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14 November 2007 @ 12:47 am
Rigid winds have died down and now the winter's settling in like a fucking wet blanket. I need new shoes because my heels are torn from all the walking and the tripping and the standing. My ipod dies quicker in the cold, and so do homeless people.

Toronto can be really nice when it's clear outside, but when it's muggy, I'd rather be curled up inside of a compost bin. Can't get rid of these fruit flies... Amanda was killing them with some lysol spray earlier. They dropped like flies... only they're smaller than flies.. though gravity affects them pretty much the same way.

You know, I've lost about 10 pounds somehow. Got sick a few weeks back and it made my throat hurt. Couldn't eat, let alone suck. That's a fucking joke.
My other blog got taken off for inappropriate materials from Blogrush, for a joke. I guess. I really don't know why. Obviously Blogrush is sensitive. I shouldn't even be talking about it- it might get it's feelings hurt.

"I'll say, Remington, where's you get that sweater?"
"Why it's simple, Winston, I knitted it out of your wife's pubic hair."
"But my wife is dead!"
"I didn't say it was easy!"

And thus, we continue down the spiral of life, pretending it's a circle and that everything is just Pi. But no one knows, because there is no math, no geometry and no measurements. Everything is an infinite web of the somethingness-nothingness, and at the same time, I couldn't possibly say anything more offensive. Except maybe the "n" word- that seems to get radio jockeys and comedians off the air!
But I'm not a radio jockey. Nor am I a comedian. I'm being totally fucking serious here- with two bananas coming out of my ears, an orange smile, and a bullet-hole through the middle of my brain. My human anatomy is on display under my skin, at least when I'm on the web. In realty I'm wearing a sweater consisting of the very fabric your dead wife's special area had cultivated. In realty I can't communicate, because I need the emotional detachment of the keyboard to satisfy my very textual mind. Yeah, textual. I love having Text. Sweet, hot, sweaty, text.

And with that, I draw to a close this wholly uninspiring rant of nothingness, while children and mothers and fathers and creepy uncles get killed in Darfur, or Iraq, or wherever there is something less palatable than Paris Hilton for North America to turn it's attention to. Someone figure out how to marry politics and entertainment with the age-old strategy of "Hey- look at that!" while they start pulling the guts out of the machine.

And this machine is going to bed.
16 May 2007 @ 09:42 pm
We always get what we want, don't we?
That's a fact.

If you think you're getting stuff you don't want, then you're just lying to yourself, you steaming sack of shit. You want it; you know you want it, and even though you really DON'T want it, getting anything but it would be a change, and you can't handle change, because you've grown accustomed to getting it, so you really want it.

You see how that works?

The only way to truly get what you want, is to WANT it. Plain and simple. Figure that out, and you can have anything you want.
14 May 2007 @ 11:43 pm
What is the strange creature living inside of my head, that is myself?
With the strange irregularity of random encounters I find myself, from time to time, inhabiting an alien body. The body is sick. The body is dying. The body is a rental.
But am I more than just a bag of flesh and bones? Is there a character arc for me, or are those just things I impose on creations of mine? Is it all just a theory on paper?
Is LIFE just a thing to experience while it's on sale, or is there another level to it?
I'm horribly sick, and yet I'm only as sick as my body is, really. It's my mind I'm worried about. If that gets sick with the bombardment of reality, what happens to the pleasure of fantasy?
Everybody's always telling me to be "real" or enter "reality"... does that mean I need to conspire against my fellow man, wear skimpy clothing, and pursue the money trail? Or does it just mean I need to sacrifice my dreams and wants in lieu of more "realistic" goals?

Fuck that. I'm insane, and I have no life, and I'm content with that.
When I figure it out, you'll never know, unless you have too. Then we'll probably talk and laugh about how funny Hitler and 9/11 are, when shown on the great slide-show of a vast and horrible history. Welcome to the human race, in the words of John Carpenter's Snake Plisskin.
27 April 2007 @ 10:27 pm
I gots to get outta here, I says to myself. Out of my defective brain and into la-la-land once more. It's the only place I'm not abhorred.

I keep walkin' around with my pajama pants on, and people give me funny looks, like I don't live here or something. I'll see a thousand girls with their PJS walking down the streets getting looks for different reasons. Maybe it's not my pants. Maybe I'm starting to look crazy.

I'm certainly starting to FEEL crazy. Starting is such a lie. I should say I've always felt crazy. Like the slow drip of the tap, eroding the sink below. Like a short circuit every once in a while.

I've been "diagnosed" with ADD, ADHD, Bipolar, Schizophrenia, Manic Depression, etc, etc... they're all just opinions. No one knows for sure. All that I know is that I am cursed and blessed at the same time, and that statement in itself is too simplistic. It's shades of gray at all times, you see. I have been shown the door, and choose the window instead. Life is a series of unending coincidences and (seemingly) meaningless metaphors. It doesn't end, but it does change. Everything changes, and change is scary. But change it must, and so I must. But at the same time, I never will.

Am I crazy? Or just smarter than myself?
11 April 2007 @ 07:22 pm
It was a Tuesday afternoon when Samuel J. Preston named his pubic lice. After several failed attempts with shampoos, fine combs and CLR to rid himself of the little friends, he decided to try persuasion. 'Perhaps,' Sammy thought, 'if I befriend them, they'll leave on their own will'.

And he was right... several weeks after his new outlook, most of the lice had moved on. For lice, you see, are not after your blood, or your warmth... that's a common misconception. They're there to annoy their host. Thousands of years ago, in a time of magic and warlocks, an evil wizard named 'Licander the Animal' hosted a rather splendid bash in his wizard's tower. The following morning, he woke up with a massive hangover, only to find several of his party guests had not yet left. They lurked around his tower until well past noon, raiding his food stores and potions without asking. To exact his revenge, he transformed them all into what are now known as Pubic Lice, and decreed that they would live forever to annoy others as he himself was annoyed.

But Samuel J. Preston was not aware of any wizards or curses. He was just aware of the one remaining friend, an inch from the base of his penis. This particular pest was known to him as Bhiggieboo.

Bhiggieboo wasn't the biggest infester, nor the most painful... but under a magnifying glass, Sammy had noticed a peculiar feature on the lice's head- an exact replica of Salvador Dali's "Persistence of Memory". Of course, Samuel wondered why such a revered piece of art was manifested on this crotch-invader, but Bhiggieboo never talked, never moved, and never left.

NEVER left.

When Samuel turned 57, he undressed in front of his first woman-friend. By this time in his life, Bhiggieboo had fed on enough of Sammy's blood to become the size of a small goiter. Sammy had become used to the "What's that?" question when taking down his pants in the public change-rooms, but the particular woman he had finally acquired just happened to be not only a doctor, but a fine art collector as well.

"Why is there a giant public lice with a Salvador Dali on it's head?" was at that time, the most specific question Sammy had ever been asked.

But he didn't know. Sammy never knew. He never knew why Bhiggieboo never left, and he never knew why the girl who was a doctor and fine art collector hit him on the back of the head with the lamp from beside the bed, killing him.

Now, his skin hangs in her basement, and his bones are in her backyard. His organs were digested by her dog, and now they lie in little plastic bags filled with dog shit in the local dump.

But Bhiggieboo is in a jar, 50 feet under a military base in Greenland. He's still alive, and has enough of Samuel J. Preston's blood to live a hundred years.

In the great nuclear war of 2012, Bhiggieboo escaped and was never seen again. It is said, that after the human race died, and aliens visited the planet many decades later, Bhiggieboo had grown to the size of a house, and ruled the world with an iron fist. He enslaved the aliens, and put them to work in factories, replicating the many works of Salvador Dali on the backs of his fellow lice.
01 April 2007 @ 09:22 pm
I was buried deep in a sexual nightmare when the odour first came to me. My brain, already ruled by the subconscious, manifested a dirty poo-scene. I was being interrogated by a shit-smearing detective. Every time I refused to answer, he shoved more in my mouth. He kept asking me: "What's your name?" I don't know why I didn't want to answer. The subconscious likes to leave strings dangling, and why not?

I awoke with a gag. At first, I thought it was a double dream... the smell of shit lingered in the air like a salty reminder. It took me a few seconds to shake off the grogginess and the disgust before I ventured to the bathroom to let loose my bladder. That was when I discovered the source of the smell.

From the porcelain receptacle, waves not unlike those above a mirage or a BBQ were eminating. I dared a peek.

Inside the toilet, trying to crawl it's way out of the water unsuccessfully, was a log of feces. I was aghast! I even recognized this particular defication by the varity of legumes present. It was at LEAST two weeks old. How long had it been lurking? Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a subtle whisper.

"Hey, a little help down here?"

Oh no.... please tell me my shit isn't talking to me...

"Excuse me. Yeah you- would you mind?"

I glaced again- the excrement was indeed staring at me- two half-rotten nuggets of corn acting as eyes. Appalled, I flushed. The log let out a horrid scream as it went back to the pipes from whence it came.

This is ok- it was probably a hallucination... maybe it's still a dream? Nope. I'm awake. That's for sure. Crazy? Perhaps. No matter. I decided to go back to sleep and see what happens.

Two hours later, I awoke again- the same putrid stench filling my nostrils...

Returning to the lavoratory, I encountered the same turd, attempting to escape it's prison.

"You again!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah- you gonna help me this time, asshole?" the shit responded. I was about to get offended at the name-calling, but realized that it was being more literal than I first had thought.

What choice, had I?

I went to the kitchen and got a pair of rubber gloves. Scooping the crap out of the bowl, I held it at eye level.

"I need to get to Cleveland" the shit stated.
"What's in Cleveland?" I inquired.
"Destiny" was the answer I recieved.

I'll skip over the rest of the details for the sake of brevity. I will, however mention, that getting past airport security with a carry-on full of defication is no small task...


Cleveland, 14 hours later.

The shit directed me to a gas station near the edge of town. We hadn't talked much along the way. The shit preferred to keep it's "destiny" to itself, and I preferred not to talk to a log of poop.

At it's request, I entered the washroom on the side of the station, and brought the shit out of my bag.

"We're here" I said.
"Good. Now place me in the bowl, and flush." it commanded.
"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" I inquired, knowing I might never see this particular mystery again.
"Some things are better left unsaid, my good asshole" he responded.
"Do you want me to put you outside?" I threatened.
"Alright. I'll tell you this much," my shit said to me, "I was brought back by a force that neither you or I could ever understand, and I've been instructed to enter THIS piping system"
"Why here?" I asked.
"The why is always left out, when dealing with destiny, ass" my poo retorted.

Certain I would not get any further, I said my good-bye and placed it in the toilet. I flushed. After a few spirals, it was gone. And then the water rose, spilling all over the floor. I ran out of the washroom, and got in my rental car.

On the way back to the airport, I pondered heavily on the events that had transpired. I had just spent my savings on the whim of a talking log, and had received no amicable reason why. That's just life though- a neverending series of leaps-of-faith. Sometimes, people leap for their Gods, and sometimes for their Logs.

And then I realized why. I had never leaped before. Not for anything. No risk, no gain, no change. But here I was in Cleveland- a city I'd never been to before.

I got drunk. I met a man in the bar who was wearing a dress. He was going to Vegas. What the hell, why not?


Five days later I returned home with One Million dollars in ransom money. The transvestite and I had gotten high on some form of Mescaline, and kidnapped a Paris Hilton impersonator. Her vapid parents were loaded, ironically. A vapid child whose only skill was to imitate the personification of vapidness, and yet was able to make a killing for it.

I, in turn, made money off of her vapid parents, and parted ways with the transvestite, a richer man.

My shit never crawled out of the toilet after that, and I often wonder whether it's purpose was to fulfill my own destiny, or if some unknown events had transpired in those Cleveland sewers... but I'm rich now, so I have no more need for thoughts. I just buy them now. I'm just as vapid as the your heiress impersonator. I'm just as full of shit.
02 March 2007 @ 02:20 am
I've left my body again. This time, it's the barren wastelands of the American desert. I had just watched the ABC mini-series of Stephen King's The Stand, so I guess that's what triggered it. Something is teling me Utah, but it could be Nevada just as easily. I've never been to either physically.

No matter.

In front of me- not 40 yards ahead- are two hundred angry rattlesnakes. Thank god they aren't mad at me. They're pissed at the television crew that scooped them up and dumped them in a small pit. Some reality show contestants are signing waivers on clipboards. One cameraman is adjusting his focus and sees me, standing in the distance. He looks up from the lense and I'm gone. Another check in the camera, and I'm back. I bet he wants to say something, but he won't. They never do. They'd seem crazy. Cameramen are usually the silent type anyway. They're the gig-to-gig type. Not a lot of friends, but tons of contacts. Poor cameraman. The camera can see me, because it's not an idiot like people are. To prove a point, I expose my ass and gently moon him. He writes me off as a hallucination and returns to his work. Being silly like that makes a lot of people think THEY'RE the crazy ones.

10 minutes later, the contestants are rolling around in the snakes looking for cash at the bottom of the pit. One guy gets bit pretty bad, and they haul him out with the giant crane they have everyone attached to with bungee cords. The cameraman keeps glancing over where I was, but he can't pull the camera away from the action, or risk the wrath of the executives behind him.

It comes down to two stupid guys in the pit. They're fighting each other now. The snakes are biting ankles without discrimination. They're slogging each other in the face with fists full of dollar bills. Collectively, they probably have about $50 between them. Reality is cheap, I guess. Or maybe they get residuals for the use of their image? That would even benefit the loosers. So probably not. They're probably just desperate and poor.

I notice the camera again- it's U-HD. That isn't even invented yet. I must be in the future. Just like Richard Bachman's (aka Stephen King's) The Running Man. That's a book about a cynical game show in the future, where people die. Maybe I'm not in the desert at all. Maybe I landed in Mr. King's brain. It's a nice place. A dark place; but it's that comforting darkness.. like a womb, or a cozy blanket-party.

I get right to the edge of the pit as one of the fighters delivers a KO. The other guy dies later on, but whatever. He's a looser anyway. Everyone's paying attention to the winner now. They're asking him a bunch of questions while the medics patch up his feet. The other guy is still in the pit, dying. No one cares about him. He didn't win. In this show- 2nd place ALWAYS dies. It's the price you pay for being the best looser.

I jump down in the pit, since I'm invisible during my out-of-body experiences. The snakes notice me, but they know I'm cool, so they slither on. I shuffle closer to the dying man. He sees me! I guess death opens up a lot of doors...

The snakes are taking pot-shots at the guy now. Poor man. Still, no one's helping him. I can't help him. I don't want to help him. I don't know what death is, but sometimes I think it could be better than life. I want him to die, kind of. Nothing against him, but I want a lot of people to die.

I look up, and the camerman is trained on me again.. or the body... or both. The image won't develop on film- only the viewfinder betrays my prescence. I stoop down and take the dying man's pulse. I know it won't be long.

"Hey Mister!" the camerman yells.

I look up.

"You're in my shot. Would you mind moving?" He asks. The producers look at him confused. Is he talking to the dying man?

The cameraman can't hear me, because I haven't figured out how to be heard during these journeys, but I give him the finger, to let him know my thoughts.

The snakes are really eating the looser now. He's lost quite a bit of blood. I crawl out of the pit. The cameraman is done- he's packing up. The whole crew is. Within an hour, they're gone. The guy's still in the friggin pit. Amazing.

I begin to mutter to myself. "Life's a desert" "We're a bunch of snakes" "There's a sadistic lot of executives playing with human lives in exchange for ratings" "The people who see everything keep it to themselves" "This is the future" "Snakes are far more interesting on planes". WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

I can never figure out the meaning of these spiritual wanderings. I guess I'll never really know, until someone tells me. Does someone tell you when you're dead? Do they walk up with a clipboard and a release form, and explain my role in the cosmos? If I sign it- does it mean I've given up everything I have? Is it improv or scripted? Reality, or narrative?

More importantly...

Will I be left alone to die?

I think I will. There's lots of people who die, and have no one. They die alone. Even that looser in the pit had snakes. I wonder if I'll be invisible when I die, like I am now.

I'd rather die in a pit of snakes, than die alone.
15 February 2007 @ 11:10 pm
This is my bullshit poem,
Empty and devoid of any structure,
Like some early 90's West Coast nonsense,
Spewed from the mind so fast,
It surges in quantity at quality's sake,
This isn't even a poem,
It's a bullshit stock market report,
Selling out to get published,
In some magazine or paper,
A cheap trick, for a jumble of words,
To increase their public stockpile,
Of poetic bullshit.

-Denis Logan, 2007
09 February 2007 @ 08:50 pm
I ate a pile of my own feces today and spent the afternoon puking my guts out. I even washed it with soap, but I guess that doesn't work. Next time I'll try salt.

If we all ate a little piece of our own shit each day (just a nugget) I think we'd all feel a little less civilized... and then perhaps the political fandagaling and rhetoric wouldn't work as well. Perhaps there is such a thing as TOO civilized. Perhaps violence is our nature. Perhaps our species is eating it's own shit, and we've put so much salt on it that it tastes good.

Today I wonder how many Iraqis, Afghanis, Africans, Lebanese, Palestinians and Isrealis died. Died for nothing but money. Innocent deaths. Fucking pointless deaths.

Deaths that are worth 10,000 Anna Nicole Smiths.

Pass the salt, please.
It was two o'clock in the morning again. Same bright lights, same crappy music, same aisle upon aisle of consumer goodness.
They stay open all night, in case people get hungry and get sick of take-out. Even Pizza Pizza closes. Not the grocery store. At 2am the all-night grocery stores are the hungry man's friend.

But I wasn't hungry for anything they were selling- I was looking for someone to murder.

It was just an experiment, really. I've never killed anyone before- but I was walking the other day and just happened to be going the same way as a woman and her child. Normally I would pass them by and continue on my way, but I had just been reading a book about serial killers, and I was in the mood for a stalk. I followed them all the way to their apartment. She kept looking back at me like I was going to rape her the whole time. It kind of offended me. She didn't know I was thinking about murdering her; she was passing a superficial judgement. Thou shalt not judge. Something like that. I bet a religious serial killer would've done her and her stupid kid, and then quoted something like that. Something biblical.

I'm not religious. Just a product of a godless multinational corporate economy. A society in which we're taught we are special and unique, only to leave school and find out that we're all the same, we just see things differently. Like billions of processors with slightly different results, because the data differs geologically. Like a big fucking computer, with a bunch of programs running into each other and crashing. A computer infected with a VIRUS, that is slowly eating away at all the hardware, and killing the mainframe.

To me, it's scientific. Murder is the anti-virus. Bush did it in Iraq. He saw a virus and wiped it out. He doesn't understand he's a virus himself, though. Hopefully some day, some other virus wipes him out.

If every single person on the planet murdered ONE person in their lives, we'd be extinct; the virus would be gone. But not everybody has what it takes. You have to be a very powerful person to be able to get some real kills- really hurt the viruses- but every little bit counts.

I've settled on just one. Just one kill. To say I did it. To understand what it's like. To understand why. After this, I'll travel abroad and settle in some remote part of the globe. But before I reboot my life, I've got the crash this one. So I'll become a murderer, for one night. I'll murder a stranger, to murder my life as I know it.

I'm in the bread section. I'm looking at a croissant. She brushed past my back and I turned my head. It was her- I knew it was her. She had long dark blonde hair, lips that pouted, and a sporty trench coat around a lovely figure... but her eyes... They were glazed over with that sheepish indifference of the North American Worker Bees. She wasn't aware of the world- of the virus- of reality. I knew it was her. It had to be her.

She makes a go for the cash-out, and I slowly follow. I quickly grab a can of peas off the shelf and stand behind her in line. She stares ahead rigidly, nervously. I wonder if perhaps I emit some sort of repellant which creeps out women. They always seem to know when I'm up to no good. She turns her head to look at the magazines. They're not sure who's baby it is, and Burt Reynolds was caught naked in a sheep pen. All lies, of course. All fuelled by money. Unlike me. I'm fuelled by passion.

I look at what groceries she's gotten: Loaf of bread, one litre of milk, plastic bag with a celerey stalk, another plastic bag with 5 golden delicious apples, some diet cream cheese, and some crackers. How dull. The cashier, a tall and lanky woman with a crooked eye and toothy smile, began scanning her groceries. A tasteless and routine interaction between two viral programs. Beep, scan, move on. My victim trots towards the doors. I hand the can of peas to the cashier and tell her they've gone bad.

She heads down the side of the store and I walk quick, to gain pace. Timing is everything- there's an alley up ahead... I reach in my jacket pocket, to make sure my weapon is still there. It is. I had decided on efficiency and gone with a switchblade. My plan was to come from behind and slit the juggular, making sure to sever the vocal chords. I learnt that from 24.

I closed the gap- she's only a few paces away. A rush of blood surges into my head, and my hands begin to quiver. It's getting hard to walk- my knees are giving out. I fiddle with the blade in my pocket and quickly scan the mostly empty street one last time...

Out of nowhere, the streets light up. Everything is orange. What's going on? The ground shakes and the pressure in the air drops. My victim falls; I peer into the distance. The horizon in on fire- a mushroom cloud is growing. A warm wind begins to wash over my face. We've been nuked.

Someone beat me to the punch.

Who? Does it matter? Really, no. Especially not when you're NEAR the bomb.

I knew it was only a matter of minutes until the shockwave would hit, so I pulled my switchblade and jumped on top of the girl, slashing at any exposed skin. She screamed, but was too in shock to put up a real fight. I couldn't get to her throat, so I never did sever her vocal chords. She screamed and screamed, and I kept hacking until we got hit by the radioactive blast, and then everything went away.

There's no heaven or hell. There's no coming back, once you've been deleted, but if you don't delete the viruses, the system crashes. We all get deleted eventually.

*Note: This is a short horror story in character form. I don't actually think like this!