My Second Novel: Clueless

Mockery? Ridicule? Or Just A Dare?

She was laughing:

‘Why don’t you take a picture of this?’

In her hand, she was holding a Heinz Ketchup bottle, and she waved it towards me in that Ooo-scarey-boo kind of fashion.

The She in question was, and is, one of the co-owners of the small restaurant in which I work. She shall rename nameless; no need to cause embarrassment.

She was still laughing, and I was being mildly mocked.

What she – Hell; mockery needs to be exposed for all it’s horribly, meany nastiness, particularly when I am not the instigator – What Denise was implying was that within the two weeks that I had owned my digital camera, people had grown to see me as someone who would take a photograph of literally anything. And I suppose I do. Within limits.

And why not? If I see things differently than others, if through my eyes and imagination I can highlight something somewhere that someone else has not been able to see, is that cause for ridicule?

I may not bleed if you prick me, but I’ll certainly scream. And probably like a little girl.

So that’s the story behind the image. Now let’s take a look at it and unveil the drama within the image.




Okay – It ain’t rocket science. It’s compelling-tragic-drama science. And it’s obvious, at least to me.

The tomato. Behind him, like Hooded Death about to pull him back into the abyss with a boney, skeletal hand, behind the tomato looms his threatening, doomy future. And just over his left shoulder – Bare with me; sometimes even vegetables have to have body parts. I believe it’s called artistic licence. Or is that poetic licence? Anyways; Even You have to admit that you that you’ve seen vegetables that have looked like body parts. I digress. – And just over his left shoulder; there, there, there they stand. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Like two despicable Harpies (meaning, I suppose, that there are some Harpies that are quite nice; entertaining, engaging, witty and urbane, always thinking of others – the type of Harpy that takes you out to coffee, buys you a drink on your birthday, sends you and Christmas card…) or Spy Vs. Spy, they know what’s going to happen and there’s no need for them to lift a muscle. All they have to do is wait and then move in.

I get the impression that this narrative is not going to conclude with a happy ending.

There Denise; put That on your sweet-potato fries and smoke it!

Pas De Deux or Porn?

It all depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it? After all, there’s more than beauty within the eye’s of the beholder. There are, sometimes, lascivious thoughts.

This is a still study (one of many) for a new movie I’m putting into production. Yes; I make movies. I’ve created 4 thus far and have ideas for at least 5 more. I create them using my camera, using both still shots and video footage, and a small and eclectic and somewhat dependable gaggle of software applications that just happened to come along for the ride with Windows XP and Microsoft Office.

I consider my movies to be feature length. They are well thought out, plotted, planned, contain the highest of production values, and are created on a budget that would make all of Holly and Bolly, weep with envy.

They are also all less than 6 minutes in length and come complete with beautiful musical scores. Mainly by Mozart or Beethoven; they wrote a lot of nifty short stuff.

Sometimes I begin with a visual idea; I see something, I take a photograph of something, and suddenly a plot develops. At other times, the entire process begins with a piece of music. I’ll hear something and a story develops out of the music. I develop the plot and then quickly go through the process of casting the different roles.

Casting, you may ask?

Perfect example. God knows why, but I just happen to own a set of five poker die. Suddenly an idea popped into my head: a ménage a trois. It was so obvious. A young man named Kingsley has a beautiful young girl friend named Queenie. He’s a little confused about things – he is, after all, a Metrosexual – and during a business trip to Montreal, he falls under the manipulative and sexual guile of the debonair and Bisexual young man named – wanna guess? – Jacques!

There’s no need to say anything. I, of anyone, am well aware of the fact that I need to tighten up the story-line a tad. Yet coming thus far, it became very clear to me that I would need a larger cast. After all, there are the scenes in the office building where both Kingsley and Queenie work (they met there; it was a water-cooler romance followed by a photo-copier copulation), the scenes in the smart and three-story walk-up that the two move into together, the park in Montreal where Kingsley and Jacques first meet, the scene in the gay disco (I’d need a lot of men) where the two men dance dirty, and the scene at the Woman’s Support Centre where Queenie goes for help and love and understanding. I’d need lots of women for that one so yes, I put out a casting call meaning, I went to a game supply store and bought shit-loads of poker die affording me my three leads, lots of men (both met and bi), a gaggle of supportive dykes (makes one think of Holland, doesn’t it?), 9s and 10s for the office tower and apartment building, and lots of trees for the park and lots of spermatozoa for the sex (Ace of Spades for these last two; depending on whether they’re lying down or standing up). I have yet to put any thought into the film score, but I have the impression that it will be a piece of music by Debussy because the film is all oh-so French, and I think that this film shall be called “Crap Shoot.” “Full House” was my first pick but I think you can see my difficulties working with that choice.

Now, as far as the photograph is concerned, the plot for that movie is fairly obvious. I mean, come on. It’s all about seduction and it’s working title is “Jack et Jacques.” The usual tale of a young and straight and confused man named Jack (he’s on the left) being seduced by the equally young, and unequally straight and confused man named Jacques. Jacques is a pizza delivery guy or a plumber or a motorcycle cop or an English Prof or a frat boy or a paramedic and, once again, it will probably be set in, where else, Montreal.

I have yet to determine what Jack does for a living.

It’ll all be about the dance – twisting and twirling; ritual, totem and taboo – and the erotic. And a lot of suggested sexual positions. The music will be by Mozart – a smart and snappy Rondo akin to a Polka – clocking in at about 2 minutes 30 seconds, and the entire production will probably have to be rated PG or R.

In essence, I think it’s probably going to be a skin flick, and although I haven’t viewed every single porno movie ever made, from what I’ve heard, I can practically guarantee the viewer that this one shall be one of the very few with a sound track worthy of one’s ears.

Coming to a theatre near you…

This Is About Tea

As you may well remember, I grew up in a small Canadian city during the 60s. Well, I didn’t grow up alone in a vacuum; I grew up with others. A sister, a Father, a Mother, and a set of Grand-Parents. My Father’s parents. My Mother was American, my Grand-Parents of Edwardian English stock were Salvation Army, and because my Mother was also Irish, my Grand-Parents wouldn’t trust her with a ten-foot pole, let alone their son. As a result, my Grand-Parents always seemed to live less than two blocks away from us; every time we moved, they moved. As a result, I spent a lot of time over at their house; in fact, every weekend between the ages of 5 and 11…

I am making a pot of tea as I write this and it is on account of the fact that I am making a pot of tea that I am writing this.

…I would go to their house in time for dinner, I would stay over night, sleeping with my Grandmother (the thought still unnerves me to this day), and I would go home Sunday sometime after afternoon-tea which took place at 3 o’clock.

I drank a lot of tea at their house. Not just Sunday afternoon. All the time. With every meal. Even simply out of the blue. Tea.

I hate tea. Yes, I have tea bags at my apartment. But they are there only for caffeine emergencies such as when I have forgotten to pick up coffee. I rarely do that; the tea bags I’m using for my pot were bought for me as a house warming present three years ago when I moved into my present apartment. It’s a Ceylon blend, generic; the bags are in the original unprotected card-board box, are nasty, and I have had to throw in a couple of mint tea bags to cut the edge which, if you think of it is rather odd and ironic because the only thing more putrid and inane to me than black tea is herbal tea.

My Mother drank coffee. Even though he would have preferred to drink tea, my Father drank coffee as well mainly because my Mother forced him too. I think out of spite. I also drank coffee at home and my Mother poured it down my gullet in gallons as if attempting to purge any residual trace elements of Edwardianisms that may might still be in my system after a weekend away.

I drank coffee in high school. I’d pick up a coffee while waiting for the bus on my way to University, and once there, I’d sit with class-mates, prof-mates, and we’d all drink coffee before our very first class of the day.

We’d also smoke. Now think about this – the late 70s, early 80s; not only being able to smoke in a university building, a cafeteria no less, but we’re music performance students. A professional horn player gave me my first cigarette – I was in love with him; I would have done anything for him – and a professional flute player taught me how to roll a cigarette with Drum tobacco which I use to this day.

When I mentioned at the restaurant that I work at that I was thinking of quitting smoking, one of the servers remarked that I would never be able to do it. For two reasons. I love beer and I love coffee. There’s just something oh-so satisfying about a cup of coffee with a cigarette.

I’m drinking the tea now. I’m having a smoke and it tastes like crap. Tea and tobacco just don’t go together. If I want to quit smoking, I will toddle tea on a full-time basis, and believe-you-me (I love that phrase), it won’t take long to break the habit.

I lied to you when I stated that between the ages of 5 and 11, I spent every weekend at the house of my Grand-Parents. There was one weekend when I stayed at home and I can remember it to this day. The year was 1967. It was in the summer-time and the reason that I didn’t have one of my weekend sleep-overs was because my Grand-parents had decided to take my older sister to Expo 67. They didn’t take me because they thought I was too young even though I was six and my Mother thought I was old enough. I remember crying because I was so sad and upset. I cried more over that than I did when my Mother bought me a black shirt for my birthday and I was scared to wear it on account of the fact that it was black, and Boy! I wailed over that.

When the three of them came back from Expo, my sister refused to shut up about what a great time she had had and my Grand-Parents presented me with an Ookpik (look it up yourselves; it might be mis-spelt) and some sort of little wind-up train engine. I remember that it was of vivid primary colours and made of plastic – something outrageous in 1967. And I also remember having this vague feeling that the train engine wasn’t an Expo 67 souvenir but, in fact, something they had bought for me in a department store once they had gotten back from the trip; a gesture to alleviate any feelings of guilt they had for not taking me to Montreal with my sister.

One of the things I love about drinking coffee? I can drink cups and cups and go hours and hours without having to pee. I’ve only had one large cup of tea and I have to pee like a whore – my Mother used to say that and I’m not quite sure how it makes sense – so you’ll have to excuse me!

When Primary Colours Sleep, Do They Dream in Black and White?

I grew up in a small Canadian city during the 60s in front of a black and white television set. The events of the world unfolded before my eyes in gray-scale. I don’t remember the assassination of Kennedy even though I was old enough to remember it yet I do remember seeing every single Godzilla movie made up until that time.

In black and white.

As a result, I believe that I have grown up with a colour deficiency.

By my early twenties, I was a bassoon player in a large Canadian city and, more importantly, a photographer. Black and white. I immersed myself in everything grainy. ASA 400 was my standard and the All was foggy, fuzzy, and oh-so artistic. Even portraits. It was at this time in my creative development that I began painting. Watercolours were my preferred medium and I lost no time in welcoming colours back into my life.

Everything I created was vivid, vibrant, splashy. I attempted a few paintings using grays and blacks but they all took way too long and, as now, I simply have no patience for that type of thing. When I do something artsy, I want to get it over and done with.

So being a professional musician, a photographer and a visual artist – yes, I do differentiate between the two – I took the next two logical steps; I started working in restaurants, and I began to write.

It’s hard to believe that so many years have past since those times. I have moved back to the initial and still small Canadian city, I work as a chef, drink like a sous, and am a published author. No, you haven’t read anything I’ve written. Mainly small stuff in even smaller literary journals, and gay male porn for which I use an assumed name. Something sexy. Something tongue-in-cheek, so-to-speak.

Recently, two life-changing events occurred in my life.

One: It was a gray-scale kind of day in the fall when I found myself in an art supply store near the restaurant in which I work. I saw this very cute and small and complete set of watercolours for only $6 and I bought it. Mainly because of the lovely, slender metal box that they came in. I like that kind of thing; being ravinesque, I collect things and I like having little boxes to put my collections in. I also purchased a couple of pads of water colour paper post-cards and now I’m having a splendid time.

Two: I get two pay cheques a month. One is the for-rent cheque and the other is the for-me cheque; not only do I like collecting things: I like buying things as well. On occasion, I take this latter cheque and treat myself to something nice. Something I’ve really kind-of wanted for awhile but simply have not gotten around to buying. Such an occasion arose two weeks ago. I took the money I would have spent that week on beer and purchased for myself a smart, small, inexpensive digital camera. It’s a Kodak; Digital Zoom C613. I call it Digi (like Gigi but with a D), I take him everywhere with me, and he’s my friend.

Everything now is colour to me. Vivid. It wasn’t until I was about 25 that I came to the realization that Godzilla was green so I’m trying to catch up. I can take pictures in black and white or sepia tones but I reserve those formats for two specific types of shoots; self-portraits and photographs of my paintings.