SECTION ELEVEN

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COLUMN EIGHTY-EIGHT, APRIL 1, 2003
(Copyright 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)

THE BIG BLIND COPYCAT KILLER (OR SOMETHING)

"We must do something profound before we die. Call immediately."
- Hunter S. Thompson (paraphrase)

For those of you who have been wondering where I have been, let me begin by telling you that the last week has been some strange days indeed. I have just come off my own personal Hell Week at the golf course, working split shifts at the ungodly hours of 4am to 8am then back again at 6pm to 10pm, all so that some old guys could whack their phallic golf sticks at their Pro V1 white dimpled balls, so hard they resemble their own rock hard testes, withered and dry safely tucked into their pantaloons. If money buys happiness, why can't it buy these guys a decent pair of pants? Strange days, indeed...

Rejection letters have been rolling in steadily enough to keep the postal workers busy and earning their satanic union wages to the pace. Book deals have been promised to me in many a horoscope, but I think that Georgia Nichols is working against me. Then again, how can you trust an astrologist who works for Monday Magazine? I mean, how credible can she be? Even John Threlfall could have predicted better results for me. I have received rejections from CSIS, Canada's own CIA, to Ekstasis Press, who, in their wisdom, have told me they only publish new artists who are involved in their local arts and writing community.

I guess I am old news, and was never a host of the longest running poetry reading series in the city. I have never entered and, (when Georgia casts the right set of dried chicken bones into a


Seth says
he's bitter like a lemon,
lady


pile and forks the evil eye at MC Kinnon and His Ilk), won a few times. No, not me. I haven't done spoken word shows by the score, performed in a doomed Frige play (1999). I guess I need to move to Sooke and wear a hair shirt or a Mumu before I will ever be recognized. Bitter? Like a lemon, lady.

But these are the signs of the times, my friends. Perhaps if my wife went to jail after a long drawn out coke binge left her no options but to grab my SKS assault rifle and run rampant through the streets firing blindly into the dark before jumping into my car (covered in thrift store toys) to speed a slalom course through the local bird estuary...maybe then? Hard to say...I said hard...huh huh...hummmm...not that I'm drawing any parallels to people living or dead...

But I have quite a stack of rejection letters. Some have stopped sending letters. "Hey!" they say, "We've seen this monkey before!" I get my stuff sent back sans letter of rejection. That's the best. I figure I must suck soooo bad, they don't even need to explain themselves. If you ask me, it's art in itself...

I have also grown a marvelous farmer tan. From the elbows to the tips of my honky fingers, I am a crisp golden brown. From the elbows up, I am a white honky of the top drawer order. Think fish belly white. Alabaster. Corpse white. But I digress....

What else is new? Not a hell of a lot...

Back to you....

Seth out.  ##

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