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so long 2010; look me up if you need a reference

The cover I painted for my 2011 day-timer. * * * * * Well, that's it: another year on the path behind us. Or left wandering blind in the forest. Some quick and haphazard math tells me that I walked about 1600 kilometres this year. And who did I meet along the way? Well, some very interesting folks. headband guy O headband guy -- why are you fighting it? Don't you feel how cold it is? I've got the hood up on my parka and I still feel the wind. And why are you trying to save your hair? You're like, 45 or 50 years old. Nobody cares what we look like anymore. Nobody under the age of 30 even sees us. (And you can drop the all-black thing, too -- 1992 is nothing but bones now.) skeevy guy O skeevy guy -- I see you. It's obvious that you're not really walking anywhere because you don't have anywhere to go. You're just kind of twitching your way around the neighbourhood. Looking around. Looking for things to steal or places to break into. Or someone you kn

and goodbye to all that {again, again}

Someone was a *little* nervous leading up to Christmas ... which I would be, too, if I had certain issues with being rotten. Still, there's alway Grandma and Aunties with their parcels from out west to act as a sort of safety net for the troubled and naughty and little people who wreck all of daddy's things. Disturbingly, many of these parcels contain books, and *someone* likes to read -- a habit we're going to have to work hard to break. And so we settled in (yes, that's my foot) for a day of celebrating the birth of the world's most famous carpenter (?) and there was much talk of a floating fat man in red pajamas (?) and eating of Mandarin oranges (?) and later turkey (?) and kindness and goodwill and feeling grateful that we weren't trapped in some airport where Christmas, every year, is like some psychic Armageddon. And only one (well, maybe one and a half -- it was kind of a running battle) days of fighting this year! It's a Christmas miracle!

xmas cards not featuring scenes from wwII

Everyone says I'm such a curmudgeon. Fine . You say curmudgeon, I say devilishly handsome action figure who happens to hate xmas. It's pretty much the same thing. And yet every year I make our family xmas cards. And they never feature burning ships at sea or some frozen pile of elf skulls. The above image is for our main card. But I made the one below for those people (read: old people) who wouldn't know what hipsters (read: kids named Graeme and Hudson) were. And Merry Xmas!

more is never enough

This is a drawing from my nephew Shawn. He is four. The notations are done by his grandmother. She is considerably older. Apparently, the 'angels' in Shawn's universe are decidedly British: bad teeth, bad fashion, Dickensian socks with no toes (the haircut, too, is vaguely Malcolm McDowell). The multiple fingers are disturbing but he *seems* happy enough. And why does he live amongst snails and snakes? I thought his side won that war. * * * * * Did I tell you about my new gloves? I have new gloves. C was going out to the suburbs to spend a million dollars on tights and corkscrews, so I asked her to pick up a pair of gloves for me. Mine had rips in the fingers (it happens, from being outdoors so much, and throwing Oona's stroller into the storage bins like the bartender manhandling Mickey Rourke in Barfly ). Anyway, she got me new gloves. Good gloves. *Really* good gloves. In fact, if I ever mount an expedition to the Pole, or take up the handling of radioactive was

take me away with you, mister owl

Another painted journal, now out there in the world. Much time at home this weekend, sending hundreds of virgin kleenexes to their gruesome, gluey deaths. In crumpled heaps they died and still I reached for more. Some relief/success from apple cider vinegar. Will try a stronger concoction tonight. And finally we got a tree. C's life has new meaning.

x - x

x - x ; india ink on math paper. Well, all that positivity didn't last long.

échantillons positive

échantillons ; india ink on math paper. * * * * * Some people (I'm looking at you, Jeannette) have said, as of late, that I complain a lot, and that I'm overly negative. Surely this is a scorpion, it's-my-nature kind of thing. Still, as I was lying in bed last night, listening to one of the cats (the fat one) puke on the stairs, I had three thoughts: 1) I wish I was asleep right now. 2) Be careful of that puke when you get up in the morning. 3) I should try to be more positive. * * * * * I mean, nice things *do* happen, almost randomly. For example, Megan Power just wrote a very nice review of my book in Arts East , an arts and culture ezine (a sharp-looking pdf they mail to you upon request) from Atlantic Canada. She said Berger’s exceptional collection of strange, artful short stories offers the kind of instant gratification readers are hungry for in a time-starved world. Every school kid’s fantasy comes vividly true in ‘An Arsonist’s Guide to Physics’ - in a mi

it's such a long way home, it's how the story goes

Drove to Montreal to see my niece Stella this weekend. This is something that has to be done quarterly, at least, if only to remind Stella that I'm still here and that I want to be part of her life. That I care about what happens to her. Stella is seven. She's absent-mindedly addicted to something called Pet Shops . She also has a hamster named Oreo who is nocturnal and bites when forced to be un-nocturnal. Stella says teeth brushing is something that should only be done in the afternoon. But then sometimes you get busy and forget. Our own relationship might take some work. I've been sick off and on for about a month now (thankyou, Oona and various daycare minions) and who knows if it will ever end (honestly, I've almost given up) so I finally just had to say to hell with it and get in the car and go. Christmas, after all, is looming. * * * * * Saturday was mild and the highway was fine for driving -- until I hit Quebec. Then the highway turned to shit. Then the usu

waiter, my Dalmatian has spots on it

*Somebody* is getting a painted journal for xmas (and it's none of the usual suspects) ...

grumpy dads need a morning group, too

The thing with this parenting gig is that some days contain whole days even before breakfast; this morning, for example, I was up by 5:05 so I could shower and eat and make my lunch and generally be out of the way by the time C got up for her new morning Toastmaster's group (which has led me to wonder -- what kind of amateur psychotic gets up in the morning wanting to make a speech to a room full of strangers? pretend lawyers? aspiring dictators? ) and I could get Oona up and fed and en route to daycare in good time. The only plus in all this is that I have a chance to throw at least one cat (the fat one) outdoors for the day. C told me last night that, sooner or later, I'll have to drop the "grumpy dad" routine -- otherwise Oona will just look at me someday and make a stink face. I had three reactions: a) You don't think she's going to give us plenty of stink-face regardless of how we are? b) Yes, it's worked out so well for all those kids whose parents t

autoamerican, freestyle pursestyle

As a thank you to C for passing on some new clothes (a mail-order outfit sent the same order twice, and decided it would cost more to fix the mistake), our friend Leah gave her the present of a fabulous record purse, made by her own friend Sophie here in Kingston. Sophie's just started an Etsy shop here . The album sleeve for C's new purse is Blondie's Autoamerican , which is at least half right.

and then he unleashed his weather machine

Is it just me or is all this WikiLeaks business very confusing? Julian Assange is such a strange character; C says he looks like the weedy French villain in a Bond film. But the governments involved don't exactly look like white knights either -- why, for example, is it necessary to lie about the number of civilians who have died in Iraq? And why are they so shocked/appalled at their communications being leaked, when every government has to operate under the assumption that there are agents (Chinese, Russian, Bond villain or otherwise) that want to get their hands on it? What's amazing to me is that information still filters out at all, when the parties involved are so righteously paranoid, and spend so much treasure building their castles. And now, suddenly, the Swedes are after Mr. Assange for sex offences ... it's like Denmark announcing that they've just charged Michael Moore for money laundering. Curiouser and curiouser.

if she can't have it, no one can

Walked downtown to the post office at lunch, so I could mail a painting and some cigar-tin stories . It was the usual bullshit bingo: stooped Ukrainian women clutching parcels wrapped in butcher paper and string, middle-aged bearded guys in leather jackets trying to buy a single stamp, and herds of university girls wanting passport photos and the postal code for Vietnam. I ran into a guy who used to work in my department. His new outfit, apparently, is having their xmas banquet tonight. We had to cancel ours, I said. Why was that? he asked. Because the managers' head table was going to be bigger than all the others put together, I said {true story}. My old coworker then lamented that he might not enjoy his own dinner so much anyway, because his wife was out of town and he wouldn't be able to drink (and drive). Can't get another date? I asked. At which point the pint-sized old lady behind me piped right up. He better not! she croaked from behind her giant package. No fooling

finally a piece that speaks to me

More artwork from Oona; I believe this one's called Two Cats in a Hot Hot Oven . Let me just say that while she's brought home a lot of dubious work in the past, Oona has really redeemed herself with this one. I like it. A lot. I like artwork that tells me a story, that makes me ask questions. How hot is hot hot? 475 Fahrenheit? That'd be my pick. * * * * * The fucking cats: I don't know what offends me more: coming in with Oona from the wind and the rain and finding the fat one in the middle of a long, luxurious stretch inside a basket of fresh laundry (that C has specifically put out for her) or seeing the neurotic one frantically trying to find traction on the laminate floors as he races off to his hiding places on the air ducts in the basement. * * * * * They're inside pretty much all the time now (not that they were forced out much in summer either). The most fresh air they get is a few hours here and there when C is out at Toastmasters, and I'm in

still got it

Yep: still got the ol' magic. Unfortunately, that magic is usually stale and smells like a box of Cocoa Puffs with a dead mouse at the bottom. * * * * * Made Mediterranean roast pork with roasted sweet potatoes in nuts and cranberries on Saturday night, but C only ate about half her plate. This was confusing, as C usually *loves* all pig-related products. What she did consume was three giant glasses of milk. About a litre and a half. Why is she so thirsty? I thought. And then I remembered the *sandwich* she made about forty minutes previous, and that it was washed down with two glasses of wine. Honestly, at times it's like having a teenager in the house: you have to impose a kitchen ban in the hours around mealtimes, and keep an eye on the amount of drinking going on. * * * * * Nice to sell some paintings and cigar-tin stories this weekend. As much as artists enjoy being surrounded by their work, it's much better to see it go out into the world, to have it in pe

little worlds, made of tin

I have some new (and one or two old) cigar-tin stories for sale. You can see the collection (meaning: everything for sale ) here . * * * * * Standing in line at the supermarket last night, waiting for this tiny Japanese girl to pay for a yoghurt and a package of crackers with a platinum card and a letter from the emperor, I took a few moments to see what Oprah is up to. The cover of O: The Oprah Magazine yelled something like "Oprah's Favorite Things!", so I stood there and tried to think what those favourite things might be. And all I could think was Power Money Adulation Adoration Applause Celebrities Money Power Power Glittery Things Losing Weight Obama Money Power Souls

the poor can eat potatoes

someday you'll be rich (and i'll be dead) ; mixed media on canvas (with a wooden stretcher), 10 x 8 inches. * * * * * Well, it looks like they brought down another one: first it was Iceland and this time it's Ireland. That should be it for the i's for awhile. Eighty billion dollars for a country of six million people. And it's funny, too, how much the cure smells like the poison: dishing out an austerity budget of deep spending cuts (including to welfare), widespread layoffs in the public sector, a minimum wage drop and a sales tax of 23 percent ... while at the same time leaving the corporate tax rate ridiculously low. This what a government looks like, when it's run by bankers. * * * * * Did you know that the richest Americans -- the top one percent -- took in nearly twenty-four percent of all pretax income in 2007? Bush brought in some nice tax cuts for these folks (anyone making over 200K a year) because that's kinda what he was all about (and wh

many days i am very low, but sometimes i get high

My friend Leah (who is, incidentally, a collage maniac ) has pieced together another video for one my stories. It's called Superhero Cemetery, and it was published in the last issue of the White Wall Review. To play, click [here] . * * * * * A very nice little review in Atlantic Books Today by Kate Watson. One excerpt ... This is not to say that there is no humour in the twenty short stories that make up Punishing Ugly Children. Take for instance the back-and-forth e-mail conversation conducted in a story called “Big Head”. In it, Sean Quintal, an artist who specializes in drawing the cool “freaky Jesus” used in advertising by the Vivian Ted University for Jesus, hoists his boss on his own petard. It’s quirky, engaging fun. So much nicer to see something like this instead of that same old grainy highschool photograph above the caption "Suspected Arsonist" in the local newspaper again. * * * * * And how nice is a certain Blissful Chick, to post this . Thank you, T

It's a strange world, isn't it?

I'm not going to lie to you; all we ever did was watch horror films. ; mixed media on canvas, 12 x 12 inches. $100. * * * * * So: I watched Blue Velvet . It's really a movie about likes. Jeffrey likes to take shortcuts. Jeffrey likes to find things. Jeffrey likes mysteries. Laura Dern likes to eavesdrop. Laura Dern likes to gossip about official police business. Laura Dern likes really big hair. Dorothy likes to sing Blue Velvet. Dorothy likes wigs. Dorothy likes a tenuous relationship with sanity. Frank likes Blue Velvet, too. Unfortunately, he also likes bourbon, amyl nitrite, kidnapping, extortion, and generally being a psychopath. On the upside, he also likes dreams, love letters, Pabst Blue Ribbon and people who are suave. Why are there people like Frank? Why is there so much trouble in this world? Why does Jeffrey talk like a Grade Six student interviewing for some Junior United Nations award? Why does Dorothy live in the ugliest apartment on the planet? Why is Roy Or

late again, and still with nothing to say

Well, as that old bitch Christmas climbs off Santas's lap, shakes out her gaudy skirts and shows us what teeth she's got left, let's take a moment to ask ourselves exactly what the season means. Right. * * * * * So there I was: at the Santa Claus parade. Did I want to be there? No. But we were there for Oona -- I was told. And Oona, accordingly, got to the end of her patience (read: started to lose her shit) just as the first float rolled into view. * * * * * This was well after six o'clock. The parade -- which is, ostensibly, for children -- was *supposed* to start at five. Now, I don't know what your experience of children is, but my own experience is that they're not very good at waiting. For anything. In fact, they're really terrible at it. They start to whine and go into convulsions, throwing themselves around and arching their backs violently. Why do they have this thing at night, in the cold? I asked C, trying to keep Oona from rupturing my

i hope you're well, kiddo

it's never the way they remember it ; mixed media on canvas, 5 x 7 inches. A favourite image lately ; Miss Crane has a face for the ages. * * * * * C was out with her cult (read: Toastmasters) last night and I meant to watch Blue Velvet but the evening (read: Oona) got away from me. It went on our Zip list after Dennis Hopper died because he's supposed to be so good in it, and because the movie's reputation is demented and villainous, and hey I'm halfway there. I could call it a cultural-reference kinda thing. But C refused to watch it with me, despite all the French New Wave bullshit I've suffered through, just to keep her company. She said Lynch is a misogynist. She said she was over all that. Okay , I thought. But doesn't Isabella Rossellini get naked in this?

cakes in the rain

optimiser ; india ink on math paper. * * * * * Grocery shopping on a rainy night after nine o'clock? A pleasure. Just me, the deviants and the mental defectives. We all know each other, or at least enough to skip any aisle with other 'human' traffic in it (only one person can comfortably talk to themselves in any twenty-foot radius at a time). No line ups at the one open till but nothing's moving fast anyway; the girl working is either new or deranged (her name tag reads "Harry Potter"). Plenty of time to take in the tabloids and the semi-gloss magazines (one night, actually, I got quite depressed by an US magazine story about a sad and suicidal Rick Springfield ... he looked like someone wearing a Rick Springfield mask). Vanity Fair tells me that Cher is 'back'. Really? Why is this happening? Is someone *making* her come back? And where is she expected to arrive, looking all pinched like that?  The woman is 64 years old. Of course I could send C g

mysterious and relentless vengeance

BAD NAMES FOR A BRIDAL SHOP The Wedding Shack-Up Nuts or Nuptials Just Let It Bride The Ring Worm Damsels in Dis' Dress So You Think You Can Get Married? Nice Day for a ... White Wedding? Creative Expressions of Futility Maree's Bridal Boo-teek Yeah Doubts Crêpes and Conjugals Thinly Veiled Nick's

distant little selves

Wanted to go to Montreal (to see my six year-old niece Stella) this weekend but decided to get sick instead. I'm full of mental miscues like this. Thought, too, that I could sidestep the issue by topping off a hot meal with indecent amounts of zinc and ginseng and then pretty much just passing out ... that I could wake up the next morning, do the old Pontius Pilate bit of washing my hands to an invisible crowd and saying, Well, that's it for me then. Let's hit the road! ... and the cold *had* moved on, in fact, rather smartly -- only it chose the shorter distance from the throat to the chest, where there was more room for maneuver and it was able to set up shop properly, and settle in for its gruesome siege. * * * * * In a bookstore the day before, while I was still circulating lies amongst my various selves and at least one of me thought I might yet be Montreal-bound, looking for books for Stella (that grimaced calculation of what-seems-good x what-she-might-actually-

almost dead, nearly famous

nuna (kens) ; India inks on paper (page from an old math text book). Illo for a story. * * * * * Almost killed this morning: prancing (I was in a princely mood) down Queen Street (doesn't help, does it?) when this minivan pulls out across two lanes and cuts off a supercab truck (you know -- one of those monsters that seats about 20), the truck is already speeding uphill and it has to swerve wildly to miss him, and then the truck guy is so consumed with delivering that righteous death stare to the van guy that he starts drifting (if such a word can be used for leaving your lane at high speed) over towards the sidewalk. And I've just stopped -- standing there watching the whole thing, patting myself down for popcorn. And then the truck guy looks up and veers back into his lane. This all over the course of mere seconds at 7:35 in the morning. Where is *anybody* going in a hurry at 7:35 in the fucking morning? Anyway, I nearly made the papers.

spam most fowl

----- original message ----- From: "Ms.Tracy Sanson" To: xxxxxxxxxx Date: Wed, 3 Nov 2010 08:57:02 -0000 Subject: facts! Hello, I write to confess what you are presently going through with my Boss. I was a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) on Local and Foreign Debt attached to the World Bank office in Washington, DC, USA. I resigned my official duty when I discovered the activities of my colleagues during a private investigation I carried out. I suspected some kind of fowl play in their act which they would never inform me because they know I would never be a party to such as a Christian. I discovered that my Boss was conniving with some top officials of the World Bank to divert funds approved to settle international contractors and inheritance. The World Bank has already given approval for the payment of your fund while they are deliberately delaying your payment. They continue to issue one fee or the other from different quarters. I wonder why you haven’t

woo. hoo.

The highlight of the weekend -- for some people at least -- had to be the purchase of a Wii. The weekend before last we'd been up to C's sister's ... where we were exposed to something like Wii Wonderland, with all the extra games and footpads and headsets and IV drips and heart monitors and whatever else you can shake a controller at ... and ever since then C has been like a little kid before Christmas: I want a Wii I want a Wii I'd really like a Wii I think we should get a Wii . I suggested we hold off until after the holidays, when everything goes on sale. I've already checked the prices and they're always the same , C said. I could have pushed this further, pointing out her lack of access to time machines and such, and the inevitability of all consumer products decreasing in price as conditions confront demand, but like so many things these days it's just easier to shrug and look away. So Sunday night became a wii digital orgy of awkward pixel people doi

with a minor in entropy

Slouching this morning, as I often am on Fridays ... walking along upper Princess last night, saw that this internet cafe or cyber cafe or whatever the hell it was (really it was just these Asian dudes and some banks of computers in a flickering dim room, it looked more like a call centre in Taiwan) finally went out of business, I'd been watching and waiting and finally gave up hope months ago, astounded that there was still a demand for places to go play World of Warcraft, like this business existed in its own time field or something, perched on the edge of 1997 ... congratulations to C, who has now gone a full week with no wine in the house, this beats her previous record by six days ... she was pretty excited by the 50th anniversary of her local Toastmasters this week, they had a big shindig (read: they put up some balloons and had cake) with congratulations from our MLA and the Premier and everything ... C's always showing me her 'Competent Communicator' badge (it l

in the darkness of everybody's life

Walking by my barber's this morning: the sign said 'CLOSED' but the place was lit up like Hopper's diner in the dark, and through the rain I could see my barber with a customer in his chair. This would be something he would do, the special-favour thing. Free cuts for cops and such. It reminded me that I needed to see him soon, or see someone . It got me thinking that I might switch. I like the joint but the last time I was in there he got talking a bit too much, and interrupted the hair cut to take a call from his ex-wife, who described in some detail the **POLICE RAID** going on next door. Apparently, there were helicopters and everything. And then I had to listen to my barber's own trials and tribulations with the cruel forces of justice, which he punctuated with a verdict on his neighbour's predicament: he deserved 'cause he's stupid. Before this guy I had a nice girl named Nathalie but then she moved up to a better salon and priced herself out of my

kid venn

A wee trip into the void this morning: a coworker -- who I've met exactly once -- dropped off her nephew at my office because "he draws draws draws all the time so could he come see you?" ... the reasoning here being much like dumping someone at a pig farm because "he likes farms and growing things". I limited it to one hour. He was fourteen years old. It felt like eight days. I talked about design, drawing and resources for the creative. He looked at me like I was some kind of glitch in his game of Halo . I asked him about his own drawing; he said he just "drew stuff". At the end I stood up, shook his hand and said, "Good luck." "You, too," he replied, sounding like he meant it.

Will we ever find someone to make us do what we want?

masura ; India inks on paper (page from an old math text book). * * * * * Hello election hoo-ha in the States today: all the good-looking middle-aged white people say the Republicans will run amok over both Houses. This is mostly down to all the other middle-aged white people, the not-good-looking ones, the sad and fearful and angry ones, the ones with damp hands and sixteen American flags in and around their property. Certain brains of the operation say the day can still be saved if young people come out to vote. Young people will not come out to vote. They've already moved on: all they care about is vintage vinyl, mud-crusted polaroids, a paid-for cottage deep in the woods and a book deal with Timothy McSweeney. Is it just me or does every election down there look like outtakes from Dog Day Afternoon ? It's all ranting and raving and putting guns to people's heads. At least up here in Canada we're calmer about blowing our brains out, when we elect certain persons

some of the same accidents as *last year*

O look: some more questionable artwork from Oona. Funny, considering she can't even dress herself. *And* she's hopeless at Scrabble. Could you at least draw the 'a' backwards, to give it the slight stink of authenticity? Thank you. * * * * * Someone has a fun pumpkin costume from Grandma (one that's already gone through three other grandkids) but it's still too big, so Auntie Catherine stepped in with this Frosty get-up. Erratic subject matter. And then Thelma and Louise went to a Halloween parade at Skeleton Park (it was built over a mass grave, actually). * * * * * *Something* lumpy pink and fur-smeared across the 401 on a rainy Saturday morning: I was so distracted by the sickening thump going over it that I almost missed the exit for Ottawa. We drove up to see C's dad Graeme, who was in town visiting the *other* family set. C's sister Catherine had her full Halloween collection on display, from the skeleton half embedded in the ground to the