Written by capnasty

I know, this issue has been delayed. It's my entire fault. Mea culpa, mea grandissima culpa. Everyone else submitted their material, and even provided stuff for the next issue. But I've been busy, my computer was in the process of being upgraded, I had to go through all the fun and games that Windows enjoys putting me through (yes, I know there is Linux, and I use it, but for some things, I need Windows, don't bug me now) making me realize at each step why I hadn't upgraded for so long... if it works, don't fix it. My girlfriend finally returned from her vacation after five weeks, freeing me from deprivation and cold showers.

So things are relatively back to normal, except for the occasional message via ICQ or e-mail that goes something along the lines of "Where's CoN?" with of course a few more colourful metaphors thrown in (message for you people: though I love and appreciate your constant encouragement, please, shut up).

Add to that some random insanity that seems to plague my life: my phone number belonged to a Michael DeSilva. Michael gets a lot of calls from giggly, under-aged girls. Michael gets a lot of calls from Royal Bank as well. While the giggly, under-aged girls clearly know that I am not Michael, Royal Bank doesn't. Royal Bank's clerks are starting to dislike Michael DeSilva. I'm starting to dislike giggly, under-aged girls calling at four in the morning.

Clearnet, a local cell company, is very unhappy. They are unhappy and they keep reminding me by sending long letters to me. I can tell they are unhappy because I open these letters with my address and Linda Deveau's name on it, because after four months of calling Clearnet and sending their letters back, Clearnet still sends letters. Clearnet also keeps calling my number looking for her. It's my fault, really, for giving it to them; I fucked myself with my own hands. "Can I speak to Linda Deveau?" they go "She doesn't live here anymore" goes I. "Well, if you see her, can you please tell her to call us?" -- which part of "I don't even know who the fuck she is?" did they not understand? On the bright side, after three calls for Michael, I can rest assured the fourth is from Clearnet.

I don't have cable. For that, I don't have a telly either, as I entertain myself more sitting on the washing machine. Some call it vibrations; I call it entertainment for my loins with the added bonus of no advertising (unless I close my eyes and then open them again staring at the bottle of detergent in my hands).

So my girlfriend expressed the desire of having a television, and I enquired about cable. Well, thanks to the previous owner, a certain Monica Gillis, who did not pay for her cable bill, it seems that the Cable Company doesn't want to service me until I pay. It doesn't matter how little I sound like a woman or explaining that 8 months ago I didn't even live here or that this is the first time I intend to apply for cable. They don't care. They just want their money. And it doesn't fail, once a week, I'll find a notice hanging from my door, looking very much so like those "do not disturb" signs, asking Monica to pay $380 worth of cable. Monica, if you happen to read this, please pay your fucking bill.

I used to like banks. Everyone would bitch and complain about their bank, but not I. I had been with the same bank, a Toronto Dominion (TD) branch since I was 14. To give you an example of how good this bank was, I could just show up with no book or card, and they knew already who I was. When I applied for Visa, the manager of the bank wrote a letter to go along with my application to state that I wasn't a criminal, and yes, the boy did work (I still did not get my Visa, but that's another story). Then one fine day, because having more than two banks within the radius of 20 miles is bad, my bank was closed, and my account moved to a far, far away branch. I could've moved my account to a closer alternate bank, but I had been doing all my banking with TD for years and a lot of automated things were taking place with my account and I did not feel like telling a billion people, sending out a million cheques, and doing all that crap again. Sadly, whenever I need to go to this bank, I have to take the morning off from work just to get there. You can imagine I try to go there as little as possible.

So I needed some money, and I needed more than my card allows me to take out. I inform work that I'll be late and I head to the bank. Having these people never seen me, fresh off college, tight-assed, follow-the-book, tie-and-jacket clerks start checking on me. These guys' concept of getting laid is to lie between two slabs of cement to mortify the flesh and better perform the next day. These are the kind of people that cry their hearts out on their deathbed because they just realized running the rat-race, well, sucks, and they accomplished very little in their maximum allowed span other than to fuck up my life.

My old bank had never updated my signature nor the photo they had requested of me since I was 14. Was there a need? No, of course not, they even knew me by name, where I worked and I'm sure their terminal screen told them things I never cared to share with them. So Anal- Retentive clerk checks out my photo and signature and by-golly, the two don't match. You don't say? Could it be perhaps because I took that fucking photo almost 10 years ago? My signature doesn't match either? No way! I suppose handwriting can improve even for people like me after 10 years.

Fortunately after running through every possible test, having me recite things by heart (where do you live? what's your mother's maiden name? where do you work?), and after only making me wait for about an hour that they talked to head office, I finally existed.

If you call me, and you hear someone scream "if you are calling for Michael, I ripped his fucking nuts out!" that's me.

So, how was your week?

Luke de Sade responds to Tess Toth:

chunky and chewy

Oh, my God! Can't stop laughing!

Maomi writes in regards to Samantha Cragg's "The Artistes vs. The Nice Guys" article:

This about artist is very true.....too true it's scary. But have you considered how it is for a girl artiste like myself? It's far less glamorous. I think that the guy's in bands are far more popular than the artists, and if your a girl artist I think people expect you to paint flowers. Or have a boyfriend who is an artiste, but since all guy artistes are jerks, it doesn't happen.

And artists ( male or female) who send 8 hours on a canvas, ruin thier hands with turpintine, spill some paint on every piece of clothing they own get no recognition compared to the wasted " punk rockers" who spend 5 minutes on a Korn rip off song, and thier " band practice" is come wasted, get wasted, leave wasted.