Monthly Archives: March 2006

True Patriotism

Posted on by

TIACongratulations to the Senate of the United States of America, for renewing The Patriot Act and making ten fourteen of its provisions permanent.

As William S. Burroughs said, “It’s the little touches that make a future solid enough to be destroyed.”

“The Thanksgiving Prayer” by William S. Burroughs

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and to falsify until the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin’ lawmen, feelin’ their notches.

For decent church-goin’ women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.

Thanks for “Kill a Queer for Christ” stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where nobody’s allowed to mind their own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the memories– all right let’s see your arms!

You always were a headache and you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

Linkie O’ the Day: Crash Bonsai

Posted on by

Another blast from the past here. Crash Bonsai is a site run by an artist who works in a unique medium; tiny bonsai trees accessorized with wrecked miniature cars. Just the thing to get your teenager to celebrate passing his test, eh? Cheap at twice the price; have you shopped for bonsai recently? You could even get your granny a replica of the car in which she lost her virginity. Talk about a bonding moment.

Thusly:

Crash Bonsai

And here is the artist’s statement:

CrashBonsai is the creation of John Rooney, an artist who is torn between the desire to create and destroy. Recently, he has been making bonsai plants, and combining them with model cars and trucks which he has creatively smashed and melted, to create “CrashBonsai,” little living car crash sculptures.

No passengers have been injured in CrashBonsai accidents, although some drivers have reported a brief, even euphoric loss of consciousness.

If only on a small scale.

Crash Bonsai VW

Wish List

Posted on by

In case you’re wondering what to get me for a present when I throw my “My Book Is Finally Updated, Thank GOD!” tiki-themed party, which theme has nothing to do with the book but a serial-killer-themed party just doesn’t have the right feelgood vibe, you know what I’m sayin’, here is the answer, Kiki the Fashion Tiki from Gobler Toys:

Kiki the Fashion Tiki

 

Although the vindictive bitch in me also likes Johnny Voodoo (revenge has never been so cuddly):

When trouble arises

Catch Johnny some vermin.

With a small sacrifice

Your foes will be squirmin’!

 Johnny Voodoo

Proof Positive!

Posted on by

So, I haven’t got a passport. So why don’t I have a passport? Because:

I was born in France, to Canadian parents (13th generation, I am; we go back before the founding of the country, actually, and my ancestors looted and burned the White House, which Macarnie says is good for a drink on him, should I ever get over to the UK, which is doubtful because, as I remind you, I do not have a passport) on a Canadian airforce base, and brought to Canada at the age of 11 months. See? Here I am, entering the country. From left: raincoaster, Mother, Polly, Random Canadian Airforce Guy whom we shall call Sam Browne.

raincoaster enters the country

(Oh yeah, FYI that pic was taken in 1985. Mom was totally New Wave.)

Therein lies the problem. It’s a bit like the-kneebone’s-connected-to-the-shinbone…

I received a Certificate of Foreign Birth, which was what they gave you when you were a Canadian born abroad, obviously. At some point in my travels the card was lost, although Ottawa retains the number and all relevant information. Because I was not born in Canada, I never received a Canadian birth certificate, although when I was sixteen I did get a Social Insurance Number and card; the card was also lost, no doubt thrown out with the wallet when I moved one time and tried to clean up. I should never do that. Clean up. I break things, I lose things, it’s horrible. I should just listen to Quentin Crisp; he says that after the third year the dust never gets any worse, so why bother?

Oh yeah, in the late seventies, apparently, Ottawa decided to discontinue Certificates of Foreign Birth and require all possessors thereof to apply for a newfangled document, Not Quite the Certificate of Foreign Birth or something I think it was called. Naturally, they did not notify us, and naturally after six months they decided to charge money for this newfangled card.

It all makes so much sense. In another universe.

So, right now Ottawa knows who I am, where I was born, and that I am a Canadian citizen. But it will not give me, the person to whom the documents relate, documentation for this. Meanwhile, since I’ve been sick and not working, the government’s left hand is asking for this documentation, and threatening to cut me off unless I provide it. The government’s right hand is happy to provide it, at a cost of ninety dollars. Which, of course, I do not have because I am sick and not generally working and that would represent twenty percent of my monthly income, which income is threatened because I do not have the documentation.

I may distinguish this generation of my family by becoming the first to loot and burn the Peace Tower. I mean, honestly, people. The government, and particularly Libby Davies, my MP, have always been very helpful at assisting refugees from foreign countries in getting their documentation straight, even if they fled in possession of nothing more than a few exotic germs. I contacted Ms. Davies’ office and was informed there was nothing she could do for me, as I am not actually a refugee. “I am considering filing a claim,” I told them.

“From what country?” they asked, not unreasonably.

“From Canada.”

Best! Radio! Ever!

Posted on by

Goomba 

I had forgotten about WMOB, Mob Radio until The Smoking Gun reminded me. It’s time for a stroll down memory lane, listening to the dulcet tones of Fritzy and Frankie. From the site:

Girl problems. Mafia beefs. High blood pressure. Listen to what’s bugging two real-life New York gangsters in these secret FBI wiretaps. It’s Seinfeld meets The Sopranos: a series about nuttin’.

Particularly wonderful are the goombada discussions, the mother-in-law complaints, and the infamous “colonic episode.”