I must be one of the very few who didn't like the new star trek-pure crap, and fun don't cut it with me-man, have the trekkies ever fallen-for they liked it. It was an episode of designer magazine white apartment inhabited by snotty college kids in space. Only far less intelligent than that. Snippet of mild argument had with some nerds: 'they didn't convince me of the characters they were portraying.'
       "Bryce, that's because they were in an alternate universe.'
       'Okay, fine. They didn't convince me they were actors. "

Okay, so I didn't like Transformers 2, revenge of the idiots, either. Barely decent effects, for obvious CG-man, how can you tell they wasted 200 mil on the actors, and the boom booms?

I'm saying this even though I also said I like everything. Amend that to I like a whole buncha stuff, but not everything.

I'm on facebook these days, and lj is not cutting it so much, with me. Probably be less entries in here.

 Saturday's ride was an interesting little eye opener in the North American mannef of acculturated attitudes. It's all about control, folks, especially if you look like you're having a good time. I suspect we're one of the few cultures where people panic and become paranoid, if someone is smiling. The need to control serves no purpose other than the act of control itself. It certainly isn't logical.

So anyways, there we were, at Dix's, around a hundred strong. We were in the alley behind, because dix, while once happy to serve us, decided that they didn't like the bikes, and so when they said bikes not allowed, they lost a whole lot of business-at, say, three or four pints per person, and a ride can number 150, with ease, at least 1500 dollars, in about a half hour, will potentially turn over. But with their edict, maybe ten people will sit inside. Wow, what great business sense. Like I said, it's all about control.

So there we were, hanging out-Jim Cummins came out and yakked with us, he had no problems with us, but soon after, some very young, confused, or perhaps overly excited rookie cops showed up-guess they got the easy beat. The concensus was that someone in the apartments complained, which is possible-it's also possible that Dix themselves complained, because few were inside. Jim certainly didn't. The cops say half an hour, no open liquor. Oh, right, it's June, bike month, the signal for the cops to get it all wrong, and harass people for riding bikes. Tickets and whatnot. And really stupid rules-109.00$ dollar fine for not having a bell, or a red reflector in the back, and a white one in the front. They almost never hit you with that one, because of paperwork, and no one will pay it. Did you know that if you get a ticket for some bike infraction, that goes on your driver's licence? especially if you ignore the ticket. which for me, means, oh wow, nothing.

I realized, as soon as the hall monitors showed up, that we would be tailed, all the way. And sure enough, we were. At every stop, save one, as acess was limited, a cop car showed up, or drove by. They sent rookies to Dix, because a cop with some years in the force, is going to know that the cruiser folk are very easy going, and, being on bikes, leave the scene easily. At one point, near Jericho, a bike cop started rolling up. We just grinned and mounted up. I observed, to my amusement, along the bike trail, from Kits to Jericho, that there was much open beer, not at all hidden, and much open drinking of said beverages-generally at park tables and designated barbecues. Not one person was being visited by the local constabulary, who could have made tons of money, simply by walking up and down, or sending a couple of beat cops. But it isn't about money, it's ab out control. And control exists soleyl for the purposes of control, and ego.

That, and I couldn't help but notice the number of individuals, all done up in spandex and helmets and all the consumer gee gaws, rding past, or through us, with deep frowns on their mugs. At one point, we had sort of blocked a bit of a path, and a couple of people had to sort of meander their way through, gifted with the sight of a hundred beautiful bikes-and even the chance to chat with someone-"Say, that's a cool ride there-what make is that?" and such things. But no, this being a saturday, and obstensibly their day off, means that frustration and stress are paramount, and hey, look at me, I got all done up in this epxensive spandex and a bike helmet, how dare you ride MY trail with a stupid ol' grin on your mug, like nothing's wrong in the world at all.  Bastards! I shall vex!

A favourite moment came at the rowing club, where we suddenly starred in a 1950's B-movie, where we cause mayhem and concern, merely by dancing or cavorting. I show up at the gate earlyish, and a couple guys come out, and look worried. They ask me if there more ocming, and their not really set up for that-they don't have any beer, and, well, their not prepared. I find it interesting that they seemed to know that there were more, and am amused that their expression  of concern was pretty useless. well, okay, I was in a good mood, too bad for them. Turns out Pappy had phoned ahead, we were supposed to be there, so they were somewhat lying, they should have known. again, bad business sense, all about control. 

From the moment we arrived, I could sense we were not wanted-this is Kits, or Point Grey, or whatever, how dare we bring business, and buy food and drink! Worse, about half of us stayed down on the ground, instead of up on the upper dceck. Naughty! Oh, and man, it's location-cause the rowing clubm, or sailing club looks like a high school cafeteria. so there we are, hanging out, when a certain someone we'll call J- decides to push the envelope. Well, he's a big boy, and hungry, and anyways, those big ol' stainless steel food containers were chock full of pork rib skewers. cool by now, and still tasty. so, we had a few-I counted maybe a half dozen skewers worth-at current food prices. Meanwhile, we're dropping an easy thousand on the upper deck. Fella comes out, says no open liquor with a wink-usually the workers will turn a blind eye-shit, their looking for an opportunity to do so. shortly after, angry guy, obviously boss man, comes out, and tells us to get away from them food bins-it's a private party, and how dare we eat food that is going to be thrown out! Cause it will be-private party is nowhere in sight, either on the grounds, or upstairs. So, the way I look at it, is, in beer alone, we dropped a thousand-probably another few hundred in food-so a few bucks in food destined for the garbage? Hey, I'd let it pass. So anyways, still laughing and having a good time, we slowly split. How awful! Rowdy, unkempt bastards!

The lack of business sense comes in with this-places that usually tolerate our mildly raucous behaviour, get revisits, and thus, business, from us. Some of the more ignored, eastside bars may not love us, but certainly don't mind our presence. Because tolerating our behaviour, and understanding that we're smart enough to know what the line is, and will happily comply with reasonable demands, means beacuop bucks. Places that get all uppity? Well, we generally don't do repeat business. I kinda wonder how long Dix is gonna be considered a viable spot. It's all about control. For instance-Pet Cetera, the wal mart of pet suppliers, is shutting down a bunch of stores in Vancouver. Why? The onwer apparently refuses§ to pay bills, and doesn't see himself as a problem. And his business people/partners are trying to get it through his head that he's the problem-except that he's a control freak, and doesn't see his incompetence as the problem. So, the busness will die, choke it's own life out of itself, the smart ones will move on, and he still won't get it. His business failed because of others, damnit.

Or in the case of the rowing club-it aint about making a decent chunk of cash on a saturday afternoon, it's about the privileged exerting their right to said privileges, and apparently, having no fun whatsoever, in exerting their control. Try it sometime-try being in a really good mood, and getting all poopy, and wanting to control some aspect-it can  be done, and there those who do it, but generally, one has to work oneself into a state, in order to pull the control option. Or be continually in a paranoid and feeling vulnerable state.

"We just wanna party, and have fun!" From some half forgotten b-movie...

 So I didn't get to any parties, nor, this year did I volunteer...but it was excellent being able to just walk out the door, and there you were, in the middle of car free day. Plus I found out that some poeple I know live in the area. People are starting to say Main Street is the new Drive. Not quite-Main street is laid out different-where the Drive is one small street, a two lane, and not a main vein, with storefronts along it, and a mian park in the middle, with lot's of houses on either side, and loads of coffee places to hang out at, which develops a fairly neighbourly feel, like a little village, Main street is a main throughway, that ambulances and cop cars use regularly, with fairly divided neighborhoods that comprise little several block sections with distinct character. And is much more indutrial, spread out. While still a sort of neighborhood, is sprawled alongside the throughway, with high density traffic, and while pleasant enough, has a bit of a different demographic than The Drive.

And I like it better than The Drive. So, car free day, I hung out mostly along Main street, and realized, at around fourish, that I wasn't going to make it to any other after party-nor even the after party at the Heritage Hall. Cool thing was that this one was spread all the way from 25th and Main, down to 12th. Pretty huge, and very decently filled with stuff. No stilt walkers, that's more the Drive, and anyways, that heel would probably mess them up. The hipster fixters were pretty small in number, and mostly hung out near the beer and wine store to maintain easy drinking distance. Was very cool being at the top of the hill, around 14th, and seeing the huge crowd stretching out below. And while lot's of people, Main street is great, because it iswn't squishy crowded, so it's an ease of walking, riding, whatever thing. Lot's of beautiful cruisers, both old and new, lot's of strange wheeled oddities, and while a bit thin, a solid effort was put out by everyone. I might even volunteer again, next year. Hey Ocean played, capoeira was out, there was some freestyling, and one one sidestreet, CITR radio. 

In Neptune records, there was a cool band doing something that sounded liek a mix between thrash and psychobilly. They had this keyboardist playing an old keyboard, the kind with those big old switches you have to hit, and those chord buttons on the side, that alow you to play notes, and a chord at the same time. Really classic analog sound, dunno where he got it. The sound was wonderfully terrible-big mix of mud, which was even better, kinda like a big wall of sonic mud, with this high wailing keyboard mixed in, and unidentifiable vocals. Not a clue who the band was, but I'd check them out in a club.

It was all awesome, all the way through, especially the part, where, later in the afternoon, as the other carfrees shutdown (Mainstreet shuts down at eight pm), more and more people showed up, that I knew, and so getting ten feet further than wherever you were, was next to impossible. For most of the day, I walked up and down the street, honking away on the mouth harp, pausing in front of whatever music struck me as nifty-which was all of it. Up and down the street, to many and much smiles. Maybe more people will just do that next year? Would be cool. I might do that myself...

Dang great day, dang great fujn, and the three days prior, I rode the sheer hell out of my old '37-to the point where I flatted the rear tire, and had to switch to chopper!

 yeah, I'm on facebook-under the name Bryce Rasmussen (last name pronounced 'Rasmyoosen', although that y is kinda silentish. Pretty much a u as in queue. But I aint crazy hard ass on it. Pronounceify it however yase wants). Oh, and there are only five males in the united of states, with the name 'Bryce Rasmussen'. Woot.

Not much on facebook-is like twitter wit pics. But stuff from art show, and at least I can scan pages when I gots them.

 So yesterday, possibly while riding me crusty ol' rattle bucket, or possibly while strolling along, and definitely while gawping at the wonders of nature, or something utterly predictable like that, I decided to write this run on sentence. Something I seem very good at. Oh, and had an epiphany. Or a something. It wasn't very momentous, it wasn't terribly spectular, the heaven's didn't open up, except for some brief rain in the evening, which was pleasant, but I did seem to come to some sort of conclusion. Possibly one of yer ol' sillyphosical postions, rather like them fellers what writ stuff about life and what it means, or should mean, accordion to them. And there it was, blaringly simple, and came upon me a day after a day of nasty misery, whereupon I had wallowed in the usual too familiar misery.

     I like everything. Or, that I should try, mightily, if need be, to like everything. And that along with my zen punk mantra "fuck it, whatever", I should indeed make this a regular thought, a mantra, a slogan, some nice adcopy, a twee thought twirling through me head, merrily bumping into whatever antagonism still lurks.

   And it brings with it some darned interesting mental situations-that would mean I like misery. And that I like not-misery. And that I am a little unclear to the level of like-should it be a firce, all-embracing passionate liking, throwing one's body and soul into the liking, or should it be merely a nice, sort of pleasantly ambient mood? Well, the latter seems terribly north american-best not to really demonstrate humanity...

   I like Pagans, real or not. I like Paganism. I like Athiesm. I like Christianity. I like "Bob", and "Fred", and eating, and being a bastard, and taking a good solid shit. I like things I don't like, and I rather like the way that dropping my keyboard fixed the stuck spacebar. I like percussive maintenance then. Really cool, is it opens up new worlds of sensation, and thought. Plus, a few problems, some difficulties-am I supposed to like evil people? well, yes, provided I am aware of what they are, and are capable of. Like, I like alligators, amazing animals, but that don't mean I'm a gonna sidle up to one, and give it a hug. I'm not stupid. Mostly lost in me brain area, and not paying attention-pay attention! Attention. Attention.

  I like not having freewill, and mind. equally, I like not having freewill and mind. I like believing in everything, as much as I like not believing in anything. I might even like them equally. I like believing that I like everything. The thing is, once I had the thought, I realized that there was a purity to it (not nessecarily to me, just to the thought) that is pretty neat. I-selfness, self awareness, admiring, being attratced to, fond of, forming a pleasant bond with, I'm too lazy to actually look 'like' up in the dictionary, so I'll make it up, the whole ball o' wax, everything. whether tis a multiverse, universe, nifty 3D illusion, alls good.

   Doesn't mean I'm gonna wander around blissed out like some krishna dude, or some blissed out hippy-much as I'd like to-does mean, I am already finding that I have to repeat it to myself, fairly frequently, because there's a whole lotta not liking stuff in the wee depths of me brain thing, that I run up against. But hey, I like challenges. I like arguing. Actually, I really enjoy arguing, quite fond of it. Not enough arguing, of the intelligent, 'I'll take this position, you take that, and we'll both debate.' 

   Now, given that I am fresh to this idear, simple, and possibly simple-minded as it is, I aint gonna be some beatific zen master, alluva sudden. But it is something nice to say in the morning when I wake up.

 After having checked out my favourite book place, Macleod's-awesome place, piles and piles of books-didn't find anything, but the atmosphere. And I flipped through some neat books-and one comic I almost got-collected works of Frank Miller's Daredevil run, way back in the day. Man, so many beautiful nerd girls hang out there-including the lovely lass who works at the counter...brains is sexy! Maybe not so much my brains, or maybe they are..."I'm not pretty, I got a masculine face" . Anyhoos, To dgressify a tad: picked up Alan Moore's 1910, the new work, and while one can see the influence of Alan's own magic leanings, it's a good story, tight, each panel has tons of crap in it, requiring probably re-reading-a rare comic approaching a near Joycean holographic state, that is, where there seems many layers of meanings. Plus codes. It seemed, to me, to be either a little less dark, or, oddly, more dark, than his previous work, set in the 1800's. Identified lot's of characters, including Andy Capp, rendered in a realistic manner, but the singing lady has me mystified. I'll wait til the reference comes out. 

Anyhows, after sitting in the library, and realizing that they have a veritable shitload of indie zines, and reading Mark Millar's 'Wanted'-very different from the movie, and much superior in almost every aspect. I played spot the character-Mr. Rictus as The Joker, A character made of the feces of hundreds of evil bastards, called Shithead, who was a riff on Clayface.Simple idea, tell a story from the supervillain's POV, and make it no hold's barred-raw, nasty as shit, endlessly entertaining-I left, and wandered around a bit. Whereupon I sighted two Hitchcockian bird moments: actually, now that I recall, one was before the library, one was after. The one before the library, a guy was trying to get into his little orange car. Nesting crows in the tree above, cawing and swooping. One of the birds was quite resolutely perched upon the passenger side of his vehicle, while the other was doing the swooping. Given that crows have been found to be terrifically intelligent, it's likely the one had seen that that was the his car. Then again, equally likely it was simply standing near him,having identified him as a threat. I was walking right past, and under same tree. He was sidling up to the door, and then shying away, apparently somewhat hesitant to get into his car. Swooping crow was nowhere near his head. He finally works up enough balls to open the door, and throw himself inside. I kept walking. Maybe he didn't realize that it was just a warning signal-sure, crows will attack, but I don't think they have rabies-and anyways, they mostly just make a lot of noise.

Then after the library, a gal and her boyfriend were out near the steps of the library, and guy was feeding crumbs to pigeons (there was a resplendently salmon coloured pigeon amongst the group, an rather pretty shithawk I thought), and said pigeons were swooping down, close by the girl's head. She threw her arm sort of halfway up, startled, and made some frightened girl noises, no words, just the usual frightened noises. And I thought, they're pigeons-what the fuck they gonna do? Peck your ankles? "Hey, you, stupid hairless ape-down here-ya, I'm talkin' to ya-make wit da crumbs, fuckface, or me and my boys here, we's gonna maybe hafta peck yer eye out, okay? Savvy what I'm sayin' here? You even listenin'? Want me ta fly up there an stab an eardrum out?"

Like, fer chrissakes, theys boids. Like, crows are smart, but as a group, they can't plan for shit. Too much infighting. And pigeons? Yeah, we're that seperated from the real world, that pigeons freak us out. Shit hawks. Mind youse, they gots some serious aim with their anuses...and gulls are even better-but aside from that, really. Hey, maybe the guy was afraid they'd poop in his hair or something. Kind of a comical defense- 'Mess with me, an' I'll poop on ya!" Then again, that's what we did, millions of years ago. Similar to the skunk defense, only with more waste material. I wonder ifthat's where "Here's mud in yer eye." came from?

 My show comes down today-sold three paintings, I think...purty good, for a first real show. The Si'l Vous Plait closed it's doors forever, on Sunday-a fabulous place, a diner built in 1939, opened in 1940, and stayed pretty much the same for years after that,  many good times were had there. Friday night, got to see a few of the old crew, friends I haven't seen for years. sad to see such a a groovy place go.

Got a thing on Facebook. Under the name Bryce Rasmussen. Easy to find. Don't rush over just yet-not much going on there. Yet. Probably will have bike pics and some art pics.

Wow, my exciting life...

 So a bit of news last night left me pondering about the last few hangouts downtown that I bother to go to anymore-although one, I haven't been to in a long long time. The S'il Vous Plait-otherwise known as The Sieve or The Silver Plate, closes forever as of May 31st. Mr. Kim simply can't afford the rent anymore. Likely that old 1950's (or 40's) diner is getting torn down, along with the block, for some condo thing. Could be wrong on that though. Roughly ten years ago, it was the total rockstar hangout-Dave of The Beekeepers, Annie of Active Joy,and others. Often a hangout for musicians touring through town-one of The arenaked Ladies hit on Judy one night, and was found some time later, drunkenly extolling the virtues of a town where nobody gives a fuck who you are.

The Sieve was where I got a chance to sneak into a Pogues gig-while Joe Strummer and Shane MaGowan (not certain of spelling there) were still in the band. I was having a coffee, and scritching out some Very Important Poetry-The Sieve was sort of the idea behind a Puke Theatre song (my old band) 'Angst Is Cool' (note the sarcasm), and in walks one of the Granville street punks, whom I sort of knew by name. Not many Granville street punks anymore, at least, not the ones I knew. Sits herself down,and without any prelude, says "So here's the deal-I've had a fight with my girlfriend, and somehow I have her guest list. It's got eleven names on it, and it's for the Pogues-wanna crash the gig?"

I may or may not have hesitated-there was some negotiation involved, and sooff we went, down the street, to the gig, which we got into-security dude didn't even ask for ID-this was back when it was a little more lax...we get in, and proceed to pogo our stupid brains out, to the best band I've ever seen, in the best gig palace in the known universe-back in the old Commodore, with the bubbly light tube thingys, and that awesome hardwood floor, that got seriously tested that night. all one could do, was pogo, it was that packed.

So many more highlights I could talk about, with that gig, and many more memories, most surrounding my 'second home', The Seive.
It was the place to be, and while not the greatest place to work-the tips were truly shitty-one could leave the job, go on tour, and get rehired back. That, and some of the weirder crazies also occupied the space...and I wrote reams of Truly Awful, But Very Important Poetry. 

Somewhat less important these days, seeing as how I don't seem to have any of it to inflict upon you. I recall, some years ago, being dismayed that I had many pounds of those little red and black books-so I rewrote, into some klunker of a computer, the best bits, and chucked them out. Maye I should have buried them in a timecapsule, to inflict my truly-awful-though-very-important crap on some hapless far future archeologist. But no, I can't bear the thought of inflicting such nastiness on some unsuspecting individual.

Gonna go eat there, one last time, before it gets torn down, and walk down nostalgic punk days with Dee. Long live The Silver Plate! At least, in some people's memories.

        The cruiser ride on saturday was pretty cool-150 people or so...warm weather and sunshine...old friends and a bike ride...peopleliked, and were astounded, at my paint job-permanent marker and clear coat-my roomate said it best, when, just before going to work, he opens the door, sticks his head in, and sez: "Hey, what's with the shiny bike? You're not allowed to have shiny bikes!"

         Lot's of beautiful bikes-many which have been sold by Rod-made himself anice cottage industry...some people came from Victoria, and some fromthe North shore. Good fun, and a great day. Now for crappy haiku;

         night's roaming around
         poking around these dark street's
        stoned listless and bored

        I don't quite have it down yet, I perhaps shall have to work on it some more...oh, for a good time, real cheap, throw 'indecent haiku' into ye olde search engine, and go to that site. Some really good stuff there.

 Saw the new Star Trek-good thing I didn't pay for it. It's fascinating, not seeing something on the big screen-you actually are compelled to watch, and think aout something. This Star Trek is the biggest piece of shit I've seen this year-shittier even then that Zack sitcom, Who Sucks The Crotchmen? I can see how J.J. pitched this one-"I'm gunna make Star Trek fer dem white trashed motherfuckers."

What I like about it: That it didn't have that dude who played Riker in it.

What I didn't like: everything. a soulless piece of dumbed down crapped out turd that the trekkies will still suck on like an all day lollipop. The actors were the worst backlot wannabes possible, and not one of them carried even the faintest echo of, say, even the very worst of the franchise, which would be next generation, of course. Shit, they weren't even convincing as a star trek alternate universe. It's rather more like 'George Bush does Star Wars'. I'd rather watch that hideous Next Gen space whales episode. acting was shit, effects were shit, and oh yeah, a retarded villain, who was quite convincing as a supermodel reciting lines, badly. 

See, my problem is, I ignore nerd and/or geek canon: one is only allowed to shred a novel, or movie, after one has declared undying love for it, and can quote, at length, dialogue, various facts, etc. Then, and only then, you become part of an 'exclusive' family, and really, it's your deep love for a certain fiction that allows you to then tear it apart.

I'm fully aware of many unspoken social rules-I just don't care. As a movie, this puppy bit. Shit, as a popcorn movie, it sucked. On every single level. and not in a way that years from now, it'll be loved and adored in all it's idiotic craptasticness. It's likely the real reason hollow-wood hates der net-one can preview, and decide for oneself. Yeah, I know it made oodles, so what? Except that now we're stuck with the Uwe Boll of American franchise movies. I'm amazed that otherwise allegedly intelligent nerds are drooling over this fly ridden roadkill.

Please, someone just give J.J. brain damage-no wait, that wouldn't even slow him down..."as long as he can dictate, he's gold." or maybe "as long as he can breathe, we can pull a movie out of his ass."

But then, I have a long history of not liking whatever everyone else was liking-and of not accepting what everyone did. I've been like this from a very young age, but I'm going to blame my old social studies teacher, Mr. Sawatsky, for a certain independence of thinking. One day, we were going over the bombing pf Hiroshima and Nagasaki. he asked us the reasons why the bombing occurred, and a couple hands went up. The answers given were the usual-force Japan to surrender, deliver the telling blow. Wrong, he says, neither city was a military target, a lot of the Japanese bigwigs had surrendered, the real reason was a simple demonstration to the other superpowers, hey, look what we got-now back off. 

Note how America acted globally after that, and yeah, makes sense. Now, thing is-maybe he was wrong, himself-but what was important to me, wasn't his overall correctness, it was that he wasn't teaching facts and figures, this is what happened because that's what they say happened. It made me refresh my memory of thinking for myself. For instance, say I decide to be an athiest. The reason I will give, because I choose to do so. Or I might decide free will doesn't exist-intriguingly enough, it's because I choose to do so. No other reason. same for being a pagan, or deist, or deciding that what I feel about how a certain event occurred, is because I simply choose to. and I'm not burdened by whether free will, or self choice is 'real' versus 'an illusion'. When a protozoan moves from a dark area, to a light area, because light means food, it's making a choice. Choice can occur at deterministic levels, or more complex levels. It's just choosing what to do, which way to go. There should be no quandary in this-free will, or no free will, doesn't even have to enter the scene. 

I won't for instance, if I decide to believe a certain thing, cite the reasons why. I'll simply say "Because I choose to do so." which apparently causes a bit of anxiety, because then others can't pin you down, and it can solidly fuck with a good argument. How the hell do you deny the choice to do or believe something? Like a Christian declaring they have no problem with faith-they choose to have faith. A materialist can't quite comprehend that, or rather, perhaps doesn't like it, because they seem to like to have identifiable reasons for what they believe, or don't believe. a lot of Christians also don't like it, being a little locked in their ways,

Am I boring you yet? I certainly hope so. ah, the patience of my many reader. Anyhoos-another who influenced me, Paul Buydner-a practicing Catholic, who taught sunday school-we would sit down and dialogue. One day, he told me about what he teaches in sunday school. Keep in mind, this is a staunch catholic. He would ask the youngsters-"Can God make a rock so heavy even He can't lift it?" He would then leave them to mull that one over, and of course, the usual problem would come up, that it's perplexing, cause either way, it makes God less then omnipotent. He would then say "Well, Brahma can." and let them chew on that one for awhile. It's not a paradox at all-what he was saying was, if God can make such a rock-He's all powerful, by the very act of rendering Himself not all powerful-and if he can't, it still makes him all powerful, if not even more all-powerfuller, because he can find, or make, something that renders him a tetch less than omnipotent. Lot's of people might consider this insane, or an illogical way of thinking about it, but then Brahma, also considered all powerful, apparently engages in games of totally forgetting himself, who and what he is, while still remianing all powerful.

Aside from lovely games of philosophy, this again, demonstrated to me the power of independent thought. Hmn, methinks you aren't quite bored enough, for the very few, and likely, none, that have waded this far through the mud I'm slinging. I can wallows lot's and lot's more, but something kinda like lunch is a-callin', so, thinkeratin' aout the many complex wonders around us will have to wait. So, I leave the now tired, bored and annoyed many reader with another crappy haiku:

            twenty fifth and main
           eating a chicken burger
           early afternoon

Total suckness on that one. I give it one star, but only barely.

 Yes, indeed, and now it'stime for more crap haiku...shitekus? Crapkus? anyways, let the inanity begin-

        slowly, evening
        quiets down, rustling in the
        alleys for a smoke

      the cool air sneaks in
     and bums around for awhile-
     hands in pockets, mostly

      twilight aint hanging
     around much longer tonight-
     gots stuff to do

I like practicing haiku, cause it's sorta difficult-you gotta read enough haiku to realize a few things. First, that there's not supposed to e any first person shit-it's gotta be all centreless, next, that the first line is to establish season, or time of day, ut without doing so directly, and next, that there is to  some form of philosophical point, but again, alluded to, rather indirectly. Kinda like 17 syllables of witicisms, only not played directly for laughs. 

It's a great way to sharpen up one's writing, and even better, I've been thinking that, in my writing, say I'm gonna write a novel-it would e a great way to write the idea down, that contains the entirety of the novel, in 17 syllables, using the traditional rules of haiku. Also is a great way to say, work out an idea for an art show-often when presenting something, in the hope that someone might back this, what the promoter/publisher/curator/whatever wants to see, is whether you have a single fucking clue what you're on aout, and a haiku is a great way to distill it down to it's essence. For instance, how would the glorious War of the Pig, as a story, be rendered in haiku? That one's for you, Colin...hey, maybe I'll do one, cause I got the comic around here somewheres.

course, when I does the haiku, it's a lot less difficult, cause I don't really care too much how close, or far away, it is from the source work, and have no clue as to why the sylklable arrangement, other than compelling one to count on one's fingers...

It does tend to get one's senses attuned to general conversation...people speak, with reasonable frequency, an entire sentence of 17 syllables, that makes a great haiku-I once composed a haiku blues song, consisting of a couple dozen seperate haikus, using three or four utterances some old guys in the legion said, cause the syllable count was perfect. Drunk people are especially good source material for haiku, as they tend to use shorter sentences, cause theys droonk.

Okay, for fuck's sake, lecture over. I'm gonna go and get some sun from one of Main streets finest green spaces.

 whom I just can't keep away from...ooh, Mr. Kotter! Mr. Kotter! I finally found out who the maestro of the expanding earth theory is-Neal Adams. Shame, cause the man is a brilliant artist. He gets to join the small, but growing cadre of dementos in comics-Dave Sim, Alan 'The Magus Of Northhampton' Moore, I seem to recall there are one or two others, but names escape me...

Well, that and throw in some global warming...I've been telling everyone for years, that I don't necessarily believe in conspiracy theories, or mad nut theories, but that I really like them for their artistic merit. Actually, a lot of theories I love for artistic merit-here's one, invented by G.X. Jupitter-Larsen-don't recall the name of his theory, but dig it-he decided that all vacant lots around the planet are, essentially, a Haters art project. so that, by that reasoning, there are thousands upon thousands of Haters art projects going on at any one time.

which reminds me of a lovely sight I saw, on a warmday, a few weeks ago, before they cleaned out the vacant lot at 22nd and Main-the one across from the Legion. Or, as I likes to call it -'a typical Main street green space'. In amongst the weeds, broken tvs, very young treelike things, various hunks of rusted metal, one bike frame and a lot of other peoples garbage, were a couple of gals, with skateboards, sitting down in the centre of it, having a picnic! It was awesome-they were making an artistic statement within a culturally mandated and/or approved Haters art space! It was kinda like an art opening for two.

A year before, someone had hung a barkcloth on the fence, which said "Main Street Beach" if I'd had a video camera, I would have started making a bloggy study of it. Currently, there is a barrel, with a sign stuck on it, that says 'you make me sick'. There's a little cartoon face with it's tongue hanging out. But I am confused-are they making a statement about pollution, or the inhabitants of Main street? I do enjoy that various among us have decided that the 23rd street vacant lot should indeed be an open air gallery. I also enjoy the minimalism of the shows there-the busted tv is a perrenial favourite, a way of making the usual borejwahzee anti-culture statement, and shows there rarely comprise of more than one piece-best let the work speak for itself, and 23rds reigning green space, of course. Oh, and even better, one's show may run for an extended period of time, though I've never seen the curator (or any buyers, for that matter) it seems that the city obliges by cleaning up after one! Sweet!

Which reminds of another favourite gallery, almost ten or so years ago, now. a certain buidling on Granville, used to be a dance studio, a block or two down from Dunsmmuir-Lawrence of Asparagus personally showed it to me. There was a little cast iron door thingy, used to be a gas whatsit, somewhere back in the 30's or possibly the age of dinosaurs, and was blocked off. so there was, behind this door, a little tiny space. Bets are that some dealers used it for a stash place, but dunno. Anyways, each day, it seemed to have a little art display-matchbook covers, anonymous strips of paper, scraps of metal and galss, the occasional gum wrapper, all artfully, and carefully arranged so as to oh, seduce the viewer into perhaps adding one's own statement. One had to open the wee door, just to see the art, so it was one of those wonderful hidden art of the city kind of things.

Oh, fine, it was a tiny garbage can, maintained by loonies, but really, if one cannot romanticize the crap aspects of this fine city, then really-I enjoy thinking that there is some mysterious, vaunted purpose, some slight mystery, to what amounts to garbage. Makes the garbage interesting. Oh sure, you can have your graffitti-yes, some of it is very good, thankyou-but the much more interesting material comes when you shine a flashlight down a storm drain...or witness a couple of bonny lasses enjoying a picnic in one of main streets finer green spaces, surrounded by the mysterious and unintentional art of the city itself.

Now, wasn't that educational? Fine, my many reader, if you disagree, your task is to go out there, and enjoy what sun as we seem to be getting today...

 lotsa crap happening tonight-first, at around five o'clock, down by Science World, The BC:Clettes are doing a bicycle related performance, should be lot's of reakbikes there, I'll probably go down and check it out. Then, at 154 W. Hastings, there's anot to miss Bike Porn II-the films from Portland are worth watching, they're bike related, pretty hardcore, and funny as hell. Then, get thee to The Chapel, before (pm, there's no cover, for a big dose of the ol' art.

Best part about all that, is, they're all downtown, and they're all close by. And they're all good! You gots yer art, yer filmy stuff, yer bands and music, and even dance. I think that purty much covers the whole spectrum of artsy fartsy crap to gawk at.

Now I'm gonna bore yers about my bikes-after all, all my personal journal seems full of, is whether I've had coffee or not, and mundane details about that hub I was considering what to do with, supported of course, by minute details about gear ratios. Ugh. I've become a bike nerd.

My main ride, my daily since way back in the primeval days of ooze and swamps and citters running amuck, my first almost an antique (ha ha) what I done founded, has recieved yet another change-I actually have a fairly detailed photographic record of each of it's mutations-metallic blue fenders what looks hotness, a funky whatsit on the forks, and everythings black. Apehangers got switched down to pullbacks, them oldster styley granpa handlebars for fuckups like me-Hell, they've dubbed me the 'master of wipeouts' amongst the cruisers...not something I'm super proud of. Thinking of wearing a t-shirt that reads "will bail for beer." Now my chopper has a sweet ol' meanylook toit, low, streamlined, and raked. And after losing some weight, boy do it ride nice. The forks were welded up by the mighty Kahn, somewhere around '002ish, maybe '001ish, and are still going strong. I love this bike, on accounta I done knows it so well, and it's stood the test of time, and it has a one crank what only ya need a wrench for. Really super easy to fart around with, and try stuff. dunno if it's doneski yet-a rat rod is never done, but I'se satisfied fer now, so it'll stay.

I needed three bikes, and tossed out a couple shit frames that weren't going nowhere, and found myself a Raleigh t'other day, that no one seems interested in freakifyin'. D-Back, meaning it's the traditional diamond shaped frame. Gonna make myself a 'Rattley' or mebbe 'Ratley' (pronounced 'ratlee', I guess) that has most of the crank, and the forks still in it, and that's all I need to get stupid wid it. Parts is working fine-Raleigh's is good bikes, if a tad on the boring side. Aint decided whether it's gonna be a straight up rat rod, or chopper thing. It is gonna gets frame mods, it is gonna hang around for awhile, and it's gonna get the patented poor mans' rat rod treatment. I discovered this yesterday. A couple of permanent markers, black, will cover a bike. You can clearcoat it if you want, and best part is, touching up the surface is way easy-and muchy more accurate than spraying, plus, you don't have to mask anything off.

God, I'm a cheap asshole.

It's gonna be an experimental bike-emphasis on mental, black and white (I got one rusty brown bike, and two black bikes-the palette seems somewhat dullish, methinks) and beyond that, I dunno. I should probably be writing this in Rat Rod Bikes or something, for people who might actually be interested, but hey, I like typing, whoops, writing...yeah, I can see it now-the answer to what do you do-"I doodle and I type." so if I ever start a band again, what then? Guess that would be noodling...doodling, noodling and typing...wow, what a resume...

I promise the many reader that these missives will continue to be uplifting, thought provoking, long winded, opinionated, and full of lot's of typing. This should excite my many reader no end, and provide much thought for future, well, uh, thoughtings.

And with that, I really should get out there with the bikes.

 Trying to figure out how to change my username...knowing me, it'll probably be simple, and it'll take me a few days to figure out.

I've been noticing all these forums dedicated to trying to figure out the meaning of various tv shows-Lost comes to mind-BSG, etc., and I have noticed that so many seem to be slavishly enslaved to the artist's concepts, which usually turn out to be pretty basic. Have these people never heard of surrealism, dadaism, or maybe just thinking on one's own terms? WhenI watch stuff, I do so in terms of whatever Ifeel like interpreting...BSG as a slapstick comedy, with elements of slightly more serious dramedy thrown in...CSIS as a Dragnet styled soap opera...TJ Hooker as a deep, brilliant, and very serious exploration of the many hallucinatory levels of the subconcious mind, or as a personal Dantean journey through the nether regions...Friends as horror based science fiction...often, I'll tune in to I tunes, and balance the volume of both, and watch things that way...on online streaming, one can play with the pause button, and loop things, which suddenly changes everything.

Or this as a suggestion for the first Matrix movie. I realized, once, that all you have to do, to change the entire context of the movie, is to imagine, or colour in, the pills-the scene with thered and blue pill-and colour them either both red, or both blue. Talk about fatal german philosophy...yeesh!

I despises me some bad science, or non science, in the name of athiesm-was watching Ricky Gervais, doing a 'comedy' routine about daddy long legs-routine consists of saying P. Phangioides is the most venomous spider on earth, but has no fangs, goes through a little routine of God giving the spider this, spider thinking the venom part is okay, and then finds out about thelackoffangs, and on top of that, it only lives for a day, and what the hell kind of intelligent design is this? He literally says that, the old, proof of God being an idiot.

No, Gervais, you're the idiot. First, there a three types of fauna called Daddy Long Legs-one, the crane fly, in England, iscalled Daddy long legs, another is not a spider at all, it's an arthropod, and finally, we have an actual arachnid, traditionally known as daddy long legs. A couple of the wee beasties have no venom, and the one he was probably referring to (unless he was mistakenly referring to the arthropod, or the crane fly), has palps, or pelicidae (hope I got that right), which do deliver a poison, and by the way, can bite a human, but keep in mind that the pholic acid in their venom is weak-causes a mild burning sensation for a few seconds, at most. It's just enough to stun whatever the daddy long legs is hunting. 

Oh, and they live for 2-3 years, not a day. And I didn't have to do much in the way of 'research' to find that out. And to realize that Gervais was quoting from urban legend, and ignorance. If you're gonna do the anti-ID rant, or, use the weak argument of God can't exist, because a lot of his designs are stupid, beware of a few things-that argument is weak, based on the realization that one can endlessly argue back and forth about design, and that just saying something is a bad design, that's been around for about 90 million years, doesn't make it a bad design, and at best, if one wanted to be really truthful, or specific (I'm saying that, because I suspect that truth is a variable) one should say "I think that's a bad design." Period. Because one doesn't follow the other. 

I've yet to hear an athiest say "I'm an athiest because I don't like the concept of God" or even "I'm an athiest because I want to be." Tjose arguments, I'd accept-not the idiotic I can't belive in God, because what God would let WWII happen? And allow such evil? well, hey, sorry to burst the acidic bilious cynicism there, but I don't see anything but humans doing that. It kind of works out to be a "Hey, there's evil in the world, and that sucks, so I refuse to believe in an invisible non-existant deity that doesn't have anything to do with the world we have created" The logic aint logic...to rephrase-so you don't believe in a non-existant whatsit that no one can fgiure out what it is, because the world's not to your liking? wow, colour me impressed. suck it up, whiner."

I'll point out that I am not slamming athiesm itself-like anything else, it's merely a concept, a POV. I'm slamming weak ass arguments in the name of it. Hey, lot's of ID proponents use equally weak ass arguments. And some use very insightful arguments. some use a bit of both. Gervais, having the podium-he actually had one, in the segment I watched, and claimed, sort of halfseriously, that it was a lecture-had shit arguments. Like any vegan who has the guts to say to me "I'm a vegan because I think animals are cute, or have souls, and we shouldn't eat or torture them" or "I'm a vegan because i want to be popular, and that's what everybodies doing these days" or even just "I'm a vegan because I chose that, and I chose that for personal reasons, none of which you'll hear." will rank pretty good to me, because they're being straightforward, and intelligent about it. Using the "humans can't eat meat" biological argument, ugh. stupid.

Gervais also cracked jokes about Pol Pot, and was weaving that into his unfunny monologue-pointing out that he would kill people based on whether they had glasses or not-inferring of course, that he is not rational, and was killing rationalists, or stomping out intellectualism. Didn't point out that Pol Pot was also an athiest...both athiests and christians alike should be aware of at least one thing: almost all of the wars in history have been fought not at all in the name of belief, religion, or christianity. It's also a weak argument. Both sides should back away from this weak ass argument. This does not condone christians-hey, they've done their fair share-but dammnit, if you're gonna present yourself as a rationalist, please, be rational.

Both christians, athiests, and, yes, pagans, have fought in lot's and lot's of very nasty battles and wars, for all kinds of reasons. No one is exempt, and the argument is kind of moot. A note: some try to correct me on various bits of history, not realizing that I don't view history from the angle of facts, what happened-well, yes, I do, like knowing the name of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, for instance, but that I also include a basic understanding of humans, and what they're capable of. One learns very quickly that good things and bad things are done for this reason and that reason-hell, the Jacobites killed christians, ministers, and burned churches, in the name of rationality and reason-and that it comes down to the actions themselves. Humans do what humans do-good and bad, on all sides of the camp.

That, and Ricky Gervais aint funny-then again, he also is, but for different reasons than he might think. You know, there's all that stuff up top.

Fuck it, I'm gonna shorten this crap. Life's too interesting for the soapbox. at this rate, I might as well hit the streets with a sandwhich board that says something insane, and just merrily rant about the rich created the ozone hole, because they wanted to tan faster, but there was unintended consequences...

 Man, that was harsh...you should have seen the calls against the Canucks...Matt Sundin, a couple games ago, had a nice run on goal, gets tripped, or slammed from behind, by the Hawks, on camera, no call. Announcers don't even mention it. 

And Mitchell? 4.5 million dollars of wasted money. Get rid of him. That, and I hate the new rules. Not really fond of the waste of money, either. Are the games fixed? well, likely the playoffs. But even if they aren't, there is big money behind the games-mostly from the owners, and regardless of what the players get, their word is likely iron rule. Easy to fix a game in hockey, anyways-make the refs toss penalties at the right team. Oh, and look the other way when Chicago plays dirty hockey. 

Really dirty hockey.

Yeah, Hawks played a harsh game, but the thing is, other teams, especially the Canucks, weren't allowed to. The way the refs were calling it, it was like going into a football game, where one team aint allowed to actually hit. Kinda one sided. shit, chicago's mayor? Daly.son of gangster Jim Daly. Subjkect of many reports of crooked deaings. Likely, it'll be Hawks against one of the other american teams. Well, they might allow a republic of canuckistan team in there, just for good show, but it's pretty much gonna be america all the way.

Shame is, we got a hell of a team. Even with Mitchell. Mitchell's big problem is, he was pretty good with the old rules, he could use his small size, but with the new rules...oh, did I mention i hate the new rules? Guess where those came from? Well, we got owners and coaches and businesses slappin' down megabucks (Ino thanks to Gretsky) for players, so ya, you can bet that they are gonna whittle away at the rules to protect the pretty faces they've signed on. You don't want five millino bucks worth of poster boy to go around looking like Eddy Shack, and costing you medical bills, now do you?

But hey, they were nice enough to make it look like a good show, and let the Canucks get as far as they did. after all, gotta provide some decent bread and circuses, even if the game is fixed. Make it look like a good game and all.

Not that I give a fuck. I likes hockey, and enjoy watching it, don't care much outside of that. well, except for supporting my home team. Guarantee you, they're gonna get a big cheer at the airport when they come home. Saddened as i was at them getting trounced, fixed or no, they played a helluva series, and got pretty damn far, and that's what counts. And the support is good. They're gonna come home feeling pretty down, a lot tired, and hell, it'll be good to see people's smiling, waving towels and cheering them on. I like the Canucks, they play good solid hockey, they play to their best, they play against crooked refs, and they never seem to get an even break. so long as big money in america is still big money, they likely won't.

Favourite players? Bieksa-great sense of strategy-you can tell the guy thinks about the overview, and plays to the best of that-if he needs to take a slam, or get tripped, for a strategic advantage, he'll do it. Luongo, who seems to be some sort of human, or possibly inhuman, wall, and might be one of the very few who may be ranked like stars of old. Hope he stays on the team. wellwood, Burrows, and Bernier, of course, occasionally Mats. 

Rick Rippin, or Ripin, have to check the spelling-180 pounds of skinny six plus, who's apparent goal,is tohit every member of an opposing team. and in the second last game, hit four times in a single shift-Campbell got it twice. Apparently, everyone's afraid of this big skinny kid, cause of the way he hits. Therr were times when the Canucks were down a goal or two, and there's Rippin, smacking the crap outta some hapless guy.

and last night's game? Canucks game back from being down under, and until the last period, matched the Hawks, almost goal for goal. They were playing harder than ever, putting it all out on the line, and they had to. I like to imagine al giving them some beer, in the dressing room, along with a bonus, saying, "You guy's did good." Cause the smart coach would know to do that-lean on 'em early on, but if they've just nailed their balls to the wall for you-that's when you go easy, that's when you give them the Talk, the kind that lifts shattered spirit. I think we should have a big oll party, just cause. They deserve a nice summer break, except for Mitchell. well, okay, I'll give him this: when he's not bouncing the puck to the opposition, and letting them score goals, he's actuall pretty good at setting up assists for goals. Problem is, he's done that so rarely.

Helluva good run. I enjoyed lot's of pre-cup games, and certainly enjoyed the run they had in the semi-finals. But hey, I'm an optimist.

 Wow...many many thanks to The Creaking Planks-I love that vI couldn't recognize the Ramones cover, and that Oh Superman (I'm assuming that's the title) was so nearly perfect...oh, and the theremin guy"what is that?"        "I don't know, but it has brass doodads and control knobs."

And Rowan's laid back, 'Can't sing, don't care' music stand in front of him approach-beautiful-and Julie's kid who did the propellor through most of the set...there were kids at my opening! And he didn't look at any of the art. well, okay, he was a bit short, at two or three years of age...

It's been said many a time, but having an opening is a great way to get free food and beer...another fave moment-me, Dee, and a few others (hey colin, do you know the name of the guy who was with us, sitting opposite you? I think he shares a studio with Ken)go to the Greedy Pig for a wee after party, whereupon almost immediately, we launch into hockey talk-"enough art. Hockey's important." and sorta left Colin out of the conversation as he is more of a football (european, that is) fan. I like his philosophy/cosmology talk on the way home-he's decided that there may or may not be a something/someone/whatsit behind this whole thing with the universe, (I like the idea of there may or may not be, leaves a little wiggle room) and that they or it don't communicate with us, and likely not the universe-they might have created it, bit it does a fairly good job of maintaing itself-and that said whatsit is very nice.

I think I have most of that...it seemed to smack of a Python-Adams kind of a thing. which kinda makes me think if I was ever to meet such an entity, they would have an english accent, and offer me a spot of tea...so if there is an afterlife, it's in a lovely garden with crumpets and tea, and lot's of comics to read. and good books. and that sort of genteel conversation that having a spot of tea in a lovely garden might bring about. Oh, and The Ramones doing crazed,, high speed be bop jazz renditions of their songs, with Kerouac on the mike, improvising beat poetry to 'Beat On The Brat'.

Now that would be heavenly. But then, so would be The Shags covering 'Blitzkreig Bop'.

Some surprise hits at the show, that I didn't think would be, and quinn did a fantastic job grouping the paintings together. I sold two for sure-admittedly, my mom bought a painting, and there was a fella who've I've seen ride often with MC3, who's a bit sketchy, but seems to want one, and the one I wanted to keep for myself, of course, that one went pretty quick. Not too bad. Oh, and a few connections were made as well, which was neat.

Today, is the glorious day of a nice bike ride, and some housework, and I'm looking forward to both. Weird. Okay, I'll tell a secret-I thoroughly enjoy doing housework, cleaning stuff up. It's kind of a neat way to meditate, or just zone out.

 Yeah, actually, that should be 'the Brycean way' , which is a vague James Joyce reference (I tell anyone who's interested, that the twoeasiest ways to read Finnegan's Wake is this: first, feel free to make up a meaning for whatever seems a bit murky, and it'll work just as good as anything else, and second, read it likea very drunk irish fella, with an indecipherable accent. Even better, just get really hammered and read it, that works too). The Brycean way is whatever I make up on anygiven moment, as far as fillerosophy's concerned-in fact, I think I'll call myself a fillerosophist...five cents for every bon mot of crap advice...Ireserve the right to sound like a dementod idiot, or wise beyond reason.

Uh, the LJ name is something that came off the top of my head, but I remember reading something somewhere about some revolutionary group that ac tually has something along that line as an advertising slogan, so I've decided to make it mean that the power of one is just as powerful as the power of many, especially if you're somwehat left of sane, and thus have few if any, of the acculturated mental roadblocks to this can't be done. Hey, if Ruth Norman can do it, so can I. S'funny, Ruth Norman, she of the Space Brothers, was/is considered very not sane, but hey, she managed to make a kind of a movement out of some tupperware, shiny plastic, and her own imagination, and, in her seventies, managed to score a thirty year old boyfriend. So yeah, she's insane-and rather clever-or maybe we're like crows-easily amused by shiny things. I tend to vary between hating my LJ tag/name whatsit, or almost kind of sidling up to liking it in a vague "Well, at least it doesn't totally suck" kinda way.

Today, the Brycean way is in full punk zen motion, because of art opening-(Yes, Rowan, I promised to send pics, and then, oops, so now you have to wing it, cause you do that better than me. It's kinda too late, and, well, you probably have seen some of my stuff somewhere. By now, I suspect that people just practice patience with me, and hope for the best.) which means, it feels like any other day, at least up until around six or so-whereupon I shall get all bent out of shape, and wring my hands meaningfully. Or meaninglessly. and it'll all come together, in spite of my very best efforts to mess it up, a stalling technique I've learned over many years. In fact, were I to give me personal advice on how to get ahead a little bit better, I'd point out somehting like "Don't organize. delegate. (I suck at organizing) Relax, utterly ignore any attempt at goals, use percussive maintenance on most things, when necessary, and in fact, use PM even when unecessary, and pretty mcuh stop sabotaging yourself, which is easy to achieve by simply not worrying, and in fact, not actually trying to achieve anything."

Because the way it seems to work, is, while there is definitely no laws of Attraction, although there likely are laws of Repulsion, it seems that the harder we work towards achieving something, the less possible said achievement becomes. And goals are really, really stupid-life never operates the way one intends, so, don't intend. That and a "fuck it whatever" my zen punk slogan of choice, really works. I've decided, that at least for today, we'll see what I think tomorrow, the Laws of Repulsion state that whatever one tries to attract, one actually repulses. although I can't possibly prove how that works, sorry.

I've learned with bikes, and with art, that deciding anything, goal setting anything, aint the way-nowadays, instead of thinking "I shall fix those brakes", I just decide "gonna work on the bike." For instance, I fixed this keyboard, using the reverse of Murphy's Law-several keys were seriously stuck, forcing repeated finger jabs, and very slow hunt and peck. My roomate said this particular keyboard was a bitch to repair-so, without making any plans, or deliberately trying anything, or even being smart, and buying a ten dollar board from the pooter store around the corner, I immediately proceeded to comepletely accidentally drop it three times, whereupon, it was lovely and smooth, and really rather fun to type on. It makes a neat noise.

Now, while I am reasonably certain that my involvement had little to do with keyboard repair, nor were there any psychical type manipulations involved, nor even any decent proof of the reverse of Murphy's Law, somehow, doing exactly the wrong thing to the board, had the not desired I(I was eventually gonna abandon it) effect. In fact, if one just goes for effect, it's all good. 

Or, if one wishes to achieve a modicum of success in something, all one really has to do, is, little as possible, less than that when possible, not desire much of anything, go for effect, as in, 'let's see what happens when i do this', and vary the approaches to achieving effects, as often as possible. Life, or reality loves to fuck around-with shit like "as order increases, so does disorder" Whu?

But there's also a way of doing a lot, actually working hard, which does achieve-again, learnt from bikes-it's an intuitive kind of thing. Because my approach is actually panicky, not thinking it through, and nervous and shaky-and it's literally in my body movements. And what I've picked up over the last decade, is first, to sort of look at a thing, kind of wordlessly, or wordfully, suss it out, but not dwell, and then, simply, move the hands, arms, entire body slow-indeed, work it down to a slow pace, and then slow that down. What's really neat, is you can keep, within limits, of course, slowing it down to a rather amazing degree. and magically, this is the part I have quitew figured out, it goes faster. Not a clue why, just know it works.

when approaching something, a task maybe, take the laziest possible way. Literally look at it, and think "How can I finish this, the laziest possible manner (but not a lazy fucking it up doing a half assed job manner)? And just consider, from actual body movements, to the actual process itself. Just don't put much empasis on it, be lazy all the way through. And, hey, chuck it a wall, try to break stuff, do it backwards, sideways, vary approaches, sometimes even ignoring the crap altogether and going for a nice walk.

And of course, when presented with any difficult problem, "Fuck it whatever." The only thing I haven't tried that on, is relationships-of the intimate kind-I have tried it with friendships-something's bugging you, the way somebody does something, and maybe it's direxctly affecting you negatively-but not asd much as you think-feel, not think, fuck it whatever-just get pissed off-fuck it whatever, I'm not making that decision, I'm not gonna bother with patching this up, hell, I aint even gonna pay attention to it. It won't change things much, guaranteed, but you'll be surprised-you'll realize that you've shrugged you shoulders, and by paying no attention to it, the problem goes away. Even though nothing much changes.

Course, if you hit your thumb with a hammer, or stub your toe, FIW don't work worth shit.

 Okey dokey-for Rowan-I'm sending some images tonight, after I smallify them-but your sets already done up all nice, so, well, it's probably an afterthought, my own special form of communication flatulence, known as the Brycian way...oh, the things I would have done differnt, had I done rethoughted this sucker a bit better. Yeah, right...this is from St. Bricius of Tours-"St. Bryce was known as a very difficult young man"-also "Christ had his Judas, I have my Bryce."-and no, dunno the name of the dude's teach. Yes, working on bikes has taught me much about how together my brain is. As in not. Oh, I get it, that's how you do that very simple thing. Yes, Bryce, it's called thinking-uh, say, have you ever tried it?

No, can't say as I have, unless you consider navel gazing and looking at the pretty stars when the clouds occasionally part, and contemplating the vast and fascinating voids of interstellar dust out there, well then, I'm real right smart then, lemme tells ya.

Oh right, and the shows on tomorrow. Weird. I guess I can get excited now, and I kinda am, but you knou, the Gallery Gachet have been so laid back about this (hey, they've been at this art gig for well onto fifteen year now, as I hear tell) that it's kinda "Oh, hey, I got a show up. Neat." Man, they are just so cool there. I've been running around doing the kermit, arms aflailing "oh my oh dear, consarnit" and so on, like a cute lil twee ninny goat, second guessing everything, thinking too far ahead, and then reversing and thinking too far behind, or, as is my wont, somewhere in the realm of not at all, really rather my favourite. Nice and quiet. Not much going on. Heh.

Yep, lots and lots of words that don't really say much, that's me. Open the gobber and spit em out, deal with the consequences later. Anyways, come on down to the show, check out some gloomy crap I hung on the walls, there's a couple nice doodles here and there to while away a minute or two. Maybe that's how I should introduce myself, when I get one of those "and what do you do for a living?"

"Oh, I doodle." Hmn. Could be taken a bit wrong-"Hey baby, wanna see my doodle?" Which gracefully leads me right to the burlesque show, some of which I saw last night, and my favourite quote that either I made up and pretend that someone else did, or forgot the source-"I am an Athiest, but that women exist proves there is a God." It's a great one, cause you can change the words a bit, if you're of different gender choices for partners, and you can throw it into a general lull in the conversation, just cause, with a lovely deep sigh signifying your commitment to the sheer beauty of human flesh...come to think of it, I just thought of a great shakespeare line you could use, just after climax-"Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt." yes, those especially intimate moments, when you and your partner are in the afterburn, I mean glow, of meat slappin', and are being all romantically gooey all over each other.

I once put the kabosh on a romantic interlude, oh, centuries ago, with my lovely ex-partner, wherein I mixed up two favourite male pastimes, that in any other situation, I would have been proud of, a thing of such great ponderosity, that tales would be told around fires for decades...I moved into toward said love's delicate earlobe, intent upon whispering a sweet nothing, a romantic tidbit like "wanna fuck?" (we were nekkid at der time, obviously), and, upon the exact, oh yes, precise moment of attempting to state such a desire, and turn her on, I belched.

Now, what made this moment special, was the quality of said emission. Were I in a loud sports bar, say, as a fer instance, with the game on, and the Canucks have just scored, and a mighty cheer rises to the very rafters, lifting said rafters quite literally off their rafter position, hence raining ceiling and plaster down upon the good folk, well, I swear to you, brethren, said expression of mythic proportions, would have overtaken the cheer, and commenced escaping said ceiling, and flew out to the sky, probably to poison a couple of pigeons, and cause them to pplummet earthward. In richness, tonality, volume, it was the best I'd ever done. Monstrous and volumnious, oh yes. As I said, tales and stuff of legend.

Thereupon, I sort of rolled over, and with a bit of a sour, puppy didn't get his play time expression, I mournfully uttered "well, I guess this means we're done, eh?"

She looked at me the way only one's partner could, and said "Uh huh." You know, that could have been the moment that I realized we might not have been communicating as well as we could...I know a few odd lovely people, who, while not actively aroused by such a thing (although there are such types) would, in the throes of passion, not give a shit, and continue more or less fullish throttle, and might even laugh. After all, laughter in bed, is highly erotic. Especially those girls that have that laugh, the one that tickles your spine, while caressing your inner naughtiness, and gettin' them hormones all a flutter. I keep forgetting about hormones, untll some girl that smells just so, walks past, and all of a sudden, there's this rush, and the heart goes cathumpo whatsit, and you feel giddy and want to run around a whole lot, maybe yell a bit, work off some steam. Probably how they did it a few years ago, back when we had sticks and loincloths.

Oh, and The Jem has found a new spot-just down the street from Gachet, and they are having they's big ol' opening type hootenanny, so hie yourself on down to that portion of town, and make an evening of it. I'm actually gonna go over to The Jem, at some point, and convince a few patrons there, to wander over to my show. Plus, I should mention that while it's not a group show, I am showing with a fella name of Jordan Massengale, who has come up from Florida to do a show, cause the Gachet tends to double up on artists, which I think is a pretty neat idea-they also do single artist shows, but I didn't have enough material, so they wisely teamed me up. So there you are-you can overdose on doodles and scribblings, for a hat trick of art. Heck, you can listen to three people yammer onabout their art, and I promise i won't use artspeak, nor am I hinting that I am three people in one, although my LJ name seems to indicate that a bit. Crappy one that I pulled out of my ass, cause i got frustrated while signing in.

But really, i do go on.

 Just finishing touch ups on the final piece...this aft, some fixes on frames, literally a couple of screws-and they're all ready for hanging tomorrow. Finally! 

I dunno if I'll get handbills out in time or not-there is posters, out there somewhere. For now: Gutter Punk Space Opera, Friday, May 8th, 8ish, art opening, refreshments and musics from The Creaking Planks, possibly even that stuff they call art, at the Gallery Gachet, 88 Cordova Street.

Hokay, Now I'm gonna send out a buncha e-mails.

      So basically I have two pieces to finish-mostly touch ups at this point, some coating to preserve them, a little fixing of the frames themselves, and I'm ahead of schedule! I thought it would be Monday, at earliest. Some of the pieces are hot hot and some are a little less hot, but if people like a couple, I've done good.

      Show's on May 8th, I'll probably be e-mailing peoples, and such. Rowan's e-mail I need, So I can send him some pics, so He knows what to do, songwise, but hey, at this point, that's not a huge concern. Hey, him, his accordion, and some recorder player he pulled off the street would rock my socks. Unless they're argyle socks, then it's more jazz...

     already have an idea for another show, in a slightly different style, this time all original, called 'Amanita Barbaria'. Going to work on a different material-bristol board, that I can mount. Will probably look for a venue, make one up, whatever. Just cause I want to keep going.

    Shows that I want to see-Frank Frazetta, Painting with Fire-six strokes, one almost suicide later, oh, and a mental breakdown, and with retraining himself to use his left hand, he's more or less back. I still have that burning question (oh, ha.) as to whether Frazetta is to be considered lowbrow or not-yes, I know, what an important issue to occupy my mind. Y'see, his subject matter, monsters, cavemen, barbarians, voluptuous women, are definitely lowbrow-possibly his work style too-straight to canvas, from imagination, no pre-sketches. But, and it's a big butt, he was educated at the Boston Academy of Fine Arts-cripes, what trivia! And his style is easily reminiscent of the old master, and he himself, is now called a Grand Master, and he damn well deserves tha ttitle. So, he has aspects of lowbrow, in subject matter, technique, but aspects of a true master, in terms of education and style. This, I like, because I dig that uncertainty. I'd really like to see any new stuff he's doing. 

   and I'm kind of known as a conspiracy guy, and this is the heaviest I got? Is Frazetta truly lowbrow or not? Personally, I say someone who has transcended his lowbrow beginnings...which many of the greats have domne, by dint of being there for the long haul. Robert Williams has a line up of celebrities and rich people for his canvases, which now go in the many tens of thousands, and has complained that he probalby will not get all of them done before he's dead-he's in his mid to late seventies, I believe, and still going strong. I recall a Brent Bambry interview, back in the days of Brave New Waves, where he described his schedule as around 12, sometimes fifteen hours a day-probably a little less these days. and when Brent pressed him for deeper meaning, Williams countered with "All I want to do, is to sear my images onto your eyeballs. So that when you leave the gallery, you'll remember my stuff."

   My influences come from all over the place-Frazetta, of course-who at the time was about the only decent artist one copuld get a poster of-a cattle call of the usuals-Max Ernst being an oddball fave-a little Dali, later, some Kenny Scharfe, Ausgang, The Coop, and such, but in the early daus, it was bad science fiction, and not just pulp covers-there were some really interesting almost pop artists who did some covers-Virgil Finlay being one, but also stuff like blacklight posters even doodle art.

  Hey, there's an idea for a show...