roaming around the store, gawking at the merchandise on display. Eventually drifts up to the vicinity of the counter, where I ask if he could use any help.

"Where are the gentlemen's magazines?" he asks.

He is standing right by the porno magazines. I gesture toward them.

"No. The gentlemen's magazines."

"Do you mean magazines with pictures of gentlemen in them?" I ask. He nods. I direct him to the gay section.

After a few moments of feckless riffling, he returns. "I'm looking for a magazine with pictures of a man named Albert," he says.

"Okay," I say, accessing my large mental file of gay porno models. "Do you know his last name?"

"Just Albert."

"Okay...do you know what he looks like?"

"No."

I join him before our rack of gay magazines. "Do you know what magazines he's appeared in?" I ask, skimming a copy of Dude.

"No." He screws his face up, trying to find the words to explain his request. "I'm looking for a magazine," he at last proceeds, "that has pictures of a man named Albert."

"Do you mean, ANY man named Albert?"

"Yes," he replies, beaming.

I think it over. "There aren't a lot of men named Albert any more," I say. He shrugs.

So I join him in flipping through the magazines, looking for men named Albert. I am ashamed to say that my patience doesn't hold out. After examining two or three issues of Punk without success, I wish him luck in his quest, and return to my post behind the counter. He searches for a few more minutes, then he too gives up, and leaves disappointed.

***

Lonely Saskatoon Man. He's slender, with glasses and bird's-nest hair, and a pronounced limp. He comes in every Saturday.

We have a bulletin board for personal ads. Two dollars buys you the right to post an ad for two months, and receive messages in your own personal mailbox. The mailbox is just a numbered envelope we keep in a box behind the counter. Lonely Saskatoon Man has envelope number thirty. Here is what his ad says:

"I'm a SWM in my early 30s whose been housebound and lonely. I been having dreams about make out with a lovely lady and making it out with a married woman. But nothing ever happen when I wake up.

"I enjoy watching tapes and movies, reading magazines, would minded play games. Would like to meet over coffee first.

Lonely Saskatoon Man."

"Box thirty," he says, then shrugs. "Probably nothing."

I look in the envelope, but of course it's empty. "Sorry," I say. "Nothing there."

He nods his head and goes back to fake browsing. A few minutes later, absorbed in my newspaper, I hear the door open and shut. Lonely Saskatoon Man is gone.

***

"R." He's Filipino, thirtyish. Small, slender. Speaks with an accent. I first met him on my very first day alone at the store. He signed up for a new account. After I took down all his personal information - credit card number, phone number, all that stuff - and rented him five videos - some gay, some bi, some straight - he extended his hand. I took it. "What's your name?" he asked. I told him. "Pleased to meet you, Michael," he said, and shook my hand, and left with his five videos.

I saw him again the next week, and have seen him every week since. He's always friendly and remembers my name. He usually gets three or four gay or bi videos, and one or two straight ones.

Today he comes in just after we open. He returns some videos and picks out five new ones. As I run them through, he mentions that he came in during the week and asked after me.

"Yeah, I usually only work weekends," I say.

"The young lady didn't seem to know who you were," he says, smiling.

"That would be Ralanda, I guess. Sign here."

He signs his name. "I asked her, 'Is Michael in?' and she goes, 'Er...uh...'"

"Maybe she forgot I was working here now."

"Or maybe she thinks there's something going on between you and me, and she's not sure she should tell me anything, hey?"

"Maybe," I say, smiling back.

Our transaction completed, R. seems in no hurry to leave. He tells me about his difficulties finding a new job - he's working now as a convenience store clerk. I reveal that I was recently employed in the same field.

He's reading our bulletin board as we speak. He turns to me. "I've decided to put up an ad," he says. He chooses box number nine. I take his two dollars and give him a pen and paper. He stands by the counter to compose his message.

"What should I say?" he asks.

"I guess it depends."

"'Bi male, thirty-five...'" he begins, reciting as he writes. "Should I say I'm Filipino?"

"Why not be specific?" I say.

"'Filipino, looking for single male, twenty-five to forty-five, for friendship...'" I pretend I'm doing something on the computer.

"Should I put my cellphone number?"

"I guess if you want."

His ad complete, he pins it to the bulletin board. He stands around some more to chit-chat. He says he's waiting for a bus. He asks my age. I tell him twenty-five. "Oh, only twenty-five!" he says. "Well," he continues, gesturing in the direction of his new ad, "I guess twenty-five is all right."

I laugh wanly. "I'm just teasing you," he says.

"Okay," I say.

"But seriously, you should call me sometime, if you want to just hang out."

"Hmm," I say. I glance at my watch, causing him to glance at his.

"Well, I guess I'd better go catch my bus," he says, heading for the door.

"I'll see you next week," I say.

About two hours later, the phone rings. "It's R.," says the voice on the line.

"Hi, R."

"Guess what? I've already gotten two calls from my ad!"

"Wow," I say, surprised. I hadn't even noticed anyone reading the bulletin board.

"Yeah, that's really amazing, huh?"

I have to agree that it's pretty amazing.

"Anyway," he says. "So...how are things going there?"

"Not bad."

"Are you busy?"

"It's been a little busy, yeah."

"Oh, yeah."

"Yeah." I shuffle some papers, loudly.

"Well, anyway," he says.

"Anyway."

"I guess I should let you go..."

"Yeah, well, I'll see you next week..."

"If you want to call me, to just hang out..."

"Well, you know, I'm pretty busy..."

"Oh, yeah."

"Yeah."

"Anyway."

"Anyway. So I guess I'll see you next week, R."

"Goodbye, Michael."

"Goodbye R."

The rest of my day is uneventful.

Just take a little piece of PEI...
Mon, 23 Jul 2001

So, Andrew, you missed Stompin' Tom. I had a real good time. Damned if when Stompin' Tom strode onstage with his guitar and his stompin' plank that he threw to the floor with a bang and the crowd cheered and he launched into "Bud the Spud" and the crowd cheered louder and he started stompin' away, if I didn't get a little lump in my throat. I can't remember the last time I gave a shit for the Canadian flag or paid any attention to the Olympics or noticed when July 1st rolled around, but Tom is the kind of institution I'll stand on guard for.

Having said that, his little digression into political commentary in the second half was a bit disappointing. Somehow I'd prefer my national icons to remain non-partisan, at least in public. I guess Tom figures that since he's spent his whole life accumulating esteem from Canadians, he's now willing to squander a little of it attempting to raise esteem for David Orchard, of all people.

And then there were his dismissive asides about the United States. It seems a shame to me that a guy who's been so successful at helping to forge a positive self-image for Canada should find it necessary, in order to please a crowd, to revert to that old, negativist, reactionary tactic of belittling the States to build ourselves up. The greatest lesson of Stompin' Tom's career is that Canada is capable of inspiring a thousand terrific songs, and of sustaining the kind of artist who'll write those songs; and that we don't need to define ourselves only by emphasising our paltry differences with the Americans; that our culture is large and diverse and interesting enough to be defined by what it is, not just by what it isn't.

Speaking of that body of terrific songs, I wish Tom had left out a couple of the newer numbers to make room for some of the classics. Personally, I missed "My Stompin' Grounds" and "The Man in the Moon is a Newfie," though I guess the need to make the concert relevant to Saskatonians is what caused him to pull out that string of prairie-related tunes (all of which were good, mind you) near the beginning. Definitely would've been a better evening, though, if he'd left out the Erika Nordby song (she's the baby who froze to death in Edmonton last winter and "miraculously" was revived, to the immense interest of tabloid newspaper editors worldwide):

"Come here the story
Of Erika Nordby
Canada's miracle child."

I'm afraid I'm too cool, too.

The anti-self-doubt manifesto.
Fri, 27 Jul 2001

The anti-globalist ideology is a neat and increasingly self-contained worldview. Its appeal is the appeal of Christian fundamentalism, Nazism, flat-earthism, and conspiracy-theorism; it appeals to one's sense of self-righteousness and moral certitude, one's need for belonging, and (in the more extreme cases) one's desire for martyrdom. With all respect to the jailed FTAA protestors in Quebec - most of whom undoubtedly just got caught up in circumstances beyond their control - it appears that, for many, nothing could have made them happier than to get taken down by the cops. To have their victimhood and their ideological commitment simultaneously and so dramatically confirmed, at the end of a police baton - justifying, retroactively, all the months or years of carefully cultivated aggrievement - it seems to me that the protestors should have been happy to pay for the privilege. Can you imagine the feeling of deflation that would have settled on the hippie community if they'd been able (as, they claim, they wished all along) to simply wave their placards and march peacefully within shouting distance of the meeting world leaders? No violent confrontations - consequently, little or no coverage by the mainstream press - no martyrs to stir up additional sympathy - just another boring protest. The hippies would have been weeping in their soy milk. But all it took was for a couple rowdy brick-throwers to infiltrate the movement - to the public consternation, and secret satisfaction, of peace-loving hippies everywhere - and all that senseless ennui was avoided.

Alas, I'm no better, in my own capitalist-cabal-worshipping way. How smug I feel when I come across another nugget of rhetoric that supports my ideology! How deeply troubled I am when confronted with a really sound argument that seems to give credence to the hippies! Is it possible that they've been right all along? Are our elected leaders really the puppets of corporate interests? All their populist rhetoric - is it just a sham, to distract us from their true, mercenary agenda? Would the slum-dwellers of Indonesia really be better off if we shut down their shoe factories and took away their Coca-Cola and let them get back to the subsistence farming from which they were so cruelly uprooted? Are the capitalists destroying the planet? Boy, is my face gonna be red in fifty years when we're all bobbing in the ocean like extras from "Waterworld".

I remember how radical I imagined myself to be when I was sixteen. I wrote my year-end social studies essay on the black nationalist movement in the United States. Violence, I argued, in a juvenile defence of the Black Panthers, can be a useful tool for social change. Now I'm a mere ten years older and I'm beginning to think the Black Panthers might just have been the dangerous thugs the Nixon White House said they were. Do I really have to revisit all that archival footage of the riots at the '68 Democratic National Convention, sympathising this time with the baton-swinging Chicago cops? Neil Young's lyric about Kent State - "Four dead in Ohio" - so bracingly self-righteous - am I too old to hum along? Must I go back in time and reassess the war in Vietnam - in Korea - that useful villain Joe McCarthy - and how about the persecuted Communists of Hollywood? Free speech martyrs or naive pawns in a Soviet propaganda war? Ugh, what a lot of trouble. I wish people and events could just maintain their ideological fixity. Or rather, I wish I could.

So difficult to remain moderate.

Twenty-four hours behind the counter.
Sun, 5 Aug 2001

[Written during a marathon weekend of porno-clerking.]

THE UNTALENTED SALESMAN
A short play.

Dramatis personae:
a CLERK.
a CUSTOMER.

SCENE: A porno shop. The CUSTOMER is browsing among the racks of lingerie. The CLERK is sitting behind a counter nearby, reading a newspaper. The CUSTOMER approaches the counter holding a pair of latex underwear:

CLERK: Yes?

CUST: What is it for?

CLERK: I'm sorry?

CUST: What does it do?

CLERK: Do?

CUST: Yes, what does it do?

CLERK: Ah...I'm not sure...I mean, what, really, does anything do?

CUST: That's true.

CLERK: I mean, what do I do? What do YOU do?

CUST: What I'm asking is, does it prolong your erection?

CLERK: Oh, I see. No, I don't think it does.

CUST: Oh.

CLERK: I mean, I'm no expert, but...

CUST: ...But?

CLERK: But I think, no.

CUST: Oh. That's too bad.

CLERK: It is too bad.

CUST: Thank you.

The CUSTOMER returns the underwear to the lingerie section and resumes his browsing. The CLERK returns to his paper.

After a few moments, the CUSTOMER approaches the counter once again.

CLERK: What do you mean?

CUST: Which lingerie do they buy?

CLERK: Which lingerie...?

CUST: I mean, it's usually women, right? Men don't come in to buy this stuff.

CLERK: Well, oftentimes men buy lingerie. Other times, it is the women who buy the lingerie. You know, it can be one or the other.

CUST: So what is most popular?

CLERK: Uh...

CUST: Which lingerie is most popular with women, in your experience?

CLERK: Uh...let me join you in the lingerie section.

The CLERK emerges from behind the counter and together they walk over to the lingerie section. The CLERK shuffles through the items on the rack.

CUST: What do you recommend?

CLERK: Uh. Are you shopping for somebody in particular?

CUST: Yeah, my girlfriend.

CLERK: Okay. So, do you know what she likes?

CUST: I don't know.

The CLERK picks an item at random.

CUST: I see. Do those fit women of every size?

CLERK: (examining the label) It says 'one size fits most'.

CUST: So would you say that would fit most women?

CLERK: I would think, assuming your girlfriend is of average size, it should fit, probably, unless she's of larger size, in which case it might be a bit tight, or if she's smaller, in which case, it could be a bit loose. It's hard to say, really.

CUST: Well, she's pretty average. But she's big up top.

CLERK: So you might want to look for something a little looser on top. Otherwise she might find it a little tight. Around the...you know...the bust region.

CUST: Hmm. Yes, that's true.

CLERK: Yes. (pause) But if you're not sure that it will fit...

CUST: Yes?

CLERK: Then perhaps you should come back with your girlfriend and she can try it on in our changing room.

CUST: I don't think she'd like to do that.

CLERK: Then it's a gamble.

CUST: True. Well, I'll think about it.

CLERK: That's a good idea. I'll just stand nearby and look busy.

The CLERK stands nearby and looks busy while the CUSTOMER continues to browse among the lingerie.

Soon the CUSTOMER wanders over to the sex toy section. He pulls a dildo off the wall. He regards it with skepticism.

CLERK: Yes?

CUST: Can you explain what this is?

CLERK: Perhaps. (he looks at it) It is a dildo.

CUST: Is it for lesbians?

CLERK: Is it?

CUST: Is that why the woman on the box cover has it strapped onto her thigh?

CLERK: That may be.

CUST: Is that what you're supposed to do? Are you supposed to strap it to your thigh?

CLERK: According to the box cover, yes.

CUST: So is it only for lesbians?

CLERK: I'm not sure. Probably.

CUST: Oh.

Disappointed, the CUSTOMER returns the dildo to the wall where he found it. The CLERK is still looking busy.

The CUSTOMER takes one final look around.

CLERK: It's been my pleasure.

CUST: I guess I can't really find anything that my girlfriend would like.

CLERK: That's too bad.

CUST: Yes, it is. I really wanted to buy something here today.

CLERK: Oh, well.

CUST: Perhaps some other time?

CLERK: Perhaps, perhaps not.

CUST: Yes. Well, goodbye.

CLERK: Have a nice day.

The CUSTOMER exits. The CLERK returns to his spot behind the counter and reads his newspaper.

***

THE SALESMAN WHO TAUGHT HIMSELF THE GREEK ALPHABET
Another short play.

Dramatis personae:
a CLERK.
his GUARDIAN ANGEL.

SCENE: A porno shop. The CLERK is behind the counter, reading from a thick book. Every few seconds he stops and writes something on a scrap of paper. Then he returns to the book.

His GUARDIAN ANGEL appears. The CLERK does not notice him.

The ANGEL stands unmoving for approximately seven minutes. The CLERK is still absorbed in his book. Finally, impatient, the ANGEL turns to leave. The CLERK finally sees him.

ANGEL: Hello.

CLERK: I didn't see you there.

ANGEL: I've been standing here for approximately seven minutes.

CLERK: I'm sorry. Did you come to rent pornography from me?

ANGEL: Well, I very well might have, and what kind of customer would that make me?

CLERK: I don't understand.

ANGEL: A dissatisfied customer. That's what it would make me. Standing here for seven minutes, for heaven's sake, unnoticed. What are you so absorbed in?

CLERK: It is a concise dictionary of classical mythology.

ANGEL: And what are you doing with the pen and paper?

CLERK: I'm teaching myself the Greek alphabet again. I used to know it, but I sort of lost it. So I thought I would teach it to myself again.

ANGEL: I see.

CLERK: So what I'm doing is, I'm flipping through the dictionary looking for the names of characters from Greek mythology, and then I'm writing out their names in the Greek alphabet. And then I look in the book to see if I'm correct - see? It has the actual Greek spelling in italics.

ANGEL: That's very interesting.

CLERK: Yes it is.

ANGEL: And how are you doing?

CLERK: I keep getting omicron and omega mixed up. They seem to be used interchangeably, and I can't quite make out when I should be using one and when I should be using the other.

ANGEL: Ah.

CLERK: Also, epsilon and eta.

ANGEL: Yes.

CLERK: Do you know the Greek alphabet?

ANGEL: No.

CLERK: That's a shame. It's really very useful. For instance, at parties.

ANGEL: Ah?

CLERK: And for impressing girls, I find, it comes in very handy.

ANGEL: No doubt.

CLERK: But enough about me and my ongoing attempts to teach myself the Greek alphabet. How can I help you today?

ANGEL: You can answer me this question: Have you given any thought to how you are going to spend the next few years of your life?

CLERK: How do you mean?

ANGEL: Where do you see yourself in ten years' time?

CLERK: That's an interesting question.

ANGEL: Well, you should think about it.

CLERK: Perhaps I should.

ANGEL: I think so.

CLERK: Why is it so important to you that I think about what I'm going to be doing in ten years' time?

ANGEL: I'll explain it to you, Michael. It's because I'm your guar...

CLERK: Hold on a second, will you?

The CLERK goes to the CD player on the counter and removes the "Greatest Hits of Bing Crosby" CD which has been playing quietly in the background, and replaces it with a Belle & Sebastian CD. The ANGEL, meanwhile, is idly scanning the videos on display.

The CLERK returns.

ANGEL: Hmm? Oh, nothing. What do you need to get an account here?

CLERK: Either a credit card or a photo driver's license and your social insurance card.

ANGEL: I don't have my card but I know my number.

CLERK: I guess that's all right. Just don't tell my boss. He gets really mad about that.

ANGEL: All right. I'd like to rent this copy of "Rocco's Best Butt Fucks".

CLERK: Okay. That'll be four dollars and fifty one cents.

The ANGEL pays. The CLERK puts his video in a bag and gives him his change.

ANGEL: Thank you.

The CLERK returns to his Greek studies. The ANGEL turns into a butterfly and floats out the door, which is open for some reason.

***

THE SALESMAN WHO WAS OBSESSED WITH KEVIN CHONG
Another short play.

Dramatis personae:
a CLERK.
the GLOBE & MAIL, Canada's national newspaper, founded in 1844.

SCENE: A porno shop. The CLERK is seated behind the counter, reading the GLOBE & MAIL.

The GLOBE & MAIL suddenly comes to life.

CLERK: The author of this article is Kevin Chong! My arch-nemesis! The playwright who parlayed his fourth-place finish in the drama contest I won seven years ago into a literary career!

GLOBE: Yes! He is the author of this flimsy piece on Antoine de Saint Exupery!

CLERK: He was paid money to write this!

GLOBE: The devious scoundrel.

CLERK: He probably received in excess of one hundred dollars to compose these paltry, inadequately-researched, gramatically-unsound sentences!

GLOBE: How much were you paid to work fourteen consecutive hours at the porno shop?

CLERK: Six dollars and forty cents an hour.

GLOBE: Meanwhile Kevin Chong eats caviar in his penthouse apartment and talks on his cell phone to his agent and picks up cute girls at the local Starbucks by casually mentioning the fact that he is a published author.

CLERK: Curse his name! Curse his family! Curse the seed from which he sprang!

GLOBE: You tell 'im!

CLERK: Gaarh!

The CLERK tears at his hair and gnashes his teeth. The GLOBE & MAIL dances around the store, cheerfully disordering the merchandise on the shelves.

The CLERK removes his shirt and flagellates himself with a twelve-inch dildo. The GLOBE & MAIL sets fire to the store.

The CLERK gouges out his eyes and wanders moaning onto Idylwyld Drive, where he is flattened by a pickup truck. The GLOBE & MAIL spins crazily off into the center of the universe, collapses into a black hole, and sucks four thousand constellations into the whirling abyss of its relentlessly Toronto-centric news coverage.

***

THE SALESMAN WHO DROVE AWAY PRETTY GIRLS
Another short play.

Dramatis personae:
a CLERK.
two PRETTY GIRLS.

SCENE: A porno shop. The CLERK is sitting behind the counter, reading his newspaper. Two PRETTY GIRLS enter. They are about eighteen years old and blonde. They wander through the store, looking at the video covers, giggling to themselves. The CLERK casts hate-filled glances their way.

The GIRLS at last approach the counter.

The CLERK scowls at them.

CLERK: Get out of here! Can't you see I don't want your business! Go! YOU GODDAMNED WHORES!

The PRETTY GIRLS scream in terror and run out the door. The CLERK settles down behind the counter and begins reading his newspaper once more.

Bad day.
Tue, 11 Sep 2001

Richard Holbrooke - former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations - is talking on CNN. He's condemning the Taliban for harbouring Osama bin Laden. Pictures flash by. The World Trade Center smoking; people screaming; people fleeing; the World Trade Center collapsing. "All the evidence points to Osama bin Laden and the Taliban leaders," Holbrooke says. I'm not sure what the evidence is right now. No-one knows how many casualties there are. It's crazy.

Now we've got a tape of President Bush's recent statement. The audio doesn't work. His lips move. The picture breaks up. The anchor breaks in to apologise for the faulty feed. Now they're trying again. "Make no mistake," says the President, "The United States will hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts." He keeps looking down at his notes. His lips purse desperately. I miss Clinton.

Pulled between two contradictory impulses. One moment I'm choking back tears, the next moment I'm perversely wishing for more carnage. Makes great television, doesn't it? Then, more tears.

All the U.S. leaders seem so small. Rudy Giuliani, voice shaking, nearly incoherent. John McCain, squeaky-voiced and irrelevant. Bush, moving his lips like it requires all his concentration. Maybe they'll start to look better in a few hours. Maybe I'm being unduly harsh.

Somewhere out there, in the Middle East maybe, or maybe not, there's a crowd of people gathered around a television set, cheering and high-fiving as each scene of carnage scrolls by. Sick fuckers.

If, in coming days, I hear one hippie sanctimoniously condemning terrorism while blaming the United States for cultivating a "culture of violence" or some such horseshit, I'll hit him with a brick.

A benevolent deity.
Wed, 12 Sep 2001

Judy Woodruff, CNN anchor, declaring that even those people who don't believe in a supreme deity naturally find themselves wishing, at a time like this, for a higher power to reassure them that things will turn out alright. I guess this is the same fickle higher power that one lucky escapee from the collapsing towers thanked, at the end of his CNN interview, for overseeing his evacuation. The thousands who were left behind? Well, maybe they just weren't praying hard enough. Or maybe God just had other plans for them; plans that involved being crushed under a falling building, suffocated by thick dust, or burned alive by jet fuel.

At least the Muslim fundamentalists (assuming that the perpetrators were such) have a consistent, if callous, theology. The heathens who died in the attack are undeserving of sympathy; the good Muslims who died committing it can look forward to an eternity of pleasure in Paradise. Allah rewards the faithful; he punishes the rest. Judy Woodruff's God, apparently, hasn't got time for such distinctions.

Warren & Kurt’s birthday party.
Sat, 15 Sep 2001 

When I was a lad many decades ago
In the villages where I did dwell
The children would whisper of that horrible night
That the elders remembered too well

The women would faint or go pale at the word
When we asked of the night when the party occurred
There were no survivors, but who hasn't heard
Of the party of Warren and Kurt?
Of the party of Warren and Kurt?

On a fine autumn night in 2001
It is said, they burst forth like a plague
And when morning came, only wreckage remained
From Zealandia clear up to Hague

They tore down the bridges and burned Midtown Mall
And ate all the babies and stormed City Hall
And no-one thought civilisation would fall
At the party of Warren and Kurt
At the party of Warren and Kurt

Though there were no survivors, the legend still spread
Of how Stu built a temple from the bones of the dead
And Kurt was Prime Minister, and Jenn was the Queen
And they put Warren to work on a doomsday machine

The party's been over for a hundred odd years
But it's said that on every full moon
Their phantoms still cackle and screech through the night
In the ruins of old Saskatoon

They tore down the bridges and torched Circle Drive
And who would have thought when they began to arrive
That in all Saskatoon, not a soul would survive
The party of Warren and Kurt
The party of Warren and Kurt

A happy reversion to the mean.
Sun, 23 Sep 2001 

It dawned on me a few hours ago that tomorrow is Monday and that I should probably spend my Monday - and the rest of this week - and, indeed, as long as it takes - looking for a job. How dreadful. I think I still have a resume ready from my last period of joblessness - a mere four months ago - which, after I've tweaked it a little, I can print off tomorrow morning. But where do I want to take it? I've no idea.

I was just getting used to introducing myself as "unemployed" again. At first, after I lost my job, I was a little reluctant to admit it to people. I hesitated, and equivocated, and eventually was forced to admit that I'd recently been fired - which led to further equivocation and explanation, which no-one was much interested in hearing anyway. But I'm moving on. I've stopped saying that I'm "between jobs," as this denoted a certainty of returning to work - and indeed, an eagerness to return to work - that suggested that employment was my natural condition.

But I think unemployment might be my natural condition. The word fits me well. It falls naturally from my tongue. I never really felt comfortable describing myself, for instance, as a porno clerk. I always felt like I was exaggerating somehow, as if I were aspiring to a title of which I could never be completely worthy. A porno clerk, to my mind, ought to be an interesting guy with interesting stories to share, someone who is a lot of fun at parties, someone who has been privy to many whispered sexual secrets - someone very unlike me, in other words; though it gave me pleasure to think that some people, even if only for a second or two, might have mistaken me for that kind of person.

Even, back in my Mac's days, the title of convenience store clerk seemed to hang on me crookedly, like a Napoleon hat on a billy goat. "What do you do?" people would ask me. "I work in a convenience store in the north end," I'd reply, as a means of eliding my actual job title; but what I wanted to say was, "Nothing much. Hang around. Watch some movies. Read a little. Play Scrabble." It's not just that this would have been a more honest reply, seeing as I was working only part-time. More importantly, it would have given a better impression of where my priorities lay. Why should I, employed as I soon will be (I have little doubt) in yet another position of no consequence, no permanence, and no possible interest to anyone, least of all myself, fall into the trap of identifying myself by the latest meaningless job title I have acquired? At future parties, when someone asks "What do you do?" I will answer truthfully: "Nothing much. Hang around. Watch some movies. Read a little. Play Scrabble." If that doesn't satisfy 'em, they're probably not worth knowing. Or so I will pretend.

On eating.
Wed, 03 Oct 2001

I had a girlfriend a few years back who was a vegetarian. She wasn't very strict about it - she'd eat seafood, as well as dairy and eggs. At first I thought this was hypocritical of her - how can it be morally wrong to eat a chicken, I thought, but morally acceptable to eat a tuna?

But after giving it some thought, I realised that anyone who adheres to rules about what they will and will not eat is opening himself to charges of hypocrisy. For instance, all of my friends eat meat, but most would agree that it's unacceptable to eat, say, a dolphin. Why? Because a dolphin is smarter than a cow? What if there were an animal that was less smart than a dolphin, but smarter than a cow? Would it be acceptable to eat that animal? How smart would the animal have to be in order for my friends not to eat it?

Even the strictest of vegetarians eventually has to draw a line between what can and can't be eaten. Would a vegan eat a bug? I guess not. What about some primitive sea creature that survived by photosynthesis - a plankton, say? Would a vegan eat plankton? And if the answer is no - well, really, what's the difference between eating plankton and eating an ear of corn? Everyone has to choose just how strict they're going to be - where, precisely, they will draw that line. My ex-girlfriend drew the line somewhere between fishes and poultry. For convenience's sake, I've decided to use the same line.

Some meat-eaters believe that the hypocrisies I've mentioned above invalidate the whole philosophy of vegetarianism. I think they're mistaken. Given a choice between doing something I suspect is morally wrong - eating cows - and doing something I suspect is less morally wrong - eating fishes - I've chosen to do less wrong. And even if my reasoning is faulty - what harm is done? A few cows live marginally longer lives, and I remain skinny.

Short-pants agnosticism.
Sat, 20 Oct 2001 

Saturday afternoon. Taking a break from packing.

I'm making slow progress. Today I've been going through old papers. My mother recently extinguished what little spark of sentiment remained smouldering in her maternal breast, and declared that she was no longer going to lug boxes full of my old school writing assignments from house to house. She threatened to throw it all in a dumpster, so I've undertaken a hasty salvage mission, so that at least a few of my early poems and essays will be available to be psychoanalysed by my future biographer.

I threw out all the crap, of course - grade two Mother's Day cards made out of sunflower seeds and tissue paper; early, monochromatic experiments in finger-painting - but kept a stack of elementary school short stories and drawings. Other valuable finds:

...A kindergarten report card, praising my politeness and ability to sit quietly, but noting that "Michael is still having trouble with the number 5."

...Scribbled marginalia in my eight- and ninth-grade school notebooks, detailing the band-name evolution of my junior-high rock-n-roll combo: "Beenz", "MC Bagen B. and the Macro-Meat Monsters", "Naked Satan in Disguise", "J.C. and the Hoppin' Apostles"; frequently accompanied by crude drawings of me with long hair and grungy facial hair, strumming a guitar. 

...And this unsigned letter, dating from first or second grade, and apparently intended for God:

"Have mercy for us God? We are truly the one's who have the most spieces, the smartest of the whole galaxey

You oh mighty Lord have seen us do very many thing's

And it is you God you who have watched over the Earth while us we have prayed for many things that have not yet been answered.

What do we have to do

Ask Santa

So why should we ask you"

So I finished "Robinson Crusoe". I found it a little disappointing. I liked the adventure elements - man against nature, man against cannibals, that kind of thing - all the stuff that people think of when they think of the novel. What no-one seems to remember is that you have to sludge through five long chapters about the protagonist's rebellious teenage years and early career as a Brazilian plantation owner before he finally gets himself shipwrecked and the good stuff starts. What's more, once he finally escapes the island, you have to endure four more anticlimactic chapters of Crusoe returning to Europe and getting his finances back in order. But worst of all, right in the middle, during the most exciting parts of the narrative, when he's stuck on his island, harried by nature and cannibals and cutthroats, the narrator insists on pausing to deliver lengthy, tedious lessons in theology.

I am grateful that, not being a Christian, I am not obliged to live in fear of the God who haunts poor Robinson Crusoe. First God wrecks his ship, killing everyone else on board, to punish Crusoe for the sin of having gone to sea against his parents' wishes. Then, when the shipwreck washes near the shore, allowing the castaway to retrieve a few supplies, Crusoe falls on his knees and thanks God. Crusoe falls ill - further punishment, it is suggested, for the sin of not honouring his father and mother. Then he gets well. He falls on his knees and thanks God. Then God sends cannibals. When the cannibals neglect to devour him, he thanks God. Time and time again, God pushes him to the brink of death, then pulls him back at the last second - and each time, Crusoe thanks God for the ride.

The sermons get even more tiresome when various savages and Spaniards begin to arrive on his island, giving Crusoe the opportunity to compare his enlightened Protestantism with the wretched heresies of the cannibals and Papists. (The Church of Rome, he reluctantly admits, is perhaps a shade more civilised than the cannibalistic tribes of the Caribbean islands.) When he finally dedicates ten pages to the manufacture of a corral for his herd of goats, it's fascinating by comparison.

The first person narrative.
Wed, 12 Dec 2001

"Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn". Taken together, they really demonstrate the advantages of the first-person narrative in story-telling. "Tom Sawyer" is written from the perspective of Mark Twain, narrator, and he spends too much of his time elbowing the reader in the ribs, so to speak, cracking wise about the events in his story, passing judgement on the characters he's created.

Remember that tedious chapter Twain sets aside to make fun of the literary compositions of high school girls? What a waste of literary energies! Here's the pre-eminent American satirist of the 19th century, taking aim at the slowest-moving target since the dodo was wiped out. How pathetic would I have to be to reproduce, and then belittle, at agonising length, the poems that appear on the Saskatoon Star-Phoenix's "youth page"? - and I'm no Mark Twain. Anyway, the narrator's voice leaves little room for discovery on the part of the reader. Opinions arrive pre-assembled by the author - unlike in "Huckleberry Finn", where we're forced to construct our own version of events, because the main voice we hear is that of Huck, a not-entirely-reliable storyteller.