Ill-informed Opinions from a Suburban Refugee & Pop Cultural Misfit

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Growing Older but Not Up

On January 25th, 1999, the first successful hand transplant took place in Louisville, Kentucky and everyone knows that I like good hand job on my birthday.

Immortal screen legend Ava Gardner died of Pneumonia on this day, Al Capone kicked the can in Miami Beach, Charles Manson (who actually shares my first name) and three of the Manson Family females were convicted of murder in the 1969 slayings of seven people - including Roman Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate. Virginia Woolf and Lee Van Cleef were born, as was director of the classic chiller “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, Tobe Hooper (those who know me personally - please slap palm to head in revelation recoil). Opening statements of the oft celebrated miscarriage of justice known then as the O.J. Simpson trial were heard on this day. In 1994 Mister(ish) Michael Jackson settled the first of his ongoing child molestation charges (had he taken his own advice and “Beat It”, this would’ve never been an issue) and If I haven’t yet mentioned it, I was born on a chill winter evening in New Brunswick, Canada, to people that couldn’t keep me - Illustrious company indeed.

That’s right choice cuts and precious pieces; this cannibal was subsequently spat into the world on this very day sometime after the last ice age but before the first Star Wars movie. Abandonment issues? Quite possibly due to adoption when very young and later crippling questions of not being “good enough” for a pair of horny teenagers who more than likely conceived me in the back of a salt licked Volkswagen as the surf churned the swell of good intention back out to sea. I was presented with a handwritten letter from my “mom” when I was 18 (upon her instruction, don’t imagine she was much older than me at the time she wrote it), my parents gave me the note fearing that now that I was old enough I would venture out and find her - reconnect the bond of genetics – reignite the kindling of bloodline to the pyre of progression and forget their input into my evolution. I read the letter alone in my room, wandered back up the stairs wiping saline streams from my cheeks and vowed that “as far as I’m concerned, you are my real parents” and tossed the letter on the table where my mom and dad both sat. They looked so concerned, but when the paper hit the oak of the privileged table from which I ate a few thousand times, their faces melted with relief. I knew that I had made the right choice and proceeded to go get drunk with my friends, pound my girlfriend into waterbed of privilege and begin life as an eighteen year old suburban cannibal on the road to this very juncture.

Birthdays have never been easy for me, an alkaline allusion, like chewing rust from the ancient nails that crucify me to the cross of development; I valued youthful exuberance above most anything and therefore felt leery of aging to the point where some in my intimate circle still have no idea how old I am. Well, I am now but a sliver over thirty and the farthest thing from a traditional adult that you’re likely to find. The Pig and I went collectible and comic book shopping over the weekend and over a pint spoke of how happy we both were with our station in life (more or less). We truly never thought we’d make it this far. On summer nights by the pathetic current of the suburban puddle, all but a catapults reach from his house, we’d drink over carbonated domestic beer (price point driven lager purchases rarely make the grade but did the job), it was the conversation that was dutifully intoxicating not the swill we poured down our throats much less the stale underwear drawer hidden cigarettes we’d inhale. We all dreamt of escape (save one of us) and sure enough we all did, only to end up right back where we all started from, but under the guise of a different city. I think in the back of our muted minds at the time, we all knew that the circle of life was more than just a song from a movie that girls made us watch before allowing us to perfect the bra strap fumble, there was indeed something satisfying about coming full circle even though we thought it was a square all along.

Back when 30 was double my current age, I used to say that my friends and I had our entire lifetime to live again before we saw this side of the horrendous hill, much less the cemeteries collecting down at the bottom. It was impossible to imagine multiplying your entire life by two - now it’s come and gone like a fart in the dark or puppy love on a bikini beachfront bar. It’s nice to feel like I’m just getting started again, not unlike the first day after high school, an infinite ocean of possibility pickles bobbing around inside the wide mouth jar of the imminent. I’m just now starting to figure out the mechanics that hardwire this corpus of mine, the fuel I require to function and the ultimate limits as to not void my warrantee in this place. I can’t change who I am, nor would I want to for the most part, which is something that no 15 year old could ever boast. Was my last year a very unstable one filled with soul demolition, erogenous errors and measured repentance? Reading back on previous posts it would certainly appear to have been the case, but at the same time I’ve got that spark back. Something that I thought had been misplaced beneath the rubble of youth – reduced to pebbles under the ponderous bulk of personal pressure and societal suggestion. One of my all time favorite musicians once sang that you “can’t start a fire without a spark”; I used to think it was about foreplay, now I think I see where he was coming from.

--
A few years ago I learned that my once fiercely Asthmatic father told my mom before marrying her that he would never put another person through the agony of not being able to breathe. He urged her to adopt instead of spawn genetically – breaking the affliction chain. As an alternative to putting a child through the genetic ringer and coming out with Asthma even by chance, they chose to pluck me from oblivion instead (or the back of a Volkswagen, whichever you prefer). Such a selfless act on both their parts made it all clear to me; I wasn’t in such a bad place after all and if I’ve somehow managed to collect a few traits from them along the way, I’ll do just fine.

My dad shares this birth day with me, he’s vacationing in Mexico, Happy Birthday Dadio and thanks for everything, and I do mean everything.

Ipod Played "The Birthday Party - Deep in the Woods" while posting

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

The Bot Came Back – Hardwired Honey & The Feminine Fuse Box

But the Bot came back, the very next day.
The Bot came back, he thought it was a goner.
But the Bot came back, it just couldn't stay away.

I knew it was a good idea to have that home drawn GPS tracker installed behind that bionic babes ear gadget.

Less than a week after the fine female machine had slipped through the fumbling French fingers of this human consuming suburbanite, there was a feminine clank at the front door. It was my precious (or precocious) little lady device, returning from her short circuiting retreat of sorts. Her polished frame matted with regretful grime, her apology apparatus most certainly over clocked and determined arms outstretched – her wild eyes scanned my face for an ultimate answer - somewhere in the grid she would have me take her back in.

I would indeed allow her to return, but we’d need to work out some of the bugs first. I guess a curiosity circuit had blown somewhere inside her and I’m unsure if I’d ever be able to afford it if it fried on me again. Blown a feminine fuse, if you will.

The Pig says that he likes her more than most of the Fembots I’ve paraded before him in the hardwired past (not just the standard pleasure model this time around). At least this one runs on a personality matrix that may have a few frayed circuits on the board but she’s still a far superior piece of machinery than what most have to operate. I might also add that she has really spectacular buttons and her “on” switch is a marvel of modern technology. If she had indeed come with an operators’ manual, it would’ve been the one missing a few coffee soiled pages in the middle or had been so overtly technical in parts that I could’ve been forgiven for having no clue on how to maneuver her in times of turmoil (much less what oil to use). How was I to know what her maintenance schedule was or what Consumer Reports had to say about previous models in the line? Maybe it was wrong of me to hack into her primary operating system and make changes to her structural code without having all the answers. I should’ve never held her to the same technical standards of operating systems past – she works differently and I should know this.

I suppose if it all works out one day, I’ll tell the kids (Nuts & Bolts) that I sent her to the shop for a week to have her mainframe rewired, compassion emulator lubed up and valves rinsed in a savory solder solution way before they were built. She’d laugh in that boisterous way of hers (which reminds me, I should’ve gotten her volume capacitor reduced in size) and we’d collect over a plate of steaming people parts, a glass of blood red beverage and pre-programmed suburban conversation.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, Baby Bot.

I know now that you simply needed to recharge, but I would’ve plugged you in sooner had I known any better. I hope they didn't fuck with the porno production programming - that took me a long time to upload.

iPod played “Alice Cooper – Woman Machine” while posting.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Stay Puft & Humbled: Homemade Suburban Porn - the Cure for Masterbation

One night in Suburbia
I’ll address a few potential concerns before I start, first off, my Ex knows that I’m writing this and was a willing participant in the subject at hand. Second of all, she reads my inane babble and is dutifully aware of my intentions. Thank you.

Check off another lofty life goal for this city dwelling people eater, my great white ass is forever preserved in the annals of amateur pornography and I’ve never felt better or worse about myself as a result. In what could be considered the Howard the Duck of self styled pornography, this Cannibal and his achingly attractive gal pal in remission spent the better part of Friday night with the unblinking and dare I say incredibly unflattering eye of the video camera watching us perform our time tested bed beating routine. Conceived long before we decided to take our relationship out back and drown it in diesel and doll parts, the old flame still made good on her promise of perversion and since we both longed for the production - why wouldn’t she participate? She looked utterly fantastic, like a pair of alluring silk panties draped over a tapped keg. Then I show up in the shot and it’s like she’s getting man handled by the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

We had (have) several film projects on the burner, but this one I thought might be fun to do first since, well, she was moving out on me in two days anyway, looked really foxy and we both knew the “script”, no time like the present. We had been talking about it for weeks and the project was becoming more and more of a Hindenburg on the horizon, with nothing but obstacles littering the landscape until the night itself arrived and everything – ahem – inflated accordingly. A few pints and a burger later, we were in the sack with the camera rolling (took some incredible still shots as well) and I was on top of the world (if she doesn’t mind being called that), until I saw the footage later.

A Humbling experience to be sure, seeing yourself in the third person, engaged in the sex act with a beautiful woman - there was physically nothing arousing about watching me paw this poor little kitten (save for the kitten herself) and one wonders why she’d even subjected herself to my “man-thing” even before the notion of recording it. From the new vantage point it was most certainly an event; seeing our tattoos catch the warm glow from the lamplight, our quiet whispers barely audible above the faint slap of our skin colliding or the devils hieroglyphics inscribed in the lace of her stocking tops. She was so gorgeous – “come back to bed” she purred while I got up to move the camera to accommodate our next position. It melts me every time I see it or even think abou tit (hee hee - happy accident); up on all fours, pursuing me to the end of the bed - the most beautiful smile you’ll ever see (yes, her REAL smile - perverts). Then there was me, every guy likes to think that he’s Dirk Diggler in the denim department, but when you see it on TV it’s a different story (and I have a BIG fucking Widescreen TV). Fuck. Every woman who told me that it’s “pretty big” is a fucking liar. I’m built like a Smurf house! I make jokes, “I have the French curse – big nose, little hose”, I had no idea that it was quite possibly true, no wonder my bedmates past find the joke so bloody amusing.

We shot for about an hour; catching different angles from our repertoire (one of which was a Hobbits eye view of my scrotum, quite a hideous contraption - I should join Puppetry of the Penis), getting master shots and such and then I got a little carried away and “lost” my concentration. Take two occurred a few hours later.

Had I known that making this movie would not only preserve us in our sexual environment but also draw us closer together, I would’ve shot it months ago. “I had a really great night” she said the next morning as she prepared to pack up her things and leave my sorry ass, “me too”. But it was all too late. On the bright side, she wants to make more porn with me, and far be it from me to dissuade a stone fox from enjoying a Cannibal Brand noodle whipping for the cameras. Sign me up.

I have an assignment for you, set up your digital camera – still or video – and take a few pictures of yourself completely naked. It’s haunting… and not in a good way, no matter how hot you are. I guarentee that you will never look at yourself the same way again - quite possibly the cure for masterbation.

Peter North, Ron Jeremy and John Holmes? You have nothing to worry about, fellas.

iPod played “Duran Duran – Girls on Film” while posting

Friday, January 06, 2006

Tilt the Slot, Coins to Continue or Other Matter in the Meat Sauce

I guess the long and short hair on the camel’s back (beneath all the straw of course) is that I am a relationship junkie, pure and simple. Spoke with the Pig the other night and we determined that in the last decade plus, I’ve been single for all of about two months in total. That’s no small feat when you consider how very hideous I am, I guess a sense of humor goes a long way after all (that and a veracious sex drive). My old high school chums used to make light of the fact that I always had a lady in my life, rolling from one flipper to another like a masochistic pin ball. So what happens when you abuse a pinball machine too much? TILT! Casino slot machines can tilt when they’ve either run out of coins or if one is obstructing the coin hole. Tilt also happens to be a poker term for a “state of mental confusion or frustration in which a player knowingly adopts a sub-optimal over-aggressive strategy”. “TILT”; maybe I should get the term tattooed on my pale white Canadian arse.

For the second time in well under a ½ year, yours truly is no longer attached (“Tilt”); the frayed strand that held me hence has fallen away from around my throat and now collects dust among the bunnies. Single for all of about 5 hours this last time, I’m thinking that I should hang my soggy mittens by the fire a little longer this time out, maybe burn them all together in fact. I really went into this one with my pecker in power, convinced that this would be the first passion perfect relationship to actually work. I’ve taken shits that have lasted longer and I had more at stake than I could afford to lose to the bowl gods. So here I am, “at the end of all things”, with a big, lonely house to pay for and no want to share my space with a roommate. Why so hard this time around? Because I didn’t have time to mourn my parting with “The Wife”, I’m now forced to deal with the loss of both of them, a collective that truly stings like a crooked quill through the soft flesh of your right nipple.

I’m an intelligent guy who rarely makes flakey decisions that leave any lasting crust on my life pie, so why the sudden tilt? I spent so much energy convincing those around me that I was right and that if they didn’t like the situation or choice of partner - they could indeed take a long, hard, suck on my arse. Most were true to their friendship with me and convinced themselves that I knew what I was doing despite what it looked like, it turns out that they were right all along and looked ill to all but me. I was a fool, blinded by the allure of being hunted, believing our own hype even after admitted hesitations, I not only bought the illusion – I believed it myself. So what happened to me? Well, I’m a relationship junkie.

One of the hardest things I’ll ever do is not get a girlfriend; my friends think that it’ll be good for me to be alone for a while, maybe I’ll get behind some of my ambitions instead of longing for their completion. Sex doesn’t look like it’ll be a problem; in fact some peripheral princesses are more than happy to just “fool around” from what I gather. So what to do? My buds tell me that I’ve truly got the best beef on the barbeque, but I guess I want more, I want the sauce too. I guess I’m going to just hang about and see what happens for a change, perhaps be a slut for a bit. Thank Gord for women with bad taste in men - an (astoundingly forward) woman in this office has been waiting for me to be returned to the shelf, amazing. With my luck she's another fucking lunatic. Please insert coin to continue?


UPDATE:

Submitted for your diagnosis, the following unabridged but identity scrubbed transcript from inner office communicator. Another psycho in the stew, another passion pickle to play with or simply a grammer challenged chump? You decide and let me know, but please keep in mind this this is a piece of my strange little life, so be gentle with me.

UrbanCannibal: Hi, sorry if my compliment was a little out of line, I’ve been a real dope lately
Psycho?: are you kidding, if i knew all it took was a pair of cowboy boots to get you to talk to me, i'd of bought them months ago!
UC: I've talked to you!
Psy: ya about my system errors! actually, you did catch me off guard. i like being caught off guard
Psy: im glad you took a peak, cause ive taken a few of you
UC: You need a stronger prescription on those glasses of yours
Psy: how humble of you, you know, that only makes you sexier
UC: That word and I don't often collide. You're a strange lady
PSY: i dont think im strange...maybe a little too forward though. I hope I havent made you too uncomfortable but i had to say what i had to say
UC: I'm not uncomfortable, if it wasn't for women with bad taste in guys, I'd get nowhere with them - haha
PSY: that was funny
UC: You gotta have a sense of humor with a mug like this
PSY: i actually think i have fantastic taste-you've got both looks and personality
UC: Oi? Geez, let me read back a little, how the hell did we get this far in one conversation?
PSY: its my charm i guess
UC: Perhaps. Let's change gears for a minute, How are you?
PSY: im good. how are you
UC: If I said "different" would that deflect that question?
PSY: the oppositte i think
UC: I should shut up then. Why so forward? Is it a hobby of yours?
PSY: not at all..i actually dont know why...i should be the one to shut up actually
UC: Why do you think you have to shut up? Silly woman
PSY: as long as i dont make you feel uncomfortable, i wont
UC: Not uncomfortable, I had my arse dumped over the xmas holidays, I think I could use a little "forward"
UC: Merry eX-mas
PSY: well, she obviously wasnt ready for a good thing
UC: A good thing? Darlin, you don't even know me!
PSY: yes but i have a gut feeling about you
UC: You're kidding
PSY: nope, im serious snookums
UC: I have to admit that I'm a little shocked, all this from a boot compliment?
PSY: i guess im kinda easy
hehehehe
kidding
sorta
no seriously kidding
UC: Wow, this is the best first conversation ever. Any more confessions?
PSY: yes well, im the best for firsts. confessions? always..you just have to know how to ask
PSY: what time are you here until?
UC: I'm here until around 7:45-8:00, et vous?
PSY: im done 5 minutes ago...the things you have me doing
already-staying overtime and all...my imagination doth run wild bout what you will have me doing by tomorrow
UC: I'm sorry to make you stay; we'll catch this conversation tomorrow.
Doth? Verdict? Please discuss and excuse any spelling errors

iPod played "Neil Young - Helpless" while posting

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Effeminate Vodka Drinks & the Mental Millennium Falcon

No matter how many precious pennies of knowledge I’ve collected (or pilfered) from the peaceful pond of womanhood, I find myself surprisingly short at the candy counter more often than not; my understanding of their nature seems to continually evolve beyond my comprehension like an incessant mutation. Perfection is ever so slightly out of reach each and every time I’m upon an answer making my hypothesis instantly out of scope the nanosecond my neurons identify or attempt intercourse with it. The ladies continually surprise me, that and their obvious lack of eyesight or standards as it were, most especially when it comes to your accursed cannibal.

On a more or less unrelated subject, I understand Neil Young music now, can’t get enough of his old stuff. It makes me feel broken, but only in pieces can you see some of both sides at once.

Thanks to our effervescent (or is it “ever effeminate”) beverage pushing bacon boy, the Dark Pig, the ginger ale and vanilla vodka of lore snaps at me from a cocktail glass to my left while my parents’ gorgeous golden retriever lies curled up at my feet like a glorious pair of panting slippers. How fitting I think, a bitch at my feet, a stiff drink longing for my undivided attention and responsive keys at my ever numbing finger tips. A great man once said; “Great kid! Don’t get cocky!” I guess I owe my weird world a sliver of reflection from the bridge of my own mental Millennium Falcon.

The colors in the bowl are most certainly bright, but stir it up a little and the fetid rot from the bottom begins to reveal itself in the broth, to stir it in would surely serve no purpose but to make it all taste like shit, no matter the condiments, conditions or kisses. I guess in some ways, I’ve evolved beyond myself and have become something that they all told me I’d be or I’m doing it all to spite them just the same, I’m not sure which.

Dollface once said that I was “going through something”; I think that’s most applicable now. In the past I’ve been called a “saboteur”, meaning that I like to stir that very bowl whether or not it requires whisking. I’ve made some choices of ingredients that I perhaps should’ve avoided and I’ve over seasoned so much that the original taste is nothing but a mild suggestion.



I need to play my guitar more – write songs about something other than rough sex, flatulence or nostalgic nookie – reform my band or start a new one as a result.

Focus on drawing/painting again – try to avoid the “safe” route for fear of failure, push the boundaries and render that which not only challengers the viewer but the “arteest” as well.

I will finish the illustrations for book one of the comic series that the Pig and I created and stop trying to make it perfect (even though my shading is nowhere near as accomplished as what Jeff can do – talented dickhole).

Cut back on porn consumption (save for the homemade variety – but more on that later) – a blossoming fetishist is one thing but an outright pervert is another. I have a talent for finding the free stuff, no one should have to pay for Putty Tat

I have to finish at least three of the last 6 short films I’ve been working on (yes, including the filthy one that should prove to be quite entertaining).

Tell a gal pal that trying to kill herself twice in one year does indeed make her look like more of a failure than she originally thought and that if she dies I’m going to upskirt her corpse and post it on the internet – serves her right.

Figure out why my ex-girlfriend from 13 years ago is suddenly trying to get back in my pants again (even after having two kids elsewhere, so it’s not the cannibal custard she wants, but something else).

Unearth why yet another ex-girlfriend from seven years ago has suddenly been drawn out of seclusion to further haunt my dreams and thoughts after dumbly stumbling across a pile of naughty Polaroid’s we took and a stuffed shoebox of her discarded under things – does she want them back? Is she dead?

Apologize to the past “Wife” for the previous year, tell her what is really going on and that it really wasn’t her fault in the least. I’m an asshole, don’t deserve her attention and she’s truly better off without me.

I need to stop flirting; it gets me in nothing but trouble, I am a whore and women respond to that in a manner that befits such a thing – but it is fun nonetheless.

I need to understand or accept that everyone is not out there to get me and those that are probably aren’t worth my time anyway.

Listen to more Neil Young without allowing his shrill voice to drive me out the window.

I need to make the seat on my recumbent bike at least as comfortable as the couch so that I can out peddle my rising blood pressure.

Be a better friend, son and employee. Try not to be such a fuck up.
Thanks Neil

Playing poker with the Pig *NEXT* Saturday, I suck heavy at poker so I’ll be the one they all pick on and will likely lose all my money on a misplaced bluff but I think I need the night of debauchery, if only to reaffirm my place in the world (or in the Pig’s spare bedroom – my third home as it were).

iPod played “Neil Young – Four Strong Winds” while posting