Do You Know How Much A Gorilla Is Worth?

Too Not Good To Believe

But this is not time for change. I don't want this to fool you, so I’m warning you that this blog would be better if I was fully conscious and if I was writing from the perspective of a gorilla. If I was a gorilla, I would be blogging from the top of the Empire State Building in 3-D. I want to set up a Gorilla Academy as the last new school available to mankind.

Speaking Gorilla

This phrase stemmed from a period when the American legendary wrestler and great commentator, Gorilla Monsoon, spent time working in the city of Bern, Switzerland at a Cuckoo Clock repair shop. The clockmaker would insist on cleaning the face of the clock after the necessary adjustments had been made. On the point of sale with a receipt in the hand of a customer about to exit, Gorilla popped up from the workshop, located at the back of the store, and declared: “He just got his clock cleaned!” It was charming at first, but Gorilla did it every time with every customer after that, and soon it began to tire and he was fired from the job and banned from Switzerland. Whenever I’m asleep, it’s like I’ve been punched out by a gorilla in the middle of a monsoon. The more you learn about the dignity of the gorilla, the more you want to avoid people. For some reason, lately, all of my dark thoughts are with axes.

It’s like I’m drugged out of my mind, but my head feels lighter than a cloud of alcoholic vapor. Turning onto the other side of the pillow, I wake up still drunk. The alarm goes off and it’s the sound of a soothing jungle, but something seems a bit wrong and everything doesn’t quite add up. I’m confused and laughing at my mistakes. Dreading going to work without taking a shower all weekend, I’m feeling the static electricity pulling at my hair, causing it to stand up. Everything seems crazy and it’s even more weird that my dreams are becoming real. Quickly, I grab a pen and paper and write at a time where I’m feeling sheer panic and I’m at the height of paranoia. Popping a few bedside pills, I write more and feel relaxed in the darkness of thoughts.

I put down my writing devices and check my phone. My phone has pictures of trees from The Enchanted Forest. As I check my Facebook profile, there are links to the Hole problem. I check iTunes and my playlist is everything Nirvana and the Hole dark romance. The ape truth.

The Hole Problem In A Nutshell

I’m stuck in the 90s but Home Improvement is real and no longer a show on TV (my wife called to have renovations done to the bedroom bathroom). As I turn on the TV, the enlarged picture of a dead gorilla is staring me in the face. Kurt Cobain’s suicide is not being reported from Seattle. 

(But The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air is still a funky fresh flashback. The morning news is live from a zoo in Ohio. But why do I care about a fucking dead gorilla? And why am I scared I won't be able to afford banana bread when I'm free to write about the jungle of life? The lost banana?)

I’m bad axe throwing every Saturday and convinced I need to take the sharp axe to the talking tree in The Enchanted Forest on the edge of reality. I’m reading The Legend Of The Wicked Path while passing out staring at a can of Coke beside the night table of the bed. My head falls backward onto a pillow. I close my eyes and want to take an axe to the forest and chop down the talking tree from my fucked up flashbacks. Running faster and faster, sweat is running down my forehead. I’m madder than a gorilla with a sharp axe, but without bananas and fearing death from the animal response team. I’m looking behind me and see nobody. I’m alone in my dreams. I look up and see the tree that’s been talking to me. I hear voices, but the animal response team probably think I’m causing a riot on the golf course. Just because Hunter S. Thompson would golf on acid doesn’t mean I enjoy hacking. I fooled the animal response team. My eyes open; now I hear the sound of a ringtone. It’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and With A Little Help From My Friends. I’m listening to a high-pitched radio frequency in my mind with nobody around. I grab my phone, playing fucked up Beatles music, and I throw my phone against the wall. It smashes and the music stops and there's nothing but the legendary silence of darkness.

Unpublished on most planets

The Edge Of Reality: Can't You Smell That Smell?

Credit Valley Footpath was quiet and I was quietly lost in the middle of nowhere and there was nobody and it was awesome. All of a sudden, a tree started talking to me. What the fuck? I wouldn't talk back to it and it wasn't Skedaddles the Cat, but wow, it was a fucking big ass tree staring at me with wooden eyes. Looking down at me, it wouldn't leave me alone. Its leaves were huge, tree trunk enormous and round with roots spreading out, dominating the forest -- there was nowhere to hide.

The tree said to me, "You don't have the credit to be in the valley of my footpath." The tree was right. I had blown my savings on Amazon, betting on Indian sports teams, Nyquist as the Triple Crown winner, and NyQuil. I wanted to go home, but I was curious about the talking tree.

"How did you know that?" Maybe the tree put on a suit and tie and worked at RBC when nobody visited him. Everything was trippy.

"I've read your diary," the motherfucker echoed. "You're a poet." Shit, I had Lionheart Leaks and unreleased installments. It was worse than the Sony cyber attack. I was going to sue his goddamn wooden ass.

The tree grew a second face with three eyes bugging out at me, another mouth formed under its two noses and it grew nine branched-out arms. It was the most wood that I had ever seen. It tossed my diary at me with two of his hands. His third arm reached out and grabbed a fat joint underneath a log. Buddy was into the herb and Indians.

Indian Teams

Buddy rolled another joint. I took a mean piss on his ugly roots. It felt good to relieve myself and I wanted to piss off the tree. The tree tried to grab me with his arms. Wood was flying everywhere, but I escaped. I started running away. Stopping once to look back, the tree turned around and mooned me with his wooden ass. His deep crevice spat out birch bark, but I was beyond his teepee and the edge of the magical, enchanted forest filled with giant mushrooms and eleven-leaf clovers.

Credit Valley Footpath

Urn Your Way To The Top

Get Rich or Die Tryin' was a hip-hop biopic crime film starring 50 Cent. I couldn't reinvent rap or the steel, but I wanted to help the economy by shopping at the LCBO. I bought a shitload of liquor and brought it home. I opened up one of my half-pint bottles. I drained it in one continuous shuddering swallow, licked the mouth of the empty bottle, buzzed wildly and imagined I hadn't just drained my bank account like I was a professional wrestler feeling hard times. The TV was on The Kentucky Derby and I had sports on my mind. I drank Tennesse Whiskey and I was ready to wrestle my inner demons whilst wearing my Undertaker T-shirt. 

Downing the NyQuil™ felt so good after the whiskey, and shit I was tired, but it didn't take long to watch Nyquist win the fastest two minutes in sports. Blasting WOW 87.7 FM and roaring louder than Chewbacca on a heavy dose of wookie steroids, I obsessed over the female form. I went to bed and groped my wife and woke up the next day around noon in a sticky mess. Feeling nauseous, I turned my head and puked in a stylish cremation urn next to the bed. It would help if I knew the professional and functional purpose of the urn.

Heavy Metal

Lo And Behold Bisons And Good Drinking

Bisonmania

The Blue Jays and Herd have been streaky. Batters are getting time in the cage and pitchers are pitching a lot of innings. LeBlanc has been hot. The beer at Coca-Cola Field is top notch; and I'm urging anyone who likes to drink ten or eleven or twelve beers, and is not driving home, to go see a Bisons game and power drink.

Buffalo, New York

We went to see the Bisons on the same day that we went to the Burlington Humane Society and picked up our new cat. We took our cat to the game. Ten or eleven beers later, it was the seventh inning and I skedaddled to the car to spend quality time with Skeddadles, our new cat. It was around this time, I started tripping out, having acid flashbacks, hungry and craving metal. I needed loud music. I put the key in the ignition, ran the battery in the car to power up the stereo, and pumped WOW 87.7 FM in the Bisons parking lot. I was hungry for heavy metal music and so was Skedaddles. To hell with the Herd, I wanted to be alone with the cat because we were craving loud, headbanging music.

Skedaddles the Cat

Heavy Metal Awareness

My wife was sober when the game finished and she joined me in the car because it was time to go home and the Bisons won, 2-1 over the Syracuse Chiefs in a nail-biter. My long nails were scratching the cat as my wife drove out of the parking lot. We were listening to WOW 87.7 FM for the drive home. My wife was driving; I was buzzing badly and repeating the same things over and over to myself. "Wow," I said to my wife. She just looked at me and said, "Wow." All of a sudden, I realized there needed to be a week dedicated to metal awareness. I was like a heavy rolling stone and my head was weighing a ton, but we couldn't drink in the car. Cranking the sound up in the car, I was thrashing my head side to side and pretended I was writing deeper than a rolling stone writer too good to write for the magazine. Wow.

Heavy Metal Appreciation

La Buena was so good and I started thinking more and more about Lionheart Leaks and holy shit it was like a religious experience in the car going over the Skyway Bridge, driving from Hamilton to Burlington. WOW, it was so good and I didn't want to get out of the car when we got in the driveway, but my wife reminded me that I had to work the next day. WOW....

Lionheart Leaks

Acid Flashback No. 55

The Blur

Deer Creek Golf & Banquet Facility, Ajax

I'm going to warn you up front that this blog will offer little of value. You won't find much focus here. I don't have any fantastic takeaways. I don't have any solutions. I sit here between the polar forces of optimism and rage, trying to reach for one while shielding from the other. Part of me wants to retreat from conversation entirely, to escape the culture and to settle down in a castle and sit on a throne and put on headphones and just wait it all out.

The culture I'm talking about is geek culture. Nerd culture. Pop culture.

Really, our entire culture, because our entire culture is pop culture these days. Geek culture is dominant. News is entertainment. Nobody wants to smell a fart, but they want to hear about it. Wow....

I'm looking out the window. Taking time to contemplate the existence of free writing at The Ontario Writers' Conference workshop begins to conjure deep thoughts. My thoughts are heavy, but my head isn't in space. I'm not going to meet Bowie. My mind is focused on metallic minerals and I'm thinking about the richness of music, a goldmine of sound deafens my existence. The music of Metallica causes a headache within, but I don't have Advil in my pocket and I can't steal the pain reliever from the person beside me. Thrashing my head from side to side looks silly, but now Anthrax and AC/DC are penetrating a heavier beat in my head and it feels so fucking good. I take a sigh of relief that would make the makers of Advil jealous.

I'm thinking to myself how faith requires an irrational belief.

Jesus Jim, the weakness overcomes my mind and soul as the music stops, I'm not finding strength from Monday or looking outside at the pretty golf and country landscape. I need to resurrect my creative thoughts from ancient times. The workshop is over and I'm being told to leave. I'm being told to get out.

I'm opening the door and it leads outside into the wilderness. I'm in the middle of nowhere and trucking home might take two hours if I drive above the speed limit. I'm sitting in the parking lot imagining my failure. 

Exiting Ajax, Ontario

Driving home, I put the pedal to the metal. I'm going faster and faster and my mind is tripping higher and higher thinking Beyond the Blue Kite. My latest reader had a couple of thoughts and told me to take it with a "grain of salt" because he mainly reads mysteries for enjoyment. 

"Good use of language to convey emotion. I would guess that you have an academic background because of your phraseology and the quality of writing."

I can almost hear the stranger's voice after he read my novel.

"In general I felt it was well written. The last quarter of the book was brimming with excitement -- well worth the read."

But it's never enough. Talking Heads greet me in the driveway.

"And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself: 'Well.. how did I get here?'"

"I don't know," I tell the empty mailbox and open the door. The spirit world welcomes me home. I'm terrified about rejection from my first manuscript from the literary world, but there's Voodoo or Nirvana or The Doors. But I slam the door and go to the bathroom. At the very least, let this be a call to do better. Burn the rejections, toss them in the toilet, rain my piss upon their parasitic heads, and say bye-bye as I flush the bowl with clean water once more.

TOILET BOWL BLUES

The scene is a crowning glory

From the roof to the toilet,

I'm sorry I can't show you

Since it ends with a story.

From the bowels of my soul

To die of a massive coronary

Without even knowing it, 

Shit, to the toilet bowl --

I hear Mozart, my good dog:

"Pay no attention to whatever,

To anybody's praise or blame."

I mostly enjoyed a modest log. 

It'll send your heart reeling

If you follow a true feeling.

Old Study: Insects Are The Great Survivors

A fucking big Dragonfly

Giant insects ruled the great prehistoric skies during periods when small and ancient Earth's atmosphere was rich in oxygen. Then birds came on Earth. Then after the evolution of birds and humans... dragons ruled with dinosaurs. Insects reached their greatest sizes about 300 million years ago, during the late Carboniferous and early Permian periods. This was the reign of the predatory griffin-flies, giant dragonfly-like insects with wingspans of up to 28 inches (70 centimeters)... and the flying insects got bigger and bigger! They got so motherfuckin' big that the bloody insects took over my mind. I envied insects and wanted to be like one.

DRAGON FLY

At night, I'm a dragon that breathes smoke,

At daybreak, I’ll sleepwalk with human folk.

I saw Mr. Charles Darwin at an orphanage,

Over institutions of my fen-raged dreams,

Off coast-lands of weedy-soaked serpents,

The sea flows from sorrow of storage.

An attic within a cave conceals me for a while.

Then I arise, alone of scales, spikes of style,

I rage with madness at my seventh horn.

As my three eyes weep at unseeing dark,

Nightfall of stone-blind infectious sharks,

Swimming with ailing evil, I’m reborn.

I snarl and gnarl at a trapdoor of rocky bars

As a fire-breathing monster bleeding scars,

Craving for a sea nymph to set me free;

Sharing darkness with an immortal breeze

I breathe flames with venomous steam,

I kill a Raven and eat her in the sea.

These cages kill the memory of a stranger,

Of sunshine and days loving Amy Granger;

When daylight struck my brow for sight,

Though here I dwell as a disfigured reptile

Hurting with hunger to walk as a human,

But I’m lizard-like, slithering with fright.

There beaming in the horizon gleams her,

Beckoning for me to drown in slumber,

To nap with wet dreams of a heavenly sky,

To forsake burning desire of unholy fire

And to end nibbles of dog-hearted fancy;

In place of evolving, as a creature I’ll fly.

Photo courtesy of The Legendary Moonlight Sculptor

What Are 11 Types Of Writer's Block?

Writer's block is a creative slowdown. It's just about the least fun part of being a bloody good writer, and one of the greatest stumbling blocks a lot of big businesses face with content marketing.

Refer to me simply. 

Who's Your Captain?

What you probably don't realize is that writer's block is a great subject that I am going to tackle in a great way. I'm going to steer you through the various forms and overcome the obstruction reminding you that writer's block can happen anywhere, especially when you're on vacation in Cuba. Why did I go far, far away to the island? Because the dead of winter in Canada is best celebrated in the Caribbean.

A BROKEN RECORD

The voices spin and spin

Like a tired, old record 

Within

And within I'm full of sin. 
I carry my broken memories

Within.

Where once I would grin and grin,

Playing a repetitive song

From a soundtrack within,

But now I drink rum, vodka or gin

While too happy to sleep

To sing a song within

From the Caribbean.

Cayo Santa Maria

Sometimes poetry is the best way to deal with writer's block in a serious way when I'm finding it impossible to go beyond the rum diary. The flight home from Cuba would have been better if we circled the moon while listening to the Lionheart Network. Now I'm back home and I'm plagued by the cold and 11 types of writer's block.

1. Cuban withdrawal syndrome
2. Swimmer's ear
3. Lack of ideas
4. A lack of language
5. A bold beginning with multiple endings
6. Emotional block
7. Separation block
8. Erratic over-editing
9. Procrastination
10. Flat World
11. Leaking Lionheart Leaks is a novel idea about struggling employees working at a failing company, but I need to continue working at a job that's not failing because getting pissed won't help to get back to Cuba.

Cayo Santa Maria

Traffic History Month

Check out blogs happening around you for Traffic History Month!

February is Black History Month, but few know that we also recognize Traffic History Month. The traffic remains black and white for young adult motorists. The evolution of traffic lights, high-tech cameras and enforcement make good roads safer. The issue of safe driving needs more energy to strike a chord in the hearts and minds of sober drivers whenever taking to the open road. How Is The Traffic On Brant Street? And why is it important to preserve the highest values of road safety? It's important because following the rules of the road can save lives and getting daily updates on road conditions can keep you informed. What if traffic means many different things to many different people. That's alright. There literally is good traffic and bad traffic, but don't judge and keep Truckin' on.

traf·fic

ˈtrafik/

noun

1. 1.

   vehicles moving on a road or public highway.

   "a stream of heavy traffic"

   synonyms:

   vehicles; More

   • 
     

     
     
   • 
     

     
     
   • 
     

     
     
   • 
     

     
     
2. 2.

   the action of dealing or trading in something illegal.

   "the traffic in stolen cattle"

   synonyms:

   trade, trading, trafficking, dealing, commerce, business,  buying and selling; More

3. 
   

verb

1. 1.

   deal or trade in something illegal.

   "the government will vigorously pursue individuals who traffic in drugs"

   synonyms:

   trade (in), deal (in), do business in, buy and sell; More.

Traffic History Month includes celebrating road construction. Without new work to roads, there would be potholes everywhere. The month wouldn't be complete without recognizing your local traffic channel and traffic man or traffic woman delivering the goods. The Midnight Traffic Report could really actually happen in theory, so just be grateful you're not stuck delivering traffic at some ungodly hour of the night or early morning. There's a new short story connecting you to the industry and the world of traffic:

1. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 1 introduces Wyatt McReynolds after he's been hired by The Traffic Channel. The traffic reporter reflects on his childhood.
2. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 2 observes Wyatt as he's growing up and working at a community channel and debating whether he should learn how to read.
3. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 3 tracks Wyatt in a local bar reading as he becomes obsessed with a poem. He hates old Wheelerville and he expects bigger and better things.
4. The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 4 as Wyatt never again returns to his hometown and immigrates to Saskatoon, the traffic man is done reflecting and returns to the reality of his ginormous office at The Traffic Channel. Traffic will never again be the same.

Happy Traffic History Month. Please drive safely.

Wish your mechanic a Happy Traffic History Month.

The Midnight Traffic Report, Part 4

Never again returning to Wheelerville, Wyatt never feared failure or losing traffic.

The bus driver drove fast and furious. Wyatt read and whistled a tune about Saskatoon while midnight passed. The bus would truck on, driving straight down highways through the Great Plains. When the traffic man gazed out the back-of-the-bus window, he observed the endless road and a little house on the prairie. There was no TV on the bus, only memories he had spent with his mom watching the old show starring Michael Landon, a television legend that graced the cover of TV Guide 22 times.

“Halleluiah! I’m on a highway to heaven.” Staring out of the window at the open, flat land from his seat inside the bus, Wyatt was free for the first time. He was free, not worried about the end of traffic.

The bus stopped at the border. There was a wait time for entry into Canada. Wyatt would appear nervous as the menacing, stiffly uniformed guards at Canada Customs lined up the bus passengers to interrogate them. When asked what he had to declare, Wyatt declared the poem by Alfred Noyes and read The Highwayman to the Customs officer. Customs had no idea how to react to this kind of character, but the bus driver helped the handsome young man. She turned to him, would give him a stern stare and shouted, “Wyatt, mind yourself. We ain’t in Texas anymore. No more reading. Ever!”  

“All the world’s a stage.” Wyatt nodded to her slightly after standing up tall.

           

She ignored him. “We got nothing to declare.” She helped sort out the issue between him and the officer and explained that Wyatt only had two carry-on bags and nothing of value to declare. Wyatt sat back down and listened to his Walkman playing country music. The bus took off, only to speed off out of sight. The bus and all of its passengers made it across the border into Canada. The woman driver rode down the highway faster and more furious. She continued north and told the passengers, “It sure ain’t Texas. Y’all better be good Saskatchewaners. Next stop, Saskatoon. Make sure y'all buckle up.”

The Greyhound arrived in Saskatoon. There was a small-town feeling, big-town pulse. When the driver let out her passengers, Wyatt was last to leave the empty bus. The driver tipped him about a new television station.

“There’s a new station here in town. The Traffic Channel is hiring. Thank you for riding, riding, riding.”

He looked at her intently and gave her a strange response. “Tlot-tlot.”

“Wyatt, I know you lost your horse. I’ve seen you on TV,” she said. “You deserve better.” There was a tear in her eye. The emotional journey had gotten the best of him. He flared his nostrils.

“Never rode a better horse.” The man had taken the ride to the end of the road and found a new place to call home.

The driver nodded and winked at him. She had dark curly hair and chocolate brown eyes. She wore tight black jeans and a red leather jacket, covering her sumptuous curves. "The name is Bonny."  

She would kiss the charming traffic man on the cheek. Wyatt winked at her and then smiled to express his gratitude.

“Thank you, my sweetheart. Watch for me,” Wyatt said “I’ll be checking the traffic for you before you roll out to start your next route.” Taking off his trucker's hat and putting on a cowboy hat, he was ready to tackle the world. There was nothing stopping him from the dream job that he always wanted.

“I’ll watch for you by moonlight,” she said after noticing a twinkle in his eye.

Mr. McReynolds stepped out of the bus onto a deserted road. He stepped out into the crisp night-time air near a cozy and quaint Prairie Inn along the gravel road, where he expected nothing less than a good meal and a warm bed. There was a chill in the air, but he looked up and down the road with confidence, knowing this was his time to shine. With a big wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth, spitting on the side of the road, nodding his approval, he started walking one mile north. He knew that he was in a lovely Canadian province, where he would settle down in a Prairie Inn and begin a new life. He'd learned a lot over the years, but he never forgot his roots. Similar to the mad enthusiasm of earlier years, Wyatt showed up at The Traffic Channel the very next day and showed the Canadian company how a talented traffic reporter should act. Similar to successful years earlier in his life, he was hired immediately.

***

Wyatt returned to the silence of his large office and slightly lowered his head like he was ready to sleep. He had seen some fine days, he thought to himself weary, before raising his head again. After agreeing with himself, he said, “And that’s the way it was.” Wyatt worked hard and lived happily ever after in a place he believed was a little piece of heaven. He loved Saskatoon and he was passionate about traffic. And he loved Bonny, a pretty wonderful woman and bus driver who had brought him to a place where dreams really do come true. He smiled before taking out his new dentures. Many people's strengths were the rugged land and happy home that made them proud. Grabbing a tissue from a small Kleenex box on his desk, he released a giant booger before wiping away happy tears from his eyes.