Read An Excerpt

A Fool by Any Other Name

2009-06-09T22:26:00.000-07:00

Rather than an excerpt this tuesday I will publish a short article I wrote about Chris Moore. I interviewed him and attempted to sell the article as promotional piece for his excellent novel Fool but was unable to find a home for it.

A Fool by Any Other Name
By Ben Shakey

If comedy is tragedy plus time then best selling novelist Christopher Moore figures 400 years is enough time to make King Lear a laugh riot.

In his newest work, Fool, Moore takes his comedic crowbar to the most beloved writer in the English Language and rewrites Shakespeare’s tragedy as a farce told from the view of Lear’s personal jester.

“I didn’t set out to improve Shakespeare’s play, nor do I think I could, I simply used it for inspiration.” He writes in an e-mail interview. “I just wanted it to be really funny.”

Moore achieved his goals of being really funny since his first novel in 1992. Back then Moore was a waiter in small town Harmony, California when he set out to create what he described as something that would do for horror what Douglas Adams did for science fiction. The result was Practical Demonkeeping, where a befuddled man accidentally conjures a demon servant that he spends over 90 years trying to escape. It created his winning combination of put upon everyman protagonists battling with mystical forces, sort of like Bob Newhart in the X-files, and found an immediate audience.

In 10 following novels his cult readership grew, as Moore forced vampires, Angels, and Grim Reapers to deal with modern annoyances. Books titled The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove or Island of the Sequined Love Nun can be remarkably silly but their success anchored on how seriously he took the subjects.

“I think if a funny novel is going to work, you really have to own the comedy. You have to commit to it. If you pull punches or you’re self-conscious about it, your stuff isn’t going to be funny.” He explains” I think comic timing can be learned, even in prose, but you really have to have a sense of what’s funny, what kind of juxtaposition makes people laugh as opposed what’s just interesting or just stupid. Some people don’t have that sense.”

Moore credits this talent for capturing slapstick on a page as something inherited. “I think my sense of comedy came from my father, who was a highway patrolman, and had developed a sort of dark sense of humour tempered with the absolutely silly, to deal with the carnage of his job. (Troopers see a lot of fatal accidents, and are usually the first on the scene. I don’t think people realize that.)”

An example of his Father’s twisted sense of humour was one Night before Christmas at the Moore house: “I would be up half the night on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa, and my father didn’t get off shift until midnight, so when he came up the walk at one in the morning, and saw me still up, he drew his revolver and fired it into the ground, then came inside and told me I could go to bed now because he’d shot Santa off the roof and there was no sense waiting. (To be honest, I think he came in talking about how a fat guy in a red suit was trying to break into our house and he had to stop him.) I was about four then. I’m still a little traumatized.”
“He also loved books, particularly spy stories, but also books like Mash and Catch 22. Since books and humor were valued in my house growing up, it’s probably not surprising that I developed the ability to write comedy in prose.”

His ability to make readers laugh was so skilled that in 2002 he was even able to write Lamb: the Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal without backlash from usually sensitive Christian groups. According to Moore, the book is even taught in some seminaries.

Now his writing is based on a revered play. What’s it like building off a text already known to millions? “It was extraordinarily challenging, but there was a point where I had to just let the play go and tell my own story. My books tend to be character generated, so, while my characters started with the Shakespeare characters, as they developed, they allowed the story to develop in a unique way.” He says, “I wanted it all to revolve around the most powerless character in the play. Pocket, my Fool, really only has his wit, but he manages to manipulate the rest of the cast by applying it.”

The departure from Shakespeare is typically irreverent. “My fool is a bit of horn beast, who is pretty much preoccupied with trying to shag everyone in the castle, which is not really indicated in King Lear. I also gave my fool an apprentice, who is loosely based on Lenny, from Of Mice and Men.”

Beyond the demands of being really funny, Fool also took a great deal of research. Moore travelled to England and France for historical tours of medieval castles, watched dozens of filmed and live performances, and nearly read the entire Shakespeare cannon.

Also, he spent lots of time watching Black Adder and Dr. Who on the elliptical trainer to learn British idioms. He explains: “I worked with the idiom a lot. I had to make it sound Elizabethan without it actually being Elizabethan. I thought I might try to write it in iambic pentameter for about eight minutes before I gave up. I depended largely on the idiom in British sitcoms, mixed with the odd Elizabethan pronoun (a thee or a thou here and there for flavor). For the most part, I think it’s pretty easy for an American reader once they get into the rhythm of it. I think it will throw my usual readers for a chapter or so until they get the voice.”

With all this research the book is still written with Groundlings in mind. When asked what the Shakespeare scholars that spend years trying to interpret Hamlet’s asides will think of Fool, Moore is honest “I think they may hate it. It really depends on how purist they are.” Or if they relate to horn beast fool.

My Memoir of My Year of Reading Yearlong Memoirs

2009-06-04T23:32:00.000-07:00

The Following excerpt is from My Memoir of My Year of Reading Yearlong Memoirs by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Janus Press in July 2009

JULY

After spending six months of reading nothing but yearlong memoirs a certain narrative begins to reveal itself. These books are not meant to be planned a head of time and purported to be a report 365 investigation into a subject at this point I have to say that I am certainly seeing a consistent arc to the way these stories are being told.

In the early months of the experiment the author is a little nervous and makes some funny beginners mistakes but soon they are a convert to this new way of life. Then in the mid to late summer they begin to be bored, they start to question why they are even doing this, what are they trying to prove but they push through anyway. Sometimes this is to save face other time they admit they are still looking for something. Then in Mid October or November they have a giant epiphany they humbly share with us. They close the year with some sober reflection in December and on January first they wake up refreshed with new insight about how they will live their life differently and then they gleefully break some arbitrary self imposed rule.

Well, here I am in July and I am also following the script. I am questioning why I ever started this project of reading nothing but yearlong memoirs. I long to read a magazine, a newspaper, even a fortune cookie but at the beginning of the year I made a very strict list of things that I can read and not read and it leave very little other than traffic sign and bills.

I wanted this year to be as rewarding as all the other years I read about.

Instead, I succeeded in making reading a chore. I used to love them and now books are an inescapable vice that squeezes around my head.

When I need a distracting hobby, I often turn to cooking. All the chopping and measuring and not burning stuff requires too much thought to worry about larger angsty issues. I cannot read cookbooks or surf the web so instead I turn to several yearlong memoirs about food that contain recipes.

I bury myself in The 100 Mile Diet: A Year of Eating Local, Julia and Julie: My Year of Cooking Dangerously, Animal Vegetable Miracle: A Year of Food Life, My Year of Meats, and French Leave: a Wonderful Year of Escape and Memory.

At the end of the month I am thankful for cooking. I feel nourished, sated, and satisfied. I ate new things that reminded me of what My Year of Memiors is all about. This is a year to discover, grow and learn. By the end of this year I will be a different person. Even if it only means that I am better fed and my pants are tighter.

I start the month disheartened but I leave ready to read My Year of Living Biblically.

Lucky Charms

2009-06-02T22:35:00.001-07:00

The follwoing excerpt is from Lucky Charms by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Kevin Reynolds Publishing in July 2009

Peter could have checked the review online as soon as it was posted but it seemed more suiting to wake up early and wait at the 7-11 for the papers to be delivered.

He hounded the clerk to open the bundle and sell a copy, eventually overcoming the minor language barrier and then the major barrier of the clerk’s absolute disinterest in Peter’s concerns.

With a copy of the paper, and therefore Andrew McGuinn’s review, folded under his arm Peter crossed the street to the Aristocrat Dinner. The waitress, who was now far too old to naturally maintain her red hair, was turning on the flashing OPEN sign.

Peter sat in booth and ordered a black coffee and order of eggs Benedict. The meal was partly celebratory and partly hang over cure. The liquor from last night premier was still floating around in his head.

Andrew’s first movie was vehicle for a handsome sit com star that was attempting to prove that he could entertain people without a blaring laugh track to tell them he saying something funny. His leading lady had appeared in a few minor roles and on lots of magazine covers after a very famous actor left his wife for her. Together they helmed a romantic comedy about a man that pretends to be Irish in order to impress a girl he meets in a bar on ST. Patrick’s but then has to carry on the nonsensical Blarney Stone accent because he falls in love.

It wasn’t a great movie, but it was the first one that Peter got to direct. There would be other ones later and maybe those ones would be remembered but right now Peter was happy that they TV actor's name managed to find enough funding to pull it off.

Peter had enough sense to realize that he didn’t make a masterpiece. He didn’t fall victim the trapping of the red carpet and press junkets and desperate young actresses of last night.

Hell, he was just a normal guy sitting in a dinner reading the paper.

The only thing that allowed himself to feel special about was the review waiting in the paper for him. Andrew McGuinn rarely wrote reviews for a debut film like this. He reviewed maybe one film a month, was known to watch 5 successive showings of it , would travel from the inner city to suburbs in various disguises to feel the audience response. Notoriously, he once bought tickets for an entire theatre full of movie goers so they could watch a movie again after he explained to them all why they misunderstood it.

Jerry didn’t care about his trailer or free champagne. This was what made him feel like a director. He hoped that McGuinn caught his Ernst Lubitsch reference.

He began reading:

Lucky Charms is not a bad movie.

It is not very good either.

It achieves everything that it tries to be.

I mean there are a few funny moments in it like when the lead actor Jay Mercer wears very heavy cable knit turtle neck sweater and almost passes out from the heat or when he tries to insult someone with a limerick but in his inability to find a rhyme slowly breaks down in a halting stream of vulgarity that he seems incapable of stopping.

But, overall it is just paint by the numbers romantic comedy. I would like to say that I figured out where the movie was going in the first minute but I had it figured out when I saw the poster.

Director Peter Wilmont might be capable of more, there was sly Ernst Lubitsch reference, but who knows if he really is. He didn’t even try to let us know if he was capable of belly flop or a dive. He just waded into the water.

I try really hard in these reviews but over the past 30 years it has become clear that nobody else out there is trying. My ambition in these reviews has always been to spark discussion and stir debate even about something as simple as a movie. These filmmakers always tell me they just want to make a movie. As if that is something noble in and of itself.

Well, no more. I’m done. I’m not going to sit around watching these things when all they want to do is exist and make money. They can do it without me. I’ve wasted my life putting too much effort into reviewing sorry romantic comedies like this.

I could have been outside, not cramped and pasty trying to write in a note book at a dark matinee.

I could have met real people and not watched thinly drawn fictional dweebs.

I could have been somebody.

I’ve wasted my life.

Peter folded the paper and pushed it aside.

It was less of a review and more of an atomic bomb dropped on him.

His movie just made Andrew McGuinn hate movies. McGuinn might even retire now.

He paid and walked home in a daze.

At home the phone rang and rang. Bad news travels fast. You would think they all got up a dawn to read the review.

He dranks vodka till he passed out, woke up on the sofa and turned on the TV to find out what time it was.

The evening news was on.

“In entertainment news, film critic Andrew McGuinn found dead at age 56. Suicide is believed to be the cause, with the strongest evidence being a disturbing review he submitted to his editor last night and was printed this morning”

Well, thought Peter. It looks like he created a very memorable film

Bay of Trips

2009-05-28T22:29:00.001-07:00

The following excerpt is from Bay of Trips by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Doc Ellis Press in June 2009.

HAVANA 1963

“I was sent here on mission” thought Ethan.

He stood in the hotel room and tried desperately to recall what it was. What was the mission? He needed to complete the mission. Around him the walls began to pulse and throb with each of his heart beats. The room was dark now and the light it’s way in from the hallway and under the door. The light was heavy tangible light and it rolled across the carpet making it ripple like the waves of water across a shallow beach.

What was the mission?

The wall began to pulse to a new rhythm. From out on the street a Cuban band began to play. The carpet began to roll in larger whitecaping waves as the musical storm grew more violent. The music grew into balls of musical light, floating around the room like cinders and sparks from a camp fire.

Ethan open the shutter doors of the window and looked out to see the band. A crowd stood in the courtyard and on stage shouting at all of them was Jesus Christ. He was dressed in green khaki and his face wore a long holy beard. He screamed in some ancient language but Ethan could understand what he was saying. “LOVE, LOVE, LOVE and Ethan remember the mission.”

What was the mission? Ethan thought hard and he remembered his mission in the past. Encoding messages from the Japs during the war. Getting that Korean to talk. And then the assignations in Guatemala. The civil war and the piles of bodies.

Just thinking about Guatemala suddenly filled him with a sadness deeper than he ever felt before. It was like being swallowed by a great black dog. The band started playing a salsa funeral march and the musical orbs turned black.

Looking from the window Ethan saw that it was not Jesus in the speaking to crowd, but Judas. He gabbered in his strange language but Ethan understood. “LOV, LOVE, LOVE, also Ethan has done some terrible, evil things but maybe this mission can redeem him.”

Ethan threw himself on the bed. He screamed out “What is the mission?”

“What is the mission?” a voice from the sky said

“Are you God?” asked Ethan

“No, I am your partner Bishop.” Said the voice

“Bishop?” Ethan asked “My partner.”

“We are in the CIA. Our mission is the fire this gun under the bed at the man, Fidel Castro, standing in the courtyard.”

“CASTRO!” Ethan shouted the name “NO!I can’t kill anyone anymore” He pulled the gun from under the bed and was ready to throw it from the window.

“We are not killing anyone. We are to poison Castro with LSD and make him go crazy in public.
We were going to shoot that psychedelic dart at him and we got it all over our hands when we were loading it. If you are feeling bit off that’s why.”

“Is that when you died” asked Ethan

“I never died. I’m in the bathroom”

“Then come out.” Demanded Ethan

“I can’t. Something bad will happen if I do. I can’t explain it. I need to be in here. I will suffocate in any other room. It’s like when someone dive too deep underwater and they get the bends. Thats what will happen when I leave this room.”

“Do you think this is the drugs talking?” asked Ethan

“Don’t judge me. I heard you shouting about Judas and Guatemala. We need you to pull the trigger on that gun and make Fidel go crazy”

Ethan picked up the rifle and moved to the window. Out in the courtyard Santa Claus was dressed in Khaki and giving speech in Spanish.

Ethan lined up the sight.

The carpet began to roll and reel like a swaying ship. Ethan tried to keep the target on site.
He pulled the trigger.

Standing in crowd, clapping for Fidel Castro’s denouncement of capitalist imperialism, Raul Diaz felt an shapr sting in the back of his neck.

Twenty minutes later, his clothes were strangling him and stripped naked to dance to the salsa band.

The Wild Man

2009-05-26T22:51:00.001-07:00

The following excerpt is from The Wild Man by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Larry Fischer books in June 2009

The human introduced himself as Chemslant, possible Tsemslant, it was hard to tell.

He clearly prided himself in his Centari accent but there were still many sounds that the human mouth was unable to produce. Still, in the humans effort to adapt as effectively as possible to the foreign culture he adopted a Centari (although unpronounceable)name.

“I would like you to take me a far north as you can.” said Ghuantlast. He said it in perfect English.

The human stared at him. He blinked and then said “What the hell are you saying there?” in Centari.

“It was English.” Ghuantlast said in his native Centari.

“I don’t even speak English. My family was from Haiti. They spoke French. I don’t even look English. Anyways, I don’t even know French. We all speak Centari. Do look like some primitive.” He explained.

“I’m sorry.” Said Ghuantlast. ““I would like you to take me a far north as you can?”

“So long as you have the money.”

####

Chemslant sat at the back of the boat, turning the outboard motor and weaving through the standing roots. They were imported from Centari and with no predators or controls they grew into what looked like huge wooden mazes over the terraformed waterways.

“Do you know what Toronto means?” asked Ghuantslant

“No” said Chemslant “What?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would know. It’s a human word.”

“Is it really? I thought it was Centari. Maybe because I don’t speak human.”

“But why wouldn’t you want to speak English?”

“You mean why wouldn’t I want to feed my children. I don’t have time for hobbies like that.”

They stared out over the water. The noise of the cheap motor startled a flock of scaly sky slugs that burst into the air like a cloud of buckshot.

“So why are we going north?” asked Chemslant.

“There were reports of a wild human. I am investigating it.”

“A feral? I thought they were all dead.” Said Chemslant.

“Fortunately, there may be one left.”

“Unfortunately, they are wild animals. We have worked hard to join the Centari’s. This is a modern world that we live in now. Before the Centaris arrived we were primitives living in stone buildings and sputtering about in gaseous cars. This is reality and we have worked hard to get here and make sure our children can live in a Centari world. That more respectful than some lazy animal wallowing in the mud. ”

“But this is your culture?” said Ghuantslant.

“This is not my culture. This is a wild man shitting in the stonecrab trees. These are animals. I am a Centari.”

Ghuanslant was so caught off guard, he made a laughing noise.

They pulled ashore and it was one of the most untamed places that Ghuanslant had experienced.

####

“I can take you ashore and move further into the wasteland with you if you want to pay extra.”

Ghuanslant was relieved.

They pushed deeper through the invasive Centari growth.

“Have you ever seen a wild human?” asked Ghuanslant.

“No, but once as child my friends said they all saw one. I came running and they said he looked over at them and saw that we were Centerions.” This was a word that humans that gave up

their traditional human lifestyle and tried to live like Centaris called themselves. “The ferals are all scared of us and he ran. There were footprints left but I still don’t know if it was a hoax they pulled on me. They were pretty excited though, so maybe not.”

“I wonder what they think of us.” said Ghuanslant. He stared intently into the blue of the woods looking for the wild man.

“They don’t think. They are animals. They can’t even speak. They gibber like mice”

Ghuanslant stopped speaking and marched forward.

####

Ghunaslant saw the human’s pale skin against the blue jungle backdrop.

It ran deep into foliage.

Chemslant bolted after it.

“Hello” cried Ghuanslant. “Hello?” he tried different accents.

The human began to scramble up the stone crab tree. Its clothes were hung in tattered rags of cloth. There was none of the exoskeleton that both he and Chemslant wore. No implants near his eyes. He was wild.

He is beautiful thought Ghuanslant.

Suddenly its neck burst open with blood and it feel from the branches.

It lay on the ground.

Ghuanslant would never even find out if it spoke English. If I still worshiped a God. If it still tried to eat other animals.

Now it was just the same as the other dead Centerions he saw lying in the streets of their run down hives.

“I got it” said Chemslant. The gun was still in his hands. “The last wild man. Do you think he would be worth anything?”

“No” said Ghuanslant.

“Well, then I guess we can feed it to my family.”

Footprint

2009-05-19T22:49:00.001-07:00

Coming soon ...... sorry had some uploading issues

The Plagerist's Progress

2009-05-14T22:30:00.000-07:00

The Following excerpt is from the The Plagerist's Progress by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Speculations Defunct Publishing in June 2009

Philip wrote a few science fiction novels but the handwritten manuscripts of unconfirmed length were not just unpublished by editors, but unacknowledged.

He took the night off from the donut shop and attended a workshop in the drafting room of a community college entitled HOW TO WRITE AND SELL SCIENCE FICTION. A charming man with a beard, a sweater, and a desire to look like Hemmingway taught it. He wrote a young adult novel about an alien roughly twenty years ago along with a novelization of a MAN FROM UNCLE episode and 16 westerns. He taught Philip about self- addressed stamped envelopes and typed double-spaced manuscripts but mostly he taught Philip the meaning behind science fiction.

"Sci Fi," said the writer "is not about the future. It is about the present! 1984 tells what it was like in 1948! Take something from your normal life and project it into the future. If you are worried about the environment, imagine what it will be like in 200 years. If you are worried about nanotechnology, imagine what it will be like when your grandchildren are alive."

"I'm worried about immigrants," said one woman.

The writer ignored her and said, "Anything can become science fiction if you imagine that thing in the future."

Philip left the class trying to imagine everything in the future. He was stirred to use science fiction to see the present but didn't fully understand what that meant.

He imagined the bus he was riding in the future. Maybe it would be better, maybe worse. He still couldn't see any story there. Previously, he thought the genre was about cool weapons and weird aliens. Now it was about slightly improved buses.

He sat on his sofa, ate pizza slices, watched a rerun of Sex in the City, and hoped there might be some nudity. Samatha used her vibrator too much and her friends staged an intervention. "What would this be like in the future?" thought Philip. He pressed record on his remote control.

He typed on his laptop and transcribed the episode one line of dialogue at a time. He changed Samatha to Sam and Carrie to Gary and the vibrator became a Sexbot. He didn't even have to change the description. Undulating and stimulating described a Sexbot as vividly as a vibrator.

The workshop was right. Switching stuff from the present in the future was easy.

Three months later Philip received his first letter of acceptance. He immediately set every T.V episode he could think of in space. He watched MASH and sold a story about a race of aliens that invaded earth. One of their soldiers got hurt and a group of military doctors still treated it despite the objections of an uptight nurse. He watched Frasier and sold a story about telepathic man that could solve the personal problems of most people in the Seattle area (but not in his own family!).

Transcribing each line of dialogue grew tiring so he found books online and with simple search and replace requests Pinocchio was a clone and Sherlock Holmes was a robot programmed for superior reasoning. Within six months, Philip landed an agent and worked at the donut shop two days a week.

"Write full novels," said the agent "Don't waste your time."

Philip submitted three novels. Tarzan became an orphan raised by aliens and unable to return to society. The Scarlet Pimpernel was the foppish owner of a luxury spacecraft liner when he wasn't secretly rescuing aliens from unlawful executions. The Lone Ranger transformed into the only survivor of a group of lawmen massacred on the dark side of the moon.

Philip's agent sold them all and wanted more.

Philip watched a PBS documentary on the Darfur crisis and moved everything 300 years ahead and one planet out from the sun. It sold too. They published it under a pseudonym so he wouldn't compete with himself.

His agent said, "Thick novels sell better. A trilogy of thick books sell even better."

Philip changed the names in Plutrach's Lives and sold it as a cycle on the Rise and Fall of the Planet Romtar. Histories of the Aztecs were appealing as their names favoured Z's and X's and sounded sufficiently alien. The three-volume restructuring of the Aztecs was followed by a three-volume recreation of the Incas.

Soon Philip used the morning paper and his library card to create two or three novels a month. Public domain stories with an edge of the fantastic worked best, as the magic from fairy tales and myths became future technology.

Naturally, since it was in the public domain and contained lots of the miracles, Philip rewrote the Bible next.

With the trade of a few consonants Jesus was Xenus. His energy was implanted in a young virgin that bore his human body. He grew up to spread advanced alien medical procedures and philosophies and was then martyred. He used the latent energy in his molecules to restore his body and then returned to the heavens in his spacecraft after promising to return.

The book sold modestly before a small group of believers formed. They weren't big enough to become a movement or even to get Philip's writing recognized as a tax exempt religion (he inquired) but they bought anything he published. They were the perfect audience.

Xenus was quickly followed by sequels based on the Koran, The Book of Mormon, Khalil Gibrant's The Prophet, and in a moment of desperation Yes, I Can: The Autobiography of Sammy Davis Jr.

Philip was now officially rich, which was why he was startled to walk into his kitchen and see that someone had bypassed the security alarms.

"Philip?" said the tall grey-haired man. His skin looked silver and wet, almost like fish scales.

"Yes." Philip said.

"I love you. You have shown the way. We have searched always, looking for why there is suffering among the good. We found the answer in the words of Xenus. He visited you at a time when your people are unable to follow him. We, however, can take you to his home world."

Philip thought he might urinate. "Uh, no. I made up that stuff. There is no Xenus."

"Blasphemer!" The silver skin took a more metallic rage filled tone. "You will come with us."

Philip felt his body atrophy and tighten. The silver-skinned man picked him up and moved him like a mannequin.

"This will be a long journey. You will be more comfortable this way." It was the last thing Philip heard before his eardrum became too stiff to carry any sound.

For the first time in his writing career, Philip wondered how the story was going to end.

Entertainment Bleakly

2009-05-12T22:46:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Entertainment Bleakly by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Alan Smithee books in June 2009

One year ago John Travolta ambled up to the podium of the Ford Theatre to present the award for best screenplay. Then millions of viewers were greeted by a blank television screen.

That blank screen would be the part of a vicious terrorist plot that didn’t go according to plan that day in Hollywood. The terrorists are in the middle of a cultural war and chose to attack American culture directly. Rather than confront what we call freedom and art - and what they call decadence and sin – on the battlefield, they set off several massive bombs under the Ford theatre.

The first attack came a few months earlier when a terrorist assassin gained access to the set of the Jay Leno show and began to regularly expose the guest sofa to a germ warfare agent. Slowly, Jay and other guests began to grow very ill and the rapidly unhealthy Jay Leno was thought to be the carrier and possible patient zero of the strange illness. It wasn’t until several guest hosts and many more guests died that the devious sofa was uncovered. By then hundreds of America’s celebrities were dead, many more terminally ill.

The late talk show host and many guest were meant to be honored that evening but and second attack on American culture came before respects could be made. This year those final condolences can be offered at the Oscars.

Of course it would be impossible to destroy the entire entertainment industry. There are too many dreamers to stop them all but industry analysts estimate that almost 75% of bankable box office draws were lost during the year of what is now called the entertainment war.

Productions continued, changes were made and casting rushed, but this year’s Oscars will really determine if the industry can ever return to its previous heights. The nominees in the Academy Awards will not only have to prove they deserve to win but prove that Hollywood as whole can survive.

Go to any movie now and you might only recognition one person in it, usually someone from a television show that has quickly replaced the deceased star.

In recognition of this confusion, Entertainment Journal is proud to present a guide to the best actor category.

(Note: due to the lack of production and voting academy members this year’s best actor and best actress category has been combined. The remaining time left from the many cut categories will be filled with tributes to lost performers)

Paul Rinaldi – The Mayor of Gangsterville

Paul Rinaldi may be the closest thing to a recognizable face in this year’s list of nominees. That is because he looks just like Robert DeNiro. Previous to his film debut Paul was the owner of Paulie’s Italian Eatery where every weekend he would put on the WiseGuy’s dinner show with a Joe Pesci impersonator.

The night of the attack Robert DeNiro was there to present to award for best editing. His long time editor Thelma Shoemaker won. Afterwards Paul stepped in and rescued the troubled production The Mayor of Gangsterville, of which DeNiro had already filmed two scenes. With the help of some CGI, the transition from DeNiro to Rinaldi was seamless.

Off camera Paul is soft spoken and actually has a rather high pitched voice but he insists that if he wins he will accept the awards as DeNiro. “It’s his award,” he insists “We are all here to honour him”

Doyle Archer – The Mousetrap

If Hollywood were a sports team this would be a rebuilding year. This isn’t a year for wild hot doggers or plans so crazy they might just work. This is time for the fundamentals and the tried and true on which a solid foundation is built.

In entertainment there are fewer more tried and true players than Agatha Christie. Her play The Mousetrap is the longest running play in history and its popularity always swelled in times of war or depression when the predictability of distraction is comforting.

Doyle Archer was playing the lead role in the mousetrap when Oscar attack happened. He was part of a group of Silicon Valley programmers that made huge sums of money in the nineties and spent the past ten years pursuing hobbies while working freelance. Some of the hobbies include Segway polo, LARPing, of course the Silicon Valley Amatuer Theatre society.

“We thought we were pretty good. People liked the play, and when this hit we saw that there was a opening in the market. We decided to put a bunch some money together. We all acted for free and brought bag lunches. The only cost was the crew and film. Even (TV commercial director) Dwayne Guest worked for free because it was his first feature.”

Doyle can’t help but smile when he talks about the nomination. All actors claim they don’t care if they win but Doyle actually seems to mean it. He is more proud of the film than his personal performance.

“ 3 years ago this film would never be noticed, but the whole landscape has changed now. It’s like the early days of internet. It’s the Wild West. It’s democracy.”

Andrew Cohen - The Backpacker's Inn

Andrew Cohen is the closest thing to a celebrity in the year’s pack of nominees. You may recognize him from the first season of the reality show Roomies, in which 5 roommates live together for 6 weeks in a enclosed compound on the back of a flatbed truck that is driven to random part of the United States before they are ejected with no money and must try to find their way home.

Andrew was a popular cast member after entering into a relationship with fellow roommate Crystal Beansmith. They were filming a spin off reality series when the disaster struck the Oscars.

“After the attack this country needed entertainers and I heard that call” Says Andrew, his eyes growing moist. “We wanted to entertain the peoples like mad. We reediting the footage and released it as movie. The theatre needed something. People needed us.”

When asked about the controversy of submitting him min the actor category Andrew is less sentimental. “That’s Bull. I am acting like a mother in the movie. All those fights with Crystal, those weren’t real. We did three or four takes of each one, so people could get the coverage. We made up each of the fights ahead of time. You should see the original footage of this thing. It was a game show like Road Rules or something. We cut it into When Harry Met Sally or something.”

“We knew when that camera was one and we made up great stuff. We should get the screenwriter’s award too.” Of course there is not screenwriter’s award this year as it cut to make time for a longer tribute.

Sunil Sol - Mumbia Gershwin

Sunil Sol wasn’t in America to film a movie. He already had a successful film and music career in India and was performing a sold out musical engagement in San Diego.

“I was devastated when I found out and drove up to Hollywood to survey the site. I was wondering through the streets of L.A. just trying to understand the destruction when I started talking to the man beside me. We talked about our favourite movies for a while and then looked at him. Really looked at him and tried to ignore the baseball hat and the glasses. It was Woody Allen.”

Allen was spared as he rarely attends the awards or promotes his films.

“He asked what I did and it was very hard to explain without sounding defensive or insecure. You know, I’m a big deal in India. You sound like Tom Waits, all big in Japan. But when I explained the concert a few days ago, that I had a huge world wide audience with no interest in these movies. He called me the saviour of filmdom and asked me star in his newest film.”

The film did require some rewrites though. “I told him the only way that this film could get funding is if we made it a musical. My films need to appeal to a wide audience and there has to be comedy and romance and music. He trusted me and we changed to character from a sportswriter to a Bhangra singer.”

Allen seems very protective of vision. How did he take these suggestions? “He wanted to make him a clarinet player but my playing was so bad he relented” says Sunil while laughing.

Sidney Choas - Born Yesterday

Sidney Chaos is familiar with the film industry as well. She is star of 44 adult films and now one mainstream entry.

On O-day or Oscar Day most of the cast of the remake of Born Yesterday was lost. The producer had 48 hours to recast or the insurance company would take control of the operation.

Sidney was dating his neighbour, rock star Danny Cranx. They met in the driveway.

“He said I seemed ditzy enough that I didn’t have to act and the all the tattoo and piercing would make to scenes where I met high society seem funnier. I didn’t like him saying that cause I’m really smart but I wanted the part.”

Now Sidney is more than happy that she didn’t say anything.

“This all that I ever wanted. I am a real movie star now, at the Oscars. I thought I had destroyed all my chances at the age of 22 but look at me. This is great.”

How does she feel about the somber mood hanging over the awards this year?

“Every cloud has a silver linning. I am this one’s. I am so happy. Everything worked out in the end.”

Under the Mattress

2009-05-07T22:42:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Comic Verse: a collection of poetry about comedians by Ben Shakey. It will be published by John Wing Press in June 2009

Under the Mattress

I

A touring stand up told me
check under the hotel mattress

“Comics, bar band musicians, traveling salesmen, speakers at tradeshows -
leave stuff for the next guy”

In the very center
where the housekeeping doesn’t look
when tightening the sheets

To date:

a great deal of pornography including a polaroid of a man with a glassy eyed exotic dancer
and a cookie monster puppet

a comedian’s promotional headshot (he may have masturbated to his own image)

a flattened joint in a Ziploc bag,
a pizza flyer with a rave review on a post it note

a paranormal magazine about Bigfoot and UFOs
(these last three may be realted in their way)

II

He also told me

look in the bedside Gideon placed Bible

To date I have found nothing in these

Except once, written in the inside cover,
with careful penmanship trying to approximate the type print was

“This is a work of fiction,
any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental”

Mid-Afterlife Crisis

2009-05-05T22:20:00.001-07:00

The following excerpt is from Mid-Afterlife Crisis by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Belly Dreadful Books in June 2009

Archibald enjoyed that the winter sun set early in Northern British Columbia. With nightfall arriving so soon he could rise from his coffin early enough to watch the evening news and revel in any reports of last night activities.

“We have a very strange story to end on tonight. A caller notified police that they were witnessing a break and enter that quickly escalated to a kidnapping in an apartment across the street. In an effort to help the police the witness grabbed their cell phone and recorded the struggle. However this all the footage could reveal:”

The station then displayed the bizarre footage of a young woman seemingly fighting with an invisible opponent. It had the look of a bizarre piece of modern dance or a DVD extra of an actor battling a CGI monster that would be added later.

“Although the film did not pick a second person the police assure that a crime was commit. Damage to the apartment from the struggle was significant as well the young woman is still at large.” The news reader then continued with more details about the missing woman and where to report any information.

Archibald winced he knew that the event could not be traced back to him but the film did provide some proof of the nature of existence. Luckily most people are so in denial they could look at the document and still dismiss it as some sort of Bigfoot film trickery.

“The seemingly invisible assailant in the video is most likely the result of an electromagnetic disturbance.” said the newsreader.

"Well, there you go" thought Archibald.

“However, the eye witness filming the event was able to assist the police in the creation of this police sketch.”

Flashing on the screen was crude cartoon rendering of Archibald. His hair was greasy and shaggy, like a wet dog. There were bags hanging under his eyes and his eyebrows drooped down like an even sadder, wetter dog. He looked like a depressed.

Jesus, thought Archibald. Is that what I look like? He hadn’t seen his self he was turned in Victorian England. By Victorian standards he looked like a very handsome man. By modern standards he looked like Queen Victoria.

Archibald stared at the photo longer. He had a double chin and triple forehead.

"How is this even possible?" he thought " I’m a liquid diet. I haven’t aged, just like they said, but I look like crap. I look like I’ve been out all night for 125 years and living of blood and not one vegetable. I look like crap. "

“Although we have no visible images, the film did record enough audio that we know that the perpetrator refers to himself as Archibald.” The newsreader continue with a number to send any information to but when he finished and turned things over the jovial weather man the humiliation continued.

“I thought that was vampire until I heard the name Archibald. Dracula is a vampire, Vlad is a vampire. Archibald is your uncle. The kind you don’t invite to a open bar!” and he laughed a deep, mocking chuckle.

"Archibald was a very popular name once. It showed an apporiate level of class. Not like now when random nouns can be a name. Now most children are named after colours or brands od motorcycles" he thought.

Archibald slumped in his chair.

He wished he had never learned how looked. Part of the appeal, part of the reason he turned, was to appear God like, not a run down, double chinned Archie that desperately needed some exercise and vitamin C.

“I’m Hungry” Said the young woman, who now rose from the coffin beside him. “I’m hungry” she said and rubbed her belly. “Hungry but I feel great. I feel invisinceable. What happened?”

“What happened” answered Archibald. “ You peaked. It’s all down hill from here,” He tossed over his shoulder with an angry swish, transformed to a bat and fluttered towards the fire escape window.

“Are you going to feed?” cried the desperate woman.

“I’m going to the gym!” it flapped

Animal Nightclub

2009-04-30T19:30:00.000-07:00

The preceding excerpt is from Animal Nightclub: a cartoon collection by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Never Reliable Press in may 2009

Facts and Speculations about Jandek

2009-04-28T22:43:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Facts and Speculations about Jandek by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Brooklyn Wednesday Books in May 2009

The Facts

In 1978 an independent label called Corwood Industries released a record album attributed to Jandek and titled Ready For The House. Independent label may overstate the operation by connoting a grandeur that does not apply. Jandek is the only artist signed to the label and, although I have no numbers to back this up, the print runs of Jandek albums must be very small. If you write to Corwood Industries for a catalogue the company mails a single sheet of paper with a list of typewriter written Jandek albums.

Since then Corwood Industries released 55 Jandek records. This is roughly one every 6 months. By the time you read this the number is closer to 57 or 58. Maybe even 60.

Corwood Industries presses a few albums every year and places ads in music magazines that read “Jandek on Corwood P.O. Box 15375 Houston TX 7702”. That’s all. No graphics, logos, or ad copy. A few brave souls order the records and receive Jandek albums of clanging guitar noises and solipsist and somewhat disturbing lyrics.

The music is very hard to describe. Applicable words would be atonal, weird, haunting, cryptic, and according to many, unlistenable. Jandek strums on what is either an out of tune guitar or a guitar with some other tuning that he has devised on his own. On some tracks there are drums. On other albums there are no instruments for several songs; just a single voice singing into a tape recorder in a quiet room. Jandek’s lyrics are troublingly opaque. I once saw a book of collected suicide notes and the most striking similarity of the letters were how the writers all felt these letters explained everything when they actually left the readers struggling for answers. Jandek’s lyrics have the same worrying effect. They express a great deal of emotional anxiety but with absolutely no context or insight into what is causing this. To top it off, these removed yet disquieting words are delivered by a young man’s voice that may have been unnaturally aged by dire circumstances and/or lifestyle choices.

How confusing would it be to receive this in the mail, unseen, and then place it on a turn table?

Somehow, over the years Jandek developed a small audience. Somewhat smaller than a cult audience and a little larger than a local book club. His music couldn’t be more outsider and easier to dismiss yet a few people have tried to contact only to be him shunned. Almost nothing is known about him other than the photos of a red haired man that appears in some of his album covers.

Fans uncovered that he is most likely named Sterling Smith as that name endorses the cheques sent to his PO Box. He has only granted 2 interviews in 30 years and one of these was to a journalist that followed him to his house and even then he would not admit to being Jandek but only that he was an employee of Corwood Industries.

In 2004, he started to perform live but still wouldn’t come clean about being Jandek in contracts, posters, or even introductions to the stage. Instead he referred to himself as a representative sent by Corwood Industries.

These are the facts.

The Speculations

I once saw this play where a guy bought a blank canvas for a great deal of money because it was modern art. The play followed the reactions of his friends to the work of art. Because this was a blank canvas, they projected anything they wanted on to it. This is how I feel about Jandek. He is the only musicians I can listen to without placing any projections onto him. Other musicians cause me to react to their fashion, their clothes, their politics, their esthetics.

Maybe I would like Kanye West if he didn’t annoy me with acceptance speeches. Maybe I couldn’t even pay attention to Elvis Costello songs if he was covered head to toe in distracting, stomach - turning lesions. I’ll never know.

I don’t have this problem with Jandek as I know nothing about him. The best thing I can say about Jandek’s art is that it is unsettling but if I were forced to give a traditional record review I would have to give all 55 records a thumbs down, or 2 stars, or a trash it, or generally call it an unenjoyable experience. However, this decision isn’t informed by his haircut or his view on gay marriage or some movement / revival / scene that he is part of.

All I can hear is the music and try to speculate on who he is. These are some of my favorite speculations so far.

#1 – Extreme Therapy

One theory is that the music is actually part of a treatment to deal with a form of mental illness or as part of an addiction rehab program. It seems like a possible explanation. I wrote to Corwoord Industuries for a catalogue and received a reply with some notes from a representative of the company scrawled in the margins. I am not big on hand writing analysis but this block printing seemed to be saying something or was written with a non dominant hand to disguise regular handwriting. Putting out albums every 6 months with no audience and no promotion could easily be seen as the result of a disorder that might require therapy. If this is an act of therapeutic art, it doesn’t seem to be working. The music keeps coming and any changes or development in style or subject matters happen at a glacial pace. There is no cathartic breakthrough. If anything the music is growing bleaker and bleaker.

#2 – Celebrity seeking anonymity

In the 1980’s Stephen King released a series of books under the name of Richard Bachman as an experiment to see if he could recapture any of his earlier success without his powerful brand name attached to it. Imagine if Jandek is the work of a very successful mainstream artist trying to see if his / her art was a viable form of expression with out yes men, promotions, and commercial necessity propping it up. What if Corwood Industries was a division of Dan Akroyd’s production company? What if the representative that Corwood Industries sent to perform at indie music festivals delivered the songs of Danielle Steele? What if J.D. Salinger isn’t as silent as we thought? What if Jandek was a glimpse into the soul of Tony Danza?

#3 – Money Laundering Scheme / Front for illegal business

The goal of money laundering schemes is too look as unapproachable as possible. I once wandered into beat up used bookstore that was clearly some kind of a front once in the door. There must have been 50 guys in the back room when this place could barely afford to employ a staff of one. A rough looking man came out looking very annoyed that I was there and told me that all paperbacks in this store cost $10 each. I was sure he would have raised the price higher until I left. (if I stayed longer) Nick Tosches wrote an article that included the tale of a gangster’s front located in the legendary Brill Building where a young songwriter wandered in and wound up delivering them a hit record. So sometimes fronts fail and attract rather than repel customers. Drug dealers, gangsters, etc. have lots of street smarts but they could easily underestimate the need of hipsters to search out and listen to obscure music that nobody else knows of.

#4 – Coded Spy Messages

Spies send messages through all sorts of unconventional methods. Sometimes short wave radios in London will pick up static broadcasts of people reading lists of nouns and other random words. The British government recently admitted that these were spies broadcasting. Other spies send messages through classified ads, invoices, flashing lights, and even smoke signals from cigarettes. If there is a spy out there with a decoder ring that can decipher lyrics like “Don’t burn golden eagles just to feel sublime” or “Don’t got no synthetic fibers, no foil products” I would certainly like access to it. I just hope that none of the messages have resulted in assassinations.

#5 – Alien

Have you ever read “The Man Who Fell to Earth” by Walter Trevis? It’s about an alien. The nearly last of his kind that comes to earth, becomes addicted to gin, and records strange jazz albums so that they can be played on the radio and broadcast on invisible waves that will eventually carry the sounds back to his home. The alien is so frail and venerable that moving up a floor in an elevator will snap his fragile bird like bones. He is androgynous and detached from all human emotion because, well, he is not human. See the movie adaptation where the alien is played by androgynous and detached David Bowie and suddenly it doesn’t seem impossible. Listen to Jandek and suddenly it doesn’t seem implausible. In fact, when listening to Jandek the only thing this that doesn’t seem implausible about an alien recording jazz music to contact his home planet via radio waves is not the extra terrestrial part but the getting radio play part

#6 – Very Clever Artist

The most cynical response to Jandek is that all of this is orchestrated in order to create a legend. There are thousands of people trying to get famous. Shouting as loud as they can to be heard. Watch a Shot of Love with Tia Tequila or whatever degrading reality show is successful in the particular 6 month cycle that you are reading this in and see what I mean. Sometime the only way to make people listen is to whisper. If Jandek gave more interviews would I even take the time to try and listen to him? Other artists give endless interviews to promote their work. There are so many promotional interviews that all the art is lost in the white noise of the entertainment industry. I have heard enough interviews, reviews, and commentary on the new Coldplay CD that I am tired of it and it’s new direction and it’s radical departure and blah,blah, blah and I haven’t even heard it. I don’t think that this music is any less personal and expressive but what are the odds of me sitting down and listening to the new Coldplay and thinking about it enough that I would come up with theories about aliens, or spies, or Tony Danza. Nil. That’s the odds. Maybe Jandek is shrewd enough to know that I will listen intently if I am I aware that this all that he going to tell me.

The Dolenz Encounters

2009-04-22T22:17:00.000-07:00

The Following excerpt is from The Dolenz Encounters: a nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Frodis Caper Books in May 2009

I know three different people that have met former Monkee Mickey Dolenz.

Mickey Dolenz Encounter #1

My friend worked on a very low budget Canadian game show in the 1990’s. This was a common daytime Canadian game show that seemed to be produced entirely to fulfill Canadian Content regulations and had little concerns for ratings or turning a profit. The grand prize on a show like this would be something like a microwave or another household appliance that would be used as a door prize given to random audience members on an America game show.

The particular show was called “Acting Crazy!” but it was really just charades. Charades isn’t that enticing on a title.

There were regular cast members and celebrities would also show up and play. It should be noted that this was in early 1990’s when there was no film industry in Vancouver so the idea of using celebrities on a show based in Vancouver was a little like counting on the star power of Denver, Colorado to fuel your game show line up. As a result the line up was pretty eclectic. Typical guest stars would include Jimmy Walker, Peter Noone of Herman's Hermits or a local weather man.

When Mickey Dolenz was the guest, my friend introduced himself buying say “ Hey, Hey, You’re a Monkee!” and held out his hand.

Mickey smiled and laughed graciously.

Mickey Dolenz Encounter #2

My friend is a rabid Monty Python fan which means I will rarely discuss Monty Python around him unless I want to be verbally pelted by bad British accents and Neeps.

There is one Monty Python story of his that I do enjoy.

He found out that Monty Python would be reuniting along with the ashes of Graham Chapman on the stage of the Aspen Comedy Festival. He cashed in some RRSPS and bought a last minute, over priced flight and arrived in Colorado to watch the show.

He also paid an outrageous amount to attend some sort of mixer after because the Pythons might also be attend. He met them all and got pictures with them and then found himself standing at a party all alone in a city where he knew nobody.

I have been in this situation a few times and know how awkward it can feel but I don’t know how much that awkwardness is compounded by standing around at a party while Steve Martin and Bob Costas are mingling.

He stood in line for a drink behind Steven Wright and finally worked up the nerve to say something. He tapped him on the shoulder and said “I auditioned for a play today. I never got the part but they cast my shadow.”

Steven Wright looked at him, nodded silently, and walked away.

He stood alone drinking after that until finally feeling tipsy enough to attempt to speak to another famous person he approached Mickey Dolenz and said “Hey, Hey, You’re a Monkee!”

Mickey smiled and laughed graciously.

Mickey Dolenz Encounter #3

A friend was leaving a fine restaurant in Montreal.

As he exited Mickey Dolenz was standing in the lobby while the hostess flipped through the reservation book to find his table. Obviously hired for her appearances and not for her abilities she struggled as she looked through the book.

As he walked by my friend said to the hostess “Hey, Hey, He’s a Monkee!”

Mickey smiled and laughed graciously.

Conclusion

I don’t know Micky Dolenz. I never met him and I can prove that in court of law if required. I probably never will.

However, in my very peripheral understanding of the man I know three people that have met him and said “Hey, Hey, You’re a Monkee.”

If a fourth person were to tell me they met Mickey Dolenz I would be able to guess what they said to him and it would be tiresome for me. I can only image how many times Mickey Dolenz has heard this.

At a conservative estimate of once a day for the past 40 year it would be 14,600 times.

Yet every time he seems to smile and graciously accept his fate and never once resorted to violence.

This essay will be formally submitted to nominate Mickey Dolenz for a Noble Peace Prize. ( As soon as I can figure out how that is done.) He serves an example to remain positive rather than fight the things you can’t change.

Afternote

One marginally related story – A friend of mine was a teenager in New York and saw John Lennon walking through Central Park.

He started yelling “John! John! John!”

John smiled and nodded at him but kept walking while deliberately setting his body language to let him know that they were not going to stop and talk.

“John!” he yelled “When are the Monkees going to get back together?”

Lennon laughed, stopped and chatted for a minute or two, saying “I haven’t heard that one before” in his cool Liverpool accent.

Patience is rewarded. Don’t always go with the first thing in your head.

The Colliders

2009-04-21T22:03:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from The Colliders by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Moe Green Publishing Ltd. In May 2009

Mark called his Mother from the office in Switzerland.

“Mom?”

“Oh Michael, I wanted to talk to you about Christmas.”

“Yes, Yes, that. I won’t be able to come back home. There is a lot of stuff going on with the Collider. I’m going to have to stay here.”

“Hmmm.” She said. The noise sounded like two pieces of Velcro being ripped apart. “Well, you’ll just have to see if you can come home.”

“I’m sorry Mom. I can’t come home. There has been some serious side effects from the Hadron Collider.”

“Your Father will want to know if you are going to come home.”

“I’m not coming home. I have to ask you about the time you visited the collider.”

“Are you coming home for Christmas?”

“No Mom, people that were here when we activated the Collider are experiencing a temporal disturbance.”

“If you tell your Father that you aren’t coming and then you show up it will be very confusing for him. I’ll say you don’t know yet.”

“No Mom. I’m not coming home. Have you been experiencing the same things over and over again?”

“Well I do need to plan for Christmas. It would be good to know if you were coming home.”

“Mom, I can’t. Think. Please. It’s important. Have you been feeling this way? Like that movie Groundhog Day?”

“I’ll tell people that you don’t know yet. It would be a shame if you did make it home there wasn’t enough food.”

“I’m not coming. Mom, what day is it today?”

“The 2nd. There’s not much time left to plan. Are you coming home for Christmas?”

“I can’t do this Mom.” Mike sighed like a faulty whoopee cushion. “ I don’t know if you are in a temporal disturbance or if you are just being a bully about the Holidays. I don’t know if this is repeating because of a rupture in time or if you are just trying to get the answer you want.”

“Well I could get off the subject if you would make up your mind.”

“I’m not coming home. Let me know if you experience any recurrent events.”

“Okay. Bye Kiddo. Let me know when you find out about the holidays.”

“By Mom.”

Mike hung up the phone. He was frightened of how many more times he would have this conversation in this time line alone. He was frightened of how many other time lines might exist.

Broken Heart Policy

2009-04-16T20:26:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Minimium Rage: A Poetry Collection by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Spam Dagger Press in May 2009

Broken Heart Policy

We break
We cry

You break
You buy

Animated Conversation

2009-04-14T23:05:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Animated Conversation by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Colin Campbell books in May 2009

Mark drew caricatures in Stanley Park.

For the price of a nice lunch Mark sketched pictures of tourists visiting Canada for the day via cruise ships. Older men and little boys were transformed into amusingly stoic mounties sitting majestically on their steeds. Couples became nose snuggling Eskimos cuddling on drifting ice flows while pink hearts floated over their heads like snowflakes.

Mark finished the drawing of a little girl from Germany. Her tiny head was now huge with a wide toothy grin and her miniature body paddled in a canoe. In the background were beavers and totem poles.

Her father paid and the girls giggled. Mark looked at the stragglers that had watched the sketch. Often just seeing the cartooning was entertainment enough and nobody stepped up to make the next purchase.

“Anyone else?” asked Mark, surveying the onlookers.

“I’ll go.” Said a young man and he sat in Mark’s folding chair.

He was old enough to grow a beard if he wanted to. The right side of his face had a heavy 5 o’clock shadow even though it was only 11 am.

The left side of his face was tragically burned. The skin had bubbled and scarred like a fleshy Panini. The upper left side of his lip was pulled back in a toothy snarl. He head was spotted with burned patches of skin like crop circles.

“I’m from Vancouver, “ He said “ So you don’t have to put in all the Canadian references, but I am a huge Canuck fan if you want to work with that.”

His lidless glass eye stared at Mark.

“Sure” Mark’s voice cracked.

Mark sharpened his pencils in preparation. This was done in actuality to buy him some time while determining how to approach this.

The goal of a caricature is to exaggerate a person’s features until there is a comical effect.

This guy didn’t need any feature exaggerated. They already overshadowed every part of his life. Every relationship. Every encounter. Every time he came into view of another human being.
Mark drew the outline on his head on the page, a large oval like an upside down egg. His hands shook a bit.

The key to caricature is to keep everything good natured. Don’t exploit every feature on the face. Draw attention to the features they the subject is already comfortable with. Make the pleasant smile wider and happier. Make the eyes brighter and sparkling with a blinging diamond.
Don’t blow up that mole like a basketball. Don’t paint those teeth in traffic slowing yellow.

Don’t be mean.

But there were no safe features here to focus on.

The closest that Mark ever came to this was a British tourist with a nose of Cyrano de Bergerac proportions. Not knowing what else to do Mark reduced the nose by about 20% and dropped it from an eagle perch to a budgie perch.

“He even drew the schnozz.” Laughed the Brit, unaware of how generous Mark had been.

Mark began the draw the young man’s preserved features on the right side of his head. Each one was a preview of the awkwardness to come when he began the left side of his head. He drew a sloppy comic strip ear with a dangling earlobe while thinking about the charred nub of gristle lurking on the left side.

Mark thought back to the caricature class he took at the community college shortly after the animation studio laid him off.

“What do I do when we have to draw really ugly people.” Asked a student with more forethought than Mark.

“Lie” said the instructor “Visually lie.”

But there was no lie he could draw here without erasing the young man’s head.

The onlookers began to shuffle away, embarrassed.

The park was quiet. A Stellar’s Jay laughed.

“So, ” said Mark and cleared his throat “you were in some sort of an accident.”

“No.” He said.

Jesus, the denial is so deep, thought Mark, should I draw anything at all.

“It was no accident, I tried to kill myself. I set myself on fire” Said the young man.

“Good God! Why?” Mark asked it before he had time to consider if this was rude to ask.

“Who knows?” He said. He smiled with his mangled grin.” I broke up with some girl I didn’t belong with and failed out of some program I didn’t belong in.”

“Fair enough.” Said mark. He finished the head with minimal burn tissue sketched. The poor guy didn’t need to be kicked while he was down.

“Anyway,” he continued “It seems so pointless now. That stuff was so meaningless. I used to take everything so serious. Almost killed me. It’s actually kind of funny that I cared about that shit. It’s all so funny. I didn’t even know what real troubles were. I don’t take much serious anymore. It’s all funny now.”

“Good way to live,” said Mark “I started cartooning after dropping out of art school, trying to be a serious artist. I wore a lot of black then.”

The young guy laughed. Drool fell down his lipless chin. “The sad part is now that I found the humour in stuff, everyone treats me so serious. People are afraid to laugh around me."

Mark looked at the caricature he drew.

The injuries were subtle and subdued. It was less of a caricature and more of a respectful portrait.

He drew a flare of yellow and orange flames burning off the top of the young man’s head.
In the background he drew a fire truck full of Keystone Cops style fireman rushing to the scene and two boy scouts held marshmallows on sticks ready for roasting.

“I love it!” He shouted. He grinned as wide as his tight scarred mouth would allow.

Post Script: I don't know what this is but it seems like someone translated this excerpt into another language and then back into English and then posted it on their blog.

Rock and Roll is a Hard Life (Part 2)

2009-04-09T22:48:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt from Rock n. Roll is a Hard Life: a Mitch Metzger Mystery by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Suicide Club books in May 2009

After someone dies you forget lots things about them. You forget a lot negative traits. When Johnny Squeegee died there was an instantaneous memory loss of why he was a considered an inconsiderate jackass just a few moments ago. If there was a Squeegee T shirt anywhere in my top dresser drawers I would have put one on and helped form a larger tribute with Graham.

When someone dies you forget lots of things about them but you also remember a lot weird things about them too. Strange details of Johnny Squeegee rose to the surface of my memory like words floating to the surface of alphabet soup.

Johnny was always in some various stage of facial hair. He was always two or three days into a goatee or a moustache or a soul patch and then he couldn’t commit and he would shave it off. After a few days some new hairy design would start to surface on his face.

Or the memory that the police would often try to confiscate Johnny’s squeegee and say it was stolen from a gas station. As proof he bought a new one and had the receipt laminated. He wore it on a shoelace around his neck like a backstage pass. He was never seen with out it

The strongest memory was what was now going to be known as his last show. The Squeegees were called onstage for an encore. It was something that they rarely gave into because they only knew about forty five minutes worth of songs and they played every song they knew in order to fill out a full set. When it came time for an encore they were tapped out. Tonight Johnny came back on stage and played “Broken condoms and broken promises”. It was the song that they had opened the show with but this time Johnny had dusted off the old ukulele that he used in his busker days.

At first the song got a lot of laughs but it became clear that Johnny didn’t care if was playing on silly little four string Hawaiian guitar covered in punk rock stickers. He played the song with the same alley fight intensity as when he opened the show. He barked out the last few lines in a rage that made them illegible. Ronnie dropped his drumsticks and started punching his cymbols.

Johnny raised the raised the ukulele over his head by it’s neck and then smashed it on the stage. The crowd went insane.

A lot of undeserving musician have become legends after they died. Its an easy joke that death might be the best career move in rock n’ roll. Just ask the Big Bopper. Johnny was one of the few on the scene that didn’t have to die. He was living the life of a legend all along and didn’t even care if you noticed.

He used to give the same over the top ukulele show outside of the Nanaimo sky train station. You just had to wander by.

###

“Good god the phone won’t stop ringing”

My roommate Chuck runs his hands over his face and kneads the heel of hands into his forehead. Chuck drives a cab from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. which makes him a fantastic roommate. He is out all night and he sleeps quietly all day. He wakes up as I get home from work and tells bizarre tales of the drunk passengers from the night before for an hour or two then starts his shift. He is less of roommate and more like a guy that drops by for a few hours in the evening and then pays half the rent.

When a roommate is this agreeable it is a bad thing to drive him crazy with the endless Johnny related phone call that must be flooding the apartment.

Fortunately Chuck has a coping method. He has been up in less time than he needs to make a cup of coffee or to properly tie the front of his robe shut for that matter but he is already to the kitchen table rolling a joint.

“What the hell is going on? Fucking everybody is calling for you. Not just that student loan lady. You win some money or something?” Chuck holds the joint tight in his lips and squints his face up like Popeye then leans down to the red burner on the stove and lights it.

“No, I think everybody wants to talk to me because Johnny Squeegee just died and I’m probably going to be the one that write about it in the Inquisition.”

Chuck holds the rank pot smoke in his lungs and puffs his chest out like a partridge. While he holds it in as long as he can he makes eye contact with me and waves his arms around. He has something he wants to communicate to me it will have to wait the few seconds it takes for the THC to mingle around in his lungs. Finally he lets out a huge cloud in a dramatic exhale.

“Shit, Johnny Squeegee died. I knew those guys. They used to clean my windows whenever I drove by Main and Terminal. Hell, they were hilarious. They were so funny they were the only squeegee kids that customers would make sure to pay them just clean the cabs windows. It was like they were putting on a show.”

“Ya you should have seen the live shows. It was like the Marx Brothers or something.”

“So he O.D.ed?”

“I guess so. Maybe some other kind accident. I don’t even know. He was only twenty, maybe twenty one. What can you die from at that age?”

There was just a natural assumption that he had died of drugs. Graham hadn’t bothered to offer an explanation and I didn’t even think to ask for one.

“Man Alive. That is so young. He was barely old enough to get into a bar.” Says Chuck.

I have just graduated from university and Chuck spent his time after high school saving up enough money to travel South East Asia. We feel like we have learned a lot about life but we are reminded how young we really are when we realize how shocking it is to have someone younger than us die.

“Well that's it,” says Chuck “ I’m not giving any more money to those street kids. I don’t care how funny they are. I give them money and then they o.d. and I feel like I’m responsible. Selfish little maggots” Chuck drops the final remains of the joint in the ashtray and with a moment of stoned dignity he make sure the front of robe is tried shut. I am relieved that he has finally closed it tightly.

The phone rings. “It’s for you.” Says chuck “There are your other messages” he points to scattered system of loose scrap of paper with names and telephone numbers scribbled on them with sleepy handwriting.

“Hello?”

“Mitch?”

“Yes, speaking”

“It’s me it’s Dan. We need to talk.”

“Ya what’s up? I guess you heard about Johnny Squeegee.”

“I guess you did too. It’s really horrible. We wanted to run the last interview he ever gave as the cover story this week. You know as a tribute.”

“Well how about I write a tribute. I could interview all the other musician and people on the scene and we could do that as tribute. People’s memories of him. Almost an oral history of Johnny Squeegee.”

“Every paper in town is going to do that. We need to scoop every one and do it as the last interview with Johnny Squeegee. Make it look like we were the only paper with the street cred that Johnny wanted to talk to.”

Death can bring out strange things in people. In Dan’s case it brought out things like an aging hippie publisher saying words like street and cred. “Do you really think that other papers are going to give that much attention to Johnny Squeegee? We really are the only weekly in town that pays that much attention to punk stuff.”

“Are you kidding me?” asks Dan “ A former street kid makes good, forms a band, and on the eve signing to major label someone kills him. It’s not the kind of story that happens in this city a lot. Even the mainstream papers will cover it. Not just the weeklies.”

My head jerks back a bit. Even sitting at the table Chuck sees that something in the conversation makes my body language jolt and he begins to openly evesdrop trying to hear what words could have made my spine stiffen up like that.

“Wait, wait, wait a minute.” I say “someone killed him. Someone killed Johnny Squegee.”

Chuck lifts up his eyebrows and lets out an exhale.

“I thought you knew,” says Dan “Someone stabbed him. They found his body in the alley behind The Bricks.”

The Bricks was a hardcore bar on the edge of gastown where the tourist blocks met the skid row blocks. It was on the block were the cruise ship passengers spent a few hours before leaving next to those that had no chance of ever leaving.

There is a feeling of shame that it was just assumed that he died of some sort of overdose. Trying to think of something to say that might redeem myself all I come with is “That is going to be a big story. I bet the Sun puts it on the front page.” After that statement the feeling of being cold and shallow grows a little more.

Dan doesn’t notice the callousness of what was just said. “It most certainly will be. That’s why we need to run the interview with him. I don’t know when he was killed. Did you manage to get that interview with him before it happened.”

The directness of Dan’s question is stunning. Talking in such frank business terms seems disrespectful to Johnny’s death but rather than object I just stammer out an answer “No, they never showed up. I waited around but they never came. They were probably upset about Johnny. I don’t know when they found out. I don’t know when he died.”

“That’s okay”

“What’s okay?”

“The interview. We still have the scoop. Even if they never talked to you Janet Mah still has the last interview with Johnny Squeegee.”

“Janet Mah? Why didn’t she say something at the meeting today.” It was strange for Janet to hold out on a chance to scoop me on an interview.

She once scooped me on an interview with a visiting German art rocker. She used a German to English dictionary and wrote out all the questions and then called him in Frankfurt. She read of all the questions phonetically from eight by ten cards and recorded the answers. Later she used the tape and the dictionary to translate the interview word by word. This was all because she heard that I was waiting to have my German friend sit down at the interview and translate rather than attempt the interview on the phone.

“She wasn’t sure of the quality. At the show she was at on Saturday she was interviewing some singer songwriter guy and Johnny Squeegee came up all drunk and grabbed her tape recorder and started talking into it. Bev called me when she hear what had happened” said Dan

“That’s what you are calling the last interview? A drunken rambling into her tape recorder.”

“Well it’s all we have. You didn’t get the interview at the The Only like you planned”

“Well I guess I didn’t. He was dead. If you want I can interview him with my Ouija board.”

Even the garbled jumbled of letters a Ouija board might produce might make more sense than recording of drunken Johnny. Did he even make sense? Would they print the words in the slurred patter he spoke them in? Yesh for yes and wahtchalookinat for hello.

“I know it might not be the best interview but our presence on the punk scene is very important. We need to have the best coverage of this in the city. People will e looking at us so I need to run Janet’s interview and her tribute.”

“Janet wrote a tribute too or is she going to transcribe the message he left on his voice mail?”

“Janet is writing a tribute as we speak and it will be the cover this week” There didn’t seem to be much room for negotiation in the way Dan said that.

“Alright can I write a tribute too.”

“I don’t think there will be room Mitch.”

“Why not? How long is her piece? She hasn’t even written it.”

“She told us that she would take the story elsewhere if we didn’t let her write the tribute we wanted and run it as a cover piece. I think she knows it will make a great clipping. She wants the piece to be 4000 words.”

That many words was unheard of at the Inquisition. The average cover story here ran about 1,500 words. The longest story the Inquisition ever ran was an indulgent 2,000 word piece that was written by Dan himself in 1980 for the John Lennon tribute issue. Foe several pages Dan gave a second by second account of how John Lennon said “hello mate” as he walked past him in central park a few years earlier and how that event changed Dan’s life.

“It is lengthy. I’ll admit that” says Dan

“Lengthy, It’s a bloody novel.”

“Well I agree with her. We need to run the interview.” Just like that I am down graded from the cover story to reviewing a skid row chowder bar.

“Should I hand in my notes to her?”

“No Mitch, don’t be like this. I still want you to run the memories that people have of Johnny. Ask some people for statements.”

“Thank you Dan. How many words do you want?”

“500”

“500? My horoscope is longer than that.”

“Mitch it’s the best I can do. We can run it as a side bar.”

“Alright Dan. I’ll try and make them 500 really good words.”

“You always do. Thanks Mitch.” He hangs up the phone.

Chuck is still sitting at the table. “Wow, you got a raw deal my man” It’s nice that Chuck doesn’t try to insult me with pretending he didn’t just listen to the whole conversation. “I bet your story would have been way better than Bev’s. I’m sorry”

“Thanks man.”

“I’m sorry Johnny died too.”

“So am I. I didn’t really know the guy but I’m sorry.”

I pull up a seat at the table. It is hard to understand that Johnny is dead. That he was murdered. Proximity to murder is something that hasn’t been experienced in my life before. Death is something that has been pretty much avoided in my life.

My grandparents died very early in my youth so it was never really experienced It was like they were always dead and just existed some childhood wonder back when there was still a belief in things like Santa Claus, or Easter Bunnies, or Grandparents.

The only person my age that died was a girl from junior high that had some sort of heart defect. She would go away to the hospital periodically and the trips started getting longer and longer. We were told that she had died on the last trip the hospital but it was more like she had just gone on one more trip and never came. That’s how it felt with Johnny too. I had to keep reminding myself that he was dead and there was hell of a lot of things that twenty year wasn’t going to get to do. Still, I felt more like he had just gone on tour.

We both sat at the table. Chuck in a stoned silence and myself in melancholy one. Finally chuck got up and said “ We’ll I better get ready for work.” His eyes were bloodshot slits.

“Are you okay to drive that cab?” I ask”I don’t know. I better roll one more. I don’t want to get grumpy.”

He giggles and starts twisting some pot in a rolling paper.

Rock n' Roll is a Hard Life (Part 1)

2009-04-07T22:58:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Rock n’ Roll is a Hard Life: A Mitch Metzger Mystery by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Suicide Club Press in May 2009

Since The Squeegees were a band that did everything they could to present themselves as group of homeless punks standing on street corners begging for change my original idea was to interview them at soup kitchen. Ethically It was pretty hard to justify going down to shelter and taking away a couple of bowls of soup from some hard up guys that really needed it just for a gimmicky publicity shot. So it was agreed that the interview would be held the ‘The Only’ seafood restaurant.

‘The Only’ is actually pretty close to being an actual soup kitchen. It is located at number 8 Hastings Street in an area where feral looking drug addicts spend the entire day swaying back and forth on the sidewalk in front of it. None of them even attempt to hide their drug deals with subtle hand offs any more. They pass money and drugs back and forth and then smoke them right there.

“The Only” has a great classic neon sign hanging over top of it with a sea horse lit up by tubes of blue and green gases. The bus to the coffee shop would pass by it every day and the sign would always look cool but it was hard to imagine eating at such a run down seafood diner.

It wasn’t till the Vancouver Sun ran short history of the building that I deemed it worth visiting and its great seafood was discovered. It had been an oyster bar in1911. That may have been when the last coat of paint was brushed on but you can still order a half a crab for eight bucks.

Men coming back from the Great War ate there in the twenties. A block up the street during the Depression out of work men organized at Carnegie Hall then marched down Hasting and on to Ottawa almost causing a revolution. In the 60’s broke draft dodgers ate soup here. That may have been its peak. ‘The Only’ seems to have been on a steady decline for the past 30 odd years.

A group of smelly punks that looked like they had been on a steady decline since birth ought to fit right in.

The bell above the door rings as I step in from the streets out front. ‘The Only” is a very small operation. There are two small curved lunch counters with maybe six stools at each counter and two small booths that seat four each. It’s all in the space of an area the size of most newsstands. Sitting down at the lunch counter the tiny Chinese waitress brings me a cup of coffee, a menu, and smiles at me as if to thank me for coming down to the troubled downtown eastside to spend money.

It’s already ten after two, which means that the Squeegees will be predictably late. Since they refuse to submit to any of societies stupid conforms including the concept of time it’s hard to gage when they will be here.

A creamer is poured drop by drop into my coffee. Each drop of coffee looks like a tiny cumulus cloud in a black coffee sky. With a spoon they are stirred away and the stirring is continued long after the cream is mixed together. Who knows much time is going to have to be killed waiting? I order a clam chowder.

The spoon scrapes across the bottom of the soup bowl and The Squeegees still haven’t arrived.

I flip through my notes on the band to prepare for the interview.

The Squeegees act like they have seriously damaged their brains by huffing glue which is what makes them brilliant.

They are four punks with three chords and maybe two nickels between them. Each of their songs are less than three minutes long not because they want to leave you wanting more but after two minutes you are ready for the next song. Every song is about some simple basic primal want.

They are notoriously under rehearsed so once it was a huge surprise to see them come onstage and place a set list at Johnny’s feet. They looked like they were trying to act professional for once. After the show I realized it was all a joke. The set list read “SEX, DRUGS, AND ROCK AND ROLL”

This basic template for a band doesn’t make The Squeegees any better or worse that the fifty or so other bands that scraped together some instruments and got a few gigs at the downtown eastside punks bars.

Any kid in the suburbs can get it together to form a band. The Squeegees got it together enough to form a brand.

While those other bands were listening to Ramones songs, The Squeegees listened to what made the Ramones great. Before they had even written any songs they changed their names to Jimmy Squeegee, Johnny Squeegee, Derrick Squeegee, and Ronnie Squeegee and designed a logo with a squeegee and a baseball bat crossed like a coat of arms.

They were all met at the corner of Main and Terminal, below the sky train, where they squeegeed car windows for pocket change. Johnny said that he used to make more money as a busker so he saved up enough money for buy a ukulele at a pawn shop. It was easy to learn and simple to carry and people laughed and gave him more money when he played punk standards like London’s Burning on it. People loved to see a big scary punk with a silly little guitar.

It inspired the other three and they were going to buy ukes themselves but Johnny knew if there were other ukulele punks it would ruin the novelty and put them all out of work. He convinced them all to buy other instruments and start a band.

The Squeegees were a marketing force from the beginning.

They hung out at the corner of Main and Terminal and very time the squeegeed a car they handed out a photocopy for the shows they were at. They started to make more money cleaning windows and soon every one with a car in Vancouver heard about this band. They started getting booked at more places. When a carload of kids drove by the kids, they went out of the way to give them some coins. Soon they were pulling in ninety dollars a day in pocket change.

To a nineteen year old kid that only wants a futon to crash on after he drinks himself sick that can seem like a lot of money. They rented a two bedroom slum for the four of them and spent the rest on the band.

They made two thousand stickers with the baseball bat and squeegee logo on it and sold them out at Main and Terminal for three dollars each with a complimentary windshield cleaning.
It made more people come to shows so after that they made another two thousand.
Once while a cop car waited at a red light Johnny slapped a sticker on it and then ran like hell.

The legend grew.

They sold enough stickers to get a thousand t-shirts silk screened and they sold all of them. After a few gigs and more Squeegee money they booked four hours of studio time. 1 a.m. to 5 a.m. when the time was the cheapest. They recorded twenty two songs and it clocked in at thirty six minutes. They pressed one thousand copies of an album called “self titled debut”.

After they paid for it they had to start cleaning windshields again right in from of the studio because they had spent every last penny and couldn’t even buy a 99 cent slice of pizza.

They sold every last copy and now the labels are interested in signing them.

The word on the street is that they are dragging out the process of getting signed because they want the label to take them to more dinners. Maybe this is why they haven’t shown up yet. They have gotten used to a higher standard of food than the The Only.

By three thirty its clear that they are probably not coming but some much time has already been invested that it’s hard to leave. From three thirty to three fifty I try and take some more note to prepare for the article. I fought like hell to pitch this story and now Janet Mah is going to scoop the music section from me.

There is nothing else about the band that can noted so soon the notes just descend into mindless doodles and amateur cartoons.

The cook staggers from the back freezer holding a giant grey halibut to his chest in a fireman’s carry and throws it down on the kitchen counter that is clearly visible from the lunch counter. He starts hacking into it with a cleaver like the fish owes him a great deal of money or slept with his wife.

There is no longer any reason to watch this. After two hours it’s time to take a stand.

If those guys don’t want a free bowl of clam chowder it’s their loss but I’m not waiting around any longer.

Outside the sky is a typical grey Vancouver overcast. The colourless sky clashes with garish red and yellow of the Chinatown storefronts. The sidewalk is crowded with produce that is rarely seen out side of this part of the city. Buckets of sea cucmbers. Plastic tubs of razor clams. What looks like an entire family of BBQ duck, descending on order of size hang in a shop window by their beaks. One man has small speaker and and a microphone and patters about his great produce in Chinese. Every now and then he throws in an odd English word like “John Wayne” or “ Big Mac” and it seems impossible to even guess what he might have been talking about.

From Chinatown it was a sharp right turn onto Main Street. The fact that these ungrateful little punks stood me up make me too mad to hop on the bus. It seems better walk the entire length of Main and burn off some of the anger.

At Main and Terminal I stopped for a minute or two and looked for the band. Maybe they were out working the intersection but they were nowhere to be seen. With the label wining and dining them talking to coffee server slash music writer is beneath them, so wiping bug innards off a Volvo must be out of the question.

The only evidence of their presence down at their old place of work is the fact that The Squegees stickers are plastered all over flat surface available. They are on newspaper boxes, the bus stops, even on the garbage can. The only place you didn’t see stickers was on the Starbuck located under the sky train tracks. Obviously they were slapped there but diligent employees peeled them off the corporate surfaces for a few dollars an hour.

The only other reference to the group was on one of the concrete pillars that held the skytrain track in the air. The pillar was scribbled all over like front of a high school student’s textbook. Mostly there were illegible graffiti tags with the letters twisted and bent into hip hop hieroglyphics but there was the occasional cuss work or anger fuelled political slogan like “Fuck you fucking pig cop.”

In the middle of this someone had written “EVEN IN HEAVEN JOHNNY CANT SQUEGEE THE TARNISHED HALO CLEAN” Assumedly this was from a Squeegee’s song.

It seemed a bit maudlin for Squeegees lyrics. Most of their lyrics began with phrase I WANNA and then something involving drugs, sex, or maybe rocking.

Maybe they were trying to reach a larger audience if they were going to get signed to label.

Maybe should take advantage of national distribution pull in some of that disposable teenage girl income.

Maybe I’m just grumpy because they didn’t show up.

From terminal I hike up Main. It’s a long slow haul up a steeply grade hill to Broadway and the street gets trendier as the altitude increases. The shops change from industrial suppliers to cafes that serve vegan food and play industrial music. At the corner of Main and Broadway there are three espresso slash internet joints on four corners of the intersection.

Standing outside of the coffee shop on the left side of the street is Graham. He is pulling on a cigarette like a doctor told him he didn’t smoke he might die. Graham works the espresso bar there and when I’m buying coffee, we share stories about the idiot customers at our prospective coffee jobs. He probably has some other ambition but he hasn’t told me what it is yet.

He is wearing a black squeegees T shirt and it makes him look like he has a bit of a belly.

As I walk towards him Graham gives me a bit of a nod in acknowledgement as a way of saying hello.

“Nice shirt” I say

“It’s a bit of a tribute,I guess."

“Those guys are a pack of jackasses”

“What?” Graham looks at me wide blinking eyes. He seems at in disbelief like I just walked up to him and punched him in the nose and he is trying to decide how to react.

“I was supposed to you interview those dicks today at The Only and they never showed up. I just sat around at the dive for two hours. Selfish asses.”

Graham keeps staring at me with a look of confusion. He never appeared to be such a squeegees fan but it doesn’t look like he likes any criticisms of them. He raises his cigarette to his mouth, stops and pauses like he is about to say something, changes his mind and takes a drag and then says “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Johnny Squegee is dead.”

The Ghost Tweeter

2009-04-02T21:43:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from The Ghost Tweeter by Ben Shakey. It will be published by T. Dolby Press in May 2009

When Andrew became the first American to win the Osaka Cherry Blossom Haiku contest he thought it might look good on his next grant application.

He didn’t expect to be called to the home of the musician, and notorious screw up before the paparazzi cameras, named Havoc and offered employment.

The work was offered by Havoc’s assistant even though Havoc sat in the same room refusing to communicate with anything other than points of the chin and nods from his faux hawked head.

“Since you are able to express large artistic terms within small confines, Havoc would like to hire you to write his Twitter updates. We will pay you $50 an update with a minimum of 5 updates a day.

Andrew rarely received more than $15 for any poem he actually sold. He accepted that day and quit his job at the bookstore.

He never used Twitter before and he wasn’t really sure what the point was but the challenge of such a small canvas was appealing.

“Just follow Havoc around” said the assistant “and then write it up. He doesn’t have time for that shit.”

Andrew was amazed at the shit that Havoc did have time for.

Andrew began his updates.

Havoc just took another Xanax.

Havoc is watching homemade pornography with women of undetermined age.

Havoc is buying into 9/11 conspiracy theory as he tragically uninformed.

The assistant called him to a spare room.

“Is this shit supposed to be funny?” He yelled “Just write about his feelings and connect to his fans – and for fuck’s sake don’t write about illegal shit!”

Andrew never talked to Havoc before. He had no idea what feelings to write about.

He watched Havoc slumped on the sofa, mid-day, watching Scarface again. The curtains were drawn while two blondes sat on either side of him. One rubbed his shoulders after trying to achieve a contact high of fame. The other dropped a pill into his mouth like a candy.

Andrew wrote the update: “Havoc is held in cage of loneliness”

Neither the Havoc nor the assistant said anything.

After a few days it was clear that neither were reading this and Andrew felt safe writing anything.

Havoc is as empty as a dry coffee mug.

Havoc is breaking like the light returning from an eclipse.

Havoc is fading like a rained on snowman.

Soon he stopped meeting with Havoc at all. Havoc and the entourage travelled to Europe for two weeks. Andrew stayed in LA writing updates

Havoc is transcending, rising like a drowned diver’s final breathe.

“What is this shit!” yelled the assistant. He held a NY times profile in his hand with the headline “HAVOC: POET OF TWITTER”

Andrew was fired and returned to the bookstore, although they could only offer a part time position now.

A little before closing he saw a guy wearing a pork pie hat and an undershirt that cost more than any single belonging of Andrew’s. It was Havoc.

His eyes were red and he was high or had been crying or possibly both.

“I read your twitter updates” he said “How did you know that stuff about me?”

“I didn’t,” said Andrew “I wrote about myself. The personal is universal.”

Havoc nodded like he was giving Andrew some sort of approval that was never asked for.

“What the fuck’s a haiku?” asked Havoc.

Andrew thought about how to explain this. Many of the responses in his head sounded condescending so he tried to keep it straight forward.

“It’s a short Japanese poem. It only has 17 syllables so has a small space to evoke a very specific image within. It also has to have a seasonal reference. A lot of them refer to various flowers blooming to establish that.”

“That’s a lot to get across in 17 syllables.” nodded Havoc.

“You’d be surprised at what you can do.” said Andrew.

“Dude, I read your fucking haikus. I love it bro. I’ve been setting them to music. Can we cut a deal?”

“Well, I can’t imagine a song based on haiku that would be more than 17 seconds long.” explained Andrew.

“Ya, it’s the perfect length. I already have a bunch of ringtone providers signed on. It’s the first single written specifically for a ringtone.”

Andrew never applied for a grant again.

Dig Infinity

2009-03-31T21:11:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Dig Infinity by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Digital Books in April 2009.

Digger pulled off his socks and placed his left foot on the chopping block. He gripped the axe in his hand.

He curled back his Big toe. He curled back his little toe. His still thought of it as his pinky and he tried to correct his thinking to the more mature phrase of ‘little toe’. He really wanted to call it the little piggy that ran wee, wee, wee all the way home and then call for his mommy and his blanky as he was terrified into childlike state where he might actually wet his pants.

He looked at the three remaining toes that were not curled back and resting on the chopping block like French aristocrats before the guillotine.

Digger had three options.

He could become a conscientious objector and someone would be sent to Viet Nam in his place.

He could dodge to Canada and never see his family or country again.

Both of those options seemed oddly cowardly as well as ineffective.

Nobody ever talked of the third option.

The U.S. Army stated that anyone missing three toes on the same foot was not physically fit to serve.

He knew other guys that tried to fail the physical on purpose by claiming to be bed wetters or queers. The draft board saw right through them and they were shipped off the South East Asia, possibly that afternoon.

Well there was no seeing through this.

Nothing cowardly either.

The axe fell and Diggers toes slipped off like a pair of dirty socks.

They called him Digger because he dug everything, but after the ‘accident’ he didn’t dig surfing as much since his balance was off but he still hung out at the beach with his surf buddies.

He didn’t work but he managed to collect a little extra on his welfare due to his disability and he used that to buy extra drugs so there was usually someone willing to let him couch surf which wasn’t exactly surfing in the Pacific but it was good.

Eventually everyone got married, or jobs, or kids, or even rehab and he became the old guy on the beach looking for a place to crash. He moved on to straight up dealing since the only reason people wanted to hung out with an old toeless hippy talking about the old days on the beach was for the drugs anyways.

He finally found a place to crash for 4 years. The state penitentiary.

He was eventually evicted and was then even less employable and more addicted.

He curled fetal on the sidewalk, placed an empty cup in front of him and stuck out his damaged foot for passersbys to see. He wrote on his cardboard sign: WOUNDED IN THE VIET NAM WAR

A Bird in The Hand (Part 2)

2009-03-26T23:21:00.000-07:00

The following is the second of two excerpts from A Bird in the Hand by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Will Jordan books in April 2009

The police were waiting for me when I got home.

“Mr. Rogers?” said the cop.

“Please call me Ian,” I said “I know you mean it as respect but it’s impossible to say Mr. Rogers without sounding sarcastic or like a children’s show puppet.”

He didn’t even smile when most people would give me at least a courtesy laugh at that line.

“Mr. Rogers” he said and ignored me “where were you last night?”

“I was doing surveillance on a client form 9 pm until the morning.”

“Was there anyone that can confirm your exact whereabouts? A witness to this?”

“I hope not. It’s pretty hard to do surveillance when people can see you”

“And who were you watching?”

There was a pause. It was long enough to consider if I wanted to continue with this and long enough for the police officer to move into what is called the interview stance where he tries to look like he is casually and thoughtfully placing his finger on his chin but is actually move his hand so that it can quickly block a strike or reach for his weapon. I didn’t like that he was considering that I might feel the need to strike or force him to draw.

“Uhhm Do I have to tell you this?” I asked “Is there like, client confidentiality or something?” I knew that there wasn’t but I wasn’t sure if he knew.

“That only works for lawyers and priests.” He said

“Her name was Jill Flynn.”

“So you were watching Jill Flynn. All night.” He said, recapping the conversation. “Did you enter her house?”

“No, I’ve never even met her.”

“Never met her once? Gave her a business card? Anything like that?”

It was pretty clear where this was going.

“Is Jill Okay?” I asked

“Was she okay last night? You were watching her from 9 pm until morning. Did she seem okay then?”

He moved on. He never answered my question. Which meant she was dead. He was waiting for me to say it first. It was an old cop trick. Act like he said that she was dead but never actually say it and maybe later I would slip up. Maybe even mention the way the she died and therefore admit prior knowledge.

I knew better than to act like I knew it but it was safe to say that Jill Flynn was murdered and my business card was in her house and I just admitted to being outside her house as long as the night shift at the mill.

“Who hired you to watch this woman?” asked the cop.

“Some guy named Ken.” I said

“Does Ken have a last name?” He opened his notebook and he was poised with a tiny wooden golf pencil to write down the name.

“I don’t know his last name. At first I thought that he was George Bush but I just found out that he is only some guy from Staples.” I didn’t realize how insane that sounded until right now.

The cop bit his lip for second and thought about how to word his next question.

“Okay,” he said “Why would the president come to you?”

“I know this sounds crazy but he wanted me to find Osama Bin Laden.” I said. I realized that also sounded crazy - and not crazy like ‘look at that guy krunk’ but crazy like a legal defence.

I tried to elaborate more “You see it wasn’t like he said that Osama was at her house or anything. He told me that she was sending messages from Osama on cassette tapes.”

“So George Bush told you that she had cassette tapes that contained messages from Osama Bin Laden?” He asked. I should have shut up. I was making myself sound more and more unstable.

“Kind of” I said. I didn’t want to but I let a nervous laugh slip. I’m sure the cop here a maniacal laugh.

“Were you aware that two weeks ago Jill Flynn called from that house saying that a man of you description was parked outside here house photographing her?” He put the note pad away. He didn’t really seem to care what my answer was.

I didn’t even bother answering the question. There was no point. Anyone could make that call two weeks ago and make me look like a stalker. Anyone could hire a Bush impersonator and make me sound delusional. Anyone can hire a private eye and stake him out at the scene of the crime.

The set up was complete. Wheels were set in motion.

“I think I want to talk to a lawyer” I said

“We can set that up at the station” Said the cop. He pulled the handcuff from his belt.

First thing was asking my lawyer to do was to see if Jill Flynn was recently divorced. I should have known along that this would never be about terrorism. People only see me about unfaithful marriages.

A Bird In The Hand (Part 1)

2009-03-24T23:17:00.000-07:00

The following is the first of two excerpts from A Bird In the Hand by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Will Jordan book in April 2009.

Private detective work is basically sitting in a car and taking pictures of cheating spouses.

There is no jumping from bridges onto ferries. No screaming “Don’t you die on me!” at a fallen partner.

A more important skill than shooting a moving target is the ability to drink enough coffee to stay awake with having to go to the john.

There isn’t even any suspense. Once someone feels the need to hire a private detective it’s likely that their spouse is playing in the off season.

All the suspense I encounter is in Ross MacDonald books while sitting in a car up the street and feeling my ass grow wide with drive thru food.

So he seemed like any other schlub when he entered my office in the strip mall.

He wandered in through the back alley entrance that was open due to the lack of AC.

“Hey there,” he nodded once and sat down with an air of comfort like he was sitting in his living room.

He looked like any other retired guy old enough to remember black and white TV. He wore a windbreaker and an old Texas Rangers baseball hat. He wore sunglasses that made him self conscious and blue jeans that didn’t fit right in either the waist or leg or possibly both.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“Yes, “he said “You probably do but I am not sure if you are Ian Rogers.” He reached over and picked up one of the business cards of my desk. “Yep, guess you are.” He said and put it in his pocket.

“You still haven’t told me who you are.” I said

He took off his hat and glasses, raised his eyebrows at me as if posing a question and smiled at me.

He was George W. Bush.

“You’re the President.” I said.

“Was the president.” He said “and I got some unfinished business. Just between you, me, and the wall, the mission was not accomplished.”

“So you’re hiring me?”

“Yep, to find Osama Bin Laden.”

“This is ridiculous. Quit wasting my time. I work hourly so get out.” I’ve seen enough YouTube clips of Borat and Howie Mandel making someone look foolish because they didn’t want to appear rude. I swore if it was me I wouldn’t play along.

“So if you don’t believe me maybe some other presidents will do.” The line sounded over rehearsed and he seemed very pleased with himself. He tossed a brown paper bag on the desk.

“There is $4000 there. I can offer you whatever amount you need to finish this job. This rat has been off the leash too long. I can’t use intelligence anymore and I was close. No offense, but I can’t even use the best P.I. for the job. Gotta go mid level or it will draw too much attention to me. Hell, the fellas think I’m eatin’ at the Fish n’ Chip place next door. Had to sneak out back and then into here.”

I wanted to ask why a rat would be on a leash.

“I don’t know what someone like me can do.” I said “I can’t really start tailing some guy that lives in Afghanistan.”

“No I want you to follow this woman.” He handed me a piece of paper with the name Jill Flynn and an address on it. “She is believed to be distributing Osama messages in the U.S.A. on cassette tapes. Very old school.”

“Okay” I said and suddenly agreed to this without realizing it.

“I have a cell phone number. It’s the only way to contact me. It’s a pay as you go thing I bought at a 7-11. I’ll pitch it when we are done. Totally untraceable. I can’t let anyone know I have a connection to this. Understand.”

“Yep.” I said. I was starting to talk like him. We were like two comedians doing bad impressions.

“I’ll meet with you every morning at the MacDonald’s across the street. People will think I’m jogging.”

He got up and walked out to the back alley, never looking back once.

That night I parked down the street from Jill’s house. Nobody came or went but she looked out the windows a lot, almost like she was watching for someone.

I read a Bob Woodward book, eyes straining to grasp some light from a street lamp while realizing I missed a lot over the last two terms. It was easy to forget that this guy was more than a collection of mispronunciations.

In the morning I followed her to the call center she jockeyed the phones at. Then I went home, shaved, and drove to Mickey D’s.

The President was sitting in a booth looking like any other senior grabbing free refills. The Mayor MacCheese statue seemed more presidential than him.

I gave him a few details picked up over the night but nothing that could make her look like a terrorist mastermind. He was impressed anyway.

“You are a regular Magnum P.I. there, I gotta be careful you don’t tail me.”

I thought about that after as he was jogging away.

Maybe I would see if I was good enough to tail the President.

He ran two blocks to a parked Volvo. He then drove across town to a duplex townhouse with an above ground swimming pool in the back yard. I parked up the block. There were no secret service men about.

He returned after the news, sports, and weather on the radio. Listeners called in very upset that on Sunday a man dropped a football and they had seen this. He was now wearing black pants and red vest. He drove to large stationary box store.

I waited in the parking long enough for the morning DJ duo to announce the celebrity birthdays today and then sing a Doors parody called “Drivers on Cell Phones”. Then I went in.

“Can I help you?” asked a kid in vest.

“Uhmm, I’m looking for George W. Bush?”

“Oh,” he laughed “You must be looking for Ken.”

“Ken?”

“Ya, he works part time as a George Bush impersonator.”

Old Man Cooper

2009-03-19T21:19:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt from Outlaw Poetry: a collection of poetry about outlaws by Ben Shakey. It will be published by F & J Howard Books in April 2009

Old Man Cooper

Never spent one dollar

So Relaxed
The stewardess thought he was flirting
not taking hostages

The plane landed and took off again

Hands didn’t shake once
as he drank scotch
smoked cigarettes
counted money
checked parachute
stepped into the loading bay doors

Hands didn’t shake once
as he tightened the necktie blown loose in the wind
and leaped

“The F.B.I. reports that D.B Cooper most likely died in the descent.”

He lived
brought no attention
worked empty jobs
told boring jokes
kept the lawn even
and hung up flashing Christmas lights

Never spent one dollar

Drank scotch
and his hands shook
“What did die in the fall from that plane?”

Deep Joke (part 2)

2009-03-17T22:55:00.000-07:00

This is the second of two excerpts from Deep Joke by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Mark Katz Press in April 2009

I ate dinner at home. Beans on toast. This month I spent a lot of money that was coming in from the Johnny Dillon article. Then he goes and kills himself. Why does everything happen to me?

Oh ya, and Johnny too. I guess he is the real tragedy in this story. Him and the beans on toast.

I ate dinner and hung out for a while thinking about the video fanboy showed me.

It didn’t prove Johnny was murdered.

It did prove that Johnny knew someone in the administration that was feeding him insider information.

Maybe it was an intern trying to impress someone on television and didn’t know very much.

Maybe it was someone that knew much, much that could get someone killed.

Maybe he jumped.

I thought about it till the Daily Show came on and after that drove to the Joker's Wild Komedy Club. I wasn't sure if the Comedy with a K meant it was extra wacky or if it meant this stuff couldn’t legally be referred to as comedy.

It was amateur night and the owner said he couldn't talk till after the show. I wasn’t going to hang around until then watching new comics tell old jokes downloaded off the internet.

It is mandatory to mention Johnny’s early club days in any profile. Johnny started out as a prop comic.

In the hierarchy comedians, the props comics are an untouchable caste. They hover somewhere below pedophiles and just above mimes.

Johnny spent four years working the comedy club circuit, pulling stuff out of trunks and telling puns. Then the President was elected. According to Johnny, nobody else addressed that a war criminal, poon hound, and general moron was in office so he to. Overnight he channelled his rage, dressed in black, paced the stage like a chain smoking panther, and told elaborate jokes about the Monroe Doctrine. His only props were obscenities and the first amendment.

It was said that the President was such a failure that if he didn’t exist comedian would invent him. In this case the president invented Johnny Dillon.

By the time I arrived the last comic took the stage. The MC said they saved the best for last. I was glad I waited at home. I guess some things are sadder than beans on toast.

The owner took me to his office.

“You want a drink” He waved a beer at me.

“No Thanks”

“Oh I guess you missed the show,” he said. “If you stayed you would want a drink.” He took a swig. “Some people drink to forget their misery. I drink to forget my comedy. New Talent Night. Uggh!” He took another deeper swallow.

“What can you tell me about Johnny when he was here?” I asked.

“Well, he always ranted about the truth so I’ll give you that. When he was here, he was average. Not terrible. Not great, but average. Jokes weren’t clever, nut they were accessible, if you know what I mean. You always got them . He had some presence. Nice guy. But I had no idea he would get so good. I normally have a good eye for potential but he snuck past me.”

I wrote notes as quickly as I could.

“I have some old tape if you want to look”

For come reason he still had a VCR in his office. I wondered how much longer the Joker would be open. He put on the tape.

On the TV screen a younger, paler, awkward version of Johnny bound on the stage. He wore khakis which was an offence punishable by death according to the older Johnny Dillon.

“This is a Driver’s Licence for when you cash that giant check after you win the lottery.” He pulled a huge cardboard I.D. out of the trunk on his stage.

Neither of us laughed. The club owner took another swig of his beer. Johnny left the stage. “That’s my time, good night.”

“Where is the remote? “Said the owner and he searched the office while the next comic on the tape stepped up to the mic.

He was skinny and wearing a bow tie and a wine coloured sweater vest.

His eyes were gunning and he clenched his jaw like a boxer’s fist. In many ways being that young and wearing a bow tie was more rebellious than a room full of tattoos and faux hawks.

“Let’s talk about the recent reform to separation of church and state regarding our school system and the teaching of evolution,” He spat.

He was like a pissed off Mark Russell.

“First they came for Twain and I said nothing, then they came for Darwin and I said nothing, then they came for Copernicus—"

“There!” Said the owner. He found the remote and shut of the screen.

“That last dude, you get many guys telling Copernicus jokes in here?” I asked

“Oh no,” the owner shook his head “Just Jack, even his dick jokes were smart. He was guy I thought would make it long before Johnny did.”

“What’s he doing now?” I asked

“He’s got the greatest day job in the world. He’s the President’s joke writer.”

“What?”

“When he doesn’t want to answer something at a press conference, avoid strait answers, Jack feeds him the lines. I hear Reagan had 50 of them working for him.” Explained the owner

I just found Johnny’s source.

When I told Jack Bird that Entertainment Journal was calling for an interview he responded immediately. I didn’t mention Johnny Dillon.

The interview was scheduled for before breakfast. He needed to meet the President later. It was great for me. Normally I had to wait for dusk to meet a club comic and even then they would still be groggy as they drank their morning coffee.

Jack was bit older than on the tape. His hair was a bit thinner and his face a bit wider, but he still had his bow tie.

“So” I said “You were Johnny Dillon's man on the inside.”

He smiled and leaned back and then took a sip of his coffee.

“I guess someone had to put it together.”

“Ya, you sent him the inside information, he wrote the jokes, and when the government found out they had him killed”

The coloured drained from his face. He leaned over and turned on the tape recorder on the tape recorder on the table. “I want to make sure you get this” he said “#1, fuck you. #2 Johnny wrote nothing. I wrote every one of those jokes. Everything you laughed at, everything you told co-worker about at the water cooler, that was me.”

“So why didn’t the government kill you too?” I asked

Jack threw his arms up in frustrated defeat. “The government doesn’t kill late night comedians.
What kind of journalist are you?”

“I’m not a journalist.” I was an entertainment writer.

“I’m not really a killer either. I can defend my property and those jokes were my property. More valuable that my car or wallet. They were beautiful. You should lay them out on a piece of black felt like a diamond and Johnny would get all coked up and tell them wrong. It was like seeing someone hit your god damn kid. And then he wanted to drop my stuff and start telling his own political shit. He thought Nixon was one of Santa’s reindeer. ”

“Johnny was pushed?” I asked. It sounded sarcastic, like it was reading it off one of those t-shirts but I was sincerely shocked.

“Ya Bernstein” He rolled his eyes.

“But why confess?” I asked “I didn’t put it together.”

“I think I finally deserve some credit here. The one guy that gets close is an idiot that wants to give Johnny all the credit. Johnny was a prop. He told the jokes that the President’s joke writer could never tell. Imagine being the only comedian in the country that couldn’t make fun of that clown.”

“Well, you're going to be out of a job now.” I dialled the police on my phone.

“Thanks,” he said “That’s my time.”

Deep Joke (Part 1)

2009-03-12T23:06:00.000-07:00

This is the first of two excerpts from Deep Joke by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Mark Katz Press in April 2009

I am not a journalist.

I am an entertainment writer.

I ask questions like “How did you prepare for being a pirate?” or “What was it like filming in Canada?” or “What makes you laugh?”

I don’t ask for the truth and don’t even want it.

I forgot that I even went to school to learn to ask questions until Johnny Dillon threw himself off his hotel room balcony and onto the valet sandwich board.

My interview regarding Johnny’s stand-up special was scheduled for that morning I arrived about 3 lines of coke and 30 odd floors too late.

“If you arrived 15 minutes earlier it would be his last interview” bitched my editor.
Entertainment Journal love dead people. There are so many dead people on the cover it ought to be called Entertainment Graveyard. “We need to put together a career overview to fill the space. You got all the notes on him. See what we can pull from this shit pile.”

When writing a tribute piece you need comments so gushy and soft they can barley fit between quotation marks without pouring down the page. The moderator of his official fan page would be a good start.

The fan boy was a college kid. Most of his fans were in college. They were just figuring out the world and what they were figuring out is that it wasn’t fair.

Johnny announced that the world wasn’t fair in the most caustically funny way possible without actually throwing a temper tantrum.

“Johnny was like, the perfect journalist” said the fan boy. “ He could give you the fact but he could say that this is fucked up. If Tom Brokaw could end the evening news by saying ‘everything is fucked, trust no one’ we wouldn’t need a Johnny Brokaw.

Johnny’s career was based on him telling the truth, I guess. He mostly just complained about the President. The President was a comedian’s wet dream. He was embroiled in an unwanted war, a financial crisis, and a sex scandal. He had a bizarre Boston accent that made impressions of him very easy and he had no control of his hands. At least once at every public appearance he would drop something or trip. He was sworn in with a mustard stain on his shirt.

Johnny moved beyond the superficial attacks on the Presidents appearance though. He made intelligent political observations and then wrapped them up in dirty jokes.

There was a reason that a young activist poli sci student was running his fan page.

“Johnny never backed down. He was afraid of nothing” said the fan boy.

“He was afraid of something. Not heights, but let’s not glamorize this. He was afraid of living.”

“He never jumped. He was murdered.”

Of course, here we go. A guy like Johnny kills himself and the conspiracy theories explode. By this time tomorrow the head shops will be full of “Johnny was pushed” t-shirts.

“I saw the hotel room. I was there to interview him. It was covered in half snorted lines of blow and empty vodka bottles, and the weirdest thing was a stack of porn the height of me.”

“But you didn’t see this.” Said the fan boy “he turned to his dorm room computer and loaded a video clip. “This is his last performance.”

Johnny staggered around the stage like he was tacking on the deck of an America’s Cup entry. He was dressed all in black, like a jester Johnny Cash, with the dark colours trying to hide a beer gut. He held the mic too close to his mouth and I could hear him breathing into it.

“The president has announced that schools should not only teach an alternative philosophy to evolution but to Copernicus as well. I think in his version it’s not just earth, but actually America, that’s the center of the fucking universe.”

I guess it could have been funny if he didn’t slur the punch line. So far the footage supported my theory more than fanboy’s.

“So,” I said “You think that the creationists killed him.”

“That performance was 3 days before the President announced his terracentric policy. Johnny knew too much.

Like a Drown’d Man, a Fool, and a Madman

2009-03-09T23:40:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is from Like a Drown’d Man, a Fool, and a Madman by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Oldcastle Books in April 2009

“Hello my name is Falstaff and I have been sober for a fortnight.

This isn’t long to most people, not even the length of a moon’s phase, but it is the longest dry spell in my memory.

I remember my first drink though. I carried a bucket of ale to my father and his friends roasting fish on the shoreline. People rarely think of me as a fisherman’s son and even then I was out of place. I was an awkward, chubby lad and they teased that I would fall in the other fishermen would think I was a fatty seal stealing their catch.

Carrying the Ale, I drank some, and was smelling drunk by arrival. I told my father I spilled most of the bucket. He laughed and said I spilled most down my throat. My mother started wailing that father was leading me down his same crooked path and then he yelled at her and I cried and then she cried and we all staggered about drunk and the others at the meal yelled that we were all here for merriment and then I sang and danced and everyone said my good cheer and entertainment saved the evening.

So that was that.

Alcohol opened the curtains to drama and comedy and song and attention heaped on me. It was everything found in one of those Shakespeare plays I appeared in but in convenient elixir form.
Or used to appear in. I don’t see Will much anymore. He used to talk to me and set my tales in his plays.

I don’t see the people I used to. I used to be friends of royalty and upper crusts but lately the people I see on a regular basis are not the people I call friends. The people I see are not even people I particularly enjoy being around. They are merely people that will drink with me.

But I didn’t care as long as there were drinks. I once brought life to the tale of the Merry Wives of Windsor but by Henry V I am barely a passing reference. I didn’t even care to meet Will and load him with tales for that one. I preferred to be drinking.

Nor was I missed. I was ale itself. Liquor embodied. At first lively and celebratory but soon sickening and making your head splinter. I was not a provider the way that water was.

Just ask my son.

I knew for a long while it was time to stop.

I woke with my chest heaving under my own weight and my head cleaved open like it was set on an anvil.

But exiting my house, I didn’t know where to go. Every day I visited the public house. I sang there and joked there. What else do I do? I am Falstaff and as if to confirm this fact the moment I entered the Tavern people shouted my name and thrust drinks in my open hands.

One day you’ll wake up dead I thought but drank anyway.

Waking up dead is not just a turn of phrase. Physician often pronounce men and women dead as they are still and unresponsive and even blue long the lips when they are only ill and in a deathlike sleep. They revive in their coffins and scream and scratch at the wood. This is why gypsies and other superstitiously inclined people tell tales of vampires.

I awoke in a coffin. It was dark as death’s cloak and due to my girth I could not move my arms or legs more than a few inches.

So many people are buried alive due to this mistake that corpses are suppressed with a string tried around their wrist so that as they struggle the string will pull a bell tied to their tombstone and alert the gravedigger to release them.

I felt the string and pulled and pulled. The bell was surely ringing. Nobody came.

I pulled more and more but there was no noise from above. Perhaps my large size filled the coffin so much that I could not move enough to ring the bell.

I tried not to panic but started swinging my arm wildly and tore my skin against the wooden box.

All I thought was, I need a drink.

Finally I heard the shovels move through the dirt above me and I was saved by the bell.

“Where were you?” I asked the digger “Were you not on graveyard shift listening for the chimes?”

“I was sir,” he said “But you being Falstaff, your death seemed so probable that I monitored other portions of the yard.”

I couldn’t argue.

I walked home. It was a beautiful English morning. I had not seen morning for some time and lying in the darkness of the coffin I assumed it was blackest midnight.

Songbirds sang. The sunlight fell with an almost physical, tangible weight.

I was granted the gift of a second life. I returned from death. This of course, meant that I could get a drink. Lazarus was buying.

I entered the darkness of the pub.

“Well, you look like the departed Sir Falstaff!” said a regular at the bar.

“Just like him,” I said “A real dead ringer” and we cheered in laughter.

“Then let me buy you a drink!”

I told the story of the coffin several times as more drunkenness arrived. I must say that the tale improved as the liquor contributed to its construction.

“My funeral must have been something. What did Shakespeare say?”

“He never attended” It turned out the King did neither. Only wife and my son, who cried and I that point still thought me dead. I went for a drink without even thinking to inform him of my resurrection.

“What did you fellows say?”

“Oh we never attended either. We came here and drank a toast in your honour.”

Everyday there was something to toast. I knew that toasts and often lead.

No one attended my funeral. No took a day of the drink for my death. Not even me.

I had the gift of life and spent the morning drunk.

I looked around the pub.

Outside were sunshine and green trees and in here was as shadowed as in a coffin.

The regular’s eyes were as lifeless as vampires.

That was a fortnight ago.

BEAT MAIL: e-mail from my mother that looks like Beat Poetry

2009-03-04T21:28:00.000-08:00

The following excerpt is from BEAT MAIL: e-mail from my mother that looks like Beat Poetry. It will be published by Cut – Up Books in April 2009

Arizona

Thanks so much for the cute picture of Grandson painting
He is growing toooooo fast! & is so cute
Unfortunately couldn't open the others
Rode route 66 today & went to a place back in time called Oatmen
Wait till you see the pictures, was fun
Wild burro's quite tamed now all over the main dirt street as people can buy carrot's & feed them
Really have to watch where you step
& then there's the gunfight that takes place on the street
Will see you soon Head home Friday
Glad all is well with all of you

Bill Murray In Paris

2009-03-02T23:28:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from Bill Murray In Paris by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Jefferson Books in April 2009

A single sheet of paper hung from the classroom door.

CLASS CANCELLED

SORRY!

The other students seemed happy or relieved.

‘I didn’t come here to impress my parents or to feel grown up. This is for my enjoyment. I’m figuring stuff out. I don’t care about what they think. I don’t care about Hollywood or Box Office or Awards. ‘ he thought.

He stomped down the front steps. Students and pigeons scattered in fear.

He marched towards the Metro. “I’ll study at home then.’ He thought.

The sun was almost directly overhead. There was still half the day left. At the French language class that morning he felt productive but it was the philosophy classes where he really felt inspired.

His French was more functional now.

“Excellent” said the instructor “But there is a slight problem with your accent. Although you pronounce everything correctly, you make everything sound like a joke. Even a plain and straight forward sentence sounds funny from you.”

“No, I have the same problem in English.”

She laughed.

“See what I mean. “ He said.

It was noon and he was hungry, maybe a baguette at the bakery. They cost mere pocket change but when they were fresh and crusty and pulled right off the bakery shelf they tasted better than anything at the fine, fine restaurants he had eaten at and could never have imagined himself in while working through school as a caddy.

No bakery in sight, he sat down at a cafe and ordered a quiche and a glass of wine. It was a spring day in Paris and he was eating rich cheese and mushroom and pastry on the boulevard and Bossa Nova music was playing and a beautiful French woman walked past in capris and a t shirt, swinging her hips like something out of Goddard movie.

Maybe there were worse things than wasting an afternoon in Paris.

On the wall was a photo of Hemmingway sitting at the bar. The first time he sat at a restaurant where Papa drank it was thrilling, like pulling up a chair to the movable feast, but after a few months in Paris it seemed that every bar or restaurant had a legitimate claim to Earnest drinking there.

“That man was drunk” He declared and ordered another glass of wine and contemplated growing a beard.

He read more and basked in the sun. A man in a very skinny tie let his dog crap on the sidewalk in front of him. Here it felt charming yet it would have been disgusting in Chicago.

“Are you....” asked the waiter and his voice trailed off.

“Non” he answered in French. The waiter laughed. Maybe he was funnier in French.

“Well, the owner would like the Ghost Buster to have a complimentary bottle of wine.”

“Mais Oui, then I am him” he said.

He drank and read and left a large tip.

He was not on TV here so he was recognized less which meant there were even less perks which made them fun again.

The wine may have affected his next move.

He bought a beret which on him looked rumpled and hilarious but he enjoyed it and to most people he just looked like an eccentric expat which he was.

In the plaza a silver robot man competed for spare change but the real entertainment began when a couple of school kids ran to the fountain and poured in liquid dish soap and within a minute the water churned it into a mountainous pile of white sudsy foam.

He laughed and decided to sit for a sketch by a struggling artist who drew charcoal portraits of tourists to pay the rent.

They talked about his studies at the Sorbonne and his love of Gurdjieff.

The artist studied in Spain, loved Picasso, but lately felt himself drawn to Dali and frequented the museum of his work here in Paris.

“Realism is less appealing as you get older?” He asked the artist.

“No, as I get older I see that the world is more surreal and this art is therefore more realistic.”
They looked at the fountain of soapsuds and laughed.

The caricature was complete. He was in a beret. His face was round and pockmarked. His bottom lip protruded slightly, not exactly pouting but not really grinning. His blank glassy eyes took in the surrealism of the Dali world.

The artist hung up charcoal drawings of celebrities around his chair in the plaza. It advertised his ability to render people and he used well known faces to illustrate this. There was Chaplin, Elvis, and Marilyn Monroe and in pork pie hats and dark glasses were John and Danny doing their Blues Brothers thing.

He paid for the picture and then let the artist keep it so he could hang it next to the others.

The surrealist cartoon was very realistic.

The Aftertaste

2009-02-26T23:48:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from The Aftertaste by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Yeshchenko Publications in March 2009

Clenching my tongue between my teeth, I bite down. I feel nothing.

I pad the tips of my fingers together. Completely numb.

The poison is now firmly and irremovably in my body.

The position of King’s taster seems like unskilled labour. One held by an illiterate dolt whose only marketable talent is shoving food into their hole then dying. Many would happily perform this service. After spending a lifetime subsisting on turnips and other roots, the role appears like a pass to the greatest of restaurants even if evening ends with the ultimate bill.

However, the position is taster and not eater. I live off onions and roots most of the days and eat small portions of the King’s provisions in preparations. I learn of poisons, their flavours, their effects and wait till they may have run their course. There is studying, researching, education, and praying that whatever tiny amount of poison ingested does not murder me along with the ruler.

If the sword of Damocles hangs above the head of the sovereign, then a smaller portion of it hangs above the taster.

Resisting the urge to pick up the plate of fruit and smell it, I speculate that the poison is foxglove. Its sweetness is hidden amongst the dessert.

As a foundling raised in an Abbey my ambition was to be a priest before being stolen away to my higher calling of taster. If poisoned, rather than die alone, I always swore to say nothing and let the venom advance to the King that held me like a shield before him.

Well, now the reckoning arrives and there is little concern for the King. My only want is to hang longer to my life.

“Physician” I cry “I am numb!” this sounds like ‘I am dumb’ as my lips and other extremities grow heavy “I detect poison.”

The Doctor runs close. He peers into my eyes, lifts my lips, strokes my gums, and pats the mat of my hair as if purchasing livestock.

“Your Highness” he announces “Your servant is in good health and well being. At times the pressures and demands of tasting can overwhelm the thoughts. Taster’s minds can become unsettled and they find pollutions where there are none.”

The King begins to chuckle “I often fear for my life unfoundedly. Taster, this is the price we pay for being great men.” Then he laughs to cheer me.

The King’s fool then begins to eat his hat and declares it fouled. The room cackles.

“Your Highness, if I may take for a bleeding?” requests the Doctor “His humours are out of sorts. It may be possible for him to return to his duties. Please enjoy your dessert.”

The Doctor takes me to his chamber and lies me on the table. He prepares the bowl and razor for the letting.

Previous bleedings left me weak as a mewling newborn and I already feel so frail I can’t imagine what I will feel like after the operation.

The Doctor brings out the rags to catch the blood.

Some people even die in bleedings as the evil spirits in them do not escape and grow angry. I pray.

The Doctor brings the razor across my wrist in a savage slash. The Doctor is calm as he does this. In fact he seems happy.

Bleedings are not usually this violent. I don’t know how to perform a bleeding and in my studies of poisons there was no training in balancing humours. However, one does not need to be a surgeon to know what will happen to man who is cut too deeply.

The gashes seem more likely to do me in than any imagined poison. By why would anyone want to kill me?

I am so disoriented I forgot who I am. The reason to kill the taster is obvious. So he cannot inform the King. The portion is not enough to kill me so bleed me to death before the King stop consuming his venom.

My voice is weak but I murmur to the Doctor. “I am not the King”

“Ahh” whispers the Doctor “But the King is unbalanced. He is too sick with bile to lead and when the King is sick so is the Kingdom.” He leans and lacerates the razor across the other wrist.

“Taster” comes the bellowing voice from the doorway. “How are you? I came to see that my loyal servant is good spirits.”

There is a false ring to the Monarch’s concern. He expresses concern for my health but he has not done this for any other servant. Once the drummer fell to the floor in pain from a toothache that later killed him and the King called him rude for bringing a sombre tone to the evening. He only wants to know if we are both poisoned.

“Sir, the physician has attacked us with foxglove” I speak soft as a confession.

“He is quite ill in his mind. Everyone is very vigorous.”

“Then watch me die. It will not be bad thought that kill me. I will vomit, then lose my bowels, and then convulse. If I am wrong then lose nothing in this wager except the hour spent observing me. If I do any of these things, eat charcoal. It is not pleasant or regal but it will absorb the poison.”

“This is the sound of a raving madman” Says the Doctor.

The last thing I see is the King biting tapping his fingers to nose. It must be numb by now.

There are dressings on my wrists upon awakening.

The King greets me with a sooty black smile.

“You Sir are a learned man. He says “It is a shame that such a nimble mind is over shadowed by an organ like the tongue. You shall be the apprentice to my new physician.”

There is a sense of burnt wood to my mouth. They gave me a smaller portion of charcoal.

Living History

2009-02-23T23:14:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from Living History by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Farb Press in March 2009.

The first member of the Civil War Re-enactment group to suggest other events was Jim.

Jim read about the lives of Frank and Jesse James after learning they were Civil War veterans.

He proposed a production of the failed Northfield robbery. Jim played Frank James and prepared for the part by reading several works by William Shakespeare and brewing applejack liquor. It was really good time.

From there the full imagination of the Civil War Re-enactment Group was let off the chain.

They began to recreate countless historical events. The acted out battles from the Boer Wars, soup kitchens from the Great Depression, even the Kennedy and Khrushchev talks during the Cuban missile crisis.

Slowly the recreations of military or even political events moved to entertainment. Jim was tall enough to play Dean Martin in re-enactment of a Martin and Lewis nightclub act. They did Elvis on Ed Sullivan, The Ramones at CBGB’s, Elvis Costello going off script and changing numbers on Saturday Night Live.

Based on an excellent impression, Simon put together a proposal to recreate Steve Martin on his Wild and Crazy Guy tour.

Jim was actually there. He was in high school and took Linda Gallo to the recording of the album as a first date. He bought her an official arrow through the head but both of them were too concerned about looking cool to try it on. They made some small talk about their upcoming final exams; both agreed the finals would be hard.

Steve Martin was too far way to see. He was a tiny white dot, like a distant star, cutting up in the dark. Jim laughed a lot more than Linda. At times he recited catch phrases along with Steve but there seemed to be no recognition of them from her.

During the show a scuzzy guy old enough grow a moustache like Freddie Prinze smoked a joint and stood in front of Linda so she couldn’t see. Jim tried to say something too him but the high guy gave him a thumbs up as he smoked and for that moment his approval seemed more important than Linda Gallo’s. He stopped speaking and smiled weakly at Linda.

They didn’t talk on the drive home and at the door Linda said “You sure have an odd sense of humour,” and “You are a good friend” For a moment Jim thought about shaking her hand.

The recreation was booked in a local community hockey rink. Simon did a very job on Steve Martin, white suit and everything, and most of the seats were filled with cardboard cut outs of audience members.

Jim coached Kate Dubois on how to be Linda Gallo. She maintained the bored look, the awkward pause, the strain to hear Steve Martin’s distorted tinny voice over the P.A. system.

After the re-enactment Jim drove Kate home in silence and at the lobby of the condo development she rejected him with the same offer of friendship.

Once inside Jim called her on his cell phone and told her it was perfect. For the first time a primary source verified the authenticity of a recreation.

From there the group rejected popular history for personal history. They re-enacted events like talent shows, fist fights, bush parties, and even a traumatizing session of spin the bottle.

Jim received a phone call from a man introducing himself as a hard core authentic re-enactor of General William Tecumseh Sherman. His voice sounded weary and brow beaten like he had seen too many theatrical representations of war.

“We are looking to stage a Battle of Kennesaw Mountain and we need more men to mount the campaign. Can you raise the troops, son?” He asked

“Well, to be honest we actually don’t do much in the way of Civil War Recreation anymore. We should update the website.”

“Joseph! Please tell me we haven’t lost you to the Creative Anachronisms. We don’t need good men sitting around drinking mead and playing a lyre.” His voice crackled like a phonograph cylinder.

“We actually recreate events from our lives.”

“That’s plum ignorant! You can’t keep working over the past. That’s not how Sherman won the war. You win with No Retreat and No Surrender!” Looking back Jim was not sure if he said Sherman or I.

“It helps us work out some stuff.” There was tone of whining to this that unsettled Jim so he added “Sir.”

“Work out what? Everyone had bad times. Hokum! You think it was easy having mutton chops in high school. Do you? Do you son?”

“No Sir.” Despite the’ Sirs’ and ‘Sons’ Jim was starting the wonder if they were roughly the same age.

“Where is this going to end? You going to re-enact what you did last weekend? What did you do?”

“Uhmm, we re-enacted an air band contest.”

“A what? You can’t re-enact a re-enactment. You’re not making anything happen for you because you’re too busy with what happen to you before.”

“I guess we could re-enact a really good re-enactment.”

“You’re not hearing me son!” and the man dressed a soldier from 1864 told him “Stop living in the past.”

101 Wizard Jokes

2009-02-19T22:00:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from 101 Wizard Jokes by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Provocation Kids Books in March 2009

Q: What was the Wizards favorite Beach Boys Song?

A: Help Me Wand-A

Q: What held together the Wizard's majic book?

A: The Spell binding

Q: What do you call a wizard from outer space?

A: A flying sorcerer

Q: Why did the wizard go to the hospital?

A: He had a staff infection

Q: What did the wizard put on the no parking sign?

A: Violators will be toads

Q: What kind of car does a Wizard drive?

A: A Ford Hocus Focus

Q:What kind of Coffee is preferred by most Wizards?

A: Maxspell house

Q: What does a wizard say for is special flattening spell?

A: Pressed - O!

Q: What does a wizard use to conjure up an atom?

A: Eye of Nuetron

Q:Did you hear about the wizard that could only predict sad fortunes?

A: He used a crystal bawl?

Q:What Wizard hangs out at the beach?

A: A Surfer Druid

Q: Where does he go surfing?

A: In the pacific potion

Q: Who was the Wizard's favorite actor?

A: James Gandolf-ini

Q: What are popular names for Wizard's babies?

A: Al Chemy for Boys and Necro-Nancy for girls

Overheard at a Victorian Dinner Party

2009-02-16T21:27:00.000-08:00

The Following is an excerpt from Overheard at a Victorian Dinner Party by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Gamfield’s Sweatshop Press in March 2009.

“I hear my chimney sweep lost another little boy”

“Oh it’s so dreadful. The little boys covered in soot. I always give their masters an extra penny and a piece of fruit to pass on to them.”

“I wish the government would do something. The Parliament should step in and demand a better way to clean chimneys. When they come here I just want to cry. They stare at me with those huge eyes and their blacken faces as they climb in. I just think why can’t someone come up with a better way.”
“It’s actually a good opportunity for these children. Without this job they would have nothing. It doesn’t seem like they get paid a lot to us, but for them it’s a lot of money.”

“I bet those chimney boys make more than their parents ever did at the poorhouse.”

“It’s better than the alternative. I’d rather be a chimney than peddling my wares to buggers on the street! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Some chimney sweeps treat the children very well but you never know which ones. They could just as easily be the kind that lights a fire while they are in there to get them moving. It’s too hard to tell. I just go with the cheapest now.”
“I heard the Queen had a boy stuck in her flue and left him to die.”

“What else can you do? It’s not like you can knock down the whole chimney and pull him out and you can’t let the chimney fill with soot and set the house on fire.”

“It’s true you have to think of your family and their needs.”

“I know I can’t afford to knock holes in my walls but you would think someone as rich as the Royal Family could do better.”

“I don’t want to think about this. We are here to have a nice evening. Let’s talk about something more pleasant.”

The host hoped the boy would stay quiet.

High up in the smokestack David gave up on struggling. He rested his face against the cold bricks.

He listened to people below, and waited.

No Man's Land

2009-02-12T23:38:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from No Man’s Land by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Blighty Book in March, 2009

1915

After killing three men I wanted to die.

It was the Battle of Ypres and I shot them, one of them right in the face as he ran across No Man’s Land. After killing the first one, other soldiers told me it would get easier but it never felt better seeing German corpses lying in the mud.

I deserved to die and started making crazy mistakes to make it occur. I was first over the top and once pretended to drop my helmet.

After Gary murdered Edward I decided to stay alive and find out why.

I grew up in the Okanagan, worked in an orchard which made me a farmer even though nobody ever thought of me that way. I still lived off the land. Raised as a farmer I never met anyone like Gary or Edward.

They were Brits. Really pommy sorts from England. Edward was rich, born rich and never earned a penny of it, and Gary was a servant in their house. They were both ordered to fight by Edward’s father who served in the Zulu wars in Africa. Neither of them even thought to say no.

I don’t know Gary’s job at the house, maybe he was butler or a manservant or something but neither understood once he hit the battlefield he wasn’t at work anymore.

Edward still asked Gary to do things. Gary shined his shoes and made his bedroll and other menial tasks. When the mustard gas blew in you could counter the effects by covering your mouth with a urine soaked rag. The big joke told around the unit was that Edward asked Gary to piss on his rag for him.

When Edward joked it was the worst. Edward joked like he had something to prove. He told horrid gags about the unclean brothels in France or killing Huns. These jokes were of such poor taste that soldiers who might die that evening where offended. And everything with Edward was Hun this or Hun that. He took such delight in saying the word, as if he was afraid we might forget which side he was on.

It wasn’t even clear what the joke was sometimes. He would just talk about the graphic end of Hun’s life and start guffawing. It was clear he never killed anyone yet.

When nobody laughed his eyes darted over to Gary who belted out a rehearsed belly laugh.

The mud and the rain and the bullets continued. Edward took it worse than the rest of us. At one point his feet were rotting in his boots and he smelled of wet leather and dead skin.

Things got tense between him and Gary. Gary stopped shining his boots. He told Edward to shine his own god dam boots.

Edward started crying. “I don’t know how” he blubbered.

“You’ll figure it out” said Gary and tossed the rag at Edward “We got bigger problems, like not dying.”

The last day Edward was alive he asked Gary to check his rifle, asking for his approval.
We went over the top that day, ran across No Man’s Land and took another trench.

I was the only one that saw it.

In the grey space between the trenches, Gary ran up behind Edward, lowered his gun, and stuck his bayonet into the back of Edward’s knee.

Edward dropped.

German bullets made his body jump. He may have managed to scream once. Gary kept running to the trench.

There was too much death. Bodies decayed in the mud. Women stumbled on landmines. Whole cities exploded and poison gas tore up your lungs. Now our soldiers were killing each other.
I didn’t care if I lived anymore. I killed three men.

I made it to the trench after Gary. Dropped in and stood on the plank beside him, then grabbed him by the neck.

“I know you killed Edward. You murderer, bloody murderer”

“I didn’t kill him. They killed him. They did it”

“They killed him but you murdered him.” It was distinction that made sense then. I started climbing out of the trench. I held the bayonet close to Gary’s chin and pulled him up with me.

“You’re coming with me”

“You’re going to kill us”

“We deserve to die” I think I was out of my mind by now.

“Tell me why you killed him or we all die” The German knew where we were now and bullets were landing in the mud with soft thuds.

“He asked me to” shouted Gary.

“To kill him?”

“No, to injure him. He couldn’t fight any more. He couldn’t take it and he wanted something that would take him back home.”

I climbed back in to the trench. That seemed to satisfy my crazed mind.

“And you did it. You still think of him as your Master don’t you?”

“No, I always thought of him like a little brother.”

Little Scadobia: an oral history

2009-02-10T23:26:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from Little Scadobia: an oral history by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Tasaday Press in March 2009

Prologue

It is rare to watch a culture fade from existence from the window of your local Tim Horton’s coffee shop.

In fall of 2008, a Frames of Mind retail outlet (a big box store devoted to picture frames and other picture displaying sundries) opened on the north end of Toronto’s Walker Street. The development required the levelling of 4 city blocks. Those four city blocks housed the last remnants of Little Scadobia. Little Scadobia was possibly the most unique ethnic neighbourhood in Canada. It also remained one of the most marginalized despite its ability to provide visitors exactly what they looked for.

Before the wrecking balls struck I had the pleasure of meeting the long time residents of Little Scadobia and preserving their stories

The 1950’s

The first wave of Scadobian immigrants arrived in post war Canada and sought out the cheap housing of Walker Street which once housed a mercury thermometer factory and was considered toxic even by 1950’s environmental standards.

Soon Little Scadobia was established.

Maria: The thing I remember the most about growing up in Little Scadobia was the food and the music. There was always someone cooking in the kitchen and singing. Mamma would always be making up great big plates of hot dogs, but served Scadobian style with mustard. Mamma sang all sorts of Scadobain songs while she cooked. Scadobian songs were just popular songs. ‘Whatever you liked’ she explained. The Scadobians had their land and traditions stripped from them so long ago there were no Scadobian folksongs left. We just sang a song with Scadobia in our hearts and it would become Scodabian music. In our house a lot of Frank Sinatra was Scadobian.

Jarod: I just remember playing stick ball. My father joked that stick ball was our national pastime.

Frankie: There was a lot of prejudice then. People treated us like nothing. If you said ‘ I’m Scadobian’ they would laugh in your face and call you stupid and say that you weren’t even from a real country, or that you spoke gibberish, and that we had to be putting them on or something. There was just so much ignorance about our culture. A joke in Toronto went ‘How many Scadobians does it take to screw in a light bulb? None please, we would rather you didn’t shine the light on us?’

Lisa: The prejudice went both ways. We weren’t allowed to talk to anyone outside the neighbourhood. From a young age I was told not to tell outsiders about us, about our ways. They wouldn’t understand and we just wanted to be left alone. I think that had to do with our history. As Mama and Papa told it the Scodobians got beat up a lot. They were the victims of a lot of wars so naturally there was a tendency to withdraw. So many times I would ask something about a holiday or food or something and they would say ‘we don’t know. That information was lost when So and So invaded. Anyway, it was made very clear I was never going to date outside of the neighbourhood.

Mickey: Secretiveness also hurt us. We weren’t allowed to talk about Scadobia with anyone outside of the neighbourhood but we also wound up not talking much about the country at all. Most of second the generation guys. We don’t even know where Scadobia was on a map

The 1960’s
The cheap rent and feeling of remove from the rest of society attracted groups of hippies to Little Scadobia in the 1960’s and 1970’s

Nick: Oh man, that place was just the best. The rent was next to nothing, you got cheap hot dogs at the Scadobian cafe and they would sing these Scadobian folksongs that sounded just like the psychedelic stuff I dug then.

Melanie (formerly Starshine): They were such a proud race of people. It really made me humble you know, it was really an honour. They showed me a picture of one of their revolutionaries from the 1800 and he just looked so stoic. I put his face on silk screen and the red on black made him look even more profound. His spiritual eyes and strong wide moustache. I started making a good living selling those shirts, enough to pay for the loft and hot dogs. I made some money, yes, but I think in a small way I also restored some dignity to the Scadabian way of life.

Andrew: to be honest I did even know I lived in Little Scadobia. I mean, it pretty small and really only talked to roommate. I think I remember there was hot dog stand though. The guy there would sing Beach Boys songs.

The 1980’s

In the 1980’s Little Scodobia had its only real brush with prosperity. A small outlet front began selling Scadobian folk art and landed a large contract with a national coffee chain to sell traditional Scadobian Snow Globes.

Edward: Those snow globes were gorgeous. I discovered the first one at a 2nd hand store in Scodobia. I mean, it was one step above junk collected from the trash. The woman told me it was a traditional snow globe. The bubble represented the fragility of the Scadobian world. She told me to come back in a few days and she would have more.

Lydia: The globes were just beautiful and they would take requests of who you wanted to be in them, Santa, The Queen, one of them even had Duran Duran in there. It was still very traditional though

Carl: Of course after the contract was landed with the Coffee chain there wasn’t enough skilled Scadobians to meet the demand. I think there was actually only 4 or 5 Scadobians left then. So they set up workshop that was operated by older Asian ladies that could still produce these things effectively and yet also traditionally

1990’s

As the snow globes were recalled due to mercury toxicity, Little Scadobia fell into even harder times. As a response the only ever Scadobian Cultural Festival was held in 1995.

Simon: I was in University then and it seemed like a really important thing to do. I had always heard how Scadobia had been under attack for so many generations. I thought organizing a festival like this would let them reclaim their culture and hold it up

Margret: The festival was so much fun. We took a lot of popular songs, Chemical Brother, En Vogue, Oasis, and really Scadobianized it. It was a great culture that way. It was designed to adapt. We also took a lot of Buddhist ideas and Scadobianized them into the festival. It was freeing to realize that it wasn’t just music. You could do it to anything.

Epilogue

I talked to the last surviving Scadobian in 2004. He was in his late nineties and on an oxygen tank. As a result he spoke so softly that even those around him never heard what he was telling me, or maybe they just didn’t want to hear

“There was no Scadobia. We made it up. We were a group of Nazi war criminals. Held in P.O.W. camp outside of Winnipeg. After the war we served small sentences and moved to Toronto. This was the only land anyone would sell us. Of Course we were ashamed. We never wanted to say who we were. One day one of made up the name Scadobia, on the spot, when someone asked. We just kind of ran with it.

The history was that we had no border or homeland; it was destroyed by invaders, most of the culture too. It helped to explain the gaps in the logic. The best part was, after all we had done, we made up for it. We punished Scodobians with the most defeats of any nation in history. Nobody has suffered like the Scadobians.”

No Name Brand

2009-02-05T23:42:00.000-08:00

The following excerpt is from No Name Brand by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Enki books in April 2009

On entry the shield cut out for 15 seconds.

The shuttle cabin was so hot that Bishop’s chest felt like a burnt, empty kiln. His eyes were dry. He blinked furiously. Sweat dripped off his forehead.

The shield resumed and the shuttle desperately restored itself.

“Hot enough for you?” laughed Calvin.

“No,” straight faced Bishop “but no need to turn it up just for me”

The shields dropped again. Critical alarms sounded.

Bishop’s sweat evaporated now. Every part of him felt dry.

Bishop looked at Calvin. His skin was red. His eyes were bloodshot pools and he gasped in shallow inhales as if that was all the searing air he could take in.

Bishop’s tongue swelled in his mouth.

He lost consciousness.

The shuttle landed itself on autopilot.

When Bishop came to Calvin was already overlooking the console. Bishop licked his cracked lips.

“The shuttle nanos are slowly repairing it.” Said Calvin,” It’s going to take at least a week before the communication is repaired enough to contact the ship.”

Bishop nodded. There wasn’t much else to say. The policy was for the ship to treat them as dead. In a week they would call and be picked up, simple as calling a taxi, but until then nobody would look for them.

“Okay,” said Bishop “But how long till we can get out of here?”

“Normally 4 hours but with all this damage it will take at least 55 hours.” Calvin looked bored already.

It was a lot of sitting. They joked, posed riddles, gossiped, researched the planet, got in an argument, and resolved it. They stared into space for hours. They reminisced about childhood.

The talked about what they were going to eat, then ate, and then talked about what they just ate.

Outside the shuttle was so thick with fog that the men stopped looking out the window for distraction. Then suddenly a figure staggered out of the white backdrop.

It lifted its long neck and turned its flat, featureless face towards the shuttle. Its mouth puckered a few times and the smooth pale skin over its forehead moved a little. Then it stepped back into the fog.

“Did you see that?” shouted Bishop.

The two men talked about it for 5 hours. This was going to be first contact.

As the repairs to the ship completed the men ignored the petty distractions used to entertain themselves and speculated relentlessly about the upcoming encounter.

When they finally stepped from the shuttle the fog lifted. Far down the embankment from the landing was a series of marshes leading to larger body of water. More aliens waded along the muddy shoreline.

It was wrong, potentially interpreted as aggressive, but Bishop ran towards them.

He shouted and waved and smiled. The aliens were hunched over; digging through the mud, hauling out fleshy globish sea animals and dropping them into clothe bags. The never looked up once.

“Hello! Greetings! Salutations!” Bishop laughed and smiled at them. There was no acknowledgement.

Calvin ran up behind him and placed universal translators over their chests. Slowly it took in the conversation between the aliens.

They spoke with low, guttural tones like they had no tongues. The translator took in the grunts and pieced together words.

“If I cook this with a sour sauce it will be delicious” said one

“Hello, I am honoured to be the first of our species to meet?” announced Bishop in their language.

“I find the sour sauce does not keep long enough” said the other alien.

“We are from far away.” Bishop sounded anxious now.

“The sour sauce has to be very fresh.” The aliens would not acknowledge either visitor.
Bishop and Calvin checked the translator. Everything worked. They progressed up and down the beach. Every attempt to communicate was met with indifference.

The Aliens worked quietly and efficiently. They talked amongst themselves and the men moved freely within them and listened to the mundane conversations.

Bishop tried harder to draw their attention.

“Helloooo” he sang out and waved his hands back and forth before their eyes.

There was no response.

He grew more desperate and screamed into their faces. His mouth was so close to one that spittle sprayed on its grey skin.

“Wake up” he shouted.

He was frustrated now. He shoved it. It fell into the grimy bog then stood up and resumed fishing its hands in the mud.

“Calm down” pleaded Calvin. “Control yourself for God’s sake.”

Bishop’s face flushed with embarrassment.

They stood in a defeated silence while the aliens dug quietly in the water.

There was no first contact.

Eventually the creatures trundled to their raft and piled in their belongings.

Not knowing what else to do, Calvin and Bishop pulled themselves onto the raft as well.

Bishop stared out at the soundless horizon as they sailed. Around him the translator told him about the everyday events the aliens discussed.

“It’s like they are in a different world” he said

“Its like we are ghosts,” said Calvin “I think maybe we died in that crash.”

Bishop wanted to tell him he was insane but couldn’t.

The raft pulled to the shore of a village. Huts and long buildings were made from the bones of enormous animals.

Bishop and Calvin walked through the houses. They moved past families eating, parents and children arguing, intimate couples, and sales transactions on the street.

“Are we dead?’ asked Bishop.

“No”

They turned. An alien stood behind them.

“You don’t exist yet” it said“You have no names. Our society understands the power of language. It feels the weight of words. Too much trouble of has come from people saying one meaning while others understand a different meaning. This is especially true when new travellers arrive with new concepts and new beliefs. We must preserve the meaning of words. Nothing, not a person, not a thing, not an idea, can exist until someone in my role gives it a name and then we all agree on what that name means.”

“How do we get a name?” asked Bishop

“What do you call yourself?”

“Bishop. Calvin.” He gestured to himself and then his partner.

“Bishop and Calvin” it said

The street erupted with questions and shouting as everyone saw these new creatures amongst them.

Now Time Doth Waste Me

2009-02-03T21:26:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from Now Doth Time Waste Me by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Reckoning Books in April 2009

Julia sat in the lunchroom and leafing through the pages of Historical People Magazine.

“How can you read that trash?” asked Violet

“I just like the pictures. I always wondered what these people looked like.” Julia answered.

“I think it’s just wrong. The time paparazzi harass those poor people. No wonder Cleopatra killed herself. They won’t leave that poor woman alone.”

“But didn’t you find the size of her nose astonishing. That’s what all the fuss was about. Don’t pretend you don’t find this interesting. And that unibrow. Oh my” Julia let out a puff of disapproving air.” I mean I would be different if I could afford time travel but the media are the only ones that can. With time’s self correcting properties it’s the only way to make money off time travel. It’s not like you can go back and win the lottery”

“I think it’s dangerous.” said Lisa “All those time paparazzi mucking about. One is going to step on a butterfly and doom us all.”

“Can’t be done” said Julia. “Once time is set in motion it can’t really be changed. I mean, look at how many times they went back and arrested Jack the Ripper before giving up. Got away every time and killed those women. Just sometime it was a few blocks to the east. Not really that big a deal in the massive span of time.”

“ I still think it’s dangerous.” Said Lisa

“I still think it’s cruel.” added Violet

“Well if you don’t approve I can put it away” Julia started shoving the magazine into her hand bag.

“No, its okay” said Lisa and Violet in unison and all three burst out laughing.

###

William Shakespeare has demons.

They follow him through the streets of London. They spy at him from the corners of the taverns. They sit in the front row of the Globe and move their lips along with new couplets he wrote hours ago, like they lifted them directly from his mind. They dig though his garbage like feral animals. They shout his name and when turning to look, they blind him with a flash of light.

He cannot write with this hounding and without writing he will never be famous.

A demon follows him now. He looks like a man but lurches and crouches and peers through the stalls at him.

William stops for a pint and the demon follows him into the brew house. It sits at a bench, drinking ale, and never lifting his eyes from William.

William drinks. He is not a heavy drinker but now everything else seems so heavy. His writer’s block is heavy. His failure is heavy. The eyes of the stranger on him are heavy. His drinking might as well be heavy too.

Finally, he drinks enough courage to commit his plan.

William staggers into an alley, populated strictly by prostitutes and customers. He huddles into one of the dark corners where the prostitutes would work and waits.

The stranger, like a crab, scuttles into the dark alley. His eyes move back and forth. “He is looking for me in the shadows” thinks Shakespeare.

William draws his dagger and pounces. He knocks the stranger to the ground. One knee on the stranger’s chest, Will presses the blade into his neck and shouts “Who are you?”

From the blackness of the alley, prostitutes and their patrons scatter like birds after a cannon blast. William and the demon are alone.

“Who are you?” shouts William, pressing the blade harder into his neck, ready to puncture the skin.

“Nobody!” cries the stranger

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“nobody, really.”

“You die either way. Reveal yourself and end with a weightless conscience.”

“You don’t kill me,” reasons the demon. “You aren’t a killer. You don’t commit murder.”

“I will kill you but first I will kill your children and bake them in a meat pie and force feed them to you.” The stranger is right. William is not capable of murder but he also wrote Titus Andronicus and talks a mean game.

“No, I know you never commit murder.” The demon calms down. The panic leaves his eyes.

The panic arcs from the stranger to William. “You know the future. What does it hold for me?”

The stranger shakes his head. William presses the blade enough to draw blood.

“Dammit!” It curses.

“Speak devil!” Orders William

“You become the greatest writer ever. The greatest. You change the way people speak. Students spend years studying your plays.”

“Flattery is devil’s greatest tool!”

“It’s true, also the Globe burns down and you leave a bed to your wife.”

“Why do you tell me this? That I sabotage my own future after learning this?”

“There is nothing you, I, or everyone else can do to stop it.” The Demon shrugs his shoulders and then casually adds “Greater than Chaucer.”

Shakespeare suddenly feels calm. He doesn’t care for writing. He hates it really. He only does it because it brings renown that labour can’t.

He loves everything about being a popular playwright except the actual act of writing. At his lonely writing desk he copies Marlowe as best he can and hopes that is enough to appease the groundlings.

Now there is no need to write. There isn’t even a need to think. He just sits back and transforms into the utmost wordsmith in English history.

Even superior to Christopher Marlowe

“I do not care if you are a demon, an angel, or something in between,” says William “If what you say is true then how do I thank you?”

“Smile” says the demon.

William smiles.

The stranger holds a small box in front of his face. There is a flare of light and the stranger runs.

###

Christopher Marlowe pours Ale down his throat.

“I cannot write.” He says and takes another deep drink “There are devils following me. Accosting me. Calling my name. One waited for me in the toilet, blinded me and ran.”
Shakespeare nodded in understanding of the dilemma

“How do you write?” asks Marlowe. “How do you write with demons amongst us?”

“I don’t write anymore.” Laughs Shakespeare. “No matter what I create; I am and will be famous. What do I care?”

“But the craft” stammers Marlowe. “But the art...?”

“That’s all secondary. I don’t really care for the art to be honest” explains Shakespeare.

“It’s all I care about” moans Marlowe. He takes another deep, searching gulp “and the demons took the art from me. I don’t care a whit for fame. I would be happy with them thinking someone else wrote the plays. I would be happy with everyone thinking I was dead. I want to write again.”

“Really?” says Shakespeare incredulously “I would be happy if I never had to write again. I only want people to think I am famous and clever and buy me drinks and quote my works.”

Marlowe thinks about their two contradictory ambitions.

“Maybe we can make an arrangement Mr. Shakespeare” and he lifts his mug in a toast.

###

Ricky looked at the magazines in the checkout line.

He could never bring himself to actually buy a copy of CSH: CRIME SCENE HISTORIANS but it was fun to flip through as the food got rung up.

His eyes darted across black and white photos of carnage. Of course, the time paparazzi could easily shoot colour photos but something about black and white made it seem more authentic.

Ricky looked at Julius Caesar, full of knives and blood soaking his toga.

He looked at Jesse James, shot in the back and lying bellow a picture frame.

He looked at the corpse of Christopher Marlowe.

“At least they guessed it was Christopher Marlowe” thought Ricky. “The dude got stabbed in the face. I’m surprised anyone knew who this was”

Ricky stared at the grisly photo and tried to recall who Marlow was. “Might have been a friend of Shakespeare’s” he thought “but I could be wrong”.

Clubbed

2009-01-29T22:54:00.000-08:00

The Following is an excerpt from Clubbed by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Cornflower Blue Books in February 2009

The email was sent from TylerDurden22022, which meant 22021 other TylerDurens were out there.

“Oi Vey” thought Brian while opening it.

Brian thought things like 'Oi Vey' and 'Mazletov'. He was of Scottish and Norwegian descent with four generations in Canada. He stood tall enough to duck three times a day and his blonde hair took on a near invisible quality.

He could easily be cast in a high concept comedy about a lost Viking transported to modern times.

Brian was actually very short until the summer his legs grew so fast his pants transformed to Bermuda shorts overnight.

He returned to High school that fall and could have exacted revenge on his tormentors if he had not watched “Take the Money and Run” on a late night A&E Woody Allen marathon. Before that summer he was nebbish, flustered, girl crazy teen with a bend for surrealist humour and a love of books. Woody Allen immediately became his God.

While others prepared for their driver’s tests he studied wringing his hands, stammering to accentuate punch lines, dropping Yiddish words and Kierkegaard references into conversations.

“I saw you post on the forum. We must work in the same office!” read the e-mail.

Brian deleted the e-mail. He had no urge to talk to someone this desperate to contact a name seen on the internet.

The e-mail referred to a forum that Brian would look at each morning while he drank coffee and planned the day’s work.

Today’s question was “Who is your favourite panhandler in the city?” Many voted for one armed push up guy and the screaming busker with no strings on his guitar. Brian voted for the guy seated outside the front door saying things like ‘Spare change for an enema? My bowels are killing me’ or ‘I’m the greatest silent movie actor alive. How ‘bout something till the talkies blow over?”

The description placed him firmly in this office.

At the lunch break a pompadoured young man marched up to him. He wore a white dress shirt and a thin black tie but this hair was full of brylcreem, tattoos sneaked out from under his sleeves, and his index finger was stained tobacco yellow. He looked like a rockabilly juvie forced to do community service in an office.

He swaggered up and pointed at Brian.

“Philip Roth” he declared.

Brian looked at the cover of the book he was reading.

“I looked over one of your posts from last week. The question was ‘what are you reading right now?’ You said Philip Roth.” He explained

There was no mention of the fact that Brian did not respond to the e-mail nor invite him to start any sort of conversation.

“You know who else you should read?” He said like he was winding up for a long conversation. “ Read Ken Kesey. Crazy Motherfucker man! Cuckoo’s nest is some wild, punch you in the gut, kinda shit”

He talked for the remainder of the lunch break, telling him that his name was Paul; he also read Max Tucker and played in a bicycle polo league.

Brian finished his lunch at his desk as he never got a chance to eat.

The next 2 days Paul charged up to him in the lunchroom and spent 30 minutes assaulting Brian with his act outs of UFC matches and his opinions on George Jones records.

“You know what we should do? Start a fight club man!” he said

“A night club?” asked Brian.

“No man. A fight club?”

“ A what club?” asked Brian

“ A fight club, like the movie. Where men, real men, remember what real men are like, where they fight and remind themselves that they are alive!”

Brian tapped his index finger to his temple and then wrung his hands. “I prefer to remind myself that I am alive by not dying. Also I have not seen this particular movie.”

“Okay then, we meet in the parkade at 6 pm tonight, after work. This is your wakeup call! You don’t even know if you are alive or dead.”

“Are you challenging me to a fight?” asked Brian. He wondered if he should contact the HR department.

“No, I am challenging you to watch a movie.”

“But how will we watch it in a parkade?” asked Brian

“First rule of fight club: you don’t talk about fight club.” He said cryptically and walked back to his desk.

At the underground parking Paul brought a portable laptop and placed it on the trunk of his car. Two office chairs were facing it.

“We got Fight Club and to really man it up I brought Rounders and Cool Hand Luke. I have a case of beer, two $12 cigars, and some Red Bull.” Shouted Paul.

Paul pressed play. The office chairs rolled back and forth on the cement. The echoes in the parking lot made the movie louder than it should be. So far, a guy cried in a support group so Brian wasn’t sure what all the manliness was about.

“Hey! What’s going on?” Ricocheted the voice in the underground.

“This is Fight Club, motherfucker! You can ask what’s going on but I won’t answer shit” Yelled Paul.

“Sir, is that open alcohol?” The guard asked.

“And I’m on mushrooms” added Paul. Brian looked at his eyes. How did he not notice the size of them before?

“Sir, I will ask you to comply with my request to leave this parking area three times. If you do not comply I will use physical force to obtain compliance. Will you comply?”

“FUCK YOU!” Paul waved his middle fingers in the guard’s face.

“Sir, the rules state you may not consume alcohol or drugs in this building. Will you leave?”

“You know who else followed the rules without asking questions? The Nazis!”

“Will you leave now sir?”

“Don’t you ever get sick of using the man’s rules to replace your neutered balls?”

“I will now use force.” The guard said it as relaxed as ordering a coffee. He pulled a baton from his belt.

Brian stepped forward. He raised his hand somewhere between a shrug and a wave and said “Before this turns into a typical Thursday night at my aunt’s Mah-jong tournament, maybe we should all calm down.”

As soon as he stepped forward the guard lifted his pepper stray from his belt.

“Stand down sir!”

He unleashed the aerosol defence into Brian’s eyes.

Brian fell coughing and gagging. He slowly struggled to his knees.

“Lie down Sir!” commanded the guard. Brian couldn’t hear him over the gasping and moaning.

“As you will not comply I will take further action.” He began striking Brian with the baton.

“YEAH!!!” yelped Paul.

“Hands behind your back” ordered the guard. Brian curled into a fetal ball as the baton beat down on him.

“Compliance achieved?”

“Yes, uncle, I surrender, white flag, peace, anything” Brian lay face down on the cement floor.

He didn’t even know if he was alive or dead.

38 Degrees

2009-01-27T15:40:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from 38 Degrees by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Popganda books in February 2009

“Hello, Welcome to the North Korean Embassy.”

“Gutentag”

The Korean staff member could not gauge the age of the man. He wore denim clothing and other indulgent trappings of western fashion.

His hair was slicked into a pompadour with consumerist hair gels and other grooming products. In fact, looking closer it was obvious that his hair was chemically altered to something closer to navy blue than the natural black possessed a human being. A thin strip of grey at the roots of the hairline created the illusion of his hair floating an eighth of an inch above his scalp.

Crow’s feet wrinkles crowded around the corners of his eyes and his teeth took on a slight cigarette tinge of yellow.

“I would like to meet with the North Korean Ambassador.” He announced. He spoke in watered down German accent.

“I’m sorry but I don’t believe he would be available right now.”

“Perhaps when you explain who I am...” The man smiled a little at the end of the sentence, as if his smug grin solved these problems once and for all, no hard feelings.

“And you might be...?”

“Augustus Schmidt”

The name hung in the air like a soap bubble ready to burst with the explanation of its meaning.
“Augustus Schmidt” thought the Korean. “Should I know this name?”

Suddenly Augustus began to sing:

“No one can Rock it
Like a Republic!
No one can get kissed
Like a Socialist!”

Augustus stopped singing abruptly. He raised his eyebrows and looked to the Korean for some acknowledgement, as if his song explained everything, as if he just sang the great unifying theory.

The Korean thought that Augustus might be completely mentally collapsing in front of him.
“I’m not sure what this song means” said the Korean.

“ I guess that you don’t listen to the radio much. That was the biggest hit of East German Radio for 1984 and most of 1985 too. It was massive.”

“So you are a musician.”

“You could say that. You could say that I was one of the biggest East German musicians in history. I had 9 certified gold albums between 1981 and 1988. You know, hits like ‘Loud, Proud, Doing What’s Allowed!’ Hits like ‘We have ways of making you Rock!’ I was the first non – classical, non – polka artist to go #1 in the East German charts.” He leaned back and crossed his arms

“Alright,” said the Korean. “I’m not sure why you want to meet the Ambassador though”

Augustus leaned forward. He folded his hand together on the desk like he was praying. His eyes took on a slight pleading tone like an orphan or a door to door salesman. He spoke in slightly softer tones, a few decibels louder than what could be defined as a whisper.

“Since the wall fell, things are different. At first, with all the sudden consumerism, I thought I would have more records.......but no. The interest in the party’s music is very low so I am moving to other markets that understand the value of socialist music. I would like to work in North Korea and spread the party’s message through music.”

The Korean was uncertain how to respond. Growing up in communist country, he was without lifetime of training to fight off pushy salesman. He had no preparation, no stock excuses and prepared rejections, for such outrageous requests. He built no immunities, like the boy raised in the bubble suddenly ejected into the environment.

He hemmed and hawed.

“Well, I’m not sure if this is the right musical demographic.”

“Oh but it is!” Augustus protested “Nowhere else understands. Cuba still holds our values but Cuban music is a force of its own. It overpowers the party message.”

“Well what about China?”

“Already infected by Western rhythms. Bootlegs and piracy has overtaken the party singers” Augustus shook his head slowly and sadly.

“I’m sorry, but I’m just not certain that North Korean is right for you.”

Augustus held up his finger. A visual queue asking him to hold his speaking. He placed a small cassette recorder on the desk.

“Just listen, I wrote something new.” He said and pressed play. A slow pre-programmed electronic drum beat sputtered from the speaker, followed by a simple keyboard rhythm. It sounded reminiscent of, if not completely plagiarized from, George Harrison’s ‘My Sweet Lord’. Augustus sang:

All I want to do is praise Kim
Ooh Ooh
All I want to do is praise Kim
Ooh Ooh

He clapped his hands twice and then crooned the chorus:

Kim Ill Jong!!
Kim Ill Jong!!

The song ended and Augustus smiled at the Korean. His eyes took on the same begging tone as before.

The Korean did not applaud. He crosses his arms and stared at him. The music was ridiculous. He couldn’t find any entertainment in its artlessness.

Yet, the message was strong. It praised the party and to deny it would be unpatriotic. It would be a failure of the struggle his brother and sisters, his comrades.

To his surprise he found himself saying “I will approve the visa application for your tour right now.”

Later that day, he wondered if East Germany had used the same subliminal suggestion teachings in their propaganda.

The Little High from Shawinigan

2009-01-22T23:49:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from the Little High from Shawinigan by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Consolidated Bathurst Books in February 2009

I don't know what is marijuana, Perhaps I will try it when it will no longer be criminal. I will have my money for my fine and a joint in the other hand."
- Jean Chrétien, Oct. 2003

It sounds like a cop knocking at the door. They knock a cop knock; three short distinct raps that seem to say open up now or I’m kicking the door. Nobody else knocks that way. Not Greenpeace canvassers. Not even thieves.

They are definitely cops. The fisheye lens of the peephole eye stretches their cop moustaches across their lips and make their cop sunglasses lens look like oversized eyes of a housefly.
I open the door.

“Can I help you officer?” I say

“What made you think I was a cop?” the first one says and they both walk into the apartment. Their heavy boots clomp on the hardwood floor.

They aren't cops. They tried to look like them at the door coming but they don't try so hard now. Cops don’t use the word ‘cops’ and cops ask to come in. If they have a warrant they show it. I think. I don’t really know but they do on Law & Order. Any other time a cop entered my house he had probable cause and didn’t need a warrant.

“Sit down.” Says the other one.

I don’t want to sit down. I'm not sure if I am being robbed or what but I have enough sense to know that acting tough guy or defensive or giving up any power only makes me look scared. I sit down on the ratty Sally Anne armchair; put my feet up on the coffee table real relaxed, pick up the remote control so I can shut off The Joe Schmo Show as if I have something important to say.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice wavers and my stringy hair drops in my face and I brush it out of my eyes as I ask so the whole thing seems a lot more fey than powerful.

The one guy that never says anything remains standing but the other dude sits down and smiles at me. He seems like the friendlier of two but the smile is actually a pretty sarcastic smirk and he only seems friendlier because the other guy says nothing at all so he sort of defaults to friendliness.

“We are from CSIS.” he says and holds up some sort of I.D. It isn't a badge so I don't know what it is. It's his Driver’s licence for all I know.

I stare at him with a look as empty as my bank account. He says “It’s Canada’s spy agency.” He is used to CSIS needing some sort of explanation.

Oh yeah, this is a work of fiction. My lawyer insists on this part. So any similarities blah, blah, blah. Hopefully we are good. Besides, even when I say this is true people won’t even listen so it’s fiction okay.

So I say “Canada has a spy agency? Do people ever have paranoid delusions that CSIS is following them. You know, they way crazy people talk about the CIA or the KGB”

He takes off his sunglasses and says “yes” very coldly. I thought he was being sarcastic before but that was actually him being friendly. This is him annoyed.

“As you know,” He says not giving me time to say another dumbass thing.”The Right Honourable Jean Chretien retired about 3 days ago.” I don’t know this. I feel like he’s been retiring for so long that didn’t pay attention anymore but I appreciate that he assumed I was up on this stuff.

I just nod. My voice wavered before but now I have two government agents in my apartment, one not talking and just looking at me, and they are asking me questions about the Prime Minister. By now my voice would wavering like a Theremin in a Beach Boys song.

“You may or may not know that before retiring Mr. Chretien has made attempts to decriminalize marijuana.” He continues

I don’t know much about this. Amongst my buddies there is some confusions about the legality of pot and play it safe and assume it is still illegal. I do know that I have a previous marijuana possession charge and the direction of this conversation is unnerving.

“Mr. Chrétien would like to consider the possibility of full legalization but he needs to do a little research. He would like to try marijuana in order to reach a fully informed conclusion.”

This is the worst sting ever.

“Well Sir, I have been reformed. I have paid my debt to society and changed my ways. The narrow road sir, and no more reefers.” That summer I watched the Shawshank Redemption on TBS enough times that it informs my speech.

“Knock off that shit. We have enough statistical proof to know that one doesn’t stop consumption after a possession fine. That’s one of the reasons that we favour decriminalization. We will pay $200 to cover more than the cost of the marijuana he smokes plus we will reverse this any future possession charge you might obtain. You traffic it and you’re on your own.”

“The government is going to pay me to smoke up with the Prime Minister?”

“Yes.” He says with as much comedic timing as a tumour but I start laughing anyway.

“Sure, you bring Chretien here and I’ll get him high.”

The quite one taps his lapel and in enough time to brush your teeth there, is a knock at the door.
In person he looks less like a politician. Politicians seem desperate, begging for votes and approval ratings. But retired politicians take on a different air. Nothing says ‘vote for me’; everything says ‘You can’t fuck with me’

He wears a dark overcoat with the collar was flipped up. His hair slicked back. The wrinkles in his face seem cut in granite. He resembles a gang boss in many aspects

“You’re for real!” I say

“Yeah, I am for t’e real!” He barks. The sarcasm in this room is getting out of control.

“Okay,” I say grasping for a moment of clarity before it disappears. “I want you two guys out of here. I’m paranoid enough. I know you have a job to do but wait outside. Money up front and nobody sees where my stash is.”

They pay me and leave. I enter the kitchen and roll the joint while the Prime Minister sits on my torn futon sofa and looks at the poster of the Blues Brothers on the wall.

My rolling is always terrible and I don’t like owning a pipe since the bust as it leaves paraphernalia around the house even when I nothing else is illegal there. The joint has a tragic lump in the middle and looks like a snake trying to eat an egg.

I light it and pass it to Jean.

“What do I do whit t’is?” he asks

“You ever smoke a cigarette?” I ask

He shrugs his shoulders and says “I am from Quebec, non?”

“Okay,same thing. Just hold the smoke in as long as you can.” I demonstrate.

He inhales so deep his lung could be ripped up and he holds it. Finally a cloud of smoke bursts from the side of his mouth. “T’is is not’ing” he says.

“Everyone says that at first. Keep trying” I instruct. He huffs and puffs like the Big Bad wolf and we pass it back and forth. Ashes drop off the end like it they are knocked from a guillotine.

Finally I break the silence. “So Paul Martin’s in charge now.” I nod as if agreeing to something “That’s good.”

“Are you kiddin’ to me? He is a jack ass. You know not’ing.” And his face turns as red as the cherry on the joint.

“What? I thought you were in the same party or something?”

“Not anymore. He stab me in the back and steal t’e party. He is a devil.” He has the French Canadian ability to add historic proportions to his insults.

He takes another drag off the joint and calms. “You seriously don’t know about t’e parliament, do you?” He says

I shake my head no. I should feel embarrassed for myself but I feel more embarrassed for him and the fact that his years as leader have little relevance to many citizens.

“You should know. It is sad.” He his eyes droop. “and because of what you t’ink. Not duty but protection. You need to follow politics because you are t’e criminal” he explains

Naturally I look insulted by the expression ‘criminal’

“It t’is true,” he answers my expression. “You are a felon. You could be put in jail. By some ot’er guy. A guy like me. Why? Because you let him be t’e government. You don’t even care about t’is guy. He is not’ing. He is just like me. You only like Martin because of the Bono.” He laughs

“First” I raise a finger “ I didn’t say that I liked Paul Martin, I said I knew who he was. Two” I raise a second finger “ The whole reason I dislike him is because he hangs out with Bono.”

Chretien laughs more.

“So calm down. I don’t want to get the Shawinigan handshake like that protester did.” Then he cuts me off

“Shut t’e ‘ell up. T’at guy ‘ad it coming. Just before t’at some nut break into my ‘ouse to kill me and t’e Mountie does not’ing. I ‘ave to defend myself and everybody make fun of me. Just like my voice. Every lousy stand-up comedian in t’is country talks out the side of t’ere mout’ and act like they ‘ave an impression. I got Bells Palsey. It’s an illness. Real funny. Ha ha” He pushes the ha ha as hard as he can.

He takes another drag off the joint, holds it in his lungs and relaxes.

“Sorry I will calm down. T’is is nice.” He looks at the joint in his hand

“Maybe I’ll put on some music” I suggest.

“Do you ‘ave any Dixieland?” he asks hopefully

I shake my head. “I have Kind of Blue by Mile Davis.”

“Of course.” He laughs. “T’at is the one jazz record everyone ‘as and t’en t’ey say t’ey like jazz.”
I laugh because it’s true and then put on an Elton John CD because it’s the oldest music I can find. We sit in stoned silence and listen to Rocket Man.

“Not bad” nodds the PM, looking at the joint. “you know I won t’ree majorities. Nobody did t’at. Not even t’e Trudeau. Not even t’e Laurier.” He recites the names with reverence, the way other Canadians talk about hockey players. “Do you t’ink, after the Queen is off t’e money, maybe I will be on some money.”

“I don’t care” I say “So long as they never make a $5 coin!” and smoke signal of laughter smoke billow out of our mouths.

“You are okay,” He says rising from the sofa. “ I t’ink I am going out to get t’e pizza now. It taste so good.”

I smile as he leaves. He craves pizza after inhaling the sweet smell of burnt oregano. That delicious spice just earned me $200 and a get out of jail free card.

Remembrance of Logos Past

2009-01-20T00:58:00.000-08:00

The following excerpt is from Remembrance of Logos Past by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Ollendorf Press in October, 2009

Marcel needed food for his hypoglycaemia.

He scanned the menu for something equal to the cash on him.

“I’ll have a happy meal” he said.

Biting into the meat, the salt, the grease, the imported German onions, Marcel was flooded with 7 volumes of memories.

He recalled his first Happy Meal. It was an identical MacDonald’s except maybe Constable Big Mac still existed but that detail wasn’t as powerful as the involuntary recall of Ketchup scraped off cardboard cartons.

The memory invoked others:

Final episodes of Cheers and Seinfeld. His first walkman, then Diskman, then iPod, then cellphone, then blackberry, and then wanting something next. The grunge, rave, gangsta rap, swing kid, indie beard fashions he had rotated through.

Reminiscences rushed past so quickly he saw his television size grow, its thickness shrink, while his SUV’s volume doubled like a Pillsbury oven croissant.

Marcel saddened. His memories were decided by various marketing teams. Had he ever made a choice freely?

But then the final taste of sweet white hamburger bun lifted from his tongue. He decided to order a sundae and see the new movie based on the cartoon that was based on a toy he once got for Christmas.

Afternote: this excerpt was also entered in Canada Writes on CBC Radio's Go with Brent Bambury. It's a fun contest and if you want to enter here is the link

How To Get a Head of Advertising

2009-01-15T20:54:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from How To Get a Head of Advertising by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Age of Persuasion Press in February, 2009

She was too attractive ride on the sky train.

Ricky looked around at the other passengers, squeezed into the box car that slid along the center rail leaving the Commercial and Grandview station. They looked like the black and white pictures of boat loads of mutli-cultured immigrants arriving in the harbour.

They were the people that actually bought fast food. Fat and greasy, eating fries by the fist full off a plastic tray.

She was the people in the fast food commercials. Thin with shining blonde hair - blonde all the way down the roots unlike the graffiti style streaks that ran across the other heads on the train.
She wore sweat pants to work out. The others actually wore sweat pants to work.

The thing Ricky found most beautiful though, was her skin. It was clean and soft and free of advertisements.

The train, the train station, the fast food restaurants, the crosswalks, every section of the world was now equipped with projectors sending messages of consumption across people’s bodies. Even the appliances in your home would spray brandings across your skin. An evening meal or an intimate undressing contained images developed and tested by a marketing team.

There were objections to the earliest of these FAMS; these facial spams as they were referred to then. Industry poured millions into the defence. Industry was no longer about profit but principle and any attempt to curb FAMing was an attempt to rip the wings off free speech and democracy.

The courts protected the right to advertise. People could choose not to receive it. The antivuris industry was created.

The public could purchase a new antivirus and wear it, notifying projectors they did not wish to receive the FAMS. Every week a new antivirus was needed to block out the new ads. If you couldn’t afford the antivirus you could receive one for free that blocked other ads in exchange for displaying that company's ads.

Most of the commuters on the train chose this. Their faces glistened and blinked with tales of improving lifestyle and appearance.

But she was ad free. Ricky wasn’t even sure if he ever saw an ad free face before. He had no children so he never seen one pure from advertising. Even the few newborns he saw at the maternity ward had already been exposed to advertising with images of formula and cartoon characters endorsing diapers projected into their cribs.

The very rich could afford expensive shields but none that left them unblemished. Even the wealthiest celebrities were exposed to ads in the warfare like tactics used to project associations on them. There were even cases of the famous being paid to take on a facial endorsement. The wildest rumours were of the founder of the projection system living in an island compound free of ads.

She brushed her hair back from her face. There it was. On her forehead was a single logo; the curled childish letters of the latest Disney film. Her forehead announced simultaneous release dates on May 9th with versions for children and an expanded R rated cut full of dirty jokes for adults.

Why was she on the train? Did her car break down? If she could afford that kind of protection she could afford to call a cab? She could afford the insurance to have a tow and a lift come get her.

“Maybe she’s like me” thought Ricky. Ricky was between jobs and heading to his next job interview. Like most people in the current workforce Ricky was laid off every three to six months. Most employers developed projects and launches rather than long term employees. In the week or so he spent looking for work Ricky took the train while he lived entirely off his credit card.

“Are you heading to the hiring fair down at Hornby street?” He asked her.

She looked at him and smiled with perfect white teeth that were as free from ads as a blank canvas. “This is actually my stop.”

She stepped off the train and moved into another car without even trying to conceal her lie.

As the door closed behind her Ricky saw himself in the window reflection. Scrawled on his forehead like a tabloid headline was “LOSE 30 POUNDS IN 30 DAYS “Over his chin it read “MAKE YOUR LOVE TOOL BIGGER!”

Ricky used the antivirus provided by his last employer. It ran ads for his company but it kept out most of the others. It ran out just then and now he had no protection. He was covered in the basest forms of ads. The desperate bulk send outs for porn, sex enhancers, credit aid, and unaccredited online universities.

He failed the interview miserably and blamed the sleazy triple xxx shout outs that were tattooed all over him.

That night he sold his stocks and maxxed out his credit cards.

The brochure guaranteed only one to two ads would slip onto his head a day and they could often be covered with large sunglasses or even a tilted hat visor.

He stood on the train the next day, needing to nail this interview and start paying off this antivirus, when he saw her again.

“Excuse me” He said to her. He held up his cup of coffee and gestured to the machine. “Can I buy you a cup?”

She ignored him.

“Excuse me” he asked again “I’m sorry, excuse me.”

She turned, dropped a coin in his cup and walked away fast and frightened.

Laughing came from the corner of the skytrain station.

Ricky looked at the homeless man, the bum, mocking him. He was the lowest level of this society. Entirely ignored and voiceless. No one, not even the saddest commuter on the train, associated with him.

As a result, he was the one person that the ad men left alone. His grizzled face was free of ads. His physical endorsement was actually a negative.

Ricky just spent his life savings to look just like him.

The Hipster of Dorian Grey

2009-01-12T23:56:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from The Hipster of Dorian Grey by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Lipincott’s Press in February 2009.

Adrian took the edge of his two hands and squeezed them together across his scalp. His gelled hair forced up between the two hands into a faux hawk the way that a mountain range is created when two of the earth’s plates press together.

Guys at the office couldn’t pull this off. They tried too hard. Even at the gym, only one guy near Adrian’s age rocked a faux hawk. At first, Adrian thought they were the same age but the other dude was actually 7 year younger. Adrian laughed at that. He felt so much younger then he was.

Adrian took pride in how much younger he looked. He styled his hair. He worked out. He dressed in current fashion unlike the old guys at work. They clung to their fading concert t-shirts. The logos fading along with the memory of the last time they were fun. When Adrian wore a cardigan he looked like Cobain. When they wore one, they looked like their Grandfather.

It wasn’t just looks that kept someone young. It was how young they felt. The cliché was true. Adrian felt very young. He acted very young. He still went to concerts. He still took in the big movies every opening weekend. He still did drugs in bathroom stalls and spent a large amount of his income on comic books.

He had everything he wanted when he was 15. He owned a great car with a sound system of greater value. He had a television screen larger than any window in his house. He had anonymous sex and saw 12 hockey games a year. Most of all, he had the sketch.

The picture made everything possible. It was hidden in his attic behind stacks of Johnny Cash LPs from the year he was really into country and vinyl. It was sketch of Adrian. When he was younger the sketch looked like another simplistic, heavy -lined Chester Brown knockoff.

But the sketch aged. Just as Adrian never grew older the sketch aged with dusty deterioration. After the years of all nighters, hangovers, gravied poutine, and hard drugs, the sketch no longer looked like a Chester Brown. All the wrinkles and baggy eyes were too detailed and accentuated. It was more like portrait of Keith Richards drawn by Robert Crumb. If Adrian kept it up the sketch would soon be a Nick Nolte mug shot by way of Lucien Freud.

That wasn’t something Adrian thought about though. The sketch was safe and he had no other worries. He didn’t have to think about a career. He ate out every night and never jogged or opened an RRSP. When he got married it was so that he could have the coolest wedding ever – Nashville theme and the sketch kept him looking good for the photos. When he cheated on his wife it was because she was getting old while the sketch kept him attractive. When he had a boy it was so he could see how good looking his kid would be. He could give him an odd name like Marmaduke or Ganges and pull his hair into a tiny Hollywood baby faux hawk. The sketch meant he would be the coolest Dad ever.

That day, in the gym shower Adrian got strange looks. It was probably his faux hawk wilting in the shower. It hung in his eyes when it got wet.

He dried it in front of the mirror, combed the hair out of his face then sculpted it into his faux hawk. In the mirror his saw the attack on his face, like a very centralized target of graffiti smart bomb.

On his lip was an exaggerated curly line. It was the drawing of moustache on a silent movie villain, twirling it while he tried a damsel to a train track. It was the kind of thing that you drew on a frat boy’s mouth with permanent marker when he passed out first.

He buried his face in the sink and scrubbed with the cheap pink liquid soap. He looked up and the moustache line was still there. Now it was accompanied by three sharp lines on his chin: A Satanic Van Dyke.

Adrian thought about the picture for the first time since returning to the attic to see if his new Ying Yang shoulder tattoo appeared on the sketch. (It did not) Someone was drawing on the sketch.

He forced his wet skin into the clinging legs of his skinny jeans. It was enough make him decent as he ran shirtless and shoeless to the car. In the review mirror he could see that his face was now marked with crude glasses and two devil horns sprouting from his forehead.

He climbed into the attic. He was out of breath for the first time in years. He heart felt like mouse being suffocated by a constrictor. His knees crackled like fire works on each stair.

“Ganges!” He yelled.

The boy looked up from the pile of paper shredding around him. He looked like he lived in a hamster’s nest of newspaper. It was the final remains of the sketch.

Arian looked at the mirror on the wall. Ganges had suddenly made him a very old man.

Migration Song

2009-01-08T21:19:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from Migration Song by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Jersey Dutch Books in February 2009

The hyper drive made everything possible.

There was only a single working prototype that could propel a dog out of the solar system. Still, overnight industries were created on speculation. One day a human would travel beyond the known planets. Now was the time to invest in the technology to send them there. Tycoons were anointed from blueprints for contact lenses that required fluid once a year and drinking water / urine recyclers.

Even more lucrative was the probability of humans encountering aliens. The arms industry warred to develop new weapons to fight them. The pharmaceuticals had new diseases to eradicate.

Carl was awarded the profitable universal translator contract. Humans needed some way to bridge the communication gap if they ever encountered an extraterrestrial. Carl was happy with the contract. He was very rich now and he loved the work. He explored the vast terrain of language like an astronaut himself. It was every linguists dream gig.

By year two of the project the working model of the translator wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t ready for any retail market. Basically just a microphone attached to a hard drive and monitor and speaker. He disabled the speech ability for now. One day it would answer the subject in its native language but for now the challenge was to translate.

Carl leaned into the microphone of the latest release. He spoke into it, loud and self conscious. “Greetings! I come in Peace, Yadda Yadda Yadda, Nanoo Nanoo.” The Yadda and Nanoo were to test if the system could differentiate the language from the gibberish. He repeated the phrase in Dutch, Mandarin, Urdu, Mohawk, and Yiddish. Each time he separated the languages with Yadda, Yadda, Yadda, Nanoo Nanoo. He pressed ‘translate’ without hope.

On the monitor, the languages were torn down to simple binary numerals and then stitched back into the poetic rhythm of human language. In a patriotic move Carl set the prototype to translate every language into Canada’s other official language. Except for Yadda and Nanoo , which was recognized as nonsensical, every single word now appeared on the screen in French.

It worked. He turned on the speech component and basked in the perfect pronunciation – Quebec accent and everything.

There was a can of Guinness saved for this moment. Carl switched on the speech component and slowly poured the 2 year old beer into a tilted glass and listened to his victory on loop.

“Greetings I come in Peace, Yadda Yadda Yadda, Nanoo Nanoo.”

The cold brew never tasted so good. Then Carl heard something, weakly, in the background of the looping message. It was a person talking.

He leaned in closer to the speaker and listened for it. It would be coming up soon on the loop. There it was again. Definitely a person talking.

He moved the file to his audio recognition software. He highlighted the original waves of his voice and deleted it from the play back. There it was once more. It was a soft sentence, spoken like a high falsetto whisper.

The message made Carl very scared. He looked around as if looking for a ghost or spy.

Maybe he didn’t understand. It was in French. Not his native tongue and maybe something translated wrong. He moved the setting on the universal translator to English and played the message.

“This is my home. My home. My home. And all my children, all and all, will return here.”
Carl looked out the window. He scanned the horizons to find any telling details. Somehow aliens were already here. His translator was the first to hear them.

He had to hear what they sounded like. He returned the translator to its original setting so he could hear the aliens in their indigenous language.

The translator let out a series of startling tweets, whistles, and chirps. Carl listened to it three more times. He compulsively pressed the replay button, trying to comprehend what creature made this noise.

On the fourth replay he smiled and looked out the window again. It was a bird call. The universal translator picked up a chickadee. Carl bridged the greatest possible gap of languages and never left Earth.

He hauled the table that the translator was on as close as possible to the window. It recorded a dog yelling at everyone in the park what was his and what he had pissed on. He recorded squirrels chattering at each other, the Greys threatening the Reds. Birds sang complicated ballads and sagas describing their large territories and where predators were last seen.

Finally, when no more animals were within earshot Carl played any recordings he found on the internet.

He listened to a lion roar his servitude to his female Queen. He listened to prairie dogs whistling their fears to each other. He listened to a beluga gently click assurance to its calf.

Carl remembered his early love of words. The childhood days when he didn’t know what a linguist was and he only knew the love of the unconscious flow of communication. He was fascinated by bird calls then. His favourite was the Mourning Warbler. Its song was as plaintive as its name. Of course, it was now extinct. Yet another reason the hyper drive was exciting for those that needed off the failing and abused planet.

Carl had to hear the translation of the Mourning Warbler. He located a file, possibly the only known recording, on a university site. He pressed play and then translate:

“I am the last of my kind
I see no others in my long migration
None will ever hear this song
Lonely, lonely, lonely”

Carl unplugged the translator. He was not certain he wanted to help anyone off this planet after he realized what we had done with it.

Her Secret Service's Majesty

2009-01-06T19:41:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from Her Secret Service’s Majesty by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Jim Hatfield Press in February 2009

The first thing to alert the Brigadier when entering the room was the overpowering scent of Axe Body Spray.

His nose wrinkled and contracted like an accordion before he sneezed.

“Excuse me” He said

“You’re soooo good looking!” Said Prince Harry. “That’s from Seinfeld, right? Ha!” He stood before the brigadier shirtless, with one arm raised and the offensive can still billowing fumes into his red underarm hair.

“The stuff stinks like shite but the birds are mad for it” his Highness said.

Stinks is right thought the Brigadier. It could be a chemical warfare creation developed by R&D. When I first asked him what it was he answered fast and it sounded like Ass spray and not Axe spray. The former is more apt.

“Grab a seat.” Harry pointed to a chair over in the corner covered in Lad Mags. The Brigadier hesitated. “Just sit down anywhere. I’m not going to make you bow so long as you don’t make me salute”

The Brigadier suddenly decided not to sit. It made what he had to say more urgent. Besides, he could not find himself comfortable in Harry’s wing. It was a disorienting mix of antique furniture, historical gifts, and oil portraits mashed with video game consoles, dirty laundry piles, and page three pin up girls.

“You don’t have to salute sir, but I do want to discuss you military career” He tried to sound authoritative yet approachable.

“Oh Bloody hell!” said Harry. He threw himself on the bed in disgust. “What do you want me to do? I can’t go. I’m not allowed in Afghanistan. I’m not allowed in Iraq. I’m a bloody risk”

“I know sir,” said the Brigadier. This time he tried to sound authoritative yet sympathetic. “It’s not fair.”

“Damn right, it’s not fair. I trained. I’m as ready as any solider and now I’m a threat to the unit. Well, I’m a threat to Iraq! That’s what I am.” He rolled on the bed in fits of self pity.

“Sir, I may be out of line here but you make a terrible soldier”

Harry stopped rolling about. He glared. He said nothing. His face moved through several deeper tones of red and into a royal purple.

The silence slightly disturbed The Brigadier. He expected a protest but not an intense stare down. He knew Harry couldn’t behead him but he was also unsure what the Prince was entitled to.

He cleared his throat and continued. “You are undisciplined. You cannot stay out of trouble. You enjoy confrontation. You indulge in various intoxications. You enjoy the company of woman. You like to travel but seem to have little respect for other cultures. "

As the Brigadier spoke he opened a file and withdrew pictures of Harry. Harry fighting on a Polo field. Harry smoking marijuana. Harry punching paparazzi. Harry approaching a topless dancer in Calgary. Harry dressed as a Nazi at a Colonials and Natives party. For this one the Brigadier felt the need to wince as he held it up.

“Furthermore,” said the Brigadier'“you will never be King.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest but was shut down by the Brigadier's eyes. “Face it. Your Father may not even become King. The British public are hell bent on William. They love him. They would elect him King if the Royal family weren’t the direct opposite of what democracy and voting was all about. You have no job advancement opportunities. Whatever you are now is what you will be until you die. However, there is one thing that you can do. One thing that will make you elite within the most elite family in the world and serve the greater good.”

Harry’s head jolted up. “I’m listening”

The Brigadier spoke slowly as if unwrapping a present “All these traits make a terrible soldier but they also make a great British Spy!”

“Like James Bond!” Harry almost shouted the words.

“But better than James Bond. Better than any member of MI-5. You would be James Bond with complete diplomatic immunity in every country of the world. A James Bond that would be invited by heads of states to their offices and governments and never questioned or searched.” The Brigadier was excited too and almost shouted along with Harry.

“That plan is so crazy it might just work.” Harry heard someone say that in a movie once and wanted to say it since.

“Oh, it will work. It worked before” The Brigadier shouted now.

“My family are spies? I mean, I know that Uncle Albert was Jack the Ripper, but we hid that.” Harry’s face was even redder from the shock. He looked like one large freckle.

“No, Prince Albert was not a serial killer. He was part of a long proud tradition of Royal espionage and those women were his assigned targets.”

“They were spies?” asked Harry

“Ya, spies, unionists, whatever. Prince Edward was another. Blowing off military training to work as a West End actor. Pfft!” The Brigadier waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “It was a carefully crafted cover.”

Harry shook his head “He seemed like a poof.”

“Yes, exactly, that was his cover. He was instrumental in the destroying the threat of Khadafy.” explained the Brigadier.

“Well, I don’t want a cover like that.”

“It’s okay. The public has already dismissed you. You don’t need a cover. Now, Next month you will be travelling to Italy. Would be able to leave this transmitter in the Prime Minister’s washroom?”

“Can I meet Q?” Harry asked.

The Brigadier paused for a moment to check if he was joking and then said yes. If an old reservist needed to dress in a lab coat for an afternoon to make this work, so be it.

On the bookshelf, holding several DVDs in place sat a small marble statue. Pope Pius XII presented it to King George. Harry moved it to his room because it was a nude and would rub his hands on the smooth marble breasts and smile. It broadcast the entire conversation to the Vatican where the Pope listened and giggled.

“Get ready” He said to the Swiss guards, “Prince Harry is about to find out what counter espionage is like among the rich and diplomatically immune.” He burst out in deep, deep cackle and stroked the cat sitting in his lap.

Jesus Christ, C-List Star

2009-01-02T00:14:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from Jesus Christ, C – List Star by Ben Shakey. It will be published by Manna Books in February, 2009

After choosing the comedian that made all the sound effects, the television star that had attempted to make the leap to film and was tossed back to television like an undersized fish, and the black guy that nobody could recall what he was even famous for, the contestant chose the bottom right square.

"I’ll take Jesus Christ to block." said the Bail Bondsman from Idaho.

"Jesus Christ to block!" announced the host.

"Jesus Christ!" thought Jesus Christ. "To block. He didn’t even want to choose me. He had to choose it for the block"

“Alright Jesus.” Said the host. His hair looked like a piece of Tupperware attached to his head with an interlocking plastic groove. "Here’s your question" He sounded as if was going to actually physically throw the question at him "After boarding the Ark, What did Noah leave?"

Jesus leaned forward. There was a prepared answer for him to recite from a cue card but he couldn’t read it from there. "Uhhh" he said leaning a bit more forward "The tap running?"
He read each word aloud as his eyes moved across the script. The timing on the punch line was poor. Jesus knew it would be. Jokes weren’t his speciality. He was more inclined towards parables but it still got a good chuckle from the rest of the squares.

"Uhhm...seriously though" he said. This was much more effective. He was much better at sounding sombre and serene. "He left behind a unicorn."

"A unicorn" said the host "A unicorn" He repeated it one more time, more slowly and in a lower register, to establish that this was the real answer and not a prepared joke.

"Do you agree or disagree?" He asked the Bail Bondsman from Idaho.

The producers asked each player to explain out loud why they made the choice they did in order to increase to drama of the game. The Bail Bondsman from Idaho tried his best to comply. "Well Guy" He explained "I know that Jesus is a very honest man and there is no way that he would lie to me."

The camera cut to a close up of Jesus who shook his head back and forth and mouthed the word No in an exaggerated fashion. His halo scraped the roof of the square above him.

"So that is why I will have to agree."

Wha! Wha! Two sharp blasts of the buzzer indicated that he was wrong.

"I’m sorry" said the host. "The answer was sinners....Sinners" He repeated the word again. This time signify the sincerity he felt about the contestant getting the answer wrong.

The contestant locked eyes with Jesus. It was a rare show emotion on the game. "Did you just lie to me Jesus?!?" He asked.

"Ya, I lied to you", thought Jesus.

"Just like I lied when I said I didn’t care if I got the cruddy lower square. Just like they lied to me when they said that lots of people chose it. I’ve been lied to more in the past 6 months than in all the drunken or pre final exam prayers I’ve received in the past 10 years. 6 months is all it takes for the media hoist you up, announce the 2nd coming, and then backlash you out of sight and mind before they move on to the next media cycle. I can’t believe that alien landed on Earth completely fluent in English. Well, it might be the hot shit media darling right now but in 6 months that alien is going to be right here on Hollywood squares. I wonder if it will get center square? Better not. So ya, I lied to you." Thought Jesus.

Jesus looked at the Bail Bondsman and shrugged his shoulders. "Hey, I work in strange ways"

The studio audience laughed and the comedian that made all the sound effects punctuated it will the sound a of a rim shot.