stuff n' junk

Ever wonder why things happen? It’s funny; tonight at the Fan Force book club meeting we were discussing Fahrenheit 451 and Crystal came up with an excellent point about political correctness and how the society in the book had gone to such lengths not to offend every little minority that all of society had become bland, tasteless, lifeless. Much like our society today in fact where book publishers are afraid to take chances on something that could turn this fucking world on it’s ear, just so they can publish yet another boring ass book about Sally Everygirl who decides to move from Toronto to Vancouver to get away from her ex and start a new life and all the quirky little blah, blah, blah’s she meets on the way bullshit novel that seems to come out every other week.

Why are hundreds of books like this published every year in Canada? Not because they are any good, or particularly poignant, but because for a long time there appeared to be so many books out there written by men. The reason there were so many men getting published is not because they were all masterpieces (they weren’t) but because MORE MEN WROTE BOOKS THAN WOMEN.

Nowadays more women are getting into the writing game. Are there now more women writers than men? No, but the publishers in an attempt to be Politically Correct have decided they are going to publish more books by women to try to “even up” what they perceive as the “oversights of the past” of which there really were none.

So they are in effect, attempting to re-write history to show some sort of disparity where there was none to begin with. I don’t want to go off on a rant here but like I said to Kent; there is a miasma of Canadian Literary Vomit out there that may seem daunting to try to wade though to find that one tiny jewel of a book.

Is it worth it in the end? Well yes and no. Yes because for every ten Sally-Everygirl-PC-bullshit-boring-ass-tripe-wish-you-could-get-that-time-back-waste-of-paper out there on the shelves, there is the a Not Wanted On The Voyage by Timothy Findley, or a Fresh Girls by Evelyn Lau. And no because, well damn I’ve had to read some real garbage over the years and I want that time back!

Ah, well at least Harry Potter got kids reading again, so that’s a start.

Oh, wait Joanne Rowling is British isn’t she?

. . . oh well.


morals in flux

J.C. Hunter was down the pub shootin’ the shit with a couple of buddies. Well, they weren’t really his buddies; just a couple of guys that happened to be sitting near him along the bar. They noticed he was scribblin’ away in a little black notebook and of course their half-drunken’ curiosities got the best of them. So after the perfunctory intros and regular bullshit about the weather, one of the guys axed him what he was writing about.

“So whatya write? Novels or something?”

Hunter took a sip of draught and slowly angled his head toward the guy, “Or something.”

The guys laughed, thinking that was the most amusing thing anyone had said all afternoon, “You’re a funny fuck Hunter.” The other guy said. “But really, what are you writing?”

Hunter told them it’s a short story, and then suddenly they wanted to know what it was about. Hunter exhaled the smoke from his last cigarette, then took another draught from his Twisted Horn Ale™ and snubbed out the butt.

“I’ll read it to ya for a smoke.” He said.

“Fuck yeah!” One of the dudes shouted and tossed over his packet of fags. Player’s Lights.

Hunter slid a smoke from the pack and lit up with a Calgary Flames lighter. He blew out the cancerous smoke and got to it.

“It was sometime in the summer when I was wearing that promise ring that I realised that it was clearly too soon for such a commitment.

A party, I remember, running off to the back yard, to the parking pad where Hikaru had left the old Nova, hootchie at my side. It was one of our famous ‘Citrus Parties’ when we would all get together with a fifth of voddy each and a bottle of Mr. Citrus™ orange drink.

The hootchie was a citrus betty by the name of Sally, or Sara, or something, I can’t remember. I think she was only with me because of the ring I was wearing, thought it would be a challenge or something. Little did she know, or probably care, that I’m easy like Sunday morning. We jumped into the back seat of Hikaru’s old Nova and got to it, real nasty like and fifteen minutes later were getting zipped back up and I realize the ring is gone from my finger!

I search blindly around in the car to no avail, it’s too dark and I’m too drunk. A week later the fiancée is asking why I’m not wearing the ring, so I’m giving her the ‘oh I left it at home or something. . .’

So the next day I track down Hikaru and get into the back of that Nova of his and find the ring in like three seconds sitting on the carpet behind the driver’s seat in plain freaking sight.

The moral of this story? If your gonna shag some hootchie behind the fiancée’s back, take the freaking ring off first!”

The two dudes laughed like they’ve never heard anything so funny before going back to their drinks.

“That shit was bananas yo!” Said the barkeep, as he placed a frosty one in front Hunter’s nearly empty pint glass, “this one is on the house!”

“Cheers,” said Hunter, and finished off the remains of his first pint.

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