Archive for January, 2006

Bella’s Hoopla Archive

January 31, 2006

The Grand Dame of Discord, SssssBella Oracle of Doom has been kind enough to create an archive for some of my writings.

Check it out if you are ready to fall asleep from boredom:

Hoopla Archive

Today’s Lessons

January 30, 2006

LESSON #1


A handgun is a reality.


A blue uniform is a reality.


A “Police Officer” is a social fiction.

LESSON #2


Paper is a reality.


Printing presses are a reality.


Money” is a social fiction.

LESSON #3


Land is a reality.


Population is a reality.


Prime Minister” is a social fiction.

Oprah: Surely You Jest

January 27, 2006


The entire brou-ha-ha over the so-called fictions in James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” is bringing me dangerously close to a nonstop tidal-wave of barf. Are these people kidding, or do people just like drama and love to jump on a bandwagon of hate? Probably both, let’s be honest we are a lynching people. Sources disagree to exactly how many witches were actually killed in the infamous witch trials, but let’s be honest: they were killing witches because they liked it, not because they really felt threatened by them. Ditto for the Spanish Inquisition. People love to see someone hounded and caught, whether they want to admit it or not, even to themselves. James Frey is just the most recent, and one of the more juicy, victims.

On her show yesterday Oprah Winfrey berated author James Frey for “betraying millions of readers.” I would love to ask her majesty if she truly believes, in her heart of hearts, whether every other memoir and autobiography she has ever read was 100% true. If she does believe that she is, in my opinion, at best extremely naive and at worst a deluded fool. Memories are by definition subjective, there is no getting around that. We do not have access to other’s memories, or some preternatural objective memory computer, so the best we can do is retell things as we believed they happened. This makes every single memoir and autobiography ever printed fiction, whether you would like to believe it or not.

I don’t know whether James Frey intentionally altered what he believed to be the truth in his memoir, nor do I care. I choose to think for myself, and not have others tell me how things are or are not. When I heard about the hole in the cheek and the dentist visit minus Novocain I immediately and instinctively felt that these stories were false. Did I know for certain? No, but if one is even slightly savvy they would ask themselves a multitude of questions concerning these two incidents, most of which would lead to the conclusion of fiction entering the narrative. Do I care? No, I do not.

Q: Why do we read?
A: We read to be entertained.

Were you entertained by the book? If so, great; if not, fantastic too, but can you really say you were more entertained when you thought it was true? If so, why?

This entire debacle reminds me of the people who took their Milli Vanilli records back to the store when it turned out the singers of the songs were not who the listeners thought they were – I remember thinking at the time: “But isn’t it the MUSIC these people enjoyed? The music remains the same.”

And so, people, I tell you: the words remain the same.

James Joyce

January 26, 2006

5 Things I Am Sick Of Hearing

January 26, 2006

1) You can see the Great Wall Of China from space

2) You have to be cruel to be kind

3) But, with the windchill factor it’s actually X

4) Joyce’s Ulysses is about the styles and satires

5) “ASAP” as if it’s a word

Agamemnon And The Ill Wind

January 25, 2006

Some time after the ORIGINAL SNUB, which started the Trojan War, but before the war actually began, Agamemnon son of Atreus had collected his fleets at Aulis in Boeotia but found himself unable to sail for Troy due to a contrary wind.

Agamemnon clutched his long ivory scepter forged by the god Hephaestus who gave it to Hermes, who dropped it in a fountain when plonked at one of Dionysus’ parties, where it was subsequently found by Agamemnon’s grandfather Pelops, and was then grudgingly passed down to him. He clutched the scepter and shook with rage. He was consumed with revenge and honour, two ingredients which–when mixed–can become poison in a man’s blood. In desperation he called out for Calchas, who spoke with the gods.

‘Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods,’ Agamemnon said. ‘tell me which god is it who is pissed with me and has asked the ill wind to blow against the long-haired Achaeans so that they may not sail against the wife-robbing bastard people, the Trojans, who stole the completely foxy Helen from my brother Menalaus, King of Sparta?’

Calchas was not a stupid man; he knew that those who gave bad news to kings soon became deprived of what was most dear to them: their lives. Hades did not have a good rep at that time, some would argue it still doesn’t, but it beats Toledo Ohio in a pinch. Conversely, everyone knew that lying about the gods could get you in worse places than either Hades or Toledo. The choice was obvious. ‘Good King Agamemnon, it makes me sick to say it, but there are five gods angered at you.’

‘Five gods?’ sputtered Agamemnon. ‘But how? But why? But when?’

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that swift and sleek Artemis is angered with you because she overheard you boast that you were a better marksman that she.’

Agamemnon said ‘Shit. It’s true. I did boast to be a better marksman than Artemis the swift and sleek. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Artemis ask in return?’

Calchas quivered in the hips as he said, ‘Only your first born daughter Iphigenia, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from her thighs burned in respect.’

‘Ach,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Gag. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that beautiful and nubile Aphrodite is angered with you because she heard you vowed to sacrifice the most beautiful treasure in your life in exchange for victory against the little Trojan shits.’

Agamemnon said ‘Aw fer fu-. Mmm. It’s true. I did vow to sacrifice the most beautiful treasure in my life in exchange for victory against the little Trojan shits. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Aphrodite ask in return?’

Calchas shivered in the groin as he said, ‘Only your wife Clytemnestra, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from her thighs burned in respect.’

‘Feh,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Gak. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that Zeus lord of the sky, had sent an omen to you of two young studly eagles meant to represent the Atridae, which tore to pieces a pregnant hare. White-armed Here, big mama of all the heavens and gueen of all the mothers was beyond pissed.’

Agamemnon said ‘Great Googly Moogly! Grr. It’s true. Zeus did send an omen of two young studly eagles meant to represent the Atridae, which tore to pieces a pregnant hare. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Here ask in return?’

Calchas jiggled in the gizzard as he said, ‘Only all your children, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from their thighs burned in respect.’

‘Bah!’ said Agamemnon. ‘Yuk. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that flashing-eyed Pallas Athene, unsleeping daughter of Big Daddy Zeus was offended by your father Atreus. He vowed to sacrifice a lamb to aegis-bearing Athene in exchange for success in battle, this he did not do.’

Agamemnon said ‘Mother fuck! Mmm. It’s true. My father was a complete dipshit, he did stuff like that all the time, one time he promised me half of Caledon- aw fuck it . . . Tell me Calchas, what does wise Pallas Athene ask in return?’

Calchas trembled in the pancreas as he said, ‘Only all your only son Orestes, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from their thighs burned in respect.’

‘Homina homina homina’ said Agamemnon. ‘Retch. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet slut, who speaks with the gods, tell me which is the last god who is pissed with me?’

Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that Eris also called Strife is offended by your feeding of hot dogs to your troops. Her only sustenance when she went into self-imposed exile after THE SNUB was the hot dog bun, it is an affront to the goddess of Discord and she smites you in bitter and somewhat petty retaliation. It’s boring on Mt. Olympus.’

Agamemnon said ‘Rats. It’s true. I feed my soldiers Armor Hot Dogs, they’re the dogs long-haired Achaeans love to bite. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Eris ask in return?’

Calchas twitched in the pineal gland as he said, ‘Only all the soldier’s hot dog buns, torched on an alter, in respect.’

‘Uh uh.’ said Agamemnon. ‘No way. That I cannot do. They would eat me alive. Besides, it is never that easy.’

Agamemnon pondered all the gods requests and wondered which would be the least disastrous for him. The easiest in the eyes of a misogynist bronze era Greek was obviously the sacrifice of his eldest daughter Iphigenia, but once she was dead and cut up for sacrifice Agamemnon and Calchas realized they had no kindling. The only thing flammable to start the pyre was the hot dog buns.

Agamemnon broke his scepter across his knee, ‘This is ridiculous! I promised my soldiers those buns, but if I must, I must . . . burn the buns, Calchas.’

The moment Calchas lit the buns the wind began to change. Agamemnon felt sick, and tried to convince himself that the fat of Iphigenia’s thighs was already starting to burn, but he knew in his heart the truth. Despite that, he turned to Calchas ‘A cheer for swift and sleek Artemis who granted muh-mercy on the long-haired Achaeans.’

A loud cackle from high above startled Agamemnon and Calchas as they toasted, but neither of them asked from whence it came.

The moral of this story? Don’t over complicate things!

Hail Eris.

One Less Canadian

January 24, 2006

I’ve never really considered myself belonging to any “nation” – the idea of some person arbitrarily drawing imaginary lines around areas of land and then telling people “you live in country A, and the person over there lives in country B.” has always seemed ridiculous to me.

But, despite that, today I have decided to renounce whatever nationality I did possess: I am no longer Canadian.

I may live within the borders of what is considered Canada, but I am not a member.

I will not call Stephen ‘anything for a chuckle’ Harper my Prime Minister. I refuse. He may be your Prime Minister, but he is certainly not mine.

When I can afford it I will be moving to Chad.

So long, suckers.

My Feet

January 23, 2006


Yes, they need a shine, but these are still happy feet.

Can you tell how close they are to dancing?

Leave The Poe Lover Alone, Dammit!

January 20, 2006

Every January 19th for the past 57 years a mysterious man in a black cloak has brought three roses and a bottle of cognac to the grave of Edgar Allen Poe. Each year the intrigue has grown.

It was thought a few years ago that the original man in the cloak passed away and someone else took up the tradition, but nobody knows for certain. It’s also unknown why this mysterious man does this.

I like it that way.

Last night the man was mobbed by people who climbed the fences and ran wild through the cemetary. The man in the cloak remained unmolested, but I have to wonder if he will return next year.

Why is that people cannot allow a mystery to be a mystery?

Valerie Solanas

January 19, 2006