THE TEARS OF MOO

My life is the dream that everyone wants, and no one cares to admit. I have a wonderful home, I have a great family, and I have a beautiful baby girl who sleeps through the night without pain, or effort. My shower has a setting that drenches me with $100 bills; and I use the bills that don’t come out wet to light my cigars when I sit in front of my Citizen Kane sized fireplace dreaming about what my next conquest will be.

That is of course the dream that everyone wants right?

My reality is somewhat different. My daugther (The Moo) is ill with Infant Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease (GERD), so for the most part nights are sleepless, and The Moo is in more pain than anything that small should be; my relationship with J is mostly buggered due to our attentions being focused solely on the infant; I live in a shitty top floor duplex apartment with very loud and noisy neighbours–on whom I’ve called the police twice; and I’m lucky if I find a single $10 bill in my wallet these days. Touché jeeves.

To me however the only thing that really matters are the moments when The Moo is in pain. She is a riot otherwise. She’s cute, she’s cudly, and she’s a happy baby when she’s not feeling the bitter sting of reflux and stomach contents. She’s on medication–Losec–that she takes once a day that is difficult to administer who’s side effects seem to be taking their toll on her. Quite a lot for a 6 month old to be dealing with, and yet when I think about the other people who’s children have congenital diseases remedied only by surgery at even younger ages, and I go…yeah, it’s not so bad after all.

My wife and I barely sleep, though I must admit I sleep longer than she only because I go to work in the morning. The majority of the time my wife is up with the Moo all night because the reflux causes The Moo to have somnia interruptus–she sleeps only in 45 minute chunks. Then she plays for 2 hours. To which the pediatrician reacts with a wagging finger meaning decidedly not normal.

So we with either hold her all night–more particularly J does–and we soothe her, and care for her as best we can. We don’t go out. We don’t see family. We don’t see friends. We hang out in doctor’s offices and emergency rooms. We keep our apartment like a tornado went through it, hoping that it serves to invite one–just to break up the monotony of it all. As a result we are miserably non existent, and terribly off course. With exception to work, and work people, human contact is absent. My wife’s human contact is far less as it includes only myself and the Moo.

We continue the path of treatment knowing that she can will grow out of it, and with each passing day we wish and pray and need for this to all go away sooner, so we might have some semblance of life with a happy baby…look forward to those happy times…create happy memories of youth. I bought a video camera for Christmas to record the Moo’s first one. Instead it’s used to shoot video of her sleeping at night so we can show the pediatrician. Any remaning element of fun that we once had in our lives is gone, squandered, lost…only to return once the Moo’s ailments yield either to age or medication.

We are now beyond the meds. The peds want tests tests and tests to confirm or deny the presence of aliens, bacteria, small larvae, intestinal malformation/rotation, and/or acid reflux (GERD). We will see. We continue to hope. We always wait…sometimes silently, other times with tears…

A horrifying waiting game this has become, with almost no end in sight. Yet then each day I come home and I see the tower of strength that is J. That she is the one who holds it all together, and without her interaction in both the Moo’s and my life this just wouldn’t be holding together. Thankfully matters of the heart do not only rely on me, since my heart has grown weak, and my body has aged faster than it should.

J is the light at the end of our tunnel. And with time (we both know) the Moo will become more like a regular child, and the tests tests and tests will subside…as will the pain…as will the screaming…as will the insomnia…

And the tears of moo I collect from the Moo in the cup of my hand. There they will stay until the pain leaves her and the sun comes out to dry them away. Then we will be a family free to be a family like we have never had the chance before.

[PAIN]

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UNIVERSAL GROOVE BLOG BEGINS.

I’ve been working on an independent feature film for nearly 6 years. Shot in 1999, Universal Groove is finally nearing the end of post production. The shoot was rife with production and post-production issues and just to get to this point everyone involved really had to wend their ways down a twisted path.

A lot of people put a lot of hardwork into their contributions to this film, and I’m certain they’ve all either forgotten that the ever worked on the production, or no longer care whether it comes out, but it’s good to acknowledge them anyway…so thanks (nods head), even to the green members of cast and crew.

We’re close to the finish line–in that we can actually see it–for the first time since this journey began in the desert somewhere outside of Searchlight, Nevada so long ago. To this day I’m still haunted by flashes of yokels spinning their pickups round and round in the middle of nowhere at 5:45am…

Sometimes (on good nights) when I close my eyes I get flashes of a time even further back when visions of after hours clubs, interviews in strip clubs, and excessively long periods of missing time–likely due to one of the two former–dance across the inside of my eyelids.

So, what exactly happened to get us here? To this point? To this juncture? To this moment? and will we make it to the end?

The time has come for everyone to understand what it takes for an independent film to be made with money from your own pocket; with someone else’s money; and with no money.

So I’ve started the Universal Groove Movie Blog as a sanctuary for the story of the “making of”, and a place to come clean on everything that happened along the way. Ask and you shall receive.

[PLEASURE]

BITCHING ABOUT THE SIZE OF THINGS

Alright scourge, so I’ve been away for a while…the better part of a year in fact. I haven’t had the urge to rant and rave about all that much simply because life has just become so bearable and liveable. One would never think it reading through all the drivel I’ve dravel’d around. The more things change the more they stay the same right? Not in my case, I think that things somehow seem to shrink and grow, yet never implode or explode; as if life has finally hit that joyous equilibrium that we all strive for…be it marriage, companionship, children, a pet snake or a great CD collection, it’s all the same, and it’s all about walking the line with which you’re comfortable. Whether you like it or not the change no matter what it is, can be weathered; and with just about the same amount of water you can cause it shrink or grow.

On J: Well sometime ago she decided to make a man of me, so I proposed, and we got married July 24, 2004. Great day that was…brill’ I’d say, and likely the greater cause of my edge being somewhat tempered. Clearly my love has grown, not just for her, but for all of humanity, because for some twisted reason having taken this first step, and now well into the second stride there’s almost a hope and a yearing for everything to be well and good with everyone and everything each and every time I open my eyes…so clearly my compassion has grown. Grown so much have I in the areas of compassion, love, and wanting to take on the new life symbolism that comes with marriage, J and I now have a cute bundle of joy to be referred to as The Moo, hereafter.

On The Moo: She requires a lot of food and water; and even more sleep. She grows each day discovering that there is something beyond the end of her nose, and her innocence I watch slip away each time she sees another milimetre past the end of that tip. Her awareness grows, and I am so suddenly hit with the edges of our environment. Each car that passes, each sound that occurs during the day, each movment that goes by us…these small things would invariably have gone unnoticed, and uncared for in my past life…and now they are the largest, biggest events to be scrutinized with the largest of magnifying glasses for the smallest of errors. There can no longer be flaws in my judgement. An innocent life is in my hands to guide. While I know and understand deep down in my soul that gradually The Moo’s innocence will be eroded away by the daily grind of life; I do want the erosion to occur in small controlled and manageable amounts.

The defeats in my life are that much greater these days simply because they sting much more, and as a result my tolerence for foolishness and the games of an uncared for and untended garden have diminished. No general empathy for the state of people in the things/situations they’ve created. An unparalleled shrinkage in the desire to see what’s around the next corner… I am in a better place, living in a better time, with better people by my side than I ever have had before in my life. My exposure to greater love and greater generosity is sometimes overwhelming. Each day I try to not let it get to my head, by accepting that this is just another day. That way everything is just that much more manageable; and everything and it’s affects can be kept just that much smaller (because it’s influence on my daily life is quite large).

Without my noticing, my life seems to have turned into the just add water kind-a-thing and its magically grown like sea monkeys I suppose, only sea monkeys are nothing but pure unadulterated shite that gets sold to you in the back of comic books, and really deranged fetish mags…

Oh come on now–don’t feign ignorance–you know the ads I’m talking about, they’re the ones with really small type blotched together because some dingus can’t get himself a computer and uses only a typewritier…no? They’re the ones next to the penis enlarger…now you get it.

Right, so things are really quite different now and as size goes everything’s changed: My space in the bedroom closet’s gotten smaller because my wife has taken it over with her overwhelming wave of clothes. Now this isn’t new this has been an ongoing thing since we first moved in together, and it’s not like she’s been spending like crazy on clothes. She’s just got so many of them outright.

So my clothes end up in the office, which is looking more like a stockroom these days. The number of functional computer systems in the office has shrunk to 1, and the number of computers in the house has grown by a factor of 10…something’s wrong with this picture. I have a digital camera now and I take more pictures grasping at tiny moments to preserve those small fragments of time for a later year when my memory has diminished.

I use up more space on the hard drive and as a result I need more space for computer games, applications, and software that I just never owned before. Memory prices are down, so I must get more. My trousers are smaller, but my waistline is bigger. I get more clothes to replace the ones that don’t fit, and my closet space gets smaller.

My general understanding is that the old addage “The more things change, the more they stay the same”, is really no longer pertinent. My travels however, have led me to this one truth:

The more things shrink, the more they grow; and vice versa.

But through all this shrinkage and growth, there is thankuflly one thing that remains and hopefully will continue to remain, a rigid constant in matters of size; to be a shining beacon of light for all to follow; and a tasty delight for many to experience: my penis.

(ok, so not everyone will go down the penis path, but it’s a nice ending to the piece).

[PLEASURE]

DROUIN PUNCH

Ingredients:

25 oz Rye

8 oz pineapple juice (unsweetened)

8 oz grapefruit juice

4 oz lemon juice

56 oz 7 up

8 slices of orange

2 slices of lemon

4 slices of pineapple

assorted cherries

x 3

Directions:

Soak all the fruit in the Rye, Pinapple juice, lemon juice, and Grapefruit juice. Use a big bowl because it really is a lot of liquid. This stuff should generally be soaked the day of your party, and for about 6 hours or so. The longer the better since the fruit picks up all of the alcohol, and it’s fun to eat ’em near the end of your party. Chill.At the party, pour the contents of the mix into a punch bowl and add about 1 and 3/4 of a 2 litre bottle of sprite or seven up (it tends to work better with seven up), and voila! You’re ready to get shit faced.Normally we spike the punch with an additional 5 oz of Rye.There are versions of this that can be made with Vodka or Rum too, however NEVER MIX the alcohols because it just tastes like crap. We’ve found that Rye is not only the tastiest, it’s also the cheapest.And thus you end up with an inexpensive punch that will knock the socks off of your guests.

Enjoy!

And drink responsibly, right?

Yeah right!

[pleasure]

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GOD IS A MOTHERLESS WHORE, OR KVETCHING ABOUT SNOW

Well maybe not, but who would really knows anyway. I’m probably going to go to Christian Hellwhen I die for title-ing this article the way I did, but fuck him, or her. Since the religion imposed upon me by birth doesn’t buy into heaven and hell and all other religions (and Megadeth) are telling everyone to Go To Hell for playing ball in the wrong court, who really cares anyway?

Don’t worry I’m about to neither plunge into the depths of a religious debate on whose theological belief set is the right now, nor am I about to delve into the “Which came first the chicken or the egg,” discussion. I just want to know Why the fuck it’s still snowing in March? I know a lot of the friendly and fried deep south Canadian types think that we all have heaters in our igloos, but what the christian hell are you thinking? Being Canadian you should know that your fellow Northern Canadians are a) Are poor ass bitches, b) Heat melts our igloos, and c) we have no Internet yet…erm.

I’m borrowing a laptop from my neighbour. They’re rich, and are condemed to live next to my igloo because there are no rich neighbourhoods in the North here, just freezing ones. We’re so sorry ass poor that our arrondissment ran out of money so they couldn’t print anymore “Do Not Eat Yellow Snow” signs, and some 8 year old went to the hospital and nearly died from eating snow that his husky had pissed on. Poor bastard. If only he’d been able to buy one of them fancy sleds that BMW or Mercedes sells…so if you come up to Montreal remember DO NOT EAT YELLOW SNOW, and bring a fucking warm coat because they’ve extended the hockey season until June this year–the huskies tore apart the groundhog this year–so that means that it’s going to be snow snow snow until well into the darkness that covers our country over the first half of the summer…

So why am I bitter? Can’t you guess? I live in a fucking igloo, my husky froze to death a few weeks ago, my car has tipped into endothermic shock, and I can only use my neighbour’s laptop so long as the LCD screen doesn’t start to crystalize…when that happens I need to save, shutdown and wait two hours for it to heat up again. Still it’s better than writing my name in the snow. I got quite board of that two months into winter–last September, when The Antarctic Film Festival started at least I was able to seek refuge in a nice warm air conditioned theatre.

I have dreams of Florida, you know. Heat. A day when I come home from ice fishing that I don’t have to worry about my toes being cubes of ice (but it is good for mixing drinks on the rocks.)

The ice fishing was the reason that I had my Toyota Celica imported up here. I actually went in on it halfsies (more like 20 – 80, because he’s rich…did I mention that? I’d blow him for a portable heater, but he already seems to be attached to some parasitic growth protruding from his left eye–kind hangs down like my sack, but it’s much hairier, and filled with pustules,) with my neighbour. We have had quite a bit of fun with it. And we make the most of our town. Montreal isn’t as cold as you might think. A nice brisk -40 C (C= Celcius, F= Fuck you and your Fahrenheit), and the women still walk around in leather skirts that their bucks made for them out of last week’s kill, barely covering their asses. You can always tell the weather by how pert the party goer’s breasts are, but because they’re faces are all bundled up it’s difficult to tell whose boobs are whose, but if you can get close enough a quick squeeze’ll let you know which family’s pillows you’re infringing upon.

So why is it snowing in March? To piss me the fuck off.

I hate snow. I see it, breath it, lick it, touch it, feel it, piss on it, and make love to it nearly 10 months out of every year. It NEVER snows in March. They told me that this white shit falling from the sky was over and done. But they lied. Now I’m at home, the temperature is freezing, I’ve got no heater, and all I have to keep me warm is a pair of ripped fishnet stockings and my left hand. Great, cumsicles again…

Nope there is no fun when winter presses on and the dream of summer eludes you and eludes you like that wonderful hardbodied woman–or man if that’s your gig–you see flowing throught he crowd lin a bar, like losing shifting sand in your hand. Mostly because you’ve tied a few too many on–you’re not quite bulletproof, but you’re definitely windproof–and decided to walk home falling down in the first ditch you can find. Face ripped by wind and ice, gut ripped by rot. Eyes barely floating like that half floater that can’t decide whether it’s a flushie or a floatie…bob…bob…bob…

And then for the first moment in the evening–which feels like the first moment of forever–it’s completely silent, you’re all alone with nothing but the blowing snow to cover you…erasing the tracks you made, erasing your yellow snow, buring your car, and ultimately burying you.

In the middle of March, in the middle of a snow clearing crisis it’s hard not to think of a better time when the wind will hold still, and the sun will come out and burn away the snow, the guilt, the vomit and the wankers of the day.

God, if you grant us the beauty of no more snow, then I won’t call you motherless anymore.

Promise.

[PLEASURE]

FRIGGIN’ ICEHOLES [RANT]

Yes yes, as you might have expect I’m going to bitch about the assinine snow clearing in my neighbourhood (this word DOES have a U in it thank you very much.) The snow fell AGAIN two days ago (5th of March), indicating that a) winter would not be letting up any time soon, b) my snow shoes were clearly no longer waterproof, c) it’s time to buy a new car, and d) people in my area (or arrondisments as they’re calling it now — wankers went and merged the whole city together for what? Unified services (i.e. no services) like snow clearing would be at their best) are wankers just like the people who control the snow clearing vehicles.

Ok, so it snowed not 4 days after they cleared the snow, and I’ve already gotten a ticket from the asswipes, so why can’t they just keep their engines warm and get on with it and move the snow away from my car. The only vehicles that were on the road were the sidewalk clearers, and while that’s very nice if enjoy watching the city’s money being pissed away clearing sidewalks that are already clean because they were too slow in the first place so everyone cleaned the sidewalks themselves, but I don’t. And they’re assholes too. I was turning a corner (on foot no less because my car was stuck in the fucking snow) and narrowly missed being flattened by one of these metal beasts moving at 50 km / hr (we’re metric here, so get over it and convert already. Your football fields will still be in yards…)

Yesterday there was no where to park because piles of snow blocked most of the regular parking spaces, in addition to that we couldn’t park on the left side of the road since we’d gone past due and it was then March 6. I parked in front of the restaurant again, making triple sure that there were no snow clearing signs…and there were none at all that I could see, but that didn’t stop them from trying to shove a ticket so far up my ass the ink reflected backward on my retinas, last time.

A quick search through the fridge this morning–after my morning shower and a good wank–revealed that there was nothing to eat except food that was producing its own penicillin…I momentarily pondered toasting the bread before my life flashed before my eyes.

It was a good one this time. I was being rolled through the triage of a hospital emergency ward frothing at the mouth–my eyes gently rolling back into my head, and then returning to their original positions–each corner they turned wreaked havoc on my stomach. I could feel the acid coming up my throat. And then the bile came spewing forth burning everything I could see: men, women, dogs, lights, doors. I stumbled off the gurney and ran outside still puking my guts out. Everywhere I turned and looked I could see the biles of my system, all colours and all flavours…would this end?

Of course I opted out of that scenario, but the temptation to add another hospital card to my collection kept me borderline for about 30 mintues as the open fridge door dried me off.

(ahem)

I get dressed and go down to the car for a quick breakfast outting, only to find that not only during the night have the sidewalk cleaners nearly entirely buried my car in snow, but some wanker has DOUBLE PARKED ME INTO THE SNOWBANK. There’s no fucking way out! What the hell am I supposed to do now? Wearing my very shitty snow shoes I trek to the car, open the trunk, find my shovel and start to dig. This is pure wankery of the 3rd kind (the 2nd and 1st are unimportant right now.)

My car was far from hidden it was in plain view. The roof was unmarred by snow or ice, and the hood and Toyota emblems were visible. So what gives? Why of all times now? I’m hungry, I need food. Shit. The only option I could see was to dig myself out from behind and back the car up into the adjacent street.

So I dig.

And dig.

And dig.

Some decrepit old woman who looks like she might turn to dust if the wind picked up appears and starts ragging on me for throwing snow on the sidewalk. I’m thinking Decrepit old woman, I’m hungry, I’m pissed off and you smell like Ben Gay, fucking leave me alone. Those bastard sidewalk cleaner’s should be around any second now.. She just turns and walks away yammering something about how the whole country was going to hell because of people like me, and that I should be lucky they let me in and what now…of course it was then that I realized I probably didn’t think the previous words so much as say them.

No matter, the ball of ice with which I nailed her in the back of her head, knocked her down and shut her the fuck up right away. I couldn’t take this snow shit any more.

Some thirty minutes later my car is dug out of the snow, but will it move? There’s about 10cm of snow underneath the car and my car is maybe 14 cm off the ground…not necessarily enough clearance in this weather. Who knows what gnomes are living underneath the car tying it to the ground. Still I foolishly get in and try to reverse out of the parking are without hitting the fucking bastard who’s double parked next to me.

I rock the car back and forth. I get out and push it from side to side. I get back in and continue to rock the car. The ice beneathe car starts to melt. Finally a good samaritan comes to help me out. I get in, he pushes, and another 30 minutes later the car breaks free, and I’m backed up into the street. Poor bastard is covered with snow, ice and whatever ground up little gnomes look like. As I’m getting ready to head to the grocery store for my breakfast supplies. The wanker that had been double parked shows up and gets in his car. Surely he noticed my car on, me in it, me ready to jump out and beat the tar out of his Honda Civic with the board with a nail in it I keep in the boot. Surely he noticed right?

Yep.

He floored outta there like he had some mad diarrhea and there was no way he was letting loose the rivers of mud in public. He needed to be home, and I needed to follow him and beat his head in. Conveniently he headed in the direction of the grocery store. Stop light after stop light I edged up to him. At one point I got beside him, rolled down my window and managed to gob on his passenger side window.

He did pick up the speed, and I would have caught him too had my stomach not grumbled the impossible grumble, and started to eat my kidneys and my pancreas, forcing me to stop at the grocery store. I got out and cursed him out very loud, terrifying many of the grocery store patrons. I truely needed to vent. The yelling just wasn’t ventillation enough.

So I went to the breakfast cereal isle, punched a hole in a box of Lucky Charms, sat down on the floor and ate them until I was thrown out.

Unlucky for them.

[PAIN]

HELLO DEAFNESS, MY OLD FRIEND. I’VE COME TO SCREAM AT YOU AGAIN.

I, like my father, am obsessed with technological gadetry of the 3rd, 4th, 5th and umpteenth kind, and as a result I was able to own one of the very first Sony Discmans (circa 1980)….you know the kind the ones that were about as thick as a book, couldn’t be subjected to any type of vibration, single laser, zero times oversampling, and the crappiest NiCad battery you’ve ever seen. Still for a piece of equipement that’s nearly a quarter century old, and probably should be in a museum, I’m pretty impressed that it even works. Lucky me, that’s my home stereo system–My live in girlfriend is very sweet and kind and makes no fun of my equipment, as it serves its purpose and gets the job done.

I’ve managed to accumulate nearly 700 audio CDs–I can’t belive you have to specify these days–over the past 23 years, the majority of which came into my possession through my affiliations with certian radio stations and record labels over the years. That being said not everything in my collection is good, though at some point in my life it all did seem to be just that. Today I tried to find something reasonable to which I could listen, but I was abandoned by every bastion of good taste that could be. Knowing full well that my CD collection once got me through university, exams, all night drinking binges, strip clubs, high speed car chases, breakups, depressions, getting back togethers, breaking ups again, the endless summer 1991, Daytona Beach 1992, all my buddies stags and weddings, and I was sure I’d find something. After all these were the sounds of my life….

I closed my eyes and randomly drew a CD. If it was good once then it should be good now, right? I put it in, and screamed “What the hell is this?” promptly took the CD out and dropped it on the floor. I looked at the case and it was some infernal band I used to enjoy called The House of LoveAlbum: Babe Rainbow…what was wrong with me…I remember thrashing about to such great hits as You Don’t Understand, and Philly Phile…but this was terrible…I’m not getting old yet am I? I like Eminem, Christina Aguilera, Michael Jackson…oh god I am getting old and into the mainstream that I used to hate so much…naaaaaaaaaah…I still hate ’em.

I picked another CD and hoped that at least it would have stood the test of time. Nope.

And another. Nope

And another. Nope.

Shit I owned 700 of these things what the hell am I going to do with them. There are only a few that actually still fit me well, but the rest need a serious asskicking. In the end I did something with a few of them that not only made me happy, but made me jump for joy like a man able to suck his own dick–or at least jump in a circle of snakes all eating each other’s tails..no wait that was my Benzene molecule dream–and that was to create my own home pyrotechnical display.

PREPARATION OF YOUR VERY OWN HOME PYROTECHNICAL DISPLAY

Ingredients:

1 Microwave

1 CD with case and inserts separated, of your least favorite band

Directions:

First ensure that the CD has been washed, and is free of dirt on the non silk screened side. Place CD silkscreened side face down in the centre (piss off I’m Canadian and that’s how we spell it). Close microwave. Set power to high. Set time to 3 seconds. NOTE: We have tried on many occasions to achieve different effects by adjusting the time, however the optimal duration in the microwave is NO MORE THAN 3 SECONDS–go under and nothing happens, go over and bad things happen. Press start (or begin if your microwave is one of those non microsoft ones.)

Stand back. Watch and enjoy the display.

At the home pyrotechnician’s discretion they may take the CD inserts and case, and set fire to both of them in the microwave once the pyrotechnical display has ended.

Serves: As many people as you can cram within the minimum safe distance from your microwave.

WE DO NOT RECOMMEND YOU TRY THISthat was for the wankers reading this who might actually want to try something stupid…you’ll burn down your house…this is just humour…I’m breaking up a lame story about my even lamer CD collection with it. Please don’t sue me for anything. It really can’t be my fault if you’re that dumb, it’s gotta be genetic.

Hmmm(n)…so what did I learn? My CD collection is crap, and I’ve got about 700 coasters in my entertainment room (which is the 2 foot by 2 foot space in front of my relic of a Discman.) I probably should get around to picking up some new ones, but that’s only going to happen if somone puts out an album worthy of a non-home pyrotechnical display.

And that’s not likely to happen any time soon.

So until then happy microwaving….Spear Britney…who the fuck likes her music anyway?

[PLEASURE]