Dear Halifax.

You gave me some good years. Then you gave me 2004. What a disaster. I am breaking up with you.

From Philip.

P.S. We can still fool around a little bit on the side.

I was speeding up the highway, doing 130 with my car stuck in third gear. The little bitch didn’t feel like shifting herself last night.

On my way through Amherst, I saw this hippie dude on the side of the road with a cardboard sign that read: “HFX.”

He had a big pile of blond dreadlocks and a hand drum on his back. When I passed, he waved and jiggled the sign around hopefully. [Note: this is the proper use of the word “hopefully.”] I slowed the car down and pulled over and stopped on the snowpacked shoulder.

I could see him in the rearview mirror as he loped towards the car with a grin on his face. He looked like he was wearing sandals in the snow, with big grey wool socks. His dreadlocks were bouncing all about.

As soon as he got close to the car, I gunned the engine and took off down the road. A whole bunch of snow sprayed into the guy’s face. Ha, Ha, Ha!

God I love winter.

Before I drove too far, I did a sneaky little u-turn. And there I was going the wrong way down the divided highway. Faster and faster.

I got a bunch of speed on, then I veered off the road and smacked into the hippie guy.

I ran into his back.

Ka-blunk-a-dunk went his bongo drum.

I knocked him down and ran him over with my car.

Then I slowed down and turned around and headed back towards Halifax. Mister hippie dude was nothing more than a steaming bloody pile by the roadside–a disappearing smear in my mirror.

I stopped into Truro for a burger. Ran a red light and this cop just sat there, looking at me.

See this leather jacket I’m wearing? An animal died to provide me with this jacket. What I’m saying is, I am clothed in Death. I inhabit Death everywhere I go.

In fact I am Death.

I am the claimer of souls. The grim reaper.

You think you want a ride with me?

Ha, Ha, Ha.

Posting on the fly again but I will try not to make any spelling errors for you scrawny little typo-hawks to peck at. I just got back in town, in time to go to work at Stage Nine. There is a 64% chance I will be bored at work so come and visit me.

When my grandmother passed away last winter she left a big old house in the middle of nowhere (Gaspereau Forks, New Brunswick, to be precise). I expect I will be living there one day. Probably sooner rather than later.

I invite you to stand in front of the house, as I did, and turn in a slow circle–

That little red shed by the driveway contains a 1960 Vauxhall Envoy that hasn’t been driven in 35 years. It has fewer than 40,000 miles on it. I’ve got to learn me some mechanics.

Snowed in in New Brunswick, it’s been days since I’ve spoken to anyone I wasn’t related to. Heading back today up the Mackay highway. Highlights:

Dec25
MOM: Would you like a drink of pop?
ME: No, thanks, I’m not really much of a pop drinker.
MOM: We have some Sussex ginger ale…
ME: Ginger ale is pop, Ma.

Dec28
MOM: Where’s your coat? You need to have more on than that.
ME: Are you calling me a moron?

If you’re feeling adventurous, A/V is playing Fredericton tomorrow with Das Radiom and there’s room for a passenger. Das Radio are doing a reunion show, they were one of the coolest NB bands, sort of like a cross between Fugazi and The Faint. There were over 200 people at the Saint John show last week. SHould be dope. I’m on dialup and Mom’s yelling for the phone so bye.

Tomorrow Amelia and I are driving to Saint John, New Brunswick. I’m going to take the back roads and let her do some of the driving. I’m sure the controls of my Toyota Corolla will pose no difficulty for her.

I had to teach her about a few things–World War II, Vietnam, punk rock, space shuttles. She started reading up and now she knows more about twentieth-century history than I do. That’s my girl, smart as whip and twice as kinky.

She was tickled to hear they’re still publishing the Telegraph-Journal.

I was reading cnn.com yesterday. “It says here, they think they can find the Electra.”

Amelia loves CNN. She stood behind me and leaned down to read over my shoulder while she traced her fingertips along my collarbone. “I wish them luck with that.”

They won’t find her plane because it’s nowhere near the Pacific. We sunk it in the St. John River, near Grand Lake. No one will find it there because no one will think to look.

We’re planning a quiet night at home tonight. Amelia’s having a bath right now. As soon as she’s done, she’s going to slide into my room and drop her towel to the floor. I love how she gets clean in order to get dirty.

I think I hear the water draining…

~ On Agricola Street this evening, I saw a wreath of flowers laid at the foot of a street sign as a memorial. But when I got closer it turned out to be just a discarded old umbrella.

~ Alas, my poor webcam, we were just starting to become friends. I wanted to turn my life into a TV show. I wanted to get an Airport card and go to Bach’s Cafe and patch into their wireless Internet and film myself eating Korean mandoo and beam it out to the entire world. Sad to say, this isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

I wanted to have sex in front of my webcam. Nahh, that probably wouldn’t happen. It would be tough to find someone willing to do it with me. But maybe I could have sex with the webcam pointed at the shadows on my wall. Yeah, that could totally happen! Hottttt.

Anyway. One night last week I had the webcam set up pointing at my bed, for some reason that failed to materialize. And so I thought I might as well roll it anyway while I slept (alone). Bored late-night websurfers could tune in to watch me and say, “Awww he looks so peaceful.”

Or in the worst case scenario, “Oh my god CALL 911 HE’S NOT BREATHING.”

So: middle of the night in my bedroom. Pitch dark. I decide to turn on the display on my iBook, to check the camera angle. Oh, vanity! Oh, the woe of mankind.

I located my computer on the floor by feel and went to pull it towards me. And I heard: Thump.

Well. Guess I should’ve bought longer than a six-foot Firewire cable!

I turned on a lamp and discovered that the whole works of ‘er, tripod, camera and all had tipped right over. “NO VIDEO” said the webcam program over a blue screen. The camera had landed right on the Firewire jack, fucking up the cable and the jack both.

Here’s the sad, final shot my camera sent out as it completed its hopeless downward arc into malfunction.

So now my Mini-DV cam is in the shop. No homemade Xmas porn for Philip! Repair’s probably going to cost me an arm and a leg and my left nut and my noodle too.

Just in case you feel that all these sleazy exhibitionist porn references should be reserved for that other site, I’d like to mention that my webcam also provided some exuberant, family-friendly episodes, like this:

Or this heartwarming image:

Anyway, the Swordfight Channel will return in 2005, god damn it.

~ My friend Dave said he’s never gone into Bach’s because he’s afraid of standing at the counter and not knowing what to order. “And then I ask myself, what would a man do? What would a Korean mandoo?”

One of my photos is on the wall at Bach’s Cafe. Check it out.

I’m outta here, touch me I’m sick!

“Well Smurf is me…”

My plan for tonight is to chill out at home and get drunk by myself and I am STOKED.

“Look at this,” said Scoopy, who’d already had a few himself. “You’ve got this going on, you’re drinking gin-and-ginger-ale and grapefruit juice, all at the same time.” (I was also eating a peanut-butter-and-chocolate-chip sandwich, and some salt & vinegar chips.) “You’ve got the whole rotation thing happening.”

“Man,” I said, “What we really need in this house, is one of those whatchacallits…” Twirling my finger in a circle.

We both said it at the same time: “LAZY SUSANS.”

I got tired of wrestling with the cheap can opener. So I went out and bought a new can opener that works like magic. I pretty much just wave my hand over the top of the soup can and the lid pops right open.

On good days, you can invert the can and the soup will fall out in one gelatinous lump. Shlunk. Otherwise you’re scraping soup out of the can with the end of a spoon.

The soup people mean business when they say you’re supposed to add the milk and water “slowly, while stirring constantly.” I used to dump it all in and fire up the heat. I’d wind up with Lumps of Chicken Soup instead of Cream of Chicken Soup. I have learned to defer to the authority of the soup-instruction-writing people.

It’s important to take your time and get it right. It’s three in the afternoon and you haven’t eaten anything yet. You could be on your way to a pointless, wasted day. Cook a can of soup and you’ll have a good chance to turn the day around.

When my soup is ready, I will eat it straight from the pot, while standing up in the kitchen. This is a bachelor’s prerogative.

Slowly, I stir constantly and allow my mind to relax. I spot half a package of soda crackers on the kitchen shelf. Those crackers have been chosen to die a soggy, soupy death.

Slowly, I stir constantly as I wake up to the possibilities of the day.

Slowly, I raise the spoon to my lips. I blow on the soup. A yellow ripple shakes across the spoonful. I part my lips and hazard a taste.

Sluuuurp AGGGGH FUCK

Forgot to turn on the burner.

12.05.04 3AM.

I see details in red lights and wet streets.

Just got home. It’s been a long week of work and I was starting to feel a little burnt. Taking a few days off to decompress and work on some music. I’m not going back until next Thursday. The weekend starts NOW.

I’m so stoked, all I want to do right now is drive to Truro to buy a bag of salt ‘n’ pepper potato chips. Have you had those? They’re awesome. Truro? Why not.

Unfortunately, I can’t do that. Newly licensed drivers like me have to have an experienced driver in the passenger seat between midnight and 5am. I HATE THAT.

Why are you on the Intertron at 3 o’clock on saturday night? You’re bored. Why are you reading swordfight dot org? Because you’re interested in my life. Which means you probably know me. Which means you possibly live in North End Halifax.

My email program is open. Email me right now. We are going to Truro. You and me. I don’t care if you’re in your pyjamas, I don’t care if you’re stinking drunk, I don’t care if you hate my guts. Sit in my car while I drive down the highway. I have Sinatra’s greatest hits ON CASSETTE.

If no one emails me by 3:45am, I’m just going to pedal around on my bike and take some pictures. I see details.

Or more likely, I’ll just delete this post and go to bed, chipless and heartbroken.

Swordfight Dot Org Super Fun Quiz!!!

You walk into the kitchen just in time to watch an evil elf scurry across the floor and run between your legs.

He’s about two feet tall and he’s got a mean-spirited grin on his face and a G4 PowerBook tucked under his arm. Whooosh, there he goes!

The elf is running a cracked copy of PhotoShop 7 on his PowerBook and he’s just used it to fuck up your life. You head over to the cupboard and survey the damage:

That little bastard has used PhotoShop to blur out the names of your favourite McCormick spices. God damn!

Your mission is to inspect the photograph and see if you can match up each bottle to the appropriate spice: Dill Weed, Ground Ginger, Italian Seasoning, Mint Leaves, Oregano Leaves.

Man, you’d better sort this all out, or your shit is gonna taste funny.

Post your answers in the comment box, winner gets to cook me dinner, GO!