Sunday, 23 August 2009


My darling Rachelle and I were discussing filial cannibalism, the other day. Simply put, the eating of children, although one should note that it usually refers to a common practice amoungst a given species. Hamsters, like. Or alligators. 

 Now, aside from being fond of the satires of Jonathan Swift, I have never condoned the eating of babies. It's just rude. What I do condone is the artistic depiction of such an act, and so, leaving a few search terms on my mother's computer that are sure to lift an eyebrow, I've found a couple of the aforementioned depictions via the world wide web - worth a vidi, I'm sure. 

I was looking for a black and white of Nazi Vampires Eating Babies but alas, the internet is a cruel mistress and I've settled 
for and oil canvas  by painter, Andrew Wodzianski. I've never heard of him either, it's alright. 

我将写关于此的一首诗. 婴孩头是一样甜的象苹果并且保证长寿和双重幸福. 黄铜手不赦免吃婴孩或种族主义. 我爱你所有. Artist,

網路的广泛使用,使得成千上万的人怀有与性有关的食人幻想这一现象突显出来。许多论坛和用户组专门交流这类幻想的图片和故事, 的作品就是这类作品的一个极好例子。在这类论坛中很典型的情况是,会员幻想着吃掉自己所喜爱性别的其他会员,或者幻想着被他们吃掉。可见,食人恋物或食人性心理变态是最极端的性恋物之一。

Note that Time
 devours all. This is easily one of my favourite works of art, Francisco de Goya depicts the titan, Chronos devouring one of his sons. I'm not a connoisseur of 19th century, encephalitis fueled masterworks but I am a fan of any painting that look this intense. Actually, on that note, theres one more I find intriguing for the same reason...

Artemisia Gentileschi, Italian Baroque painter. There's no baby eating in this one but damn, isn't that intense? On the right is Judith, the left, her hand maiden and under the knife is poor Holofernes, who tried to eliminate the Jews and made the mistake of trying to bed one. There a nice quotation for this, to paraphrase: "Ah, those Jewish women. They'll do it to you every time, they'll promise you the world and then they'll cut your head off. And then they'll celebrate." Poignant, no? Being fair, I think it was Caravaggio who painted it first but it's nice to get a woman's perspective on such things.

No conclusion, just the digs.

Friday, 21 August 2009

Calgary Headquarters

A note from the Brass Bureau, following the relocation of their literary headquarters.

Ladies and gentlemen, after the kind of delay which usually accompanies transmissions from a nearby star system or Maoist republic federal elections, the long overdue establishment of The Brass Bureau's new Calgary headquarters at last reaches it's ripe, supple, fruit bearing state with the acquisition of new, working hardware and a reliable internet connection.

Like a pubescent teenager, we've been hard at work, shaving, washing our sheets and rooting out obscure topics of interest with unhealthy obsession. Truly, this is the golden age of smallscale internet journalism and we are more than pleased to bring our juvenile indulgences to teh internets with all the inappropriate content of a drop-in shelter washroom.

The new Bureau offices are now located in the heart of Pumphill in South Calgary. A population of 1800 and an average family net income of $93,360, a nice view of the reservoir and ample food storage for the long, cold death of winter that desolates the landscape as far as the eye can see with nothing but the sound of crunching, squeaking ice under your boots and the smell of car exhaust coupled with your own freezing, cracking sinuses to remind you that you're still alive, we are so glad to be broadcasting from this fabulous new location.

Seriously, this winter will kill us all. If you live here, you should probably apply for a passport. If you already have a passport, then you've clearly understood the death that takes this frozen hell for nine long months of the year and chosen - at least in brevity - to escape it's icy clutches.

This city is a rich, geriatric man, wracked with phlebitis and incontinence, dying of hypothermia.

Stay tuned.
Love, Herr Baksza.

Friday, 22 May 2009

Blogular Memorandum

At Brass Bureau headquarters in the SOTA House common room in uptown Victoria, the walls and floors are slowly being dismantled as a team of highly diligent demolition staff tear apart the building, piece by piece, into a surreal apocalyptic movie set, insulation pouring from the ceilings, bare pipes, exposed and groaning in the open.

Here, amongst the chaos, bureau members rifle through a swamp of notes and scrawling on dozens of napkins, coasters, magazine ads and forearms. Even while the headquarters are being dismantled around them, the Bureau is hard at work, preparing for the next release.

A meeting today between executives of Brass Bureau Publications today marked a turning point for the BBTI initiative. Editor in Chief, B. Baksza, handed down a series of memorandums to the production department, changing the direction of the blog's capacity, questionably, for the better.

This follows reception of news that the material being produced had been leaked, in recent weeks, to members of the editor's family. The editor's response ensures readers that this change was well-in-coming but that news of their newly extended readership meant that any sway toward offering more "adult oriented content" would have to be weighed in against consequences.

"Still", he continues, "The fallout from one man's personal and familial life has no weight againts genuine journalistic integrety and our obligations against censorship and literary restraint... This department will be as alienated as it needs to be!"

And, in release following the meeting: "In an act of poor linguistic etiquette, we're using a new word: 'Blogular'. The material of late has been more articular, but in the spirit of the internet, we're going more blogular."

According to production, this means that articles should be expected more frequently, with more pictures, more nudity and more profanity, prompting the photography department to outfit themselves with a new arsenal of photographic hardware. Budget concerns hold some influence on how long this re-outfitting is going to take.

Already, work has started on a short treatise of the phrase "Stupid Bitch", in hopes of kickstarting The bureau's next leg of adventures.

Monday, 11 May 2009

Taking On Water

Kook. noun.
1. an eccentric, strange or crazy person. (slang, mainly US)
2. A board sport participant who has poor style or skill. (Surfing, skateboarding, etc)
Syn: noob, novice, rookie, poseur,

So, you're humble narrator took to the ocean last week. Playa de Sombrio, an hour or two North of Vic City, hosts a theatre of watersport, marinelife and highseas; hikers, surfers, joggers, lovers, campers, dog-owners; Everything one might seek out on the southernmost edge of an island, somewhere off the coast of Canada. And from the very moment and finished working my way into a wet, rubber suit, forcing myself, limb by limb into the heavy, black, body-shaped condom; from the moment I set foot into the ocean in this bonetight, neoprene unitard, surfboard in hand, I became a kook.

Being from the Foothills, one's immediate reaction to the ocean is one of bewilderment over just how much water there is. Immediately following is a realisation of just how bad the water tastes. Our good friend, Noah, who's reaction to this gigantic body of water has become one of complacency, scans the wavebreak with scrutiny and underwhelming approval. Aside from the humour in the fact that a man named "Noah" is telling me "It's just a bunch of water", I come to find myself slower than I'd like, swimming in this element. While comfortable paddling my way around the shore, I'm finding myself somewhat unpracticed in my swimming capabilities. This must be remedied!

The next day, on my way downtown to find a swimming pool, I strike into conversation with my driver of choice and old friend, Amhed, Saudi military veteran and greasy philanderer, by day: A rare opportunity as he is most often yelling into his phone for the majority of our interactions.

"You are going for swim? I am take you to YMCA, I have plus member, they are treat you like a king!"

Amhed has a plus membership at the Downtown Y. This is almost exactly like regular membership except the changeroom has a steamroom, sauna and hot tub. And newspapers. And hair gel. And hand lotion. And key among these accoutrements, more old man penis than you will ever need to see. Ever. I walked in wearing a bathing suit and found myself startlingly overdressed. Honestly, if you went there about three times, you'd see enough old-guy junk to meet your quota for a lifetime. I'm making a chart, right now.

So Amhed decides to take a few hours off for a swim and a shvitz with yours truly. We take a tour of the facilities and I put down for a 4 month plus-membership pass. I was perfectly content with paying the drop-in fee but a steamy room filled with sweaty, elderly, naked men just sounded like it was worth the extra cash. That and Amhed, he's a real salesman. And he yells.

Amhed has the figure of a walrus or sealion. These are both marine mammals so I suppose I should not have been surprised at the speed with which he swam eight laps. End the end of which he walruses(verb) out of the pool and lays flat of his back, wheezing for a moment until he appears to take a nap at the edge of the deck with his hand in his swim trunks, as he seemed not to have the energy to withdraw after adjusting himself. This is a gorgeous sight. The lifeguard asks me if he's okay. Neither of us wants to rouse him from his rest so I just nod, "Yeah, he's good".

Later, while taking in the steam, he regales me with some stories wrestling sharks or bears or something. He goes on for a while about why he dislikes his ex and how electronics stores will rip you off, frequently coming back to the key insights of why staying in shape is important. I'm convinced. And he yells, so much.

Despite the "rich white kid pastime" stigma surfing, I'm still going to make the most of it while on the island. Noah has already versed me on how to deal with territory disputes with other surfers and various species of whale - a dilemma which is better dealt with knowing how to swim quickly.

Come down to the Y sometime. You may see me doing laps, whaling on my pecs, or chilling with my cock out in the shvitzroom. We can race. It's fun to stay at the YMCA.

Tuesday, 28 April 2009

Dial "C" for Courage

In a world within global community, with so many humans contributing to a vast array of belief systems and core values; in a world charged with recognising diversity while still maintaining political-correctness, those universal values that everyone can stand behind as righteous and true, these values, as a part of the North American vernacular, grow more and more vague, as well as infinitely more subjective. As subjective, even, as terms like righteous and true.

Nowhere is this more evident than in two places.

The first is politics with it's sweaty manpigs in costom polyesters, feigning outrage, turning red and veiny while backed by a minyan of babyboomers, clad in two and three pieces, banging their hands on well varnished Canadian maple desks, stay-at-home parents donning home-printed T-shirts, yelling and chanting slogans, "We're tired of..." banter thrown at cameras at an impolite volume, placards in one hand bearing giant YES' and NOs held over shoulders, the other hand raised in a defiant fist, ready to cast off the unconstitutional shackles of proposed cuts to forestry or allowing convicts to vote or something equally as evil and repressive. Carbon tax, maybe.

Second is Local News. One should not be so bold as to indite local broadcast, alone, although without the checks and balances assigned to more reputable national news streams, local news can often veer away from a responsibility to deliver rational and unbiased reporting, logical and in presentation of fact. These, along with national and international rogue media factions run amok, throwing around whatever terms they please with all the ardor of a past-her-prime soccermom in passionate explanation of how the cashier at the Safe-Way was rude to her in checkout or how some noisy painters managed to track mud on her carpets.

The result is a degradation - even an outright abasement - of the English language. Something that, to the well-spoken or well-read; to anglophiles and stoics alike; to really anyone who comes to expect an unemotional, responsible delivery of the news, this all can be rather insulting. Repulsive, even. Repellent. Cowardly. Misogynistic. Pedophilic, Fascist, dishonest, a drain on society, an allocation of tax-dollars, inconsiderate to others feelings, hurts babies and the elderly, contributes to the spread of swine flu, in violation of the bill of rights and international human rights laws...

That's not to say that the general public isn't guilty of the same rhetorical faux pas and social indignities, indeed, these two phenomena are both broad reflections of the society in which from which they grow. Your peers, your friends and coworkers, even your family, they're all frequently guilty of these linguistic infractions and prostrating orations. Exhibits A and B:

Ignorant. noun. This is a state of being uninformed, uneducated, sometimes used to describe a willful neglect of acquired valuable information on a given or relative subject.
I'm not certain if this definition even requires a follow-up paragraph to express one's frustration over it's extremely prevalent misuse. This will be said, however, "Being cut off in traffic or not yielded to when merging does not represent an act of ignorance". It's just rude. Inconsiderate, if one means to be technical.

Pretentious. adj. Behaving or speaking in such a manner as to create a false appearance or impression of worth. From it's root: To pretend.

It's come down to the somewhat infantile level of applying synonymy to the basic level of good and bad. Terms like "honourable" and "benevolent", really cheesy words of the like being utilized to represent the Dudley Do-Right attributes; the heroes and heroines. Words like "cowardice" and "dishonesty" come to describe anyone viewed as either villainous or just not on your side; The Snidely Whiplashes, as we perceive them. The general misuse is quite willy-nilly, and, to this degree, all vices, all virtues, are synonymous.

Let's talk a bit about courage. It has the ring of a reasonably good quality, something of a compliment assigned to those who demonstrate other good qualities like perseverance and conviction while in the face of danger. Danger of what, who's to say; A gorilla attack or eating pavement at 100 mph; Taking a mortar shell to the face or landing on your keys. This is a quality than can be synonymous with stupidity, as even the retarded can courageously pick fights with moving buses or brave an assault on a hive of bees. Regardless, it is acceptable to be lauded when aiding in the preservation of the law, saving a life, holding a fort or taking a front line: All acceptable.

Enter: "Olivia". A fourteen year-old girl from the Greater Vancouver district of Delta. Two days ago, listening to the CBC News, a headline from describing her heroing tale:

"A teenage girl is being honoured for her bravery today by Delta Police for foiling a burglary in her home on 53rd avenue. A man knocked on her door at about 9 pm last night. Olivia, who's last name cannot be released given her age, was not expecting anyone so she grabbed a phone, went upstairs and hid in a closet, where she dialed 911 and waited for police to arrive as the intruder began to riffle through the home for valuables..."

Submitted for your approval, this startling newscast, paying close attention to the last 20 second of video.

Delta Police spokesperson Sharlene Brooks said "Olivia" displayed the police department's core values of honour, integrity, courage and trust. Let's break down these core values as according to the OED.

1. honesty, fairness, or integrity in one's beliefs and actions: a man of honor.
2. a source of credit or distinction: to be an honor to one's family.

This is alright, since she is being honoured for her 8 minute Anne Frank shtick and it looks as though the definition of this value also includes...

1. adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.
2. the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished: to preserve the integrity of the empire.

From this we conclude that Olivia is a moral, ethical and trustworthy 14 year old girl. One might think that this virtue was not adequately demonstrated in this scenario but may I suggest: Trustworthy, perhaps, if the Delta Police's maxim is to trust people to call them when their homes are being burglarized.

1. the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.
2. have the courage of one's convictions, to act in accordance with one's beliefs, esp. in spite of criticism.

But wait, Delta Police spokes-yenta had this to say, "And on Friday night, Olivia demonstrated courage as we define it as challenging oneself to overcome adversity, and trust." It would seem that police have the power, not only to apply interpretation the law but to English, as well. It looks as though they snuck "trust" in there so, as demonstrated in the "Integrity" heading, Olivia qualifies, coming in just under the wire. Leading us to our final core value...

1. reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence.
2. confident expectation of something; hope.

We have a winner and and a Vancouver Police force has a hero. All the while the elephant in the room being slain, vacu-packed and frozen. Despite the fact that hiding in a closet is not a display of bravery, this continues to be an ongoing social embaressment. This case, in particular seems to be running on the assumption that police are good people.

May I submit a thesis under consideration for a future article: Police are not good people.

I'm sure all this bombastic critisism of society's terminology abuse may seem fairly pretentious but one can't help but thinking, it's just plain ignorant.

Thursday, 23 April 2009

La Fin du Moi

Your humble narrator had nearly met with his untimely end today but, as with so many gallant brushes with death, it was parried, seemingly, by the grace of god or some superphysical force in charge of making certain the tides come in timely and plagues are issued accordingly. Swept aside from the natural ebb of time and space, slapping logic, reason and probability in the face and handing me a certificate of total impunity from the universe's cruel and pedantic legislation. I may very well be the sole reason this planets oceans have yet to boil and mountains have yet to sublimate.

All this self-indulgent banter aside, let me walk you through what could have been the very last day of my life:
10:30am The 22nd of April, 2009. After a quick mid-air breakfast, composed of four raw eggs, a spicy, mysterious green smoothie and a handful of tiny kasher pickles, I was feeling somewhat nauseous. Ignoring symptoms of pregnancy and perfuse salivation, I held back the impulse to vomit over the shoulder of my driver, Mr. Amhed Al-Wahhab, from the back of his leather interior sedan.
Amhed, a thirty-three year old, eight-fingered, veteran of the Royal Saudi Land Force and father of five or six or seven, maybe, had lost his patience in 1991 somewhere in the deserts surrounding Khafji. The details he gives me are blurred in a rush of exasperated hand motions and loud, intense expression but from what I can gather, it was a hot day, his girlfriend was a tramp, and mortar fire sucks.

So Ahmed is screaming at, from what I can gather, carpet cleaners, via the a bluetooth module in the right side of his face and the animation in this mans anger(default) is wild enough that the motorists stopped around red lights, I'm sure are curious as to what I could have said to him to set him off.

We are presently on the way to see my dear friend Micah on the eighth story of a building in downtown Esquimalt to stage a stunt having something to do with zombies and an inside joke with a girl he has a crush on. While most would be content with a bundle of flowers and opera tickets, Micah has taken to sewing two kingsize bedsheets together, scrawling the words "ALIVE INSIDE" in red spraypaint and tacking this makeshift banner to one of the most visible points in the Greater Victoria area.

From the back seat of a sedan filled with angry Arabic and 80's pop music, looking over a map of the area, plotting a contingency get-away and holding in a third trimester breakfast, I can't help but feel as though this scheme, hatched up at the end of an 32hour adventure through the underground of Victoria's catacombs, through forests while hunting wild hare with crossbows and wrapping people, quite literally on fire, with damp towels, that this scheme may be a touch in excess of an already eventful week and this aside, could in fact be bordering on cockamamie.
At this point, I begin playing a Jiminy Cricket track in my head to the tune of things my father would say if he were beside me. I'd guess either, "Tuck in your shirt." or "I'm sure there are more beneficial ways you could be spending your time". This coming out in his classic matter-of-fact, Eeyor-like rhetoric.

Driving past the bilious discomfort and tokens from my childhood, we arrive at The Diplomat Towers in the heart of residential somewhere, Amhed's voice raises as I exit the vehicle(his voice being courteously lowered during my attendance as his is a rather considerate fellow) and I follow the prescribed directions through a door at the back of a parkade to the top of a flight of stairs, leading to the roof. There, dearest Micah is standing in a reflective vest and gardening gloves, holding a bundle of rope and a matching disguise for myself.
Micah, "If I timed this right, we should be able to make it to that sushi place for their lunch special."

Being seasoned in spontaneous adventure, I know that at this point there is no purpose in second guessing or rehearsal, there is only the goal, and the slew of insanity that borders it. Quickly I fasten a roofing/window washing/something harness around myself and make for the edge of the roof, knowing that if we can just get this last, quick escapade out of the way, there's a can of cherry soda in my fridge and a lush green, sunny back yard to lounge in.

All materials prepared for a quick blitz of furling, tacking, and making off, we simultaneously lean off the edge of this building dangling 90 feet above the concrete driveway. reaching into my left pocket for a nail, the piece of equipment responsible for keeping me attached to the rope relinquishes a heartstopping six inches of slack, without my approval. This device is a one-way mechanism, allowing my rope to slide in one direction, permitting me to climb up, while it's teetch prevent me from falling to my death. This device was not doing it's job.
Before I can say "That's not supposed to happen", I find myself in freefall toward the ground, the one-way rappelling mechanism providing little resistance to my deathly plummet. My hands moving faster than the back can order, I grab the remaining length and succumb to the rope burn under my deathgrip. I am now holding on to a rope, by hand alone, 80 feet above the ground. My climbing partner's responce of "Are you alright?" being of very little benefit, I seek to make quick work over the the balcony to my right.

It takes two swings and the will to pry my fingers from the rope to confirm my place on a solid surface. Micah, deciding that, yes, I am alright, finishes up while I reflect over the last thirty seconds and, subsequently, the last twenty years of my life. The events following are washed away by adrenalin and deep introspective thought but next thing I know, I've dashed through a strange elderly woman's apartment, down the stairs and Micah and I are jumping into the back of Amhed's sedan in laughter and panic. Although I can't be certain of Mr Wahhab's role in the SA Military, I am convinced it had something to do with changing one's location quickly and effectively.

Although I realise it a ridiculous irony, should I meet with end shortly after writing this, I still feel impelled to proclaim, "I am invincible". This is not an isolated incident. I drive a motorcycle. A big, fast, black motorcycle that has taken me to speeds in excess of 200 km/h. I've been to a knife fight without a knife, caught trains without ever entering the train and buses without entering the bus. I've been to the Midwest and have come within spitting distance of a fiery cross, insulted meat heads in parking lots of cowboy nightclubs, played with dynamite - while smoking and , without word of a lie, have been in a fight with a full grown bull named The Devil.
Alot of people dislike me but somebody loves me.

Monday, 6 April 2009

Kamikaze Bachelor

I've recently stumbled across a new word. I always keep a good ear for these, since university, the arrogance of verbal superiority has become more difficult in it's upkeep so throwing in new terms, now and then, makes for a meritorious boost to one's speechcraft. The word in question:

Recessionista. Noun. A person who is able to stick to a tight budget while still managing to dress stylishly.

This is a portmanteau of, first, the word, '"Recession" - very popular amongst those who keep up on the news, General Motors [former] employees and anyone with a savings account in Iceland - And second, an old favourite, "Fashionista", a throwback to the flagrant, glamorous world of Dolce, Gabbana and small dogs as accessories. A Sex and the City style tribute the the turn of the millennia when whitegold was the new gold and Alberta was still considering the privatization of healthcare.

It seems to be, on the surface, a keen and conscious public reaction to - as the CBC puts it - "These tough economic times". Even before Madoff and sub-prime mortgages, Thrift stores have started becoming fashionable amongst the already well-to-do. I grew up in the 80s and 90s, attending the same public schools as the rest of you. I know for a fact that thrift store picks have not always been the fashionable choice amongst my peers and a childhood spent in the NorthEast Calgary (the poor people quadrant) is one of a tax bracket somewhat distant of the mandatory elementary school-wear, Nike shoes and Addidas tear-away trackpants. Let me take this opportunity to say, now, "I was shopping at Value Village before it was cool". Being a young male with disposable income and without three kids to put through school, I'm done with it. I'm not stretching my budget, I'm devastating it; student loans be damned, I'm the real recessionista; I am the Kamikaze Bachelor.

The bachelor life-style, icon of glamour and refinement, I have exercised to a precise and diligent artform. A major key in this process is to turn the accepted hierarchy of needs on it's head, putting Maslow's high-handed and presumptuous theories to embarrassing shame while simultaneously expanding your own way of life to capture the glorious extremes of the spectrum, destitution and hedonism; deprivation and debauchery. All at once, a new social-phenomenon has been recaptured from the pimps and junkies, returned to the common man in a slew of expensive shoes and bare cupboards, Cuban cigars and Kraft dinner, Three-figure bar tabs and one-bedrooms without electricity; who needs to bathe in hot water when Givenchy just came out with a new fragrance pour hommes. The real recessionista makes squalor look fashionable, not with trips to Value Village, but to the pawn shop. He's the only koshka in a soup-kitchen with gold jewelry and designer threads; He will proudly proclaim, "I am the prince, I am the pauper", "Do you have five bucks, I'm short for these snake-skins".

I now make berth on an island somewhere in the North Pacific, off the coast of Canada. Van Isle, the smell of patchouli and nag champa is near as palpable the smug self-righteous satisfaction that comes with it's inhabitants knowing that their economic and political decisions are not just right for themselves and the economy, but for the environment, as well. Perfect incubation conditions for today's contemporary fashionista but as I mentioned, I grew up in Calgary.

Calgary, Alberta. AKA, Rich City. City of assholes in baseball caps, and 2am streetfights. In Alberta, they vote Conservative, they put up skyscrapers in weeks, they are the Texas of Canada, holding firm to their two primary staples: Oil and Beef. Here's another new word I like, another portmanteau:
Oiligarchy, Alberta's unofficial system of government. Rich City, before the autumn of '08, was a city of new money, backed by old money. It was ripe for the development of kamikaze bachelors like myself and is rife with them still, I'm sure. On the island, I'm one of many refugees from the unfriendly East. I invite them to take up with me this mission of resplendent self-destruction. The taste of economic crisis is sweet, especially when you just spent $39/gram on dark chocolate from Madagascar. We'll see who survives this deathrace, me or the recession. I've still got calorie deposits near my kidneys and the 34 lbs I've lost since the crunch are nothing compared to GM's fourth-quarter loss of $9.6 Billion.

And besides, since I quit eating food, I can really taste my cigarettes.