Still on the Edge in Sumas

Alright fine, I'll admit that selling the Fashion Police car is more about moving on to something else that isn't quite so hard to park, and if I can make a couple bucks on the deal then that's good too. Its not like I'll ever turn a profit, unless someone offers me twenty thousand. So at the risk of putting the wrong energy out into the multi-universe I'll just say that I doubt it'll sell anyways, given "these current economic times" yadda yadda. Poor Whoretense.

No, don't pitty me--life is exceptionally good right now, this summer has in fact, kicked some serious party ass. I've done quite well and its only mid August. No idea how long the ride lasts but who does. Heck I could last another 30 years and maybe even turn out some more very fun stuff (or better some sick, twisted shit) but then again--I'm just say'n.

Buy my car--save it from the crusher!

Spent last Friday visiting Boston Bar, British Columbia, to make sure everything is okay at the cabin for the coming snow storm (today). Everything was okay...so we had time on the way back to stop in and visit the Elvis Rocks the Canyon cafe for something to eat. Little did we know that a major Xmas explosion was happening there, and I do mean major. We got away without injury-->

For a charming, odd, and only a bit shakey Xmas disturbia vid (2 minutes) click here:



Just mind blowing...hats off to Norm and Deb of the Elvis Cafe! More pics:

Well in the interest in not keeping a detailed record of things recent, I've elected to never write again. A collective "you're welcome" to you all.

I am such a liar.

Instead I'll just skip to what I've been doing. Swedish five times, and Mark is as okay as can be. But I am a bit sick of the ER. Back on the chemo, this time with new (and improved?!) drugs. I guess one and one-half years is good, but I was really hoping we had seen the last of it. People keep asking, Yes, but how are YOU doing? Like that's going to help me voice some inner plea for support, or sympathy, or courtesy. Like I won't be toast when he's dust, and he won't even be reasonable enough to wait for me (and how dare I be pissed at him?). And until we're there, I'd better obey his every whim, because he gets to be the One. Just like Charles. Jeez.

And I'm also a thief. And a con. I wonder how long I'll last in this little town w/o him. The ladies at Bromleys are all up my ass to get the electric star on the porch lit, like its CHRISTMAS and all, and aren't I therefore obligated?! Not. I didn't say anything about Jesus being an absurd fantasy, on a par with gangs of leprechauns ravaging your garden with tiny golden shovels. Which is the bigger fantasy?

Maybe people would better put their faith in a purple dragon with pink wings and white spots, as their personal savior.

I do believe there are means of dissipating and manipulating energy; I do think we humans have access to a multitude of means and modes to influence the currents around us. I do also think that those multitides often have their own behaviors--their own rules, which may or may not be revealed to us. I do think there's room for more than just blind emptiness and vacuum. So yea for me.

I find myself contemplating a life w/o him, and of course I can't. I can't even imagine my life before, let alone see into the future. The past is a grey blur, not very welcoming. The future, completely unknowable. Probably that's a great relief, or would be--could I see it. That's the def of a pessimist.

Would I ever enjoy the crowded city streets again? In rainiest bitter, cruel, December? Like I can even now?

I find myself wanting to know more Cole Porter. And maybe play one Chopin tune on the piano. Again. I practice, then forget. Practice, then forget. Maybe I should get a piano up in Boston Bar. But, no. Performance of any stripe is not in me. Sentimental wishing doesn't keep. Surface, ornament, building on what's there...those things are mine--that's what I'm good at. And I've still much heavy fruit to pluck. But don't ask me to pose in front of it. It never looks as good.

Today is as good a day as any to announce that I am indeed, still on the edge in Sumas. A bit of a bumpy ride--not smooth like most edges. Meanwhile Obama has a long row to hoe, in fact the longest row in recent history. Well at least he beat out McPalin. There is too a god. And Halloween was an unqualified success, even if I did miss the Michael Jackson zombie parade in Railroad Ave. My skeleton is scarier than your skeleton.




















Want to see my faggeriffic videos of the undead? They're only a few seconds each.

Will someone explain please depreciation to me? As in Palin the VeePee to Queen Bee can depreciate an OUTfit??? Cariboo Barbie Mrs Sarah Palin can accept gifts and they can then go to Goodwill, and she gets to write them off on her taxes owed after that is, she depreciates them? Is that how it works? And oh by the way where in hell does 27 and a half years come from? Thirty nine years? I don't get depreciation. The Madness of Crowds book touches on fundamentals of the stock market but not sure I followed that either. Did you know there are craters on Mars that are younger than even me? Not that I'm competitive with my youth or wanting to remain young or anything.

You8th culture. Ge8t some.

That's it. So I emailed this photo representation of a human beyond reproach. Which is to say, a digital boy who was looking for a hookup. I can't find the ad; you'll just have to imagine some anonymous hottie who I assure you wrote his ad with only me in mind. (I wonder why nobody reads this blog...)

Falling in luv (or lust) is something I do out of need, like searching the world for new socks. Sometimes you just do.

Skirts are never to be worn by men.
hippies are never to wear black.
Women of all sizes are allowed to wear
their dead past-life heart breaks as trophies.

Trolls must hide in the day time.
Cheerleaders must star in more gore soaked movies.
Retirees must die.
Everyone younger than 13 is in command. NOW.

Morons are allowed to wear plaid.
Jocks must wear something like orange
and blue, like a laundry soap box,
every time they're on national television.

Butchness must never be defined (I was
about to say devined) by any (such as those) qualities that
would make us question the (unspoken) agreement
of what it means to be a man.
A bitch's seat on a Harley? C'mon. That's the dog's.

Snake charmers and pied pipers are always to
follow the yellow brick road.
Bears, tigers, and lions are encouraged
to cope without further ado.

And there's this inter city-actile, R, bi-continental manboy, rarest of barnyard birds whom I met--whose breathing and beauty kicks your ass and you cannot believe the world has produced such creature as this ever. Squirrels over shoes madness at night in the air and pools of quiet on the the most sudden, of sudden nights stillness...eyebrows lapse into an up and down raising, can't help it. Faces in range see the bother of my insider illness, those that can't feel in the dark are not retrieved ever from our hearts or how better to say--they remain there even past memory. Leaving out much? You dressed in your plaster black jacket, collars & bracelets, invisible and wild and wildly unlikely but what better explanation to a traffic stop dream shiny as water on my brick path today--and so much to explain and nothing covered; you are one!!! Yeah and so you know I'm a little weird. Thank that sand man and your nose. You must be and so be he.

AND, you who live lofting beyond gravity in terms so unmistakeable and clear that pussy cat's safety pillows are deployed, and no mistake. Purr's a wish they are and you are so much of what I can't tell what its like a year later, and i am running on not full again; oops now I'm going to write under threat of majestic melt down, or pure sentimental horse radish--could be both. But in any event, sister sensation H, you make me wanna type. Gurl, you so got it in you. Endure. Prevail.

And you, my forest creature P friend of the falling trees, house out of harms way again.

And YOU, outta arm's reach and outta mind, on account of how I totally keep you for granted. M is for Marriage, and mustard and mayo. And what is my name again?

And leaving out a lot of people, I can assure you. What's it like having so much going on so right that I can't even see straight. No way to recieve it all in a thousand life times. Running into Amber and Josh on the street in B'ham like that's ever so casual and easy. And now me so scared to go to Raj. I cannot believe my twisted faith in the unexplainable.