the prairie tune

its not because of the regina pats, and its not the drive from the jaw to pense; its a nice drive, though sometimes you want the back door, if you will, sometimes you prefer the moscow - tver; or its nice to drop in on a peaceful slumbering lumsden without warning and honk your horn: though you must believe me if i say its not childish public mischief. i wish there was a way to honk my horn in lumsden, or stony plain for that matter, without upsetting the natives. geez buddy, its just an animal thing, its just an instinct for self-preservation, its just the same thing that mixes all the words up in the dyslexic's eyes EVERY day, on purpose. its just the same thing that shakes the hands in saskatoon, and worries the heart in medicine hat - its flat buddy! its all flat! its true: my dog did run away! my childhood was only dogs running away, always away! where were the dogs with the ill-tempers?! where were the jumping, biting dogs?! the ones agressive with the hatred of their previous beating owners? has it all been swallowed up by the south saskatchewan? or the north!? did it ever make it past the bend in wakamaw?
whatever

A Buyer's Market

It took me a good minute to finish Anthony Powell's second novella. There were a number of reasons for this.
First, I became discouraged by the banality of it all. Knowing that there was no deeper meaning, no great (of even mundane) revelation waiting for me at the end, I swiftly tired of the narrative. I believe I mentioned in my review of 'A Question of Upbringing' that I was magnanimous. Well, nothing much has changed since then - at least, not in terms of my own personal magnanimity. Hence, I'm happy to report that I was content to pass off the relative banality of 'A Buyer's Market' - just as I passed off the relative banality of 'A Question of Upbringing' - as being the consequence of the relative banality of the life of the average upper-middle class English wanker in the early 20th century. But frankly, magnanimity based on upper-middle class English wankery can only last for so long. Sooner or later the silly bastards need a slap around the chops to smarten them up a bit. After all, an arched eyebrow and stiff upper lip might do the job in the clubs and ballrooms of dank old London, but the rest of us find invective and personal abuse delivers the same sentiment with much greater gratification.
Which brings me to my second beef: the sheer wankosity of upper-middle class poms. No, wait - I should apologise, for I've misrepresented the fuckers. They're not wankers, they're pansies. Pussies. Softcocks. Choose you own satisfyingly derogatory term at will, the characteristics of the folk who wander the pages of 'A Buyer's Market' can be easily summarised: pompous, weak-willed, egoistic, and ever so fucking boring.
And yet...
And yet I felt a certain kinship with the narrator. Nicholas Jenkins deserves a brand of sympathy. His first clumsy attempts to construct himself a relationship which will astonish the ages with the intensity of its love strike a chord (albeit melancholy) and evoke a smile (albeit wry). True enough, I was never in love with an emotionally volatile upper middle class English lass (and if I had been, I would have demanded considerably more pussy than Jenkins ever got) yet there is something poignant about young Nick's hopeless attempts to construct a relationship which is clearly doomed from the outset.
Having said that, Jenkins is not off the hook. I forgot about the pansisity, the pussyism, the softcockery for a moment there. What Jenkins - indeed, every blasted character in this book - needs to do is tell someone to fuck right off. Too often, in the course of conversation Jenkins is confronted with a remark which he finds 'intolerable' or 'absurd' or affronting in some other manner. His reaction? Invariably along the lines of: 'There was no possible answer to such a remark' or 'there nothing one could possibly say in the face of this'.
Ah... yes there is, tiger. Try this one on for size: 'Go fuck yourself!' Or this one: 'Fuck off, cunt!' Evan a simple 'Get fucked!' often does the trick.
But no. Jenkins and all the rest of the timid fools in 'A Buyer's Market' seem so terriby, terribly concerned not to give offence that they're prepared to suppress a welter of rampantly negative emotion, compress it, and spew it back out in an absurdly polite exchange such as this one:

'Please,' she said. 'You must.'
'On the contrary'.
'I insist.'
'No, no, absurd.'
'Mr. Gilbert!'
'Really.'
'I shall be very cross'.
'Not possibly'.

Let's be frank: no sane person on the face of the planet would contemplate speaking - let alone arguing - in such a fashion. Hence, the translation into real terms:

'Look cunt,' she said. 'Do it'.
'Make me, you fucken whore'.
'I fucken will, cunt!'
'Come on then!'
'Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!'
'Well fucken come on!'
'I'll smash yer fucken head in!'
'Try it, cunt! Just fucken try!'

See what I mean? No wonder Hitler was allowed to run rampant across the continent.

Total Control Racing

Oui mais non, en fait, laissez-moi reflechir un instant...





oui oui.


J'ai l'esprit plonge dans la melasse, un sirupeux melange de jus de cerise et de struddel aux pommes, laissez-moi vous dire que cette forme d'expression m'entrave.L'ecrit. Je ne suis en aucun cas tenu de vous parler. C'est juste une facon de plus de se jeter dans le vide ce blog. Oui, je pose la question : " Qui etes-vous ? " Sincerement, je ne pense pas que vous existiez vraiment, vous faites tous semblant d'etre, entre l'ecran et vos appareils cognitifs, mon spectateur, c'est le neant comme un tout inverse, ce truc, c'est mechant. Pour vous dire la verite, je suis comme un circuit TCR, ou les idees tournent en rond comme ces bolides a lamelles. Rien de bon, rien d'hilarant, rien d'original a cette non-pensee... mais tout bien considere un circuit TCR, TOTAL CONTROL RACING, c'est bon comme du bon pain, eh ouais mec !

Sinon, est-ce-que vous voulez du the ?

vive le M--(otherwise known as jean luc) libre

hello buddy, ou est tu? non, i have not seen you here for many long times, what are doing? oui, i know that you want nothing but your little ideas and sex and charles de gaulle, but what way are we worse than them? in which way are we not charles de gaulle? every one of us, mon cheri, is something of a president, every one of us is a little bit of charles de gaulle.

my childhood and guy lafleur

i remember being a lost child on the st. laurence seaway, swimming around, and bragging around, like a lost popsicle stick on an emtpy highway. usually i was wearing a red away guy lafleur jersey - my father always said that guy lafleur was the only real hockey player for women to love - and i would brag around in front of the women, hoping they would see me and think that i - was in fact guy. it was many years before they did. it was many very lonely st. laurence years. then there were the lonely laval years, and the lonely years by les chutes de montmorency. they were the worst, because they were very wet and lonely.
but before my life could end, possibly right at the one day when i was thinking to myself - guillaume, you are very wet and lonely, maybe it is time to be finished with all of this wet loneliness, eh? - yes, right about this time, it happened! i was standing on the bridge over les chutes, and looking down, letting the gravity and seriousness pull me in - you know, dostoyevsky said often enough it is simply the gravity that makes a man jump - when a woman with very dark hair said, peeping her little eyes over my shoulder: what are you looking at guy? i jumped so far into the air over the chutes i thought i would be joining dostoyevsky in space, but eventually i came down, and i was so happy, i was still wearing my red jersey, though the years had left it almost brown and indistinguishable; nonetheless i was so happy that at last the woman had loved me for being guy, but i could not lie to her if she was going to be mine for ever to love. so i looked at her and asked: why is it madamoiselle that you think i am guy lafleur, i am not guy lafleur, i am guillaume bonneau. she looked back at me and said: i did not think you were guy lafleur, though you are also bald of hair, i simply love you and want to swim with in the chutes.
it was a very difficult chidlhood.

The Coolsification of Sydney Road

Started with a Porsche. A black Porsche, parked outside the cafe. Then it was the fucking cafe. Open front. Box seats. Vegan brekky. Good coffee and a troubled ride home.

More Porsches.

I cracked a girl's skull open outside a streetcorner cafe. No, I didn't, only dreamed about the consequences of dickheads whacking people and tables on my fucking bikepath.

Downtown Bendigo on a Saturday night? I wish. Old Studio 54, eh? That was a cunt of a place. So's the Spot, doorbitches and all. Go back to your own fucking suburb, mate.

'You are fucking joking me - a line outside the Retreat!'
'Oh my god, did you hear what he said?'

That son of a bitch looks like me. So does that one. Looks like it's time for a shave.

It's Coburg o'clock; Glenroy or Pascoe Vale for the homebuyers.