Jericho Beach- Is that me?
Po-Po Patrol- Civil servants more like it

Walking down to Jericho Beach, you start to get a feeling that you’re not in kansas anymore. Holding an open Pilly in my pocket as I passed the Yacht club, I almost got ran over by a silver BMW Z4. The tennis club next door is full of socialite bitches all dressed in white, tweeting on their blackberries. The East Van in me was trying pretty hard not to yell out “OI! CUNT!”. Skeptical as ever I wandered on down and found the log where some friends where relaxing. There was plenty of space on a monday evening and most of the logs around us were unoccupied. The sand was clean, the water was warm, as perfect as the neighbourhood pays for it to be. I’m a tough sell, however, and nothing was going to convince me that this beach was more than another under appreciated luxury that the people of Kitsilano like to brag about. When i was considering packing up my beers and heading back to Crab Park, it began. A sunset that rivaled the dramatic twilight seen at Wreck Beach. The oranges and reds contrasting with the blues, pinks and purples reflecting upon the water instils an image that i will testify is better than any 3D movie. Geese flocking in and having cold turf wars made us all hush up and watch in anticipation. The panoramic span from one end to the other is spectacular, with the sunset on your left, sparkling north van infront of you, and downtown tempting you on the right.
Alright Jericho, You win. As much as I enjoy being an east van scuzzer for the time being, maybe one day i’ll be a greedy bastard too and make a ton of money so i can drive my BMW to the tennis club, text a little, and then go to your fine beach and watch the night fall. Until then, i’ll be catching the 99 B-line all the way back to the Drive.

Enjoy the sunset by clicking the link.

Wreck Beach- No tan lines, No rules
Po-Po Patrol- Easily avoided

BC Days sounded like a celebration to me until I found out it meant all the BCL’s were closed. We discovered this after travelling all the way down to UBC. As we walked with heavy hearts to the never ending staircase that leads you to Wreck Beach, we almost forgot about the cirque de soleil that was waiting for us at the bottom. One word: Dicksdicksdickstitstitstits. Surrounding us was a naked hippy grandfather gently playing Trucks with his naked grandson and a gamer couple who looked like they were spending their first day outdoors in years. Ahhh, the land of lost judgement. Nearly every ten minutes we were offered magical treats and intoxicating beverages from the local vendors, making our BCL nightmare obsolete. And yes, i went nude (for a portion of the time). Try prancing through the light, tickling waves in nothing but your skinny and you will not see any reason to visit another beach for the rest of the summer. The regulars are nothing short of angelic as well, giving us free beer, water, ice cream and treats while we lied sans shirts in the sun. Their howl spreads down the beach like a wave in order to alert others of the Po. Even the naked grandpa took a moment to play us an eerie tune on his clarinet, which is an image that will forever haunt Mike Steel. Every night is topped off with a spectacular sunset and a herd of locals dancing and cheering and spreading Peace and Love, man. It’s an experience you can wrap up in a cozy blanket and put in your happy thoughts for later.

I HIGHLY recommend you make the trip down to wreck this summer if you’re looking for relaxation and voyeurism. If you’re looking for dirty water and crowds of people with sticks up their asses, then please avoid this beach. But one piece of advice before you go; Remember, never follow a hippy to a second location.

Enjoy the sunset by clicking the link

If you are like me then this idea probably sounds terrible. Producer My Sick Uncle has come up with (500)Days Of Weezy which takes The hits of Lil Wayne and mixes them with the Soundtrack for 2009’s (500) Days of Summer. Usually for me it helps a great deal if the music being mashed up with has some sort of musical or conceptual connection with its other. So when I was first sent this link I was skeptical to say the least. Then I played the first track “A Story About Wayne” which uses clips from one of my favorite interviews of all time…Lil Wayne & Katie Couric (See Below). The ensuing tracks killed that skepticism quickly.

My Sick Uncle Says of his work:

“This is not a mashup album, this is an album about Wayne.”

Regardless of weather that notion actually shines through there does seem to be a great deal of care taken with each song chosen for its soundtrack partner. The result A Fabulous Story of Weezy Meets Joseph Gordon-Levitt…’s Movie.

Download the entire album for free HERE!

Stand Out Tracks Include: 2, 3, 6, 7, & 14

Oh and here is that amazing interview I was telling you about:

Click here to view the embedded video.

-TwoTone

You may have heard that carefully coiffed indie rockers turned international superstars Kings of Leon cut their set short after getting shat on by a couple of incontinent pigeons at a St. Louis show last Friday (23rd of July). Well… thefuturists.ca bring you the story behind the story.

The critically acclaimed, best-selling rock group from Nashville, Tennessee were chased from the stage after being air-bombed with avian excrement during the first three songs of their set. Sadly for concert goers all three songs were off their latest album, “Only by the Night”. An exit poll, surveying fans of the band as they withdrew from the St. Louis venue, showed that most attendees were: “disappointed, disgruntled, disenfranchised, and a whole lot of other negative adjectives which begin and end with the letter D.”

…

One fan in particular took greater exception to the impromptu cancellation. “What the fuck was that all about?”, he raged around a bent cigarette, “I thought they were supposed to be a rock n’ roll band … if that were me up there I would’ve smeared that pigeon crap all over my face like war paint.” An interesting, if slightly unsanitary perspective on the evening.

…

Not everyone was disappointed though. We caught up with a few young ladies as they skipped happily away from the concert grounds, grins pasted on their pre-pubescent faces and merch hanging heavy from their pink little paws. “That was awesome,” exclaimed their ringleader, “they played all my favorites: ‘Notion’, ‘Use Somebody’, and ‘Sex on Fire’!” When asked if the concert seemed a little bit short, the girls declined to comment, as they were all in a hurry to get home in time for ‘Hannah Montana’.

…

As for the Kings themselves, they apologized to everyone who was inconvenienced by their outrageous sissiness, blaming the venue for presenting such unfathomably disgusting conditions. “We knew it was a mistake as soon as we showed up,” said Jared Followhill (the group’s finely threaded bassist), “There were only three copies of Tiger Beat in our dressing room … how do they expect us to play a show when the promoters can’t even get the right number of magazines ready for us.” Caleb Followhill (the band’s lead singer and champion of the lurid stare) added, “No one is allowed to shit on my band but me … this is fucking outrageous … I told the guys we’re only gonna play stadiums from now on … this sort of thing would never happen to Bono.”

…

But what about the actual pigeon in question, that diseased, gray little bastard that started all of this in the first place? Word is that he fled the scene soon after defecating on the popular rock quartet, but we caught up to his best buddy, who was perching alongside the accused when the questionable act occurred.

…

“He isn’t that bad of a guy really,” cooed the pigeon (who has chosen to remain nameless for fear of persecution), “and I’m sure he didn’t mean to ruin everyone’s fun by deucing on those ladies with the funny haircuts.” What then, prompted this unsolicited attack on one of today’s best-loved acts? “Listen,” continues the pigeon by-stander, “he doesn’t usually go around launching colon cannonballs at concerts … but an exception had to be made … I mean, have you ever actually listened to ‘Sex on Fire’ … I’m pretty sure he improved that song by shitting on it.”

…

There you have it Vancouver. The real story behind KOL’s St. Louis debacle.

Stay Tasty Kids.

Gunslingrrr

English Bay- Fuck you, you have too many people.
Po-po patrol- Extreme
What’s worse than meeting someone super attractive and charming only to find out that they’ve slept with the entire town? Well, plenty i’m sure, but it’s still enough for you to flip them the bird and continue your search to find someone better. Are you following my metaphor for English Bay?

Third Beach- Ew, what are we doing?
Po-po Patrol- Frequent
All my friends are texting me “Hey, come to Third!”, so we hop up in the witches truck only to find ourselves at the Beach Clurb. Everybody but us has shown up on their new fixie with $650 sunglasses on and the purpose of being seen to be scene. West. Van. Hipsters. There I said it. Party pictures at the beach. I’m embarassed…and i’m going to be back in that corner of the beach way too many times this summer.

Sunset Beach- Garbage Water
Po-po Patrol- Minimal
So after trying to find parking for the Beach Clurb for twenty five minutes, we give up and head down to Sunset. So content to be out of a car and at the beach, we all drop our bags and book it to the ocean. Eeeeeeuck. I swear im not lying when i say we found two headless bodies covered in shit. That water is dank.

So far none of the beaches are quite what i’m looking for. I’ll be hitting up Wreck and Spanish Banks this week in order to find both you and I a beach that is spacious and modest with crystal clear waters. I will not stop beaching until i find it.

Considering the ratio of Twitter users in North America compared to Europe, it’s strange that I’d never heard the term “Twitter Wall” before crossing over to the old continent. Now that I know what it is, I can’t help but try and share this cool little product with you… my faithful readers. I don’t usually pimp products on here, being more disposed to ranting and raving about the squalls blowing through my tired head, but this one I found so interesting and applicable to Vancouver’s nightlife and events, that I couldn’t resist. Add to that the fact that I’ve been working for a little web-startup in Belgium that is in the final stages of developing their own multi-faceted Twitter Wall — TweetWall Pro — and we’ve got ourselves a full blown tech-geek post!

For those of you who don’t know anything about them, a Twitter Wall is essentially a T.V. screen or projector that displays tweets sent with a specific hashtag. Once you send the tweet it goes directly up on the screen to be shown to everyone attending the event/party/venue. So rather than rifling through your phone to search for tweets relating to where you are and what you happen to be doing at the moment, all you have to do is glance up at the Twitter Wall.

…

I’ve done a bit of research on Twitter Walls, and they seem to have been around (in one form or another) since the inception of Twitter itself.  Having said that, I haven’t really found anything that compares to the usability or to the potential commercial applications of TweetWall Pro. Developed in partnership by Belgian web firms Akimedia.eu and Tesial.be, TweetWall Pro offers a wide array of features that set it apart from the competition.

…

Many different styles of possible visualizations — This allows you to adapt the Twitter Wall to your unique needs and those of your audience.

Comprehensive Moderation –Use either an automated list banning specific users, keywords, and hashtags… or a manual system operated live from computer or smart-phone during the event.

Battle Mode — Ask your audience to choose between two separate hashtags.

Voting System — Ask your audience to vote between many different hashtags.

Analytical Reports — Find out: how many tweets were sent, how many different twitter accounts were used, and how many RT (retweets) there were?

Twitter List Generator — Allows you to keep in touch with your audience and for your audience to keep in touch with the community.Your lists can be private or public and they’ll be directly linked to your twitter account for easy access.

Promo Options — You can choose the frequency or duration that sponsor’s images, messages, or graphics appear on the screen. This allows your sponsors a new medium with which they can disseminate their brand.

So what does TweetWall Pro actually do, aside from throwing tweets up on a large screen during an event? Well… imagine yourself as an event organizer or a nightclub promoter that wants to get the word out about your event, or attract people to a party you’re trying to promote. You’ve tried all the usual things: handouts, flyers, mass messages over Facebook, blog hype, even word of mouth, to get things rolling. Why not harness the power of Twitter? There are more than 100,000,000 accounts on Twitter and the number of users is growing at a feverish pace. This represents a huge market that is virtually untapped by the marketing and advertising world. What a Twitter Wall does, is allow you the opportunity to create real-time buzz for your event, by visually encouraging audience members to tweet using a hashtag specific to what you’re trying to promote. People that might normally tweet 4 or 5 times a day, may tweet 10+ times (using your hashtag) simply because they want to interact with the wall and join whatever conversation might be going on. All of this amounts to the fact that by the end of the night, the hashtag promoting your event has a very good chance at reaching “trending topic” status and at the very least, people outside the event will have remarked all the tweets relating to your event and are more likely to show up next time, to see what all the fuss was about.

…

The guys and gals here at TweetWall Pro developed the business model with professional conferences and tech-conventions in mind as their target audience. But I’m quite sure that the practical applications are further reaching than they first imagined. I can envision Twitter Walls behind the bar at my favourite club, or in local cafés, unifying tweets and collecting them in one easy to find place by prompting users to include a hashtag chosen by the venue or host. The hashtag can be displayed periodically, or be simply left up on some portion of the screen as a constant reminder.

…

All you need to set up a TweetWall Pro is a T.V. screen or a projector. What we provide is an online service that you can optimize to your specific tastes or to those of your audience. Basically, you visit the website, set up the type of visualization you want, follow all the steps to personalize the service to your event, and you’re ready to go. Visit www.anothertweetonthewall.com if you’d like to view an interactive online demo. Simply type in a hashtag you’ve used recently, or one you know is being used on Twitter at the moment and press enter. This will prompt a screen that portrays recent tweets using the hashtag you’ve entered, including twitpics and/or avatars that are shown behind the tweet. Pretty cool huh.

…

TweetWall Pro has recently gone public, presenting a live demo of their product at a convention for web startups in San Francisco. As of today we should be ready for full commercial operation within 2 weeks. You can view the presentation and the live demo of our product in San Francisco below.

Click here to view the embedded video.

If you’d like more information please visit our website:

www.tweetwallpro.com

or email me:

jurek@tweetwallpro.com

Also… don’t forget to follow us on Twitter: @tweetwallpro

…

As always… Stay Tasty Kids.

Gunslingrrr

Well you can DJ!

LINK

click this link and experiment_ it’s wicked sweet i promise_ I’m making this post short cause i have to go change the next video that’ll play (you’ll know what im talking about when you click the link)

The last few days have been wild. A shocking railway exit from England led to a feverish night spent wandering the dark streets of Paris, searching for a safe place to sleep outdoors. You don’t really sleep on the street. You simply close your eyes and listen for footsteps, or voices. I heard some unfriendly ones and moved on, finally finding shelter in the basement of the Tunisian dorm at the Universitie de Paris, thanks to some kind soul willing to look past the desperation and whiskey stink of me. Morning was rough in the city of lovers. Rougher than I care to describe. Walking like a man defeated, the passers-by thought me untouchable, or psychotic probably, as I stared out at them with the eyes of one who’d risen from the grave and hadn’t bothered to wipe the grime of it from his face. Then a ticket to Belgium, a warm train, the anticipation of food and some friendly faces. Here I am now. I don’t feel ready to properly approach the story of these last few days, so I’ll leave you with some [unedited] scribblings from my notebook, which might more honestly (if cryptically) represent my experiences.

“I’m writing poetry now, which is the surest sign that I’m ready to start digging graves and pushing people in  and burying them, right up to their stinky little tongues. The last grave will be mine and they’ll be no one left to bury me up, so I’ll rot and the crawly things will eat me. I’ll chew you all up, you rotten fucking savages. Once a man starts in on something like this he’s got to finish it out doesn’t he? Only dead men write poems. Dead men and assholes. And I ain’t dead yet.”

How can I

write poetry

if

I can’t think it

even

——

fear

for the midnight Paris streets

and for this sleepy head

fear

to come from safety and loveliness

and move to dischord, ugliness

I hate you now

and

I’m childish in my hate

like stomping feet

or

a worried worm

——

I met a man

I had balls

and I met a man

he says he’s a neuro-scientest

and I know he’s nice

maybe because I had balls

for one second

my balls dropped

I think maybe he saw my balls

saw them drop

and he saw my fear, and heard the high tone

to my voice, and

felt pity, didn’t he

——

A poem about a girl on a train

it must be

she’s pretty

pretty sexy, isn’t she

I imagine, my cock in her mouth

and my mouth on her lady-cock

her clit

her green fucking light

the lights here go from red to yellow to green

but I think her clit is purple

——

Put two cushions together

my bag under my head.

Would it have been easier to stay in London,

in the hostel she booked for me?

Probably would but it

wouldn’t have been this much fun.

——

Drinking on the train is fun

it’s one way to get blitzed

quick.

Get it.

The other side

is that

I might get too blitzed to get off.

Get it.

——

Stink like a drunk homeless asshole,

that’s why they stare,

well,

learn to stare with your big, stupid noses

because your eyes annoy me.

They goggle and shake in your funny heads,

they race and rattle and roll like marbles.

Planets must be marbles

that shouldn’t be won,

just tossed and tumbled.

Stupid planets, the sand is shaking

and you gotta roll away.

——

let’s break things together

not apart the way we do now

I think I might’ve killed someone in Paris

he rolled me and I stabbed him hard, now

I think there is no such thing as fear

is he dead, who was he, why did he roll me that dumb fuck?

hadn’t he heard that some English bitch made me crazy?

you don’t roll big, drunk, sick, crazy Canadians

Ishtan Ishtan

——

I’m losing it now, and I’m not sure going on is the right thing,

the pigs are braying for the dead weight,

the sky closes it’s eyes

and cries.

I miss Vivi, all the potential, her legs, her mind.

I’ve been likened to monsters, maybe it’s time to really,

become one.

There’s no joy in feeling this way, no smiling wave,

just hopeless, pointless wandering; the carrot was rotten,

there are too many tomorrows.

——

Cafe au Lait, it’s not so bad is it,

it smells like fresh babies

and smog, churned together

I fucking hate milk, but

with my cereal

but,

I don’t eat cereal much then do I?

——

Maybe I will

and

(and) stands alone

and

I’m not sure what comes after and.

——

Hey! T’as pas une cigarette?

“Oui, je vais le chercher.”

Merci, thanks man

c’est beau

he just refilled my drink

and it’s not even empty, what

have I told these people

the cigarettes don’t come easy though

but maybe he’s tired

his woman is missing

I ash in my wine last night

I slept in a bed

——

Speeding along on a train, a bit confused,

a bit frightened, with that old confidence,

playing short-stop.

You won’t let me lose, old buddy,

you’d never let a short one through.

The fear comes from the realization, that confidence,

a lot of the time, isn’t enough.

Especially against all these pink faces,

who chew on bells and crack them up, with their voices.

A bad penny paid early for symetry of form,

and charming dischord of mind.

Deliriously or deliberately, all the women,

tell you, you’ll never miss a ball.

With painted eyes, they seduce,

and mostly, you miss with them,

but learn nothing.

Only the old war and the destruction of comfort,

of class, of entitlement, could teach you.

An education like that is humbling,

like fathers, and good-for-nothing sons.

Switch trains and keep rolling,

modern now, quiet and the voices are like fields,

far away and racing by, unheard and untouched.

The hunger returns, creeping, comforting,

well known now, the real honest grandfather of fear,

the eater of logic.

There are no careful plans in that mouth,

just something disloyal and hungry, gnawing away.

Always a gamble, never a yield,

because the line isn’t there, and the gamble was true,

if only you had eyes to see it.

But the eyes were given away, for cheap tricks

and easy judgement.

How does one see anything, without eyes?

Confidence must be murdered, for sake of survival.

——

Petite Noemie full of energie,

une jour tu seras grande,

mais pas encore.

Yet it’s nice to be small,

and to run around the house,

chasing your little orange cat: Banane.

Peut-etre, he should have been called

carrotte, since you chase him so.

Your little red boots

go clompe clompe clompe

while your mom cooks in the kitchen, and while

ton petit frere Benjamin squeals and throws his toys

on the floor.

Papa will be home soon

and we’ll all sit down together for a bite,

but not before you rush to his side,

“Papa Papa, bisous!”

At supper we’ll make funny faces at each other

and you’ll hide your eyes in your palms,

while my eyebrows jump like fuzzy caterpillars.

French will pour across the table,

your parents fluent chimes

against my bumbling, anglophone interpretations,

and you might wonder at my funny words.

Maybe when you’re older, tu vas comprendre,

that all words are funny.

…

Bare bones. There’s pages and pages of this stuff. Most of it set to burn, some if it given away along the road, some of it even recited and sold for a few centimes on the street. Hope you enjoyed it, if not, well… hate is fun too, for you and for me. As always, stay tasty kids.

Gunslingrrr

I woke up late. I woke up a few times during the night, once to shit, another time to drink. I woke up early with Carmen. She had to go to work. I didn’t. When she left she kissed me once and closed the door behind her. I slept some more. I woke. I looked at the clock. Carmen came back in. We kissed some more. She was wearing different clothes. Day clothes. Clothes to take to work. She always dresses in black. When she left (this time for good) I said, “Good-bye dark lady.”

I barely know where I am. Last night we kissed and kissed and I rubbed my cock against the softness of her belly. She wouldn’t touch it. We kissed some more.

…

Sleeping with a hard-on gives me crazy dreams. I hate dreaming because I wake so often through the night. And every time I wake the new surroundings close in on me like some rushing black dots. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and hope to come back to the dream, just as it was. My dreams were erotic. Sexy and vivid beyond belief. Once, in the early morning with the birds singing outside Carmen’s window, I woke up licking the air. She was looking at me like I was crazy, or suddenly dangerous. I asked her, “Have I been speaking in my sleep? I do that sometimes. I’m sorry.” She answered me, “No.” She rolled over. I rubbed my eyes and put my left arm under my head, under the softness of the white pillows without covers, and moved myself against her back, spooning her.

…

The eyes squeezed shut again. I didn’t want to be licking the air. I wanted to be licking the soles of the woman in my dream. I knew her really, but such things are only possibly in dreams. I pressed the eye-lids together like a vice, forcing the deep darkness to come behind them. I didn’t dream again. Not about licking her soles anyways.

…

Then Carmen was up, like I said, kissing me and leaving and shutting the door and coming back and leaving me again. I looked at the clock. It was late morning. I remembered that the cleaning lady was coming in today. I smiled. I liked being a stranger. Strangers can say and do anything they want.

…

I’m lazy in the morning. My head is thick. I had a hangover. There were books strewn like mouse-traps on top of a long row of records piled sideways and leaning against a bookshelf. The records stood tall like a three rifle balance in the Russian army. Take one away and they all might fall. The room is clean except for my pile of clothes in one corner. Clothes growing like weeds from an open travel bag. Shirts on top of pants on top of sweaters with underwear and dirty socks freckled over it all like some ruddy complexion. I leaned over and put my chin in one hand. I looked at the clock. It was early afternoon.

…

I’ve been reading a lot since I got here. Carmen has a great bookshelf, a wonderful library. It’s intoxicating. A day ago she began pulling books from her shelves and stacking them on the floor, looking at me and at the shelves and then back at me and then again at the spines standing like soldiers pressed shoulder to shoulder. She looked fine like that, her bare feet curled under her plump bottom. I wanted to fuck her. I stood up from bed, naked, and stepped over the wall of vinyl to grab her shoulders and pull her mouth to mine, pressing my cock against her back. She swatted me away, pointing at the books. “This is Bukowski, this is Fante… they’re both nasty like you. Here’s Salinger, and here’s Neruda, and Beckett… oh and this one is Roald Dahl.”

…

“Doesn’t he do all those children’s books?”

…

“Yes but his writing for adults is ugly… fascinating… you’ll like him” I thanked her. She’s a literary princess my Carmen, despite the fact that she puts me to bed with a sawed off rocket between my legs.

…

I’ve never read who I should. I read trash and garbage and sentimental nonsense and occasionally I have the urge to go to the library and find some classics, some poetry. It’s sludge this stuff. It’s like a dream where you try to run and you piston your legs like an Olympic sprinter and nothing happens, it’s all slow motion and heavy burdens and fear. I hate them, those old men with type-writers and pens who speak to us over the chasms of god knows how many years, centuries even. They’re fucking dead those marble mouthed bastards. They’re dead and there’s nothing left of their bodies but dust and maggots and stench.

…

And don’t get me started on poetry. It’s bullshit this poetry. I’ve never read a poem I liked. It’s all dandelions and doves descending through white skies as if through the beaming light of heaven. Where are these dandelions and these doves in my world? Where is that beaming light of heaven? My world is filled with garbage and sex and the stink of fresh shit. I hate them preaching to me and I hate never understanding. I stopped reading poetry some time ago. Poetry is dead until some man of our age revives it without screwing too much with form and punctuation. Oh, isn’t he clever taking out all the commas and semi-colons, isn’t he fresh, isn’t he some youthful genius of our generation. Fuck him with his bag of tricks and his useless tinkering. Give me a page full of dried blood and fresh shit and press it to my nose and I’ll be happy, and I’ll call you a poet.

…

So it’s early afternoon and I looked over at this mine-field of suggested texts. Last night I read three books. Carmen said, “You read too quickly, are you sure you understand it all?” I told her I did. Not only do I understand but these guys give me a hard-on. I wanted to fuck.

…

I got out of bed and walked to the book shelf, eschewing for now her choices for me. I wanted more Bukowski. He made me feel good. Like a man. Like a fighter. Everything is simple with Bukowski. Straight forward. I love him. Maybe I would even love his poetry, he was so much without ornamentation. I found one, a companion to the work I had read last night. It was good. I read for a while, maybe one hour, maybe two, it’s hard to tell sometimes. I heard the door opening. I was confused. Then I remembered, the cleaner was coming by today. Carmen had told me about the cleaner, Dolores, and how she was a writer like me (at this I grimaced, I’m no writer, not yet) and how she was a borderline psychopath with a stable of stories she was all to happy to share, provided you asked the right questions and didn’t piss her off.

…

I was still horny, more so now after reading for a while (books always turn me on), and I decided I’d give her a bit of a show and walk out of Carmen’s room in my undies, give Ol’ Dolly a peak at the youth in me. The swinging dick and the tight frame and the broad shoulders. I liked my body. I liked to show it off while I still could. I walked into the kitchen to grab a beer and I saw Dolores out there in the hallway polishing the banisters on her knees. She had a plump ass and grey hair cut over her eyes. Her hands were wrapped around the wood of the stair frame and she was twisting and jerking a cloth with some wax up and down, up and down. I swigged my beer, my usual breakfast these days and came back to watch her some more. Her sagging tits jumped beneath her shirt like grasshopper pancakes. I could feel the familiar stirring beneath my shorts, and I smiled, proud of the hardness in me.

…

She looked up at me suddenly. I smiled. “Hi, I’m Jake. I’m staying here for a few weeks with Carmen. I’m a writer.” It’s so easy to lie to strangers. What kind of writer would I ever be but for some shit reviews and some shittier articles. Suspiciously she looked me up and down, weighing me with her filmy eyes, then, “Where are you from?” I told her, she warmed immediately, “Oh… it’s beautiful there isn’t it, I’d love to go sometime.”

…

Just like Carmen had promised, this old bitch was full of stories. In her fifty plus years, she’d been a thief, a prostitute, homeless, a liar without morals, an alcoholic, addicted to heroin, a dancer, a some time student, a reader and practitioner of psychology, a spiritualist, and now finally after all that, a writer and a cleaning lady for the rich. I liked her immensely. I downed my beer. “Let’s go for a cigarette.” “Sure I could use one, not getting much done here talking my face off with you.” I went to brush my teeth and put on some clothes, it was raining outside. By the time I got to the porch, she was already halfway done one semi-rolled gnarly looking thing that she held between her two longest fingers. I noticed that though she looked old, her hands looked young. I wondered what those hands could do.

…

I had a fresh beer and I pulled from it long and lit a smoke. She looked at me, “It doesn’t help you know.” “What?” “The booze, it doesn’t make you any better of a writer.” I finished my beer without a word, handed her my cigarette and went inside to get another beer. It was three o’clock. Three beers by three. A good number. I felt good. When I got back to the porch she had snuffed out my Marlboro and had rolled me a crooked one from her pouch, putting it in my mouth with quick fingers. It was harsh, filterless, but good with the beer.

…

Ol’ Dolly went on, talking to me about poetry, that old evil language of shit, and I listened. Dolores was fascinating in her descriptions and in her manner of speech. I sat there listening, and smoking, and wondering if she looked good naked. I didn’t much matter. My crotch was burning and needed to be doused in that warm, wet place all women carry.

…

She stood up and I pinched her ass. She turned quickly, her eyes warning, “What did you do that for?” “Let’s fuck.” “That’s stupid, I’m old enough to be your mother.” “Maybe that’s why I want to fuck.” She looked at me queerly then walked away.

…

I’m not very clever. What had I done that for. She’ll probably tell Carmen and then where will I be, stuck in this dumb countryside without a penny or a hope or a bed or any of those feverish late night kisses that rarely yielded anything. I was ashamed, and abashed. I finished my beer and grabbed another, the supply seemingly endless, and walked to Carmen’s room to disrobe and climb into bed with my Bukowski.

…

I could hear her scrubbing out there, in the wide house, maybe downstairs, maybe upstairs. I can never tell with noises and sounds. My senses seem so dull these days. I did a couple pages then grabbed another beer, drinking quickly now to force down that shame. In bed again my hand lingered at my crotch, teasing the softness of it with finger strokes until it was hard enough to squeeze in my palm. My hands were cold from the beer. I closed my eyes and masturbated.

…

I wasn’t finished when Dolores came charging into the room. “So you want to fuck?”, she asked standing over me, seeing my dick standing tall in my hand, the beer bottles lined up neatly beside the bed, “You’re some young writer and you want to fuck this old bitch do you?” “Yes… I think I do Dolly, yea, I want to fuck, waddaya say Dolly… fuckity fuck, we could do it now.”

…

She pulled her pants down to her ankles and stepped out of them with a dancers ease. “Keep talking like that, it makes me hot.” Her cunt was as gray as her head, but I didn’t mind. She pulled off her top and her bra and I hurled all manner of dirt at her, calling her an old dirty bitch and telling her that her ass sagged and stunk of tired grapes and rotting flowers. She climbed onto me. I lied back. “You’re sick!”, she yelled it at me, “Put it in me sick boy.”

…

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t find her pussy in all that mangled grayness. I kept rubbing it against her pubic hair, trying to find some softness in all that coarse sandpaper. “Help me.” She grabbed me with those strong, young fingers and stuffed me inside her. Delightful. Magnificent. She was a whore alright, with a whores cunt and whores looseness, but that didn’t bother me much. She rode me with her hands on my chest, tearing strips from me like streamers, leaving bloody welts that steamed up with blood. She put her lips to the gore then and sucked it all up, and lifted her head, her mouth red and grotesque, like some rabid animal.

…

I came fast. Too quickly really, but she didn’t stop grinding herself against my softness and then the bone of my pubis until she shuddered, yelped like a hyena and quickly shook herself off me. After that it was a blur. She loped off with her clothes in her hands and I could hear the crash of a door then a toilet flush. I lied there, satisfied. Feeling the acid burn of her nails and the pulsing scars she left on my chest. What a crazy old bitch, I thought. What an angel, my Ol’ Dolly.

…

I waited a while until the need for another drink, something stronger now, and the urge for a cigarette forced me into some clothes and out of Carmen’s room. I heard the suction humming of a vacuum cleaner and I poured myself a whiskey. I went outside and lit a cigarette, cradling the smoke and the whiskey like some kind of new religion. I had three cigarettes in a row and finished the whiskey. Then I went inside to pour myself another, feeling good, feeling tight and strong and unbeatable. She was there with her vacuum cleaner and she smiled at me as I walked out of the kitchen with a fresh glass. That was all, just a smile and back to work, as if nothing had happened. It was better that way, and I was glad of it. But what did I expect anyway, from an old pro like her.

…

I went back to Carmen’s room with the whiskey and fixed the sheets, looking for some tell-tale sign of the fuck. Carmen would be pissed if she found out, I think, but nothing could be done now but to straighten up and wait for her to come home and to kiss her and apologize that I was drunk again. Maybe I would write a bit. That always pacified her, knowing that the drinking hadn’t been entirely wasteful. I hoped she came home with some wine.

…

I laid back to think a bit, taking a deep swig of the whiskey.

…

Carmen woke me with her kisses. She was all in black just as she’d left. She tasted it on me and saw the half-full glass perched on the records, “You’ve been drinking haven’t you.” “Of course I have, what else is there for me to do but drink.” She kissed me again. “I met Dolores on the way in, she said you two had a fine little chat. I hope you didn’t distract her from her work, she’s a bit lopsided already, given her history.” “Yea, she’s alright that broad, quite the character” Carmen smiled warmly, like the morning sun, “I knew you two would get along.”

…

We lied in bed for a while together. And I fell asleep again.

Gunslingrrr

Over the last few days I’ve come up with many different excuses on why I shouldn’t write this update — right here, right now — and even now I’m not entirely sure it’s the right time, but hell… why the fuck not. In one palm: there is sickness, this foreign keyboard that slows my fingers and inhibits the natural tempo of my mind, arguments between the founding fathers and I, and a complete disbelief in my ability to accurately recount the history of this last week and a half. In the other palm: the pure need to express what is in my heart and what weighs so heavy now on my feverish mind. Let’s begin as we should, at the beginning.

Touching down at the airport in Budapest was a thrill. Well, sitting by the window and watching the landing gear fold out from under the wing, the anticipation of that first bump and rush of blacktop runway, the grinding slowness as the plane leaves behind it’s magic time of flight in favor of the more earthly momentum of ground-speed… that has ALWAYS been a thrill for me, but this time, it was the city… my never before seen destination… that added to the thrill immensely.

…

Walking down those folding stairs that drop from just behind the cock-pit, I must have seemed a complete idiot, such was the girth of the stupid grin plastered on my heavily bearded face. At the foot of those stairs I raised my head to the blue morning sky and took my first deep breath of Hungarian air, and boy was it sweet. I’d taken off not 2hrs before from Warsaw in the grey darkness of early morning, and now I found myself basked in the warm shine of a country which had never before felt my feet upon it’s borders. I breathed deeply once more. This is where the true adventure of my European odyssey was to begin, I could feel it.

…

Why had I come to Budapest? Well as with most things, I was driven to it by a woman. If I landed in the morning, then she was to land about 10hrs later and meet me in the city. From the tarmac, myself, and the rest of the passengers were herded into a small transport bus that took us swiftly to Terminal 1, where I quickly located my medium-sized travel bag and stepped through a pair of squeaky doors into the front foyer of the airport. All at once I had no clue as to what I should to, or how I should proceed. Suffice it to say, I managed somehow to kill the rest of the afternoon, taking a shuttle-bus from the airport to the hotel that this mystery woman had booked for the two of us. (I know you all must have imagined I was planning on slumming it and couch-surfing my way through Europe, and believe me I most certainly will be… but somehow, this wonderful lady was able to book a room at very posh hotel with a very fucking reasonable price… like some kind of traveling female magician). Once at the hotel I had naught to do but wait, and make a phone call to another contact I had here in the city, a young man named Gyuri who had been introduced to me “virtually” a few days earlier by a great mutual friend of ours who by circumstances beyond his control was unable to meet me as we’d originally planned.

…

In the lobby the concierge had asked me, and called me by the woman’s surname (as if he imagined we were a young couple on a honeymoon, who had for some reason or another taken separate flights), if we would be needing a smoking or non-smoking room, two beds or one. My heart soared and fell all at once. Yes Yes Yes!!! You can smoke in hotels in this fucking country, this is fucking incredible, please do give me a smoking room. He replied, with raised eyebrows, “And please sir, the question of the beds?” My heart beat quicker, until I found my voice and my sense, “Please… two beds… I don’t want to presume.” He smiled at me slyly, gave me the key-card and bade me good-day.

…

Up in the room I was flabbergasted. My heart was over-run by mirth and good-feeling. I laughed out loud like a wild man, pulled a deck of Lucky’s from my coat pocket, lit one and advanced to the window to look upon the breath-taking vista offered up to my eager eyes. Through the open window I was privy to an incredible view of a good-sized downtown park and further on a massive castle who’s spire wound high above the rest of the old buildings in my view. I exhaled and closed my eyes, letting out smoke and pulling in the new air of this place which I’d never imagined would be so damned beautiful. In contrast to Warsaw, Budapest is a kingly place, rich in history and richer still in architecture and design. Everything here is pleasing to look at at, and invests you with a feeling of awe and inspiration. In these moments I imagined a life for myself, lived on the cobbled streets and the dark, bunkered, below-ground pubs. I was sad for Warsaw, a city that was all but razed to the ground during the second world war. How lucky these people are, that their fair city was preserved, to great extent, from the calamity that befell that other Eastern power. After such reflections, I felt a swoon fall upon me and I took to one of the two beds in the room and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

…

Upon waking I reflected on the circumstances of my acquaintance with this woman, called Vivi, who I was to meet for the first time, in the space of just a few short hours. She is the only person who has ever reviewed my writing favorably, independent of ever meeting me. I remember the first time I ran across her blog and found there an article extolling the virtues of my clunky prose. I was instantly enamored with this faraway person who was so kind to my character and who spurred me to greater energies and dedication through her innocent support. After reading her review I endeavored to thank her in some way, and soon there-after we established a long-running, if sometimes infrequent correspondence that had finally culminated in this adventurous meeting in a foreign land, her flying from England, and myself from Canada by way of Poland. Fear and trepidation consumed me. But let that not persuade you that I was overly nervous. In fact, my excitement far overran the nerves that jangled deep within me.

…

In fear of seeming too long-winded and losing myself in the specifics of environment and mind, I’ll cut to the point (for there is still much to tell in this story). I’d over-slept my appointed time to phone my soon to be new best friend in Hungary, Gyuri. Once I woke and bathed myself, I picked up the hotel phone and rang him up. After a few rings I heard a friendly voice on the line and we began our palliver. Within 30mins of that phone call I met him down-stairs in the lobby and we went up together to my room to drink some Zubrowka with apple juice (the absolute best vodka Poland has to offer, in my humble opinion, mixed with the juice of apples for the simplest and most delightful of tastes). And there we continued to drink and get better acquainted until the arrival of the third in our party. Sooner then later our heads turned as their was some scratching at the door and it swung open to reveal a woman of medium height, dressed from head to toe in black, heeled in the sexiest pair of stilettos these well turned eyes have yet to witness. Her voice rang out to us, and to me it was a vision and a swat to the head, an English Bell(e) chiming noon and ringing (and wringing) the air with sweet, soft fingers. Though she claimed later, never to believe me, my expectations were exceeded in this moment, and in triplicate during the following few days we shared together.

That night was spent drinking hard in our hotel room and wandering the streets and parks of Budapest in search of a 3am snack with the drunken-poet, philosopher, naturalist Gyuri as our guide. The understanding between the three of us was beyond description and we talked all night through till the sun was rising and the birds were singing in our well-filled ears.

…

That was a Thursday, and Vivi was set to leave on Sunday. Such a short time, but long enough I guess to make a first meeting. Having two beds, we pushed them together and shared some innocent embraces, nothing taken if not offered and nothing given if not well-received. Still now she mystifies my heart. We slept late each day, shooing away the chamber-maids and cleaning ladies who dared to intrude on our sleepy existence. In the late afternoon we would walk together, first awkwardly, then finding a common step… walking to find food, or drink, or something to delight our young eyes. And we talked. About everything. I had not expected to find such an honest companion in Vivi, and the sight of her each morning as we climbed from our make-shift bed of sheets and pillows requisitioned from me a thousand sighs.

…

Lets fast-forward now to fond farewells and quick goodbyes. Vivi left us standing in front of the hotel, Gyuri and I, as she sped off in a taxi, and afterwards we walked up to the Citadella (the high point of Budapest where you’ll find a giant statue raising her palms in benediction over the entire city). This statue is well-lit at night and I often marveled at it from the city streets below. Gyuri lives on the hill just below the Citadella, a marvelous little apartment he shares with another student that offers up another amazing view of the city below. We spent that first night drinking and laughing and making merry till the sun came up (as has become tradition here so far) and fell to sleep side by side in the same bed under the heavy influence of a couple bottles of Kalinka (cheap Hungarian vodka) and about half a dozen 500ml beers each. The following evening when we woke Gyuri took me on a long walk down the hill and over one of the bridges that separates old Buda from old Pest until we came upon a small, dank looking arched doorway that framed a couple of ancient looking brick steps. Down these steps I found a tiny little bar, in which three of his friends: his girlfriend Virag, her best-friend Petra, and her room-mate Máté were waiting for us with large smiles and giant tankards of beer. Some middle-notes from Bowie’s “Major Tom” warbled from the speakers as we introduced ourselves and started to get absolutely fucking drunk off our asses. The night went well and ended with us dancing to Ricky Nelson and swigging the Hungarian national drink “Palinka” (a sort of fruit-based wine) from over-sized shot glasses until they pushed us out the door. But not before one of the bartenders had cornered me after hearing I was a vinyl enthusiast, and had pushed a 7″ inch press of his band’s limited edition single into my hands. I love this country.

The rest of the week went mostly like this, but for one exceptional evening when, after hearing me extolling the virtues of Vancouver weed for what must have been the thousandth time since he met me, Gyuri promised to set me up with one of his friends who was holding. I was ecstatic as I hadn’t blazed for nigh on two weeks. From this guy we purchased about three grams tightly wrapped in tin-foil for 7,500 Forints. So keep in mind, if you are ever in Hungary and are looking to get heavy, you need about 2,500 Forints to purchase one gram of that sweet, sticky stuff. The evening that followed was absolutely mind-numbingly ridiculous. I spun up a gram joint in the slender, tapered cone-like fashion which I’m partial to, and we shared it between the four of us: Gyuri, Virag, Máté, and I (Petra being absent that evening). In the few minutes that followed this kingly joint we were all a bit reserved and conscious of the barrier of language that now loomed all the more larger between us, or more specifically between them and me. But such as it is, laughter destroys all barriers and we amused ourselves for hours doubling over and clenching our tight stomach’s and screaming, “Please, pleeeeeease, no more!!”

…

The highlight of this mania was when they approached me with what they described at first as a verbal game played by Hungarians, called “annoying orange”. One of them would address me, “Hey Apple”, and bid me to respond. I tried everything I could think of in response… “What? Orange! Fuck Off!”, even repeating, “Hey Apple!”, back in their faces. All they would do is laugh hysterically and spit back in my face, “Hey Apple!”, or scrunch up their faces and gum their lips together making Mongolic chewing noises in the backs of their throats (myeeah myeah myeah myeah) with their tongues hanging from their mouths. Finally I couldn’t take it any longer and threatened to throw myself from the balcony (and I think I rather meant it) if they didn’t desist. I asked of them, “Is this a game you play with people when you want to drive them right up the fucking wall and leave them in a straight-jacket?!” Finally they succumbed to my pleas for immunity and showed me this video on youtube, which explains everything. Well not really, but it at least gave me a basis for understanding their lunatic behavior.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Now, this past weekend I was invited to the estate of Virag’s father for a weekend of celebration and hunting, along with the rest of the characters I’ve so narrowly described in the preceding paragraphs. His place, “The Hunting House”, is out in the country side, about a 3hr train ride from Budapest. The morning of our trip I woke feeling sore and shaky and very weak. But with such a grand invitation to adventure looming high before me I pushed these physical handicaps aside and devoted myself to the concept of positive thinking, hoping that if I drank enough beer and smoked enough cigarettes on the train ride I was sure to beat back whatever was ailing me. No such luck. By the time we arrived and were greeted by Gabor (Virag’s father), I was already in a sad-shape, but still determined to buck-up, let my best foot fly, and make the best of the situation at hand.

…

“The Hunting House” was a veritable display case for the remnants of forest animals. On every wall there hung horns and tusks of all shapes and sizes, all which Gabor assured me, had been taken by either him or his son, who was with us as well. That first night, we ate well, and despite my quiet urgings for pity for sake of my steadily climbing and now undeniable sickness, we drank well into the dark Hungarian night, the stars hanging over our wine soaked heads like the diorama in some babes crib. I’m glad that Gabor forced upon me such a level of enjoyment despite my protestations because after that evening I was barely able to lift my head from the pillow, until now, when I am still weak and frail and skinny from the ravages of some continental influenza. I regret being unable to roam the grounds with the rest of them and to take up a rifle and to take aim at some rustling woodland creatures from the safety of a hastily built, rickety “high-hide”. But I’m glad of the experience none-the-less, despite my rather tepid enjoyment of the whole affair.

…

The weekend was passed like this. Gabor, and my young companions checking in on me periodically to make sure I was still alive as I shivered and sweat-ed under piles of undulating blankets. When night would fall upon the house again Petra would climb into the narrow frame of my bed with me and try to console my feverish state with her sweet laughter and soothing fingers. Once she asked me, when we were laying like this together, to recount to her some sort of fairy-tale or bed-time story, to ease her to slumber. I searched my aching mind for something of value but found it not, thus falling back on a thinly veiled account of my own life as a young man in Canada, representing myself as a prince who had fallen in love with a princess who ended up betraying him. She dubbed this one “Bitch Princess”, in her broken English, and laughed openly at my consternation until I was unable to do much but laugh along with her. Then, one morning, it was time to take our leave. I packed myself up and we set off for the long train ride home, sleeping much of the way to Budapest.

So here I am today… a few days removed from that journey, and finally able (in more ways than one) to share my experiences with you, my dear faithful readers. I’m painfully aware of how inadequate these descriptions must seem from afar, but I pray, please take mercy on my prose and my memory and furthermore my endurance, as I’m writing from behind a thick veil of illness, and an even thicker veil of time. All I’ve tried to do here is maybe get those old juices flowing once again so as they don’t run stale and old in my rusty circuits. I promise for the future, some words more relevant to the Vancouver experience, but I hope that these too… the journals and stories from my travels excite your fancies as much as they excite my own.

As always… Stay Tasty Kids!

And thanks to Petra Kis for her fotos.

And you can find Vivi’s blog here: http://vivibest.blogspot.com/

Gunslingrrr