[Why am I good at emo poetry? I'd like to turn out a technical manual someday instead. Oh, well.]

if you cannot love me
then hate me
or something
just please don’t feel nothing at all
i can’t bear the thought
you’d forget what we had
and the shadow i cast on your wall

though it may not be permanent
right
or desirable
i thought we mattered to us
for a moment
don’t say that we shouldn’t have;
i know that better than you
all the times i gave up
the times i looked at you
with disdain
with disapproval
with disappointment in my eyes

so if you’ve found someone that can love you
and not just pretend
you’re one better than me
i wish what we had wasn’t empty
how i tried to fill it
ignore what it didn’t mean
lie through my teeth
and imagine the prospect i couldn’t bear would
become somehow appealing to me

i would hate myself, wouldn’t i?

so if you cannot love me
then hate me
or something
but please don’t feel nothing
that hurts
worse than anything

Part of the coherent portion of the conversation at the pub this past Friday revolved around Remembrance Day. Several of the people at the table were making plans to meet up for brunch before proceeding to the War Memorial to attend the ceremony. Mostly they are self-employed; one is a healthcare worker.

By contrast, I work for a bank. Particularly, I work in a call-centre for an American bank, and although we fall under the same federal law as regards statutory holidays as the government does, our business needs to remain open. (You and I are free to define “need” differently than it is used here.) Thus, as one of the only two people who can do my job, I have a 50% chance of working on Remembrance Day, whether I like it or not.

This year, I’m working on Remembrance Day.

I’m not doing it for the extra pay (although I’m not protesting the extra pay, by any stretch of the imagination), but I’m also not doing it entirely involuntarily. I have my own personal reasons for going in to work.

When I was a kid, Remembrance Day usually centered around the theme of “Never Again.” The idea behind that campaign was that war was bad (this is apparently still news to some people), and that it should be avoided. Remembrance Day provides us a time and opportunity to remember why this is. War is atrocious. People die. Lives are changed forever. Cultures are wiped out.

That was before 1989 and the (first recent) war in Iraq. That was followed by what William Jefferson Clinton, with a straight face in a serious voice, called “the world’s first war fought on ethical grounds,” the war in Bosnia, and…

Our planet is at war. It’s always at war. I invite you to point out to me an era in history when our planet has not been at war with itself, somewhere.

The other gentleman who shares my job is about seven years my senior, though his sunny disposition and passionate emotion would convince you otherwise. He’s very proud of his son, and has nothing but love for his wife (a poet and former journalist). He regularly goes on break to visit his father, who works at a restaurant in the mall food court.

By the time he was my age, he was already a war veteran.

He doesn’t talk much about his time in the military; just the occasional jovial story about making something interesting explode. It wasn’t a war our country was involved in, but it was a long and brutal war that took place close to civilian population. He and I are close enough that I know he was seriously injured by enemy fire.

If you look in his eyes, you see the unmistakeable look of a man who’s had to kill someone. Everyone I’ve met who’s killed someone at war has had that look; they’ve all also had an incredible appreciation for the sheer joy of life. It’s inspiring, and at the same time heart-rending.

It’s none of my business whether he goes to any ceremony on Remembrance Day morning. I’d be happy if he just spent the day with his family. He deserves to.

Think of all the people who didn’t get to. Who won’t get to.

That’s what you’re remembering for.

And that’s why I’m going to work tomorrow, instead of him.

Recommended reading for Remembrance Day:
In Flanders’ Fields
Ypres: 1915

That night after I had arrived home from work, I had barely hung up my coat when there was a loud knock at the door. The hair on my neck stood on end; an unannounced knock at the door could only be my superintendent from downstairs, and I was afraid he would see the soaked towels at the base of the radiator in my bedroom. I moved to quietly shut the bedroom door.

“Coming,” I shouted. Not that I had to shout very loud. The walls and door of my apartment are so thin I can hear the next-door neighbour’s MSN Messenger alerts clearly at night, even with music on.

I pressed my face against the door to look through the peephole. It wasn’t the super at all. Outside my door were two men; one dressed in dark clothing leaning against the wall, and one dressed in a gaudy linen suit standing in the middle of the hallway. The tension in my neck turned to cold sweat and a hollow gnawing in my stomach. I raced quickly through the list of people I might owe money as I unlocked the door and opened it.

“Are you–” started the man in the suit.

“Your door number doesn’t work,” said the man in what I could see now was a black suede jacket, faded black t-shirt, and even more faded black jeans. He pushed his way past me and stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips. “It says your number’s out of service.” I motioned for his partner to come in and closed the door.

“Yes, well,” I said, “I don’t have a land line, and I guess they can’t hook it up to my cellphone.” He was looking at the ceiling intently, then around some still unpacked boxes of my things on the living room floor. It took him a full minute to turn to look at me, and even then I couldn’t see where his eyes were looking, behind his opaque black sunglasses.

“No couch?” he asked, easing himself into the one white wooden chair I had cleared off; the rest were covered in books and other items I had yet to find a place for. I wrung my hands together, and turned to look at the other man, but he waved his hand with a slight bow of his head.

“Oh,” I said, ‘I wasn’t offering… I mean who are you?” Catching myself running my hands through my hair, I leaned back against the wall behind me. The man with the sunglasses laughed, and leaned forward.

“You ought to have known someone was going to come talk to you eventually. Now be a dear, and get us each a beer.” He motioned towards the kitchen. I had no intention of moving.

“You’re kidding. Who are you?” I asked again, “I thought you were the superintendent…” My back was cold and I could feel myself beginning to shake.

The man sitting on a chair, casting a pall on my living room floor, became suddenly still and stiff-looking. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew they were looking through me.

“Beer. Get us a fucking beer. You have a fridge full of Labatt 50, old man,” he grinned and spat these words, “and it’s about time you shared.” My eyes darted over to the gentleman in the suit.

“It’s alright,” he said, in a soft, almost childlike, voice that made me warm to him instantly, “I won’t have anything. But you two feel free.” My heart sank, and I was a little perturbed at someone giving me permission to have a beer in my own home.

I backed into the kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out two bottles, closed the door, and pried off the bottlecaps, all without taking my eyes off of the black stain of a man sitting in my living room, and his ethereal, equally creepy, companion.

When someone enters your home unexpectedly, your mind goes instantly through your possessions, naming and locating each and every potential bludgeon or sharp object:

Cleaver: kitchen
Cane: umbrella stand
Baseball bat: windowsill by the head of my bed

I came out of the kitchen and handed one of the bottles to the dark man in the chair. He immediately relaxed and smiled. Not at me, mind you; he just smiled. I went to stand by the bedroom door.

“No,” came the raspy voice from the chair, “have a seat. We’re going to be a while.” I let a deep breath out through my teeth, then walked over to the chair at my desk and sat down. I stared at the man in the chair, still wearing his sunglasses, as I sipped my beer, but it was the man in the suit who spoke next.

“You’re probably wondering,” he said, “who we are and why we’re here.” I looked at him incredulously.

“Yes,” I said, slowly, “I already asked that. Are you working from a script?” Realizing what I’d just said, I put the bottle back up to my lips. The man in black snickered, and his companion shot him a disapproving glance before he started speaking again.

“We’re here to talk to you about a message you should have received a long time ago.” I winced. God-botherers, I thought.

“No,” said the man in black, waving his finger, “he came for that. I came along because he said there’d be beer in it.” He raised his bottle. I nodded my head in agreement. It took me a few seconds to realize the other man was speaking again.

“…causing a bit of concern. You’re not an idiot, and you ought to know better. In fact,” he said, “you yourself wrote a scathing admonition of such conduct not six months ago!” At this last, he had come forward to lean on the desk in front of me and I could see the weird grey-pink of his irises as his gaze flicked back and forth between my eyes. What was he talking about? It couldn’t be the drinking. I took another sip of my beer, leaning back so as not to hit his chin with the end of my bottle. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and continued.

to be continued…

Note: You probably shouldn’t read this if you know me personally.

I apologize in advance for this. When I get down like I am now, the only way to fix it is to write how I feel at the moment. As soon as I write it and send it out into the world, the feeling changes. It’s infuriating.

Usually I send a private, inebriated e-mail in the dead of the night to the person in question. They’re rarely well-received. I doubt this would be, and take comfort in the idea that nobody can really be certain who I may or may not be talking about. I was smart enough not to read the last thing written to/about me on the Internet, and she’s smarter than I am, so I’m banking on that.

Yet it’s the only thing that helps.

Dear imaginary ex,

I was in bed just now, and I couldn’t sleep.

You know, the last time I had a really good night’s sleep was next to you. In fact, those nights were the times in my life I have slept best. I never needed anything other than you to fall asleep, those nights.

Early on in our relationship, it was clear that things wouldn’t work out because of what you wanted from life, and the fact that I’d made choices that made my contribution to that pretty much impossible.

I don’t know if I ever told you how much that bothered me, every day. I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Yes, when I made my choices I was making them for reasons I believed in, and now that we’re quite thoroughly over with no chance of reconciliation, I do not regret them. But because of that, I stopped looking at you with just love in my eyes; it became love and an apology. Then anxiety set in, hard.

By now, being nearly thirty, I ought to know myself well enough to recognize when I’m depressed, and why, and that I always react to depression with some combination of alcohol and insanity. Maybe I just wanted the relationship to end so I didn’t have to admit that I would have done what was necessary to change, but was too scared. Hence the self-sabotage.

I know, rationally, that it wouldn’t have worked out. Or at least I’ve convinced myself so.

You’re lucky: your life will work out the way you wanted it. You were worried that you would never find someone that you could be with forever, and who would love you forever. Yet I don’t see how you can avoid it. I would find it hard not to love you, unconditionally. I know; I’ve tried to stop, and it didn’t work.

Don’t get the impression that I’m thinking about you all the time (although I easily could) or that I’m stuck in some melancholy state; not that that would matter to you anymore, granted. I’ve found things to do, and other people to care about. So have you, I hope. You have your life, which I view with a bit of envy even though I wouldn’t choose that path myself, and I have mine, whatever form it may take at the moment.

Still, I miss our conversations. I truly do.

It was a wonderful time together.

Well, mostly.

Take care. I miss you, and I am content with that.

Love,
&.

And there that is. Suddenly, magically, it’s not there anymore. Rather, it is, but the pain is gone. It’s a form of catharsis.

Now I can go back to bed.

There’s a lineup at the Beer Store on Rideau Street every Friday night after 9:00 pm that stretches out through the automatic door onto the sidewalk.

Not that I’m there that often, but one notices these things.

As I was standing in line waiting to purchase twelve bottles of Labatt 50 (an acquired taste; I acquired the taste from someone I consider to have remarkably good taste, so I make no apology), I heard someone repeating a familiar syllable.

“Pabst… Pabst…” A tall, unshaven young man (my lower back and grey hair cry out “boy”, but I do not listen) with dark hair, a dark jacket and dark but faded jeans was searching for the price of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“You’re looking for Pabst?” I offered, “It’s over there.” I jerked my thumb to indicate the sign on the opposite wall that said DISCOUNT BRANDS. He started to walk over.

“But they do have it?” he asked. I nodded.

“They sure do.” I looked at his girlfriend and tried to guess their age. Twenty? Not more than twenty-three, surely. They didn’t look like the seasoned hipster couple that ought to be buying Pabst Blue Ribbon at closing time on a Friday night. They were too bright-eyed, too talkative. Too happy. Like a chipmunk and a squirrel frolicking on the forest floor.

I walked out onto cold, windy Rideau Street, up to King Edward and turned north. Some disheveled figure was trying to decide if some building’s steps were a good place to make a bed for the night. I passed by, adjusting my grip on the 12-pack that was keeping my hand warm. You can’t refrigerate beer so that it’s colder than an Ottawa night.

There’s not one of these cold Ottawa nights goes by that I don’t ask myself the same question: How did I get here?

Well?

How the hell did I get here, anyway?

I miss waking up to your curls on the pillow
Your smile and your eyes and your tears
The way you would relax when I touched you
Nights spent talking
Dreams of a life together

I miss how you loved me
I miss how I loved you

I miss your cats

I wish I’d never changed
to please somebody else
before we met
and made impossible
the life we could have had

I miss myself
And I miss you

Got writer’s block?

Don’t worry, I know the feeling.

You sit down to write something, but you just can’t.

Oh, you know how to write, and you know that you’re good at it. It’s just been a while since you’ve written anything that you’re really proud of. Maybe it’s been a while since you’ve written anything at all.

Good writers go to university, and each year of study they write less and less of their own works, until finally they hardly write a thing. Does that make any sense to you?

Hack writers never seem to get writer’s block, do they? How is that fair?

Why is this? What can you do about it?

Well, I’ve worked out the germ of a theory, and this theory suggests a practical exercise that you can do. I can’t claim that it will cure your writer’s block. In fact, it may not work for you at all, but it certainly won’t hurt—at least, not much. You may even find it fun.

The theory here (and it’s not necessarily a new theory) is that a creative person is held down by the weight of their creative failures. Every time you have fallen short of your own standards holds you back from being able to create. This becomes a downward spiral. You stop yourself more and more, even as you push yourself more and more to produce something. Eventually you give up in disgust.

By the way, this could explain how bad writers keep going; their standards are low enough that they don’t ever fail to achieve them. Like Kraft Dinner, McDonalds, or Budweiser, they have a mediocre (or worse, truly bad) product, but by sheer volume alone, they survive. Some even make an absolutely obscene amount of money at it. That’s just speculation, of course.

Meanwhile, the talented writer is busy trying to prevent himself from writing something that doesn’t suck, and in the process not writing anything at all.

In an effort to remedy this situation, I’ve put together a little exercise.

Alright, maybe it’s not so little. More like it’s a little involved. However, it’s worth the work.

It consists of revisiting those crippling creative failures, so as to lift their weight off of you and free your attention from them.

Take a blank or lined piece of paper and divide it into four by drawing a line down the centre of the page and another one across the middle. Over on the left-hand side, write READ, and on the right-hand side, write WRITTEN. At the top, write SHOULDN’T'VE and at the bottom write SHOULD’VE.

Now you have four quadrants for the things you shouldn’t have read (but did), the things you shouldn’t have written (but did), the things you should have read (but didn’t), and the things you should have written (but didn’t).

Start writing a list in each box.

In the box for things you shouldn’t have read (but did), write down all the books, articles and other material that you read, but didn’t like, and those that you “had” to read, even though you didn’t want to. Maybe you read an article for an elective course that you really weren’t interested in, or had to proofread or edit something that you didn’t really like. Add it all to the list.

In the box for things you should have read (but didn’t), write down all the books, articles, and even authors (their major works, or even their entire catalogue) that you haven’t read, but feel you should have. Maybe you always meant to, but never got around to it. Maybe you started, but put it aside for some reason. Maybe you never picked it up because someone else said they didn’t like it. It all goes on the list.

In the box for things you shouldn’t have written (but did), write down everything you’ve written that you didn’t like, that didn’t live up to your standards. Write down the things that you wrote that you didn’t mean, or meant but didn’t articulate properly, or that were true at the time but aren’t now, or where you goofed up the facts, or where you wrote in an atrocious style. Write the things that you “had” to write; for school or for work, but that you wouldn’t have done on your own. List out the ones you think you could have done better.

Finally, in the box for things you should have written (but didn’t), list out everything you ever thought of writing, but never did. Anything you had the idea to write, but didn’t follow through on. Ideas never given form. Unfinished assignments, where you missed the deadline. Pieces you started, but abandoned. Everything you can think of, or remember.

You may find as you go along that you remember something that should go in a previous box; add it to the list. You may remember things that people said to you about items on the lists. You may find you need to start a second piece of paper. Keep going until you feel you are done, until you’re satisfied that there’s nothing else you can think of.

The very fact that you can remember these things and assign them to these categories mean that something still bothers you about them.

So, let’s do something about that.

Look over the list of things you should have read, but didn’t. Well, what’s stopping you from reading them now? Is there anything on that list that appeals to you, that you can get your hands on? Put a star next to it. If it’s something that you have close to hand, before you go any further you may want to pick it up, and start reading it. Get a whole chapter read. Do you have a taste for it? Take it with you, and read it in every moment you can spare. If you don’t have what you want on your list, get it, and start reading it as soon as you can. When you’ve finished reading something, cross it off the list and pick something else.

Next, look over the list of things you shouldn’t have read, but did. Why shouldn’t you have read them? Were they bad? Why were they bad, and how? You may find some items on that list that someone (a friend, professor, or teacher perhaps) insisted were Great Works of Art, but you didn’t really find all that spectacular. Pick one that seems the most clear and obvious to you. Now, get some paper or your computer and write what was wrong with it. Don’t hold back; you’re not going to hurt anyone’s feelings (unless you get bold enough to go pin your criticism to the author’s study door). Be honest, and clearly articulate your opinion as to why it was not, to you, worth reading. If you need to go back and read it again to make sure, do so. It probably wouldn’t hurt to do that for any one of the pieces you didn’t feel you appreciated fully at the time. Keep doing this for each item on the list.

Look over the list of things you shouldn’t have written, but did. What was wrong with them? Do you feel differently about the subject now than you did then? Have new facts come to light that change your mind? Was it really awful style? Were you “helped” (by a friend, professor, or teacher perhaps) to write in a way that just wasn’t you? This time, pick an item off the list that didn’t seem so bad. Find the original piece, or if you can’t (did you burn all the copies?), work from memory. Rewrite it the way it should have been written.

You may feel, as you do this, a certain resistance (or shame, or anxiety) when you think about the ones you’re really not proud of. Compare this feeling to the feeling you get when you sit down to write and you can’t. Do you find them similar?

We come now to the list of things you should have written, but didn’t. Maybe you showed someone and they scoffed at you. Maybe you just couldn’t finish it in time. Well, you’ve got plenty of time now. Pick the one you feel that you could do most easily, and do it. Write the assignment, finish the article.

It’s probably best to go from one list to the next, doing something from each box in turn, and some (like the reading, for example) at the same time, so that you are balancing things out as you go.

Obviously this isn’t something you can do all at once. However, you may find yourself experiencing small improvements as you go along. Go at your own pace; but keep at it as long as you find it is useful. Copy the paper and keep it with you; make it a part of your routine to review it and add new items as you think of them.

When you’ve made some headway on these four lists, and feel good about it, there’s a fifth step to the exercise.

Turn your page over.

Write down all the things you were really proud of writing. Every piece that you got praise for, every time you felt you “nailed it.” Remember what it felt like. Remember what was really good about it. Keep going until you feel you’ve got a complete enough list.

Did you find anything from the “shouldn’t have written (but did)” list on this page? Were you surprised?

This can be a long exercise. I daresay you could make it last forever, if you really wanted to. However, there should be a point where you know you’ve achieved the primary goal of the exercise, which is to take care of a good, chronic case of writer’s block.

Somewhere along the line, you will sit down and find you can write, effortlessly and freely, the way you always knew you could, the way you want to.

That’s when you know that the exercise is complete.

Of course, you may want to go back to it from time to time if you feel like you need or want to; that’s up to you.

A lot of creative people get blocked from time to time: painters, photographers, musicians, actors. I can paint a wall, take an iPhone snapshot, play the pentatonic scale on a guitar, and act nonchalant, but that’s about as far as I go in those disciplines. I’m writing in terms of writer’s block because I’m a writer, but there’s no reason you can’t adapt this exercise to your field of artistic endeavour.

You owe it to yourself to give it a try.

Let me know how it works out.

Gather round, Universe: it’s time for a laugh.

Phobias are funny—to everyone else. Oh, come on. No matter how sensitive you may be, at least once in your life, you’ve suppressed a giggle at someone tearing down the sidewalk away from snakes, rats, clowns or whatever it is you’re not afraid of. Admit it.

Some phobias make a certain amount of sense. Fear of flying, for instance, seems justified when, on occasion, these great metal pressurized tubes spiral down out of the sky and spread their contents on the surface of the ocean. Fear of water? You could theoretically drown in the stuff. Fear of commitment? What if you do the wrong thing?

I have four particular fears that I’m aware of. Probably there are more, but I am well acquainted with these ones, and in the interests of brightening everyone’s day, I’d like to share them with you.

Fear of bees
I’m afraid of bees. This is actually pretty common; I know plenty of people who are afraid of bees. Some of them are allergic to bees, which makes it a very rational fear for them. I don’t even know if I’m allergic to bees because I will risk a human life, including my own, to get away from them. There’s also the matter of what constitutes a “bee”. To me, a bee is any unidentified buzzing noise, or anything not positively identified as not a bee/wasp/hornet. It’s quite a regular occurrence for other people to watch me devolve into St. Vitus’ Dance on the sidewalk, even running into traffic, because of a potential bee. With a wet towel at the base of the door, I have barricaded myself into the bathroom as a response to a bee in the house. Once, I screamed “It’s a wasp of hornet bees!“—in all seriousness—and abandoned the stroller I was pushing to run, shivering, shaking and brushing myself, away. Just away.

Fear of the knock on the door
Nothing ruins my day like an unexpected knock on the door. It could be the police, it could be the health inspector, it could be itinerant religion salespeople, it could be Girl Guides. It could be my nice neighbour down the hall who claims to be a budding horror film director, but is likely just a lonely hipster. I’m not afraid of any of these people. I just dread that knock on the door, to a degree that would make Anne Frank roll her eyes in disgust. On occasion, I’ve hidden in the bathroom from these too (without the wet towel).

Fear of calling people on the phone
This one I tried to overcome by becoming a call centre agent. If anyone else has this fear, may I recommend you do not pick a survey market research company. Pick a bank or a credit card company. Ten years later? I am still petrified of making phone calls. I hardly even answer the phone, even if I know who it is. There are about four people who are exceptions to the rule, and even that number is dwindling. Calling my voicemail is stressful. My wonderful, new flat-top stove is unpacked, plugged-in, clean and ready to go, but it has no power and it scares me too much to call the superintendent who lives two floors down and is friendly. If only I knew his e-mail address.

Fear of events
No, not of things happening. It’s a fear of concerts, shows, conventions, parties and the like. This one really drives me (and everyone else, I imagine) up the wall. Someone will invite me to something, and I will agree because I want to go. Then, as the event approaches, I will get very generally anxious. My personality changes. I start arguments and fights with the people I’m going with. I back out, change my mind, agree to go again, and generally exhibit a classic nervous breakdown. Why? It’s not the electric chair, it’s a rock concert. Still, every time I agree to go to something I think it will be different. Somehow, it never is. Lord knows the relationship trouble I get into as a result, not to mention that I miss a lot of good concerts. The kicker? Once I’m there (if I manage to get there without alienating everyone in the city), I usually have a great time. If only there were some way to pass out when I receive the invitation, and wake up at the show, everything would be fine.

Probably everyone has something they’re afraid of. Some people have fears that seriously hamper their ability to lead a normal, fulfilling life. Maybe you, too, are one of these people. I only hope that you find your fears as side-splittingly hilarious as I find mine.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going into the bathroom to make sure the window is shut, turning off my phone and declining some Facebook invites.

This is an excerpt from my (as yet unfinished) guide to hipsters in the wild, title forthcoming.

Although there exist many examples, on the Internet and elsewhere, of the hipster in full bloom, there has not yet been a thorough anthropological study of the social group. Field observation and in vivo testing have, however, yielded a partial picture of the development of the hipster.

Predisposition
The adolescent most likely to present as a hipster in later life is Asian or Caucasian, raised in a middle- to upper-middle-class suburban habitat. Although they may have no particular social or academic difficulties, they are unlikely to excel at anything in particular. The muscles lack tonus, and cardiovascular endurance is all but absent. One might advance the hypothesis that hipsterism does not occur in the lower animals because young exhibiting these characteristics are often eaten shortly after birth.

What triggers hipsterism?
There appears to be a strong causative relationship between frustrated expression of the aesthetic libido and precipitation of hipsterism. Currently, the theory is that the aesthetic censor (aspect of the psyche that prevents one from making bad fashion and taste choices) and the aesthetic libido (aspect of the psyche that seeks expression and creativity through these things), coming into conflict, break down and an avalanche effect occurs.
The adolescent, not particularly gifted in any creative medium, seeks to express themselves by proxy; that is, by the clothing they wear or the music they listen to. While searching for a suitable outfit at Old Navy, for example, the adolescent suddenly realizes that a) all the clothing available is bad and b) there has been no effort on the part of the store to establish style or colour scheme, therefore monstrosities such as flip-flops in every conceivable colour are available. Confronted by the endless possibilities of expression which are equally repugnant, the resistance to making bad aesthetic choices breaks down under the intense desire to make any aesthetic choice. The end result is a 110-pound seventeen-year-old with unwashed hair, John Deere trucker hat, Jack Daniels windbreaker, Ed Broadbent campaign t-shirt, tight tribal-print women’s jeans, ox-blood combat boots, a chrome scooter and mirrored aviator sunglasses, listening to Girl Talk on a pair of coconut headphones.

The remaining sections of The Life Cycle of the Hipster, including The Proto-Hipster, The Hipster Débutante, The Hipster Proper, Flashing Crystal, and The Aging Hipster will be available as part of the completed guide.

I was bored at work the other day, so I decided to compile a chapbook.

It’s called champagne in the desert, and contains most of my poetry from the past year or so. These are not new poems; in fact they’ve been available for public perusal for quite a while. I won’t claim they’re any good. Some of them have appealed to different people in different ways. Your mileage may vary.

I’m not a big fan of my own poetry, for the most part. I avoid reading it after the fact. I suspect many poets are the same way.

At the end of the month, I will be taking this poetry offline. The only way it will be available is via this chapbook, which I will print on demand.

If you’d like a copy of champagne in the desert, I will send it to you by mail for free. Just e-mail me your address and express interest. Yes, I accept both donations and scathing criticism.

This is not the end of my poetic dabbling; currently I’m tapping out haiku for Corporate Haiku while I generate inspiration for larger projects.

Contents of champagne in the desert:
Neglect
Promises
Obstinacy
Impossible Terms
a silver sliver of eternity
The Chapter of Coming Forth by Night in the Form of a Bat
Ottawa at Night
My Librarian
Thanksgiving Lunchtime
White or Dark Meat
Elegy for a Neighbourhood Cat
Waiting Room
InterCity
Admirations (six poems)
Driftwood