5 more days...
the drug trafficking aussie boy, nguyen's letters from a singapore death row:
"My predicament. A view to die for? Hmmm
At the least many things has been put in perspective for me. Fundamentals and the such.
"Do we really need what we think we do? Questions I would never have encountered surface, arising in every situation.
"I brave and find myself. Walking. Talking. Thinking. Taking stock of the life I lived only makes room for disappointment. So many things I should have done. And should not have. Now I have this chance. An opportunity to make a difference, to avail."
from the age
he will be killed in 5 days.
write a letter
sign the petition
i think i might have made a funny
the beginning of a letter i started earlier this evening to mike:
mike,
i miss you. i want to know how you're doing. i worry about you so much. i try not to, because my worrying will get you nowhere. but i can't help it. i miss you, i miss you, i miss you and i always will until the day we can split a red hot bean fucking burrito in the foodcourt of some bullshit mall, should we ever choose to do such an absurd thing. one day, one day mike, my bean burrito dreams and foodcourt wishes will come true.
i totally just made myself laugh. laughing at my own stupid joke... i'm such a narcissist.
i wanted to ask you, before anyone else is granted the supreme honor, if maybe you might like to be my one and only valentine? the perks are as follows:
1. you are entitled to one complimentary greeting card that will reach levels of cheese never before even considered.
2. you will be granted endless collect call acceptance for as long as my heart beats.
3. you will be loved, intensely, beyond my last breath. my spirit will be bound, once it's departed my body, to eternal love for you.
of course, should you choose to decline this fantastic opportunity, the perks will be yours to keep.
Labels: mike
syzygy part III
let me just backtrack here for a moment. the whole time i'd been with jeremy, which, at this point in the story had been about 7 or 8 months, i was in touch with mike still. jeremy knew this and didn't like it, but gave me no grief up until this point. he even went so far as to get on the phone with him now and again and converse - they had many similar interests.
when jeremy and i moved back in with my parents, it was no different. i would talk to mike as often as i could for as long as i could get away with, without feeling as though i was neglecting jeremy. in spite of this, jeremy was starting to feel neglected and the stress of being so far from home, getting married so early and not having our own home was beginning to take hold of him. we would argue endlessly, a nasty, low blow kind of arguing that my mom and dad would overhear. they would speak to me time and again, asking if things were ok, was he mistreating me. and at that time, he wasn't - i assured them he was just under a great deal of stress and as soon as we figured out our living situation things would blow over.
not so. i got a job as a convenience store clerk, and jeremy was still jobless. i worked hard and long so we could move out on our own and finally made that happen. jeremy and i moved into a one bedroom basement suite, bigger and brighter than any i'd seen before. we were both pleased and things did start to settle again.
because jeremy was not a canadian citizen and his immigration through our marriage was taking some time, he was unable to find a job as easily as i. he searched high and low for decent paying labour willing to conduct business under the table. he eventually did find such a job, but it was not, in any way, ideal. jeremy was being paid to work the graveyard shift in a porn studio, scanning pictures. it wasn't the fact that it was porn that bothered me, i was quite secure in the fact that he loved me and have never had a problem with any of the men in my life looking at pictures of naked women. it was the fact that it was overnight. living in a basement suite and being alone every night for the first time in my life, was unsettling. images of the rape would float through my head and i would scare myself half to death. i was unable to sleep and found myself on the internet quite often, chatting with mike.
when i explained to mike the difficulties i was having, he began calling every night again, just to keep me company, to keep my mind off it. we would talk about trivial things, world events, politics, religion and spirituality but at no point did i ever cross the line and feel as though i was being disloyal to my husband. i was simply finding solace in the sound of my friend's voice.
it was around this time that i found out i was pregnant. i told jeremy and we both acted pleased. we told my family and his and congrats were received from all directions. it seem a natural next step, and we assured each other we were ready for it.
but jeremy only became more angry and untrusting. it was clear the pregnancy was only causing stress in jeremy's mind.
while at work each night, jeremy began to sign on to the internet and find me chatting with mike. he would also, based on this, be able to piece together the fact that mike was calling me quite often. he didn't like this. he started to get angry with me when he got home, and it would escalate, until one night he told me i couldn't talk to mike anymore because i was just being a "slut" and a "whore". i wasn't about to take this from him, and i let him know this was unacceptable. jeremy snapped. the pregnancy, the job situation, being so far from his family, money problems and now mike all came to a boiling, terrifying peak and it culminated in my nose making ferocious contact with his knee and ending up bloody and broken.
to be cont'd...
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Currently listening:
Read Music/Speak Spanish
By Desaparecidos
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Labels: mike
syzygy part II
it wasn't until the man who extracted my wisest of teeth gave me soul-warming pain killers that i began to feel relief outside of my phone calls from mike. i would slip a handful down my throat and soon feel this summery euphoria envelop me and everything would be ok, for the time being.
mike started to notice i was acting a little differently when he would call. he'd notice i was sleepier, sooner. he eventually asked me what was going on and i was up front with him. i was doing way too many painkillers and had had my pharmacist refill the prescription more times than they were supposed to. after being turned down, finally, by a pharmacist with a conscience, i did some research about the drug, codeine. i found out that in canada, you can buy smaller doses over the counter and so that's what i did. i'd take more than the recommended dose every day and if didn't take enough, my head would pound and i would be in utter misery. this went on and on, and i'd take more and more. sometimes i would take too many. i knew this because of the knee-weakening, whirlwind of colors and shapes and an inability to really articulate much from sleepiness. on those days, when i slept, i would have the horrors. dreaming about the most terrible things, waking up terrified and sweaty. the horrors were truly horrifying.
i told all of this to mike, and he quickly became concerned. he told me how much of a health risk i was taking. he told me the drugs would eventually shut down my heart, my kidney or my liver. he told me that no one can survive a lifetime of doing these drugs. and then he dropped a bomb.
mike went silent. i could barely hear him breathe, short breaths and then a muffled sniffle. i asked him what he was thinking, a question i asked often, and he uttered so quietly, "court, i don't think i could handle it if anything happened to you."
silence...
"i love you".
it was a mutual feeling we'd both been having after months of talking to each other, spilling the darkness of our souls to one another, getting to know each other like no one else had known either of us. it was a natural progression. we loved each other. not the way i would love boyfriends, not the way i loved my family, my love for mike was like nothing else i'd ever experienced. he was a profound friend, and a cherished soulmate.
i quit the drugs for him. i went through the days of aching pain and sweats and vomiting for him. i stayed clean for a long time after that for him. i couldn't think of one thing on this planet worse than michael being disappointed in me.
and then i met jeremy. jeremy was a man from the united states who'd come to canada to live for 6 months. i met him, i was around him all the time, and then he came to stay with me and my family. i lived with this man, i saw him everyday and when the time came for him to leave, i didn't want him to. i'd become so used to having him around, i couldn't imagine life without him. so we got married.
it soon became apparent that jeremy didn't wear marriage well, becoming stressed and angry. we'd moved out of my parents house into an apartment in burnaby with another couple. this couple did a lot of drugs and it had some kind of an affect on us. i soon found myself, with a partner in crime this time, in the throes of a heavy codeine addiction once again. all we would do is get high and play sim city or get high and fuck or get high and sleep. i was miserable during those few moments every day that i experienced real emotion, when the high wore off and we were mixing up another codeine concoction to give us the happiness, the warm joy, the total euphoria, the delusional sense that all was well.
we stopped being able to make rent. jeremy wasn't working and i was about to be laid off. our roommates were beginning to scare us, with their drugs and filth and ignorance. so we moved back in with my parents.
to be con't...
Labels: mike
syzygy part I
this is going to be tough. something that has haunted me for years upon years upon years... it's a story i need to tell, if for no other reason, to stop all the eyes from rolling when i refer to the owner of those emerald green eyes, the sea of veridian mindfuck intelligence that just hovers in my mind, no matter what i do.
every morning... i sit down. mix up some pedro, arcade fire, pinback, pinetop seven and put it on random. bookmarks > mike > inmate search output. and there's never any change.
when i turned 19, i went to a bar, first time legally in august a few weeks after my birthday. my friend hit it off with some guy and usually it's me who gets attention from men, so i just chatted with his creepy friend to let my friend have her fun. they invited us out to their boat to watch a movie and against better judgement we went. long story short, the creepy guy i was left to entertain ended up having his way with me on the deck, against my will. i was shocked, all fucked up, i kept it to myself and told my friend we should go, she wanted to stay so i sat in the cabin of the boat with this prick who just raped me. she gave them our numbers, still no objection from me. i just stood there, useless. we left. i told my friend that something had happened and i don't know what. i don't really even know if she gets it to this day, i don't think i was clear enough, i don't think i wanted to be.
dropped off at home, i get inside and call another friend and spill everything. he doesn't know how to deal with it and we end up hanging up, same with the next friend. then i call mike, this kid who just annoyed the hell out of me for the past year, i dunno why, but i choose him and tell him everything. we spent maybe 8 hours on the phone. he called everyday for the next eternity to see how i was. he was only 15.
we had only ever known each other on the internet. as an obsessed nirvana fan, i participated in nirvana chat rooms. we would talk endlessly, in these chat rooms, about kurt cobain and courtney love and frances bean. we would discuss, to absolute, final death, the different ways kurt could have met his end. suicide, murder, etc. it wasn't the most uplifting thing to be chatting about, but when it's something that you think about, and no one in your tangible life wants to talk about it, you find other means. i chatted forever it seemed. and this kid, michael, would pop in and out of the chat room and make fun of people. the most annoying thing about this, was his sheer, breathtaking brilliance. no one could argue. we would only get frustrated and logout. there was no match for mike. and to this day that remains true.
on the night i was raped, he was the last person i wanted to see online. the LAST. when i saw he was there, i was about to logout and he asked how i was. and feeling the need to talk about this whole thing with someone removed from the situation, i spilled. his only reply was "what's your phone number?" and two minutes later the phone rang. that one phone call has changed my life with such profundity, i cannot even begin to pretend that what i am typing out at this current moment will give it any justice at all. but i'm going to tell you anyway. i simply have no choice.
that first phone call was moving. when i wanted to talk about what had happened, he had all the right questions at the right times. when i wanted a joke, he had one, when i wanted simple silence, he would wait, quiet and tell me later he was listening to the sound of my breathing. he would hum songs that meant something to me and tell me anecdotes from times when he'd been under stress. he was just there, for me, more so than anyone ever had been in my life. i instantly cared for him.
over the next few days, mike would call in the afternoon (i was still a teenager, so it was morning to me), and at night and ask how i was. he would give me advice but not push it, he'd tell me that no matter what, as long as i needed it, he'd be there for me to talk to. about anything. he even went so far as to offer to tell my parents that i had been raped, because it was so difficult for me. i declined, thankfully.
during this time, when i spent time on my own, i would think about what had happened to me and how i might be able to get through it. there were so many times when i was around friends or family talking about seemingly trivial things, and there was constant talk of going to bars. i could see this was where my life was headed. all my friends wanted to go to bars, bars, bars and i couldn't think of a scarier place for me to be. i began to withdraw from my friends, and was met with constant harassment. being made fun of because i was anti-social, or wanted to stay home, became a normal part of my life. i started to feel useless. i started to feel worthless. i was experiencing unprecedented emotional pain and all i wanted was to be rid of it. thoughts of my own death cheered me up... but i couldn't ever do it, i never gave those thoughts much time to grow or turn into plans, because when it popped into my head, i would soon think about the fact that if i were to die, i would miss so very much, my next phone call from a 15 year old genius in ohio.
to be cont'd...
Labels: mike
reminisce with me
antiquarian thoughts a la chordo:
12/22/99
we flip on wtn and there's this old guy sitting there naked. the full fuckin' monty. and he's talking about his penis. so naturally we watch. it was like an hour of naked men talking about their dicks. one guy had an 11 incher, limp! anyway, not very informative. men are stupid. "if i wake up and i don't have morning wood, i just... i just don't feel like a man." pathetic.
1/19/00
i watched muchmusic for a half hour on sunday morning. effeil 65, jordan knight, joey mcyntire, S club 7, enrique iglesias, savage garden, backstreet boys and then they threw a christmas tree off the roof of the station. americans who've seen both mtv and muchmusic say much is better. that really scares me. like *really* scares me.
6/6/00
well the dumaurier int'l jazz festival is rollin around once again and i'm savin' up spitballs to shoot in the saxaphones.
farewell uberhaus
in the morning i get all puffy-faced, squinty-eyed and confused. i trudge around this mansion for a while, confused, a little grumpy. a smoke. a glass of water. let the pup out to chase squirrels. more often than not, there're some signs of the night prior. beer cans, the smell of jack daniels... the odd morning there's a body lying on my couch in snoring bliss. this is the guesthouse, the superhouse, the uberhaus and of course, the g-spot.
my bare feet slap the heated marble floors of the foyer on my way to my library. excitement still climbs my spine every time i say or think about "my library". the beautiful bay window, the stunning oak hardwood floors, my antique typewriters, an overstuffed chair, my desk and computer and of course, all of my wonderful books, finally with a home of their own. every morning as i sit at my desk, i sit for a moment and sniff, taking in the scent of old dusty books, mixed with newly printed pages and that hint, slightly metallic hint of typewriter ribbon (this mixture of smells, is second best only to the smell of a letter from mike, from prison, doused in acua di gio).
lately, i think about this house, i think about the the jacuzzi, the bidet, the sunroom, the 5 bathrooms, 5 bedrooms, two kitchens...
i hate it all.
the top ten reasons why moving out of this house is a good thing:
1. the nasty scent of the upper class is hard to get out of clothes. a bourgoise lifestyle never did suit me.
2. twenty-somethings, in a house like this, turn into little disastrous hellions. i've had subway subs smeared on windows, countless glasses broken, people ashing their smoke on the floor of my sunroom, lawn bowling in the foyer that cracked a plant pot, etc, etc. it never stops and i'm sick of cleaning up after people. this house attracts people like dubya attracts the finger.
3. even if there weren't a steady stream of mom&dad hosted twenty-somethings looking for a place to get smashed flowing into the superhouse, the cleanup is a bitch. it takes 3 days just to dust the whole place.
4. i am only one person. what the hell am i supposed to do with 5 bedrooms? a 3 car garage? i can give my puppy a room of his own, and a bathroom just for fun, and i still have 3 bathrooms and bedrooms sitting there, empty, lonely, echoing in mansion misery.
5. the rent is psychotic. the heating bills are scarier than dubya's smirk.
6. having this much space makes you want to fill it. and thus, junk is introduced into the home... ech. i have so much shit. wooden pirates. 18 printers. 42 cordless phones. 73 couches. 16,000 blankets.
7. this house is the antithesis of zen buddhism and the simplicity of tao. i like zen buddhism and the tao.
8. this kind of consumption is unnecessary and revolting.
9. people will no longer make me feel guilt for not paying for things, resting on the assumption that i have an endless supply of cash to dispense based on the fact that i live in this disgusting monstrosity of a house.
10. i'll get my gigantic damage deposit back. woot! who's gonna get peee-ossss-ed with me?
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Currently listening:
We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes
By Death Cab for Cutie
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Labels: mike
sideshow 4
cheney's ex
isn't that somethin'? i get so tickled over this
wow. check out the robots.
i found this old notebook from when i was like 7 or 8. "journal.journal.journal" it says... haven't changed much, huh? there were only 3 entries in it:
and the last entry was a sort of wishlist - i simply wrote that i wish i had a new five speed, a skateboard and a dog. that's changed. now i just want
books about prison.
my heart smarts
there was this beautiful moment a few years back. i was living with my folks after i had left jeremy. i was bruised, broken and angry. i felt like i'd been hit by a freight train. jeremy had broken my nose, and i'd witnessed him threaten my mom, cousin and best friend with violence, swinging redneck punches, slamming into the trunk of my mom's car. but the most painful thing, i think, was when he spat in my face and called me a whore.
i had just finished kicking my pain killer addiction.. the two days of sweating, puking and muscle aches leaving me exhausted.
my heart was heavy. i missed my husband. or who he had been when i married him. it hurt so much to find out he cared so little for me. i was getting drunk every night with my friends. i'd drink til i puked then drink some more. anything, even 40s of old e.
but the hardest part was telling mike what was happening.
there was an evening, i'd left him a message to call me at my folks' place cause i wasn't at home. he called. i told him everything that had happened. i'd never heard him so angry before. he started talking about rounding up some guys and going to smash jeremy's face in. i spent the entire night on the phone with mike trying to convince him that jeremy wasn't worth going to jail for.
then there was this beautiful moment. he said he wouldn't do it. he told me to turn on nightswimming by REM. he mumbled along, and filling my heart with a joy i hadn't known for 2 years, whispered, "court. i have a hug ache..." silence falls as my computer's cd rom stalls in the middle of nightswimming. i can only hear him breath, and he says softly, "i love you." and then my rom kicks back in:
"And what if there were two
Side by side in orbit
Around the fairest sun?"
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Currently listening:
Automatic for the People
By Rem
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Labels: mike
sideshow3
He who joyfully marches in rank and file has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would suffice.
- Albert Einstein
the scrolling belt buckle
i catch a beat runnin' like randy moss.
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Currently listening:
Speakerboxxx/ The Love Below
By OutKast
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come together. right now. over me.
a story for you...
there once was a boy of 25, we'll call him nguyen, who's brother was dangerously in debt. nguyen wanted to help his brother and didn't know how. he saw his brother stressing over his inability to pay his bills and it worried nguyen. nguyen had always been a very caring boy, often taking the problems of the ones he loved, as his own.
one day nguyen got some advice that seemed like the answer to all of his brother's problems. it was a little risky, but nguyen thought that anything was better than seeing his brother continue under this kind of pressure.
a few weeks later, nguyen found himself stopping over in singapore, on his way back to his hometown in australia, from cambodia, with 14 ounces of heroin strapped to his back. sweat poured down his face as he waited in line at customs. singapore's authorities are supposed to be the most thorough, and sure enough, when it was nguyen's turn, the officers found the heroin and took him into custody.
nguyen's trial was swift. he was sentenced to death by hanging.
all over the world, people started one by one to take notice of this unfortunate case. the australian government, amnesty international, the UN, and even the Vatican took notice of this young boy on death row in singapore for a drug trafficking charge.
how does the story end? that's up to you. he's sentenced to die dec. 2nd.
write a letter
sign the petition
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Currently listening:
Fleetwood Mac: Greatest Hits
By Fleetwood Mac
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pheonix rising
see, i was under the impression, until about 2 hours before the movie, that johnny cash had actually done time in prison at some point. chapters customer appreciation day yielded:
johnny cash at folsom prison
and i began reading it as i dined, quickly realizing johnny cash had not done a day of hard time. shows you what i knew going into this flick...
i thought walk the line did an incredible job of picking a real plot from the span of johnny's life. something with real story structure, beginning, middle, climax, end, you know. they picked his courtship and eventual winning over of june carter. one of the people i'd gone with to the movie said they wished there was more about why johnny played the type of music he did, what johnny thought about certain things, and i explained that stuff like that would've been irrelevant. the movie was not about johnny. it wasn't about the music. it was about johnny and june. it was a love story.
and joaquin... ohhhh, joaquin, i fell in love with him all over again. just a stunning face and an even more stunning performance.
i was moved by this flick. this kind of love story, especially involving rock stars, is so rare. to be told this story is heartwarming and gives those of us who want to believe in soulmates and true love and all that cheesy shit, a little more faith in the human ability to love. definitely not what i expected to have gotten from this movie.
don't you ever have anything to say?
'Tookie' Williams' Son Allegedly Rapes Girl At Gunpoint
Prison officials launch unusual attack on death row inmate
The 74 Hoover Crips hit area in '80s
the fight to kill tookie is beginning to take shape. it's such a terrible state of affairs when you hear about a man wanted for rape and it doesn't ring true because his father, a death row convict, is unintentionally causing us to take a critical look at the death penalty. it's sad when someone is arrested by police, and we really have no idea if he should be or not. it's mortifying to see the affects of dehumanizing another race, it's sickening to know that people sitting on the fence regarding this whole tookie issue have now fallen off on the wrong side because his son is being charged with rape. it's working perfectly, we shall see dec. 13th.
the claim that tookie is still a crips leader is ludicrous. generally speaking, gang leaders have always been exceptional business men, hence the large houses, the hummers the escalades... you've seen the godfather, you know what i'm talking about. they may not be very nice in business, but they're brilliant. how would it benefit the crips, in any way, to continue to have a leader on death row for decades, who is going to die and cannot participate, 100 per cent, in gang-running activities? not to mention the fact that gangs need people to become members in order to ensure the life of the gang and tookie speaks out to children and teenagers all over the world, and has convinced a fat lot, NOT to join gangs. that's like owning a web hosting a company and purposely giving all your servers a virus. it's absurd.
*** below is not for the faint of heart
so save tookie has been posting some bulletins to get a dialogue going about the whole tookie thing. one of the most disgusting things i've ever read came out of this discussion:
Engelhafter tod:
What the fuck? He killed someone, therefore he should die. I'm gonna go kill a nigger, and not have to die because I thought about what I did. You really are the true definition of the word nigger.
The nigger is going to die. Deal with it. and hopfully there will be a lot more niggers who will die too.
Arnold isn't going to listen to some fucking petition from someone who thinks that this nigger is a good person. You are the kind of person who wonders why Tupac had to die I bet. Well let's look at the facts nigger. He was in a gang. Gangs get in gunfights. People die. You are one stupid nigger.
It's too bad they are going to do a very easy death to him too. He deserves to feel the pain that he 'caused. Maybe he only killed four people, but he started a group of niggers that has killed well over one thousand people now. The way this nigger deserves to die is to get checkered twice over, then bled to death slowly. Then hung, because that's where all niggers should end up. Hanging on a rope.
sorry i had to post that... i know it's revolting, and it's so heartbreakingly unfortunate that some people are unevolved, stunted, backwards people who live with nothing but hate in their hearts. in a way, you have to feel sorry for them.
weird thing is, this guy likes the movie american history x... apparently he doesn't understand it, which is weird, cause it's not cryptic. well not that weird i guess, cant be much of a thinker to be able to utter the above words.
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Currently listening:
Lonesome Crowded West
By Modest Mouse
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vultures
if you ever need evidence that we have all been successfully moulded into consuming machines, hold a garage sale.
after a night spent on great conversation that ended at 5am, i rose to the sound of my doorbell @ 830am. exhausted, i refused to get out of bed, all my signs said it started at 10am anyway.
around 930 am, i finally dressed myself and trudged down the stairs. peeking out the front window, i saw what looked like a scene from a romero flick... people scattered around my driveway, standing alone, in silence, staring blankly at the garage door as if a hard enough stare might open it. my mom said there'd be early birds, but she didn't tell me the early birds could fill a football stadium. i got a chill up my spine. as i opened my front door, all heads turned in my direction in unison. spooked, i told them i'd open the garage in a moment.
when i did open the garage, i saw the most vulgar display of what fear-based marketing and consumer conditioning has sunk us to. it was like that game we used to play when we were kids, musical chairs. when the music stops, the mad scramble to get one's ass in a seat for fear of elimination is furious with elbowing and pushing... the vultures in my driveway slammed into each other and slid under the garage door before it was even half open and tried to get their hands to simply touch the first things that caught their eyes - hands crashed down on sofas, weight sets, record players and someone had already begun sifting through a box of my old files, with bills and medical records and report cards - a box i had meant to take inside so i could shred the contents. i stood there, on 3 and a half hours of sleep, a zombie myself, stunned, horrified and thought to myself, i should have just gave it to the salvation army... it was going to be a long day.
if the idea of a garage sale is to simply get rid of junk, mine was a success. we got rid of all the big stuff, thank God - moving from a 5 bedroom mansion to a 2 bedroom condo means more downsizing than even conrad black is capable of. i didn't make too much money and there was a pile of little shit leftover. frozen, my helpers and i decided to flip the sign, write "free stuff" and just leave it out all night. it worked, my yard looks as though it's been ravaged by racoons, but everything is gone with the exception of my brothers waterbed mattress, two autographed game hockey sticks, and a bunch of pillows i had somehow obtained over the years that felt a little more like slabs of marble.
the absolute shit people will buy is fucking phenomenal. someone actually asked to pay for a tiny box a ring had come in that someone gave me, that was made of cardboard and stained. i told her to take it. i tremble when i think of what her house might look like.
the real flooring moment though, was the realization that at some point in my life, *i* had purchased this shizzzy. clearly i have not been listening to mike's taoist simplification sentiments.
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Currently listening:
Ancient Melodies of the Future
By Built to Spill
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smooth criminals
so where did i leave off... oh yes, the pi was closing.
so ash and i head over to bb's for another jug and a game of pool. we meet the head manager of the river rock casino bar and he's a lonely guy - takes to us some, buys us tequila shots and comps us some buffets at the casino restaurant and says we'll get free drinks at the river rock if we come see him when we're in there (as my brother so eloquently put it, "THAT'S DIABOLICALLY MASSIVE!"). he needs a ride home and to cement those free drinks, we oblige. say buhbye, all that.
and then hell proceeds to break loose, as it so often does in the wee hours of the morning in the canuck truck with squish, some boozes and a city full of tim hortons.
first stop - tim hortons on alderbridge. we're on the hunt for clam chowder, for tis all that will settle our tequila ravaged tummies. we inquire about said soup and are shot down immediately. with sadness we ask if any of the other timmy's has it tonight. this begins a 20 minute adventure with directories and phone books and managers and swinging doors and phone calls, and finally the two timmy-ho employees disappear into the back to find some magical find-the-chowder phone number and don't seem to return very promptly.
we are not fools. we see the opportunity that has presented itself. i grab a christmas teapot and squish, a bewilderingly large amount of coffee from the christmas gifts display. and we run.
in the truck on the way to the next t-ho's, squish expresses her disappointment in not having grabbed the teapot.
next stop, hort's on 3 rd. while undoing our seatbelts (one must be cautious while navigating the night road), a man who hasn't shaved in a couple of days wearing the trademark canadian winter uniform, touque, puffy jacket and jeans, asks us for cash so he can get some food or gas for his car. after a long argument that began with our suggestion he join us inside for some warm fuzzy timmy soup, he finally admitted he just wanted to get high and i dropped a fiver in the poor man's hand - i understand. i have had my addictions.
into the tetons, we ask a new face for chowder. there is none. we are getting sore and become quite vexxed and this time are bolder. as i'm trying to conceal my thievery by grabbing from the display below the counter, ashleigh, in front of the tiny little smortons employee, grabs a cannister of coffee from on top of the sneeze guard, pulls her jacket open and drops the coffee in. it then slips out the bottom, and ting-tang-ting, drops to the floor and rolls as we all watch... then i grab a TH thermos and squish, the teapot she had so enthusiastically admired on our ride over. and we run.
next stop. jim norton's: ironwood. and this is where we are finally shut down. the acne riddled teenaged boy thing behind the counter is quite entertained by us and our silly, distract the staff ramblings, but looking around, all the merch is in locked glass cases.
no problem. ashleigh grabs the entire brownie display and starts to walk away. i tell her to run and her giant gazongas knock the lid of the brownie display as we're running out. brownies proceed to fly everywhere, the lid lands with a massive crash and a bounce and a crack and i run into ashleigh and she almost trips, but through this brownie-blazin-warzone, she manages to keep her grip on two brownies and the bottom of the display... in slow-mo, we run, crashing and banging, out of tim snortons, catching glimpses to the left and to the right of shocked faces and faces in mid laugh-attack, and coffee, so much coffee...
finally we make it to the door and run to the truck, jump in, and we peel out as we see the laughing faces of acne-boy, his sidekick and the canadian bakery patrons disappearing behind us. i am almost positive i laughed in my sleep all through the night...
***NOTE: and before you judge, lest we forget how many mp3s are stolen daily, and all of you who rip off columbia house and all of you who would travel with me, far and wide, collecting the ketchup in tupperware from every mcdonald's pump in richmond. none of you are innocent.
the week in review
saturday - on the way to my bro's new pad in the luxurious yaletown, riding in the caddy, my mom stops at the no.2 rd & blundell liquor store for some canadian vitamins (hops, barley). while in line waiting to make our purchases, my mom drops this beaut: there was a rally at this liquor store today
me: what? why?
mom: they're closing it, people are upset.
*double take*, *cheeks burning red*, *rumble, rumble*, *steam coming out of ears*, *pop*
me: let me get this straight, there are people dying and starving, not only all over the world, but right here in our little city, there are people suffering the world over, there are people legally being murdered in that fucked up country to the south, and the people of my city can only muster the energy to organize a rally because one liquor store is closing in an area where 10 others exist?
*vomit*
human beings are fucking revolting sometimes. r-e-v-o-l-t-i-n-g. no doubt the rally crowd was made up of only white trash from the neighboring bc housing co-op that so desperately wants to be a trailer park.
monday - carrie and i hop into a cab to the mall to get her passport pics taken and have lunch. we decided on white spot, a great bc tradition, the bc burger *will* kill you but is comparable to the best orgasm you've ever had, etc. we order and wait for our food and chit and chat and fidget. carrie starts filling out her passport forms and leans her head down and i catch a glimpse of something so horrible, but at the same time, cute like gorilla babies. a baby of about 6 months is behind us being fed by someone who looks like laura bush and the baby turns his head, and i remember this in slow-mo, he turns in a scene that makes you expect his neck to creek. i see what looks like george w. bush in baby form. no, not a baby that looks like what dubya might have when he was a baby, but a baby that looks like dubya does currently with ears the size of dumbo. i shudder. suddenly the bc burger doesn't seem so appetizing.
so carrie goes her own way and i head over to the bus stop, cause rodrigo continues to suffer from battery unchargedness, and lack of insurance because the beastly engine isn't passing aircare (in british columbia, it's pretty much legalized theft - we all line up in our cars and then they ask us to get out of them, they lock our cars into these car-shackles and refuse to give it back until we give them $20). ps. if anyone wants to buy a 73 purple monte carlo... anyway, so i'm at this bus stop on the coldest day yet of the year, so cold it feels like it may snow, and of course the bus is late because that is the nature of public transit anywhere on this planet, and there is this group of teenagers committing truancy down the way a little and they're all gothed the fuck up, one giant fat girl in a yellow hoodie the size of forrest's first shrimping boat, the jenny, (sup swollen banana?) has black tears painted down her face and bum gloves with the exposed fingers and she wafts by me to check the bus times and i feel like grabbing her yellow submarine and pushing her up against the bus shelter and yelling "THERE IS NOTHING UNCOOL ABOUT SHOWERS.". but. instead. i am distracted by her whory smaller half in the jeans that expose so much crack, it's street value is off the fucking charts, and little missus' fucking belly is hanging out over her white belt cause her fur coat doesn't go down further than her nipples, which are, understandably, more erect than billybubbaclinton when he's playing with cigars, because most of her skin is exposed to the almost-snowy-autumn-chill. it is at this precise moment that white-belted-nipples decides to show off her cart-wheeling skills which just barely give us a glimpse of the undersides of her nanners and all the boys she's with are poppin woodies, their nuts are dropping, their voices changing and we-all-live-in-a-yellow-submarine pouts because her ensemble is not getting the attention that whore-girl's skin is.
i turn away. i've had enough of this. but it just gets better. down the street saunters fat-hairy-fuck with an ipod, sportin his cargo jeans, request from zellers (canadian wal-mart) no doubt, and has hair down to his knees, bone straight like axel-smack-you-up-bitch-rose. he winks. i vomit. and finally my bus comes.
later on that very same day, i find myself in the presence of one miss squish at the wonderful pioneer pub, just down the way. we pull up, say hi to dino @ the door, wave to the timmer and michelle and chris and park ourselves in the smoking room, atop a stool and proceed with the following conversation:
me: man, today at work i was driving the forklift to get the skids from the new delivery and the sup's all like "courtney, where's your hi-vis vest?" and i'm all like, dude, i'm trying to operate a fork lift here, can we talk about fashion some other time?
squish: yeah, the sup gets all out of sorts when you don't wear the proper head gear either. fucker. have you seen the sup's sup lately? i've been sleeping with him, i'll tell him to give him shit.
and so on. and so forth. it went on for a good half an hour. funny thing is, ash and i both own our own businesses and really, the hardest work we do is walking to the pioneeeeer pub.
our fun fake conversation stops abruptly when shouts ring out from the other side of the smoking room and a fight is threatening to disturb the blue collar pioneer peace. you can really see the psychosis required to want to fight people if you study it's beginning stages. one man says something out of line, and the other reacts and, influenced by the power of alcohol, refuses to hear what the other man is saying, even if it's an apology and just continues to repeat stupid macho bullshit, "stop it unless you wanna see blood pal" etc. the fight never comes to fruition and one of the guys is thrown out. he leaves the woman there who he'd been with, and it soon becomes apparent that her 14 or 15 yr old son is outside the bar waiting for her. he knocks on the door and begs her to come out and go home with him and she insists she is just having a coffee (do they even serve coffee at the pi?) and crying, sobbing begging continues and breaks everyone's heart. the eyes of the bar are turning on her and she feels it, so she leaves after her son has taken off, hopefully to go home and be a fucking mother. as all the commotion subsides, and patrons become more audible, we notice one man in the corner trying to tell everyone it is his birthday. an absurd scene. an absurd day.
thursday - after a day of diving heavily into blog-culture and flattening my ass on this chair, and a sad canucks game, ash and i head back to the pi. it's last call already so we just get one jug and sit outside and talk with gary about kids and babies and life and family. chris comes out to clean up the smoking room and turns off the keno tv - as she turns back to go inside, gary gives her a smile and she says "ohhh gary, i'm sorry, you're still playing keno?" and he says yes, but it's ok, he'll turn the screen back on and flip it off on his way out. chris smiles her warm smile, nods ok and heads inside. it's a pretty moment. thinking about the fact that all we really know about this woman is that she works at the pioneer pub, i grin because we can get along so well. i don't know if she supports the liberals or the death penalty or if she smacks up her kids and it doesn't matter because in that moment she's a friendly face. which is what i really love about the pioneer. the people there are not pretentious. the people there do not wear white belts. the people there don't pout when their yellow tarpaulin and black painted on tear drops are not enough to get the boys attention. the people there have no idea what a blog is and thus, they haven't the shadiest i'm writing about them when i come home. although last night, as gary talked about why he loves the pi, and ashleigh nodded in agreement, i did let it slip when i said "wait til the book comes out".
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Currently listening:
At Folsom Prison
By Johnny Cash 
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i woke up broken
zzzzzzz
my family i headed out to ohio to visit mike. prison was like an open compound and we sat in a stairwell and waited for him. he approached us slowly, with sadness, and i held his head against me while his arms drooped, long and strong around me. i sobbed. not because i was sad at that point, but because i have never felt anything so wonderful in my life.
he sat next to me in the stairwell and he said he was doing as best he could given the situation, but he was lonely. i told him i understood. i told him that no matter where he has ever been, being without him is lonely for me.
then he looked at me with his giant green eyes, with pain, and uttered a silly question, "court, i'm still your best friend right? i'm still that important to you?"
fuck, of course.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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Currently listening:
Picaresque
By The Decemberists
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Labels: mike
FUCKFUCKFUCK
From: governor@govmail.ca.gov
Subject: Re:Corrections and Rehabilitation Reform
Date: November 16, 2005 7:02:37 AM PST (CA)
To: ME
Thank you for your correspondence regarding Stanley Williams.
There is a court order currently in place that calls for Mr. Williams to be executed by the State of California on December 13, 2005, and Mr. Williams has, through his attorneys, expressed his desire for the Governor to grant him clemency in this matter.
Capital punishment is an issue about which many people hold strong and impassioned views, and Governor Schwarzenegger appreciates you taking the time to express yours with regard to Mr. Williams. Your correspondence will be given due consideration during the clemency process.
Thank you again for writing.
Sincerely,
ANDREA LYNN HOCH
Legal Affairs Secretary
*scream that can be heard in the next galaxy*
i cannot believe a man is going to die, people have been given fair warning, and yet we remain powerless over the situation. PLEASE, YOU STUPID FUCKS, STOP FIXING YOUR HAIR OR TYPING ABOUT YOUR NEW SHOES FOR ONE FUCKING SECOND AND WRITE TO ARNOLD.
this is not a rant.
A GOOD MAN IS GOING TO DIE. i don't know how you can live with yourselves...
vinnie o'tool's whiskey brownies
"What's with all these crap-filled bottles?"
Looking around the restaurant, there was an abundance of said bottles. Filled with pickled things and oils and leaves. It seemed as though someone had tried to create an Italian atmosphere, but with all the dark wood and brass it looked more like an Italian-Irish mutt job.
"Of all the themes in the world to pick for a restaurant, who the hell would choose the cross-breeding of Europeans? ... Vinnie O'Toole." I commented, and soon after realized I'd done so a little too loud. Feeling curious eyes on me, I opened my menu and hid a little.
Jess shot a cocky glance at the couple at the table next to us who were eyeing us judgingly. She turned back quickly and asked, "Who the fuck is Vinnie O'Toole?"
"Vinnie O'Toole?"
"Yeah, you just said Vinnie O'Toole for what seemed like no good reason."
"I say a lot of things for no good reason. You never ask."
"Ok, slower then. Who... the... fuck... is... Vinnie... O'Toole?" She asked, underestimating my ability to annoy.
"You can ask as slow as you like. It still doesn't explain why all of a sudden you've taken an interest in my gibberish." It was beautiful. I smiled like the Grinch. Fucking beautiful.
"Fuck it. What're you ordering?" Jess gave up and picked up her menu.
"Vinnie O'Toole is an Italian-Irish fella. He came up with the Italian-Irish motif in this place." I humored her.
"... and you know this how?" She was starting to giggle a bit. This is a bad sign. When she giggles, I giggle and when I giggle, she laughs and when she laughs, she can't breathe. And as we're all fully aware, breathing is one of those vital things. I stay quiet for a few minutes, let her giggles subside and try not to giggle myself.
"Cheeseburger." I announce after a few minutes. It was quite oddly and unintentionally out of context considering I had stopped looking at my menu a while back. Jess just looked at me questioningly. I shrugged and she cracked up. I supressed my ambitious laughter and grabbed the dessert menu. I pretended only to be interested in sweets and the like, but she just continued to laugh. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I howled until the waitress came to take our drink orders, at which point Jess and I collected ourselves and attempted to act normal. We both ordered iced-tea, as usual, and then just shut up and looked around the place some more.
"No, seriously. Doesn't it look like they hired some 40 year old guy whose mother was an Italian and whose father was Irish?" I asked enthusiastically, after taking in more of the Irish woodwork and Italian preserves.
"Hired him to do what? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Vinnie! Vinnie O'Toole's father was born in Dublin, went to university in Italy, met and nailed Vinnie's mom and married her when she got knocked up. Then they moved to Vancouver, Canada, settled down. Vinnie's like our age I guess. Anyway, don't you think this place could have been designed by a Vinnie O'Toole? The Italian-Irish interior decorator." I'd gotten a little noisy again and hid in the dessert menu.
"Would that make him a homosexual Italian-Irish guy?" Jess whispered.
"What? Interior decorating?" I pretended to look astonished. "Surely Jess, you don't think all men who pick out wallpaper, paint and carpet for other people are gay?"
"Shut up." She raised a finger to her mouth, just as the waitress arrived with our drinks and took our dinner order.
"Danke." Jess and I said in unison. The waitress smiled her I-hate-you-but-please-tip-well-look and walked away.
"Vinnie's not gay. He's a fuckin' hotty, too. Black hair like his mom, green eyes and pale skin like his dad." I fanned myself with the dessert menu.
Jess rolled her eyes and remarked, "You know, we just covered like a million stereotypes in 10 minutes."
"So fucking what? Stereotypes aren't going to go away with a puny little political correctness movement. People are too touchy." I shook my head and added, "I'm a pasty honky!" deliberately loud and quickly hid behind the dessert menu again. This time I read it, tuning out the rest of the room. When I was done I popped my head up and exclaimed, "Dude! The brownies here have whiskey in 'em! Vinnie's Dad is the chef!"
"You're messed. Whiskey in brownies? Let me see that." She grabbed the menu from my hands. "Fuckineh, intoxicating dessert." Jess said, defeated. I guess she'd assumed I'd been fucking with her. We contemplated the idea of whisky brownies for a while and thus, silence fell.
The waitress brought our dinner soon enough and our mouths were too full to speak. We tend to eat like the world's going to end the next time the South Park writers kill off Kenny. I finished as much as I could, sucked the salt off my fingertips and said, "Noun, meaning dessert resulting in mild to severe inebriation. Check please?"
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Currently listening:
The Night's Bloom
By Pinetop Seven
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dinner's ready
incalescence - a growing warm or ardent
cark - worry; trouble, distress
amaranthine - undying, everlasting, unfading
nonesuch - a person or thing without an equal
tholing - suffering, enduring
saudade - yearning or longing, but more than that...
tetragrammaton - the ineffable name of God
occultation - the state of being hidden from view
phoenixity - the quality of being unique
twitterpated - love-struck, smitten
hedonics - the doctrine of pleasure; that part of ethics which treats of pleasure
interstice - a gap or break in something generally continuous
novio - sweetheart; lover
koan - paradox in Zen Buddhism to abandon dependence on reason & gain enlightenment
ineffable - unspeakable, indescribable
nodus - complication, difficulty
galluptious - wonderful, delightful, delicious
Achates - a loyal friend
billet-doux - love letter
osculate - to kiss
unseven - to render other than seven; to reduce from seven in number
tathagatagarbha - the eternal and absolute essence of all reality, according to Buddhism
mansuetude - the quality or state of being gentle: meekness, tameness
impuissant - powerless
kvetch - to complain habitually: gripe
eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious - good, perhaps very good
Labels: mike
too short story.
My eyes are opening to what seems to be a hotel room. It's almost completely dark. My head pounds, my mouth is dry. The light from the moon bounces off beer bottles collected on a desk across the room. It's humid. I haven't anything on but a pair of unfamiliar boxer shorts that are much too big for me. My feet are caught up in the sheets and suffocating. I kick the sheets away and swing my feet off the bed onto the cold, tile floor. It feels good as a little cold shiver runs up my spine. I hold my position for a while with my eyes closed, enjoying the cool on the scorching souls of my feet. After a few seconds, the tile itself is too warm from the heat of my feet. I decide to stand up and wander around so no one spot is ever any warmer than the other.
The hotel room seems to have a bit of an Asian décor, Thai perhaps. The intricate tapestries on the wall are stunning, depicting majestic, noble-looking elephants bathing themsleves. It's definitely very typical of Thailand, but I have no idea what city, island or town I'm in. As I pass a chair, I grab a t-shirt that's been thrown carelessly over the mahogany armrest and slip it on. I stand by the window, cross my arms and look out, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the moonlit outdoors. The beach comes into focus. Rocks jutting out like a jetty and small, bamboo umbrellas dot the beach. It is Koh Samui. I stand there for a while, taking in the beauty that is any tropical locale at night. The silhouettes of palms, slighty swaying in a breeze that would feel so wonderful on my hot, bare skin. The sound of the backwater washing away the footprints of the day before. The replacement of human life with the haunting, mystic sound of crickets and cockroaches scurrying and clicking. Alas, my dry, urgent thirst gets the better of me and I turn for the bathroom.
Halfway across the room I realize there's light seeping out from under the bathroom door and the faint sound of running water is kept behind it. Startled, I grab a beer bottle from the desk and creep towards the bathroom door. As quietly as possible, I give the door a nudge. It slowly swings open and the shadow of a man is cast on the shower curtain. I try to call out, but my throat is too dry. My heart pounds. I reach, hesitating, for the shower curtain. In one split second, I tear the shower curtain open and jump into the defensive.
"Woah, woah, pretty girl. What's gotten into you?" The man in the shower asks as he turns off the water with one hand and holds me off with the other. He is tall and muscular with golden brown skin. He has some foreign lettering tattooed along his arm. His head is shaved, his face is not. He is not at all familiar to me. I ask him who the fuck he is and why is he in my hotel room.
"Well, you sure knew who I was earlier, hon." He replies with a sickening grin and a twitch of his eyebrow.
"Do you have a name?"
"Raphael, baby... ", He seems disheartened. The name triggers a tiny response in my memory, enough to feel some relief.
"Well, Raphael, I'm going back to bed." I turn slowly and head back towards the bed. He follows me, mumbling something about having to get some sleep as well. I climb under the covers and lay on my side. I feel his strong arm slide around me and pull me close. "You're beautiful", he whispers. I let him get away with it... for the time being.
I open my eyes this time to Raphael, propped up on an elbow, watching me groggily.
"Hey, sweetie, remember who I am?", He asks, sarcastically.
"Yeah, you're Raphael.". I roll my eyes. "Listen, I need a shower, Raphael. You stay put." I smile the fakest smile and dart into the bathroom.
Once inside, I close the door behind me. I turn the hot water in the shower on and slip off my t-shirt and what must be Raphael's boxers. I slowly unzip my overnight bag, overcome with a rush of adrenaline. Locating a scalpel, I slide it under my watch band. I turn and open the bathroom door again.
Raphael looks up at me, "couldn't get enough, huh?". Smiling the same fake smile and nodding, I sit upon his naked, brown body. I lean down and begin brushing his neck with my lips, nibbling lightly on his ears. He starts breathing heavily as I slide my hand down his chest and stomach and below. He's excited, hard. I wrap my hand tightly around him and he squirms. "That's a little rough hon, you think you could loosen your grip?" he asks carefully. I don't. With my other hand, I slide the scalpel out from under my watch band slowly and raise it to his neck.
"You're beautiful" I whisper. He grins with his ego, a goofy grin. The pillow slowly changes from blinding white to blood red and his grin migrates to my face.
***
Two days later, my eyes are opening to what seems to be a hotel room. It's almost completely dark. My head pounds, my mouth is dry. I have no idea what city I'm in...
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Currently listening:
Moving Units
By The Moving Units
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O
beautiful circle the 'o' the cycle the globe the round the cirque ring sphere wheel the repeat and around again the repeat wheel sphere ring cirque the round the globe the cycle the 'o' the beautiful circle.
a revolution.
yeah. my wetware is malfunctioning. birthday parties and the nelken and the emthial interrupt and general abuse of mind, heart, liver et al. i think i've become paralyzed.
"everybody's gotta learn sometime" beck to the beck to the b-e-c-k
bye.
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Currently listening:
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
By Various Artists
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redemption
so i decided to watch redemption: the stanley tookie williams story - it took a lot of debating with myself cause theyre going to kill him on dec 13th and i really am not sure i want to learn about someone's life one month before he's to be murdered. but i decided my sadness isn't as important as knowledge and being able to spread this knowledge and try, at least, to do everything i can to save this man's life. which isn't a lot because i'm not a yank - a bittersweet reality - more on that later.
so i knew tookie was a nobel peace prize nominee, but i wasn't really sure why other than his anti-gang books for children. i had no idea what kind of impact these books had on kids all over the world, not just american inner city kids. what this man did was utterly amazing and i urge you to watch this film before dec. 13th - it might make you give a shit.
jamie foxx played tookie and did an exceptional job, this man's talent is mind-boggling.
warning: the following can be considered holier than thou preaching...
democracy | noun ( pl. -cies) a system of government by the whole population or all the eligible members of a state, typically through elected representatives : capitalism and democracy are ascendant in the third world. a state governed in such a way : a multiparty democracy. control of an organization or group by the majority of its members : the intended extension of industrial democracy. the practice or principles of social equality : demands for greater democracy.
here's how it works. as a citizen of a democracy, you have a voice. although it's harder than ever to have your voice heard, it's still possible. a government that represents YOU is about to kill a man who has single-handedly stopped gang warfare in cities all over the world. they are about to kill him for you. in your name, this man will have poison flowing through his veins on dec 13th and he'll take his last breath and the aftermath has the potential of making the riots in paris seem like hippies at disneyland.
are you ready to have this man's blood on your hands? are you ready to have the blood on your hands of gang violence that could result from this man's death? are you ready to accept responsibility for the deaths of inmates and prison officials all over the united states of america?
you have young men in iraq right now fighting for your right to have your voice heard. they are fighting for your right to vote, for your freedom of speech, for your democracy. they are losing their lives, they are being killed daily and their families are suffering tremendous loss. this is also in your name. and you have the nerve to turn your back on these rights and leave them, unexercised as the world stares on in horror at the atrocities and murders that are being comitted in your name - all we can do is wonder, do you have a conscience?
i take pride in my being canadian because the instances in which my government kills in my name are few and far between, but i would give anything to be able to have my voice count as one of the majority in your country. there are so many of you who feel the same way i do, there are so many of you who are for peace and civil resolutions to global and national problems. but you don't speak up. if i had american citizenship, i would never allow my fellow countrymen to go and fight a bullshit war and have their deaths be for naught by selfishly ignoring my place in the gears that run my government.
and more importantly, i could not allow the blood of tookie williams and all of those who will die as a result of his death, stain my hands without a fight.
a truly patriotic american would not let his voice go unheard.
all it takes is one signature - click here to sign
other important links:
www.tookie.com
savetookie.org
Redemption: The Stan Tookie Williams Story
and then there was lee thompson young, for those of you who need a pretty face to get you through a movie of any depth
wow.
letter to the editor re: tookie
It's becoming more and more apparent everyday that our neighbors to the South need help. They are being represented by a Government that no longer speaks for the majority, scandals and indictments are occurring left and right. And right now the state of California is about to execute a man who has been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize for his unending commitment to anti-gang activism and his anti-gang books for children. It is a sad irony that the man we have to reach to put a stop to this, is none other than the Terminator himself. But we must, an international voice is being heard in the plea to save Stanley "Tookie" Williams' life so that he can continue to commit to anti-gang activism from his prison cell, and change the lives of children and teenagers the world over. Please visit www.tookie.com to sign the petition and find out what more you can do.
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Currently listening:
Document
By Rem
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once again, worry sets in
2 weeks ago i spoke to mike. i'm always amazed at the amount of laughter that comes out of his phone calls. in spite of his situation, he still has his incredible sense of humor. i can probably give him credit for 70% of the laughing i've ever done in my life. danger to society, my ass.
i haven't heard from him since. he told me he would call again in one week and he always calls when he says he will, unless something's wrong. i've sent him 3 letters since the last call. still nothing.
last time this happened he was in the hole for some bullshit reason that i knew wasn't true before he told me it wasn't. being in possession of a tattoo gun (they found it in the bedpost of his cell during a shakedown - a few days after he'd moved into the cell). he doesn't have any tattoos, nor is he at all interested in them. why would he have a tattoo gun?
he got out of the hole and almost right away got sucker punched in the yard and it broke his cheekbone and they sent him back to the hole.
so i'm worried theyve got him on some other bullshit infraction and it's going to affect his ability to get out earlier. or worse. there are so many fucking things that can go wrong in prison.
i think it's fucking revolting that prisons don't keep families and loved ones and freinds of inmates properly up to date on how they're doing. we just stop hearing from him and we have to wonder and worry.
it's like our own punishment for knowing him... if only they knew how fucking worth it he is.
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Currently listening:
Take Them On, On Your Own
By Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
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Labels: mike
an option
short, but heartbreaking - "They say their mother would not have wanted McHone executed, citing dying words that they learned about only last week.
Teresa Durham, a paramedic, said in an affidavit that Mildred Adams said, "He didn't mean to do it, don't hurt him.""
The Declaration of Life - The Declaration of Life is a statement formally stating that you don't want the state to kill someone who kills you, no matter how heinous and violent the crime.
point form.
1. i applied for the job in atlanta. it's a massive long shot but i think i made a pretty compelling case for myself. we'll see. i'm afraid.
2. at lunch today we had the little rile-meister running the show and when squish would feed him pureed carrots, he'd open his mouth so, so wide with so much excitement. i said to squish, "don't you wish you were still like that? when someone shoves pureed carrots in your face, your just like "HOLY SHIT, I AM SO FUCKING STOKED!!!"
3. i invited wentworth miller to be my friend because, well, my friends list seems incomplete without a real-life inmate. i mean pretend one. *smacks head* tv is NOT real, NOT real courtney!
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Currently listening:
Aha Shake Heartbreak
By Kings of Leon
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the harrowing tale of the ford motor company and the curse of the automatic transmission
when i was about 17, i went with my family to palm desert, california. they went every year, my grandmother used to own a house there. i usually stayed home and had massive parties, thinking i was so sneaky, but mom & dad would always figure it out when they got back. this year, i decided to go - i had convinced my parents to stop at kurt cobain's house on the way back through seattle. he'd just shot himself in the head and i was devastated.
i secretly loved road trips with my family. i never let on because it wasn't grunge enough. i loved stopping at tiny roadside motels, spotting different license plates, eating road food, taking pictures, crossing that line somewhere just south of the oregon/california border where the scenery turns suddenly from a rich green to a lifeless brown.
we're driving in our 1992 ford taurus through pasadena on a sunday and, in the heat of an LA summer, on the frightening LA freeway, the transmission decides it's had enough.
i dunno if you know much about pasadena, but it's hugely hispanic, and hispanic people are hugely catholic, which means nothing is open in pasadena on sundays. trying to get the car off the freeway was trouble enough. finding a mechanic who could help us on sunday in pasadena? near impossible.
finally, in some old run worn shack, in what feels like some sort of gangland "hood" to my ignorant, white, canadian mind, three early twenties hispanic men (who were quite beautiful, i might add - but then, i was a teenaged girl, every man was beautiful to me) covered in tattoos, sporting wife beaters and mechanic jumpsuits with the top half off, hanging around their hips, emerge from under a sign that says "mecánico", they nod at us and strut over and one says "can i help ju?". we nervously explain our problem and the man closest to us turns to the man farthest from us and yells, "juan, dice a papa!". this was prior to my understanding spanish and i was trying to guess what this man had so angrily just shouted when an old mexican man came sauntering out, juan following him, mean looking and slowly approached us, flicking his fingers by his side, looking down each direction of the street, toothpick hanging out of his mouth. he reaches us and stops. the moment is filled with so much tension, i'm about to run. and suddenly, this man's mouth turns up in a massive smile and says in almost perfect english "i don't do automatic transmissions but i would love to tow you to where you need to go and help you find a mechanic who does. you are very lucky today, normally we attend church on sundays"
i'm cursing the american news media for making me afraid of these helpful, harmless men. i'm angry that the collective opinion of everyone, everywhere, is that this is what dangerous gang members look like. blah. we get past it. they drive us to palm desert and they're nothing less than spectacular human beings.
after losing the number to the mechanic alfonso had suggested, my mother picked her own out of the yellow pages. two mechanics later, we're speeding north on the I5, trying to get to canada fast enough, so that the first mechanic, who fucked up huge, doesn't realize my mom put a stop payment on the check and put a lien on the car.
we're informed when we get home that ford taurus', particularly the '92 are notorious for transmission failures, and our model of taurus specifically had had it's transmission recently recalled. my folks sold it.
quite a few years later, my parents decided it was time to give the ford taurus another try, they bought brand new one, right off the lot, ruby red. within months, MONTHS, the transmission was showing signs of utter failure. they sold it.
i was driving my 1982 buick skylark around this time, and one day someone decided to drive out of his driveway into the side of my car. since it was an '82 and in barely driveable shape to begin with, there was no point in repair and i lost my beautiful buick. while searching for a new car, my uncle told me he had a ford taurus in excellent shape. i laughed. not a chance.
time went by and i still hadn't found a car. mostly because i had no time between working and fucking off. my mom kept mentioning the taurus my uncle had. finally, after a huge discussion, my mom talked me into buying it, as it had "belonged to only one owner and she was an old lady", you know, the classic line. i bought it. hook, line and sinker.
not too long after i had started driving my new gold 1991 ford taurus which was nicknamed the golden lunch buffet, my friend carrie, my boyfriend john and i decided to take a drive down to san francisco for my birthday. we were going to stay with some bed and breakfast clients of ours and camp along the way. the first few days were amazing, dry lightning storms in oregon while we camped, a visit to the oregon vortex, which blew our minds and lots and lots of beers by pools in the summer heat.
then my birthday hits. we get up that morning, i'm so excited i get to go to san jose to see the winchester mystery house, something i've wanted to see for so long. i'm in such a good mood, driving down that freeway to san jose on a sunday and, in the heat of a californian summer, on the frightening san jose freeway, the transmission decides it's had enough.
the rest of the trip went something like this: $3000 USD quote to fix, calls to mom and dad, tears, more tears, checking into a motel full of hookers, bartering with a very friendly afghani taxi driver for a trip to san francisco, 3 excellent days in san francisco, then 2 days straight of the american greyhound system, bag searches, pat downs, the heat accidentally being on in a bus through the dry, scorched redding, california in the middle of the night, boxes, cardboard boxes filled with our camping gear, trying to move them around at bus depot after bus depot after bus depot, a massive fit courtesy of yours truly in the middle of the seattle bus depot screaming about how unhelpful the staff were as they wouldn't let us use a luggage cart and i spouted a rather nasty comment, "maybe i should ask for it the american way, with a gun!!!", a sobbing collapse, and finally we change to a canadian greyhound past the border and the air conditioning works and the chairs are massive, with leg room and it's clean.
we pulled up to the station and saw my mom. i told her that ford had now become my personal nemesis and if anyone so much as suggests that i go near another ford automobile, they will receive a swift kick to the genital area. i told her i was done with cars, too.
i went carless for about two years. then i saw my monte carlo, parked all by himself at a gas station, shiny purple, calling to me and i bought him and called him rodrigo cruz and put in some sounds and when i drove him for the first time, my soul wept. there is nothing on this earth that has ever made me feel so instantly glorious as driving a car, playing good tunes and belting out the song as loud as your vocal chords will let you.
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Currently listening:
Blue Screen Life
By Pinback
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brave atlanta?
the last three web pages in my browser's history:
idealist jobs
http://www.workpermit.com/canada/assessment_form.htm
http://atlanta.craigslist.org/apa/
hrrrmph. i wonder if i could actually pull it off...
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Currently listening:
Summer in Abaddon
By Pinback
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as i said, a lot on my mind, part 2
i was watching a recommended flick last night about the stanford prison experiments, 'the experiment' or 'das experiment' (german film) and it was shocking and sad. the main character was prisoner ..77 and even that didn't cheer me up at all.
i kept dreading work today. it's not that there's anything horrible about my job, it's rather comfy, and i started the business myself for chrissakes. i get to work at home, with my dog, set my own hours, and make lots of money. but i hate it. i simply hate it.
i can only explain the way i feel by saying that my spiritual bank is empty. my bank account at the nearest financial institution is full, but i don't care.
i can't sit here and do this meaningless crap all day while in the back of my mind all i think about is the innocent man who's being executed tonight in texas or how many young teenagers are going to spend their first, terrified night in jail or the fact that one of the most incredible human beings i've ever known is in such an unbelievably unsafe place.
and then i get a google alert regarding mike's prison and a suicide and my heart skips a beat and i can't wait for the damned article to load, finally i see that the dead man is a man from death row and it couldn't possibly be mike and i relax. but only a little. 'cause another alert will come tomorrow. i feel a little guilty for being relieved that it was some other man who killed himself and not mike, and i just get angry at a world which creates such inner conflict in my mind.
then as i read the article further, i'm flabber-fuckin-gasted at the content. it's about a correctional officer who was fired because this man on death row killed himself.
IT'S DEATH ROW. HE WAS GOING TO BE KILLED ANYWAY. it seems so utterly absurd that there is even a conversation that has sprung from this. it just happened sooner and at the hands of someone else. are these people mad because they couldn't get their kicks sticking someone with a poison needle? why are they so upset? i mean, i understand why compassionate people would be upset, but generally speaking, killers yield very little compassion from the system that sucks 'em in, guilty or innocent and spits 'em out in body bags. it's just so terribly bizarre.
please don't forget to sign tookie's petition. this is one guy who can grab enough attention that maybe his sentence will be commuted and maybe we'll start talking about the relevance of the death penalty in the 21st century. it's a start, to just be talking about it.
Labels: mike
white trash monster
there is so very much on my mind this afternoon.
saturday was frightful, i was amongst a few people i had nothing in common with other than chevy ownership, and one of them was like, king of all rednecks or something. i'm not sure how it started but after my 3rd or fourth sicilian kiss, i was teetering a lot, barely able to see and this mullety hick man kept following me around telling me about his chevy, or his "monster" and let me tell you i was none too pleased to have to have a conversation with this acid-washed jeans sporting creature about anything he referred to as his "monster". he kept telling me how special i was (i'm horrified to find out that i am appealing in any way shape or form, to your common canadian redneck) and that one day, when he gets his license (he's in his late 30s) he'll let me drive his monster. at one point he made an advance and i told him i didn't think my boyfriend would like that. he, having known my bf for some time, said "oh, no, he's a good guy!" as if to incinuate "good guys" share their girls.
ewwwwwwwww. i sound like a 12 year old. i cannot stop saying "ewwwwwww".
excuse me for a minute. i have to vomit. again.
at one point, graeme, of the t&g union, not the bros friend, appeared as if from nowhere to inform redneck and i that he drove a volvo. after which he found himself on the receiving end of a redneck stare down. imagine, talking to a chevy owner about a nasty european import. he turned away and left. nooooo, grrrrraemmmmmmme, come back, don't leave me with this man and his monster!!
i cried for mike who was hugging porcelain in the water closet, to come out for any reason i could think of (the redneck is a friend of mike's, so i had to make up something) and i finally found a massive spider and shrieked and mike came running and saved me from both monsters. effing thank god for mike 3 and his overprotection of all his female friends. what a wonderful man.
i passed out, fully marinated, in bed at about 4am and rose at noon, 100 per cent confused.
there is only one way to spend a day hungover. we begin with the bill curtis hangover cure (see yesterday's pants post), and then we find others like us, in states of varying degrees of dehydration, headache, dizziness and nausea. we then venture out in public with our group of similarly hungover people and make scenes.
ricky's was the destination for a 4pm breakfast, but we had to stop and get ginger ale first because ricky's doesn't serve it. so we drove to shoppers, and, momentarily forgetting that it is accepted practice to get out of your car and walk on foot into shops, ashleigh drove up onto the curb and almost right up to the shopper's door. she suddenly realized this isn't normal and we died laughing, half up on the curb in front of shopper's drug mart.
equipped with ginger ale, we're seated at ricky's, in the booth next to a man with a teardrop tattooed under his eye. teardrop tattoos are eerie, no matter which of these meanings it held.
our conversation proceeds a little like this:
a: jared from the subway commercials got fat again.
me: what? how do you know?
a: he doesn't do the commercials anymore.
me: i heard he's going to universities to give motivational speeches.
a: what the fuck does he have to say that's so motivational?
me: i ate a bunch of sandwiches and now my pants don't fit.
after nearly having our asses thrown out of ricky's for being overly jubilant, and entering the beginning stages of utter hysteria, we head over to chapters where a man who looks like scofield from prison break is fingering magazines in the mocha-choco-latte scented starbucks corner of the mega bookstore. tormented by the presence of his boyfriend, squish and i check out with books and postcards and head home to sip ginger ale, watch the freak shows on TLC and poke around the internet.
the whole day, squish was whining about needing a massage, so i thought i'd do her a favor and post this: http://vancouver.craigslist.org/rnr/109346690.html
and now it's monday and i still feel hungover. and people wonder why i don't ever do shots...
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Currently listening:
Silent Alarm
By Bloc Party
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