Canadian Authors Association

Back in August, I answered a call for submission from the Canadian Author’s Association for vol. 4 of the Anthology of Montreal Writers. So I submitted a PDF version of The Fighter, the first episode in my serial blog novella Crime Sex Spy Story, and forgot about it.

Well, it looks like The Fighter will, indeed, be included in the Anthology of Montreal Writers vol. 4, and there’s launch event for the anthology tomorrow evening at a meeting of the Montreal chapter of the Canadian Author’s Association.

The event will be held at 6-8pm at the Thomas More Institute (map), and authors from the anthology (including me) will be reading from their selections. Other authors include:

• Alice Lukacs
• Ilona Martonfi
• Harvey Grossman
• T. Leibenkop
• Arlette Iwaz
• Michael Blekhman
• Grace Moore
• Ken Kalman
• C.A. Balawyder
• Aileen Lebovsky
• Taymaz Valley
• Renee D. Cohen
• Louise M. Carson
• Alexandra Pollack
• Quentin Newhouse Jr
• Margerie Kaminesky
• Jaune
• Elizabeth Tremain
• Joanne Penhale

Copies of the anthology can be obtained tomorrow at the event for $12/each, or by mail at the following rates by contacting Ken Kalman via kenkal60[at]yahoo[dot]ca.

• 1 copy $ 16
• 2 copies $ 30
• 3 copies $ 42
• 4 copies $ 56
• 5 copies $ 69

“Well, I want what everyone so secretly and desperately wants,” he said, taking a sip of the whiskey that the waiter had just placed in front of him. “Merci,” he nodded to the young man.

“And what’s that, exactly?” she smirked, stirring her martini.

“To be saved, of course,” he said.

“To be saved from what?” she asked, squinting from across the table. She was regretting taking this appointment, here in a bar, regretting doing the interview.

“From the truth,” he reflected. “From myself,” he concluded.

Credit: rick

She studied him for a moment. “And you believe that everyone wants that?” she snorted.

“I believe that everyone yearns deeply for what they need most – even if they don’t know what that is,” he added.

“And you think that everyone need to be saved from themselves?” she queried.

“Looking at the world today and the shape it’s in: yeah, I’d say that humanity could use a little saving from itself.”

“Those aren’t one and the same,” she pined.

He’d struck a nerve a deep seeded doubt. He could see that much; could hear it in her voice. She was supposed to be interviewing him, but she was the one getting defensive.

“I’m not so sure of that,” he explained.

“Sounds like you’re projecting your own faults on the rest of humanity,” she observed.

“Are you going to write that?” he asked. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of objective assessment that your publication prides itself on,” he joshed.

He was right. He’d nailed it. She was getting defensive and she had to watch herself. She took a sip of her martini and composed herself. “My apologies,” she said. “It’s been a long day and maybe I brought too much of it along with me. I’ll do my best to allow your own quotes to speak for themselves,” she assured him.

“That’s all I’d expect, Brigitte,” he smiled.

She squirmed. There was something vile in how he said her name. It was smarmy and presumptuous. She should have never agreed to this interview.

Credit: Jean-Pierre Martineau

The washroom door swung open and two rowdy drunks stumbled in. They were still yelling over each other like they were back out where the band was playing.

“Hey, you,” one of them said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Jimmy looked over his shoulder. It was his date’s ex, Randy. Jimmy knew because his date had pointed him out earlier. Randy had been giving them dirty looks all night.

“Leave it alone,” Randy’s friend urged him.

“Nah, I wanna talk to this mother fucker,” he slurred.

Jimmy looked over his shoulder again. “You gonna let me finish pissing, or you gonne bum rush me while my dick’s still in my hand?” he asked. He could feel them hesitate. Randy’s friend was watching him to see what he’d do.

“Nah, you could finish pissing,” Randy slurred.

Jimmy forced the stream, shook twice, and zipped up. Then he sighed and turned to face Randy and his friend. They seemed to have given him some room. They were waiting to see what he’d do.

“So what’s up?” Jimmy asked, glancing from one to the other.

“That girl you’re with,” Randy began.

“Leave it alone, man,” his friend pleaded.

“You mean Nat, your ex girlfriend” Jimmy said.

“Oh, so she told you?” he slurred.

“She mentioned you guys used to date,” Jimmy said, stepping forward. Randy’s friend moved back and cleared a path to the sink. Jimmy started washing the backsplash off his hand.

Credit: dave patrick

“Yeah, let me tell you something about her,” Randy slurred.

Jimmy looked up and met Randy’s eyes in the mirror. He shook his hands and reached for a paper towel.

“Leave it, man,” his friend pleaded.

“Nah, man!” Randy exclaimed, stepping toward Jimmy.

Jimmy turned and met Randy in the eye. “Listen, Randy,” he began. “Nat’s a gorgeous girl, so I can appreciate how strongly you feel about running into her at the show and then me here in this washroom. But if you try to involve me in your emo shit or interfere in my sex life, I’m going to beat you like a redheaded stepchild,” he said, pausing for effect.

Randy hesitated. So did his friend. When Jimmy was certain that Randy wasn’t going to take a swing, he glanced over at his friend. “You guys enjoy the rest of the show,” and he left the washroom.

Ten years. A decade… It’s gone by in a flash. I finished university, made mistakes, became a father, made some more mistakes, and had my heart broken in ways that’d make Humpty Dumpty appreciate just how much worse he could have it.

I’ve never trusted anyone who’s said that they’ve had no regrets and believed it. I mean, sure, what we’ve done in the past is what’s made us who we are today, and it’s hard to let go of identity. But who wouldn’t want to be something better? Some better version of who we’ve become? Someone more refined? Something less imperfect?

I’ve made choices, many of them because I had to, but many more because I didn’t know any better. And I learned from them. But hindsight is always 20/20, and I think it’s vain and delusional and self-absorbed to insist that you’re better off than you could’ve been if you could’ve gone back and made some of those choices differently.

But what good is it to dwell on such things? On such mistakes? Maybe none. Maybe a bit. After all, there are still a lot of choices ahead of us, and if you carry those regrets with you in just the right way, maybe you’ll bring with you the wisdom and experience to make better decisions in the future.

I live in a ghost town. Population approximately 100,390 men, women and children. I have a feeling there is a lower than average proportion of children. My ghost town is a trendy neighborhood on an Island that’s a major metropolitan city.

Credit: Lisa T.

Despite the population density, my ghost town is one of the most haunted in the country. That’s the funny thing about densely populated ghost towns: most of the souls still haunting its rooms and streets and apartments are wandering them in the flesh. Perhaps this makes them sound more like zombies than ghosts, but their souls are tortured and intact, and haunt their bodies with so many regrets and fears and desires.

Many people move to my ghost town to be part of something bigger – part of a scene, part of a community, part of the next big thing. They soon find, however, that it’s mostly an illusion and end up wandering its streets, rooms and apartments lonely and lost, and unable to escape the allure of the glamorous, false promises that led them here. They become trapped. They become ghosts.

I am just such a ghost.

I moved here many years ago – maybe 7 or 8, now. For many years it was my dream to come here. I am from the Island, born and raised in this metropolis, but from the boroughs, where life is a bit simpler and slower and more honest. But before long I found education. I discovered ideas that were bigger than me, bigger than my home, bigger than the truth, and I set out to embrace them. So I came to this ghost town, to see and be seen and be discovered by my kinfolk estranged from me through time and space and convention.

Night vision…

And here I thought I found them, in the artists and the hipsters and the intellectuals who, too, call this ghost town home. I brought with me my dreams and hopes and delusions about life, love and destiny. But broken dreams have killed more souls than broken hearts, and now I haunt a small, two-bedroom apartment with a fridge and a stove, and washer-dryer outlets. There are even two balconies: one out back, and one out front that overlooks the well-arborated one way street of three-story townhouses that I live on.

Oh, my street: so warm in the summer, so picturesque in the autumn, so ghastly after sundown. This is when tortured souls are the most active and cause the most mischief: after sundown, before sunup.

I also haunt a couple local barrooms, and once haunted a diner, but have not had the heart to return after hitting on one of the waitresses and being rejected. It would just not be considerate of her to ever return there again. It is suiting, however, that I’ve haunted these places. These were the places I died in.

I lived for several years in this ghost town before succumbing to its wicked trappings. I moved here and then I met a girl and then we fell in love and moved into this nest that overlooks the well-arborated, picturesque street below. But I suppose that she did fall as far or as deep as I did because, one day, she found her way out by following a light I could not see. I have missed her ever since, and everyday I look for that light, but I have not seen it yet. I’m beginning to question that it ever existed.

Since she left, I have made it my business to haunt the living. That is what a ghost does. Without taunting and inspiring fear and doubt in the living, a ghost ceases to exist. To haunt is a survival instinct. It’s a way of afterlife.

Credit: Oliver Lavery

The living cannot always see a ghost, but we can see each other. We recognize one another across the room and exchange glances on the street. These glances remind us of how alone we are. A ghost is dead. They can share nothing with no one – nothing but our misery and our longing.

This is why we haunt. We haunt them to drive them mad, to drive them to extremes so that they might one day join us in our loneliness and pain and melancholy. Sometimes, I hear, we even succeed, but I have yet to. I am still new to this, however, and understand that I have an eternity to do so.

Time is on my side.

My first haunting was a fine young girl. She was brilliant and radiant and an artist, and I had to lure her here because she lived elsewhere on the Island. I was still young and soft, however, because time had not yet made me hard and bitter, and I let her go for fear that I destroy something beautiful.

I will not make that mistake again.

After that I set my sights on another young girl, one who was tall and slender and sharp. She, too, lived elsewhere on the Island, but she wanted to live here, so it was easy to lure her here. She would come knocking without me calling. Her, too, I failed to haunt to the point of madness. I could not fully let her in. I was too attached to the rooms I haunt. I did not want to share them with anyone. I hope I should not make this mistake again. It is better to be smothered than to be lonely.

Tonight I am haunting a barstool, hoping some unfortunate soul takes up next to me and befalls my influence, but it is looking unlikely. Too many other souls haunt this barroom. It is too eerie. The living rarely come in here. Especially on a Saturday night when there is so much life in abundance to be had up and down the streets of this ghost town.

The living flock to our town on the weekends to revel in its mystery – and not just from other places on the Island, but the bridge and tunnel crowd, too. Their life force is overwhelming. It crowds us out, pushing us into the darker corners of the neighborhood.

Credit: loronet

We can walk among them, of course, if we choose to, but it is hard to bear witness to what you desire but can never have again. That is part of what tortures us in our afterlife.

Sometime we try to fool ourselves into remembering what it’s like to feel alive. We do this by trying to feel pain and fear again, by trying to do things like falling in love and the like, but this, too, is impossible. This, too, is part of what tortures us.

Tomorrow my parents are coming into the city to have brunch with me. They are the ones who raised me in another borough on the Island, but have now become part of the bridge and tunnelers because houses are cheaper off the Island. I am worried that they will still smell the booze on me.

Brunch is a very early hour for the dead. I am also worried that they may realize that I’ve become a ghost, but I also suspect that they already have. When they visit, now, they are different. They are morose and demure in their mien, like when we visited my grandparents’ grave in my childhood.

Ah, memories of childhood… I remember a little what it was like to be a child. So bright, so colorful, so promising. Perhaps that was the light she saw and left me to follow. I can remember it. It was beautiful, and if I could see it, I would follow it, too.

My parents will want to go to the diner tomorrow, but I can no longer go there. I’m trying to think of some other place to suggest. My mother will want to go there because it was one of the haunts of one her childhood heroes – a poet and folk singer who grew up here, in this neighborhood, before it was a ghost town. He eventually returned here to die. The living like to mourn the dead on their own terms – you know, when it is convenient for them.

The last time they came, I took them to another local diner without as much history. I tried to convince them of its authenticity, but they were not convinced. It is too late to call and cancel on them now. Perhaps I will do so in the morning – if, that is, I can get out of bed before they’ve already started their drive into the city.

The Opening Acts

We got there for the last song of the opening act. No one applauded or cheered when they were done, so  they told the crowd to get some whisky and cocaine to wake up, but they sounded like the soundtrack to some shitty hipster YouTube long boarding video.

Credit: Eva Blue

The next act was Lindi Ortega. She played an acoustic guitar against an electric band and had this raunchy rock n’ country sound that made me wanna jerk off to her even more than the sight of her prancing around stage in that short black dress, fingering those acoustic guitar strings.

Then, right before Social Distortion took the stage, I ran into a friend who told me that she’d just run into my ex. I knew there was a chance my ex might be there (which is why I wanted a hot piece of ass hanging off my arm), but knowing for certain that she was somewhere in the crowd put me in a cocksucker of a mood.

Mike and the boys took the stage just a few minutes later, but I was already back at the bar muscling through the line up for another drink. There was only one way I was going to deal with this: the mature way.

The Social Distortion Set

Now, Social D was tight. Maybe the tightest band I’ve ever seen performed live. No, definitely the tightest. If it hadn’t been for a few thousand screaming fans, I would’ve thought I was sitting in on a private studio session.

In between the first couple songs, Mike had this geeky, crowd-pleasing alacrity that guys in their 50s (like your dad) has when he finally gets a captive audience that has to listen to them. But then he slipped into it, and it was listening to him 24 years ago, Live at the Roxy.

Credit: Eva Blue

The only problem is that I couldn’t enjoy it. I was brooding and on a mission to drink heavily. I was heartsick and feeling angry and violent, and I was pissed that my ex had somehow managed to ruin for me what might probably be my last chance to see one of my favorite bands live.

Until, that is, I was sitting in a local dive bar the next night, smoking a joint with a smoking hot barmaid who’d been at the show the night before. She was reliving it with such passion and lust and conviction that I realized that what ex had done was taken that ~$160 night (2 tickets + drinks) and let me experience all the carnal and guttural angst of so a Social Distortion song.

At first, I tried to not let her Drag Me Down, but it was no use and I ended up drinking like a Ball and Chain and brooding like a Sick Boy. I missed nearly half their set going outside to chain smoke, and I felt as lonely and lost and confused as if I’d been stranded in Bakersfield.

For a few hours, I felt what I think it’s like to get inside Mike Ness’s head — at least when he’s inspired to write. It was brutish and overwhelming and enraging and humbling because I know I will never have the strength or courage to channel that kind of anger and fury and rage.

The Morning After

Needless to say, I don’t remember much of the night after that. I tallied maybe somewhere in the area of 15 drinks and a two joints, and I might’ve even sent a late night angry text that I regret more than anything because it went unanswered. Then I woke up this morning and had it all come back to me before I could even muster the courage to get up and take my morning piss.

And you know what I realized?

I realized that maybe I’m fortunate that I wasn’t blessed (or cursed) with the strength or courage to channel that kind of angst and frustration because that’s the stuff that rock n’ roll legends are made off, and rock n’ roll folklore often doesn’t end with a happily ever after. Even if those legends immortalize the brave and tortured souls that perpetuate them.

A thud startled her back awake. It sounded like a door slamming and the apartment was now quiet. She listened for a moment and then checked her phone. It had been nearly an hour since she’d heard the doorbell rang and run back into the bedroom to hide. Nearly an hour. How had she slept through all that?

Credit: 3 0 d a g a r m e d a n a l h u s

There was a message from Ben. Vicki opened it:

We’ve gone for breakfast. Please make sure to lock the door on your way out.

Reading it over a couple times, Vicki thought about how the words might seem curt and rude out of context. But it was a text message. How else could he have put it?

Vicki sat up in the mess of sheets and felt the mercury swirl around the wall of her skull and settle into her brain stem. She winced. Her mouth was dry and her breath tasted like last night’s shooters. She braced her hands against the mattress and hoisted herself up onto her feet. The mercury shifted and settled again. Vicki sighed.

She listened by the bedroom door and gently opened it. The apartment was empty and the coast was clear. She walked to the kitchen. Dirty glasses and empty beer cans littered the counter. She found a coffee mug in the cupboard and poured herself a glass of water.

Back in the bedroom, she looked for her earrings and a sock that was still missing. She’d been trying to track it down when the doorbell had rung. Still no luck. She shrugged. At least the earrings would be an excuse to see him again, she thought.

*****

The sun outside was bright and warm, and the mercury in her head began to expand. There was a depp around the corner and Vicki bought a bottle of water before starting her walk home. It was just after ten and she wondered if Farah was up. She wanted coffee and breakfast. She wanted to brag, so she dialed Farah’s number.

Credit: Steve Bissonnette

“Hello?” her friend croaked on the other end.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Vicki asked.

“It’s only ten o’eight,” Farah said. “You know you did.”

“I just wanted to see if you still wanted to do breakfast,” Vicki explained.

“You just wanna gloat,” Farah teased.

“What’s wrong with that?” Vicki asked.

“Well, at least one of us getting some,” Farah repined. “Yeah, sure, let’s meet for breakfast. I’ll need half an hour to get ready,” she said.

“That’s cool, it’ll take me at least that long to get there. I just left Ben’s place.”

“Walk of shame!” Farah exclaimed.

“Whatever…” Vicki retorted. “He’s cute and he isn’t a total stranger, so what’s to be ashamed of?” she rebutted.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Farah conceded. “If I was single, I would’ve hit it. So how was it?”

“A little drunk and sloppy,” Vicki admitted, “and this morning, really awkward.”

“What do you mean?” Farah asked.

“Ugh,” she sighed, “his kid got dropped off early, and I was still looking for my clothes when the doorbell rang. I had to hide in his room until they left.”

“Oh my gawd!” Farah laughed.

“Yeah, even after they left, I still couldn’t find my earrings.”

“Whatever, gives you an excuse to see him again – if you want to, that is. Do you want to?” she asked.

“Yeah, I dunno… I think so… I’ll have to see… Do you think he’ll call?”

“I don’t know,” Farah said. “Probably. Ben’s not a douche. I’m known him a long time. He’s an all right guy.”

“Well, if I don’t see him again, I’m tasking you with getting my earrings back,” Vicki said.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Farah agreed. “Okay, so let me get ready and I’ll meet you at the café in half an hour?”

“Sounds good,” Vicki said. “See you soon!”

“Later,” Farah said, and the line went dead.

Vicki passed a café and went in. She ordered a double latte and went to the end of the counter to wait for it. The barista was a few years younger than her and not her type, but he was cute. He had a sleeve on one arm and stretched ear lobes. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

Credit: avlxyz

“Rough night?” he asked.

“Something like that,” she smiled.

“So what happened? You fall down the stairs or something?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He gestured toward her collarbone. Vicki hesitated. She looked around for a mirror. There was a hickey on her neck and a bruise on her shoulder. They were both large and colorful. She gasped, thought about it and then smiled at the barista again. “Yeah, rough night,” she shrugged.

“Well, here you go,” he smiled, sliding her latte across the counter.

“Thanks,” she said.

There was another mirror over the creamer station and Vicki took another moment to examine her battle scars. They were large and conspicuous, but they looked good on her. Farah was going to tease her about them all through breakfast, and she’d probably have to cancel dinner with her parents tonight, but she was proud of them. She’d earned them. They’d been worth it. Nothing to be ashamed of.

His costume was better, but he didn’t even really smoke… (Credit: Mohamed Hamad)

A couple years ago on Halloween, I went out as Raoul Duke (Hunter S. Thompson from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). It was a good person to go out partying as and I spent all day getting into character. I even ran into another Hunter with a much better costume, but I was in character so I like to tell myself I won that run in.

The only problem was that it took me four days to get back out of character. I was even talking like him when I’d take client calls at work. My buddy (who took the pic) worked next to me and wouldn’t let me live it down and kept laughing at me, but I couldn’t help myself — I couldn’t stop.

A year later, I found myself single (and heartbroken) for the first time in years. I had no idea how to start over or start dating again. But I happened to be catching up on all the previous seasons of Californication, which means that for weeks, I’d been spending a few hours every night with Hank Moody.

He rubbed off on me, and I started carrying his silly wit and sense of humor, and that shit actually worked. For a couple weeks, I could pick up any girl I talked to. It was good timing to have that kind of super power, and it got me through the first few weeks of the break-up, but once I was all caught up on the show and my time with Hank Moody was up, it was gone forever.

This probably says a lot about me than anything, but I think it also says something about how we’re impressionable creatures who are influenced by the people around us, the art we consume, and the characters it portrays. But it’s been a long week and it’s Friday afternoon and I’d really rather talk about myself than get heady and introspective and philosophical.

Being Uncle Andy…

So what I’m going to take from this is that I want to be Uncle Andy. If I’m going to copy anyone, I want it to be someone who is as dedicated and loyal (albeit hopelessly) to the ones he love, but has the good sense to not hold grudges and the piece of mind to let something go when there’s nothing left he can do about it.

Of course, I only really realized this while watching the series finale of Weeds last week, so I’m all out of time with Andy Botwin, so I guess I’m just going to have to be myself…

Source: Ridiculously Beautiful

“You should try a little harder?” she said.

“You’re used to being chased, aren’t you?” he said.

“I’m a helluva a catch,” she smirked.

“So am I,” he said.

“Well, then I guess we’ll never know,” she mused.

“I guess we won’t,” he conceded.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Freddy Nietzsche once said “I’m not upset that you lied to me, I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you.” I think what makes a piece a wisdom so wise is that it seems like a self-evident truth — but I guess hindsight is always 20/20. Once it’s said, it’s kinda of a “no duh,” but no one ever “put it that way” until someone does, and then it becomes this little piece of wisdom that we can all intuitively feel to be a truth (whatever that is) — we can feel it in our bones, and we can feel it in our memories of past experience.

I think Freddy only got half of the picture here, though — which isn’t to detract from the genius in his nostrils, because the man dropped more wisdom in a single book than most of us will drop in a lifetime. A huge part of the betrayal we feel when we’ve been deceived is definitely that there is now one less person in the world we can trust. We lose more than a friend or a trusted confidant when someone lies to us. We lose another little piece of certainty in a world already rife in uncertainty. There is suddenly one less thing, one less person, we can be certain of — and we gain yet another doubt in its place.

But I think the other half of the sense of betrayal, the other half of the uncertainty we feel when we find out we’ve been deceived is that we can no longer trust ourselves. We trusted in someone for some reason to some extent, and when we find out that it was a mistake to do, we have a hard time trusting ourselves and our own judgement afterward.

Of course, we try to learn from the betrayals and deceptions we suffer, and move on with a stronger, more cautious sense of self. We try to console ourselves that hindsight is 20/20, but it’s still hard not to question just who it is we are.

Who was that person that allowed themselves to be deceived? Who was blind to the writing on the wall? And just who is this person we’ve become? What do we know of them? Can we know anything? 

I guess that’s why Socrates was the wisest man in Greece: he knew that he knew nothing. But still, that’s little comfort when you’re stumbling through life trying to find meaning in the things you do and the people closest to you, like a hurt lost and blinded fool…