"You may notice I've removed most of the rants from this page. I have come to the realization that too much of my life has been spent with me dwelling on/in the past. I no longer feel the need to share my entire life story with everybody. Some things belong in the past. These are some highlights." - Ian

My Smart Mouth


Poopy's Pooper


Photo Radar




Crazy Finger


Cab Driver Named Steve
Dirty Love Poem Number 3
Invisible Sun
Six String Bass
Christmas The Pagan Ritual
Conspiracy Theories
Going To Church On Sunday
Lili's Never Around
Lili And Doug (Sitting In A Tree)
Beautiful Wife
In The Rodeo
Crispy Burrito Syndrome
Ghost of the Cockroach
Grumpy The Dwarf
The Story Behind The Roaming Orgy
My Buddy Ken
The Clothing Store Girl
Pam Maxwell's Dungeon
Hey Let's Rape This Girl
Why They Used To Call Me Repo
Stray Ken And The Hairdresser From Persia
Impact Craters



So, she calls me up over the phone, and she says:

"I just want you to know something: I fake it. every time!"

And I was like:

"I hope that don't mean that we can't do it anymore, because I'm having a blast."

"Oh, you're such a jerk!"

"Yeah, so. What are you gonna do about it...beat me up? I pay women to do that."

Actually, a lot of women have a problem with the fact that I have a real smart mouth. But then, they find that my filthy mouth can go for a couple of hours...

and they no longer seem to mind.


This is about what a pile of shit all these game shows, reality shows, talk shows, and sports shows really are.

Good evening everybody. It's Canada's favourite game show host here, Maxwell Popper, inviting you all yet once again to another edition of Poopy's Pooper (where you can win the prize if you sink it in the Pooper).

Our contestants tonight are Mr. Hooper, and Mr. Cooper. Our sponsors tonight are The Pooper Lube as well as The Test Tube Pooper. A special mention tonight for our referee, Mr. Robert Roper, a.k.a. Roper The Groper (who will be using his big scope just to see who is sinking it into The Big Pooper). And now back to you, Heather Leather...

Thanks Maxwell. Good evening everybody, it's Heather Leather here with some exciting new things to talk to you all about. Just letting you all know that the winner of tonight's quarter-final round will go on to the finals to see just who gets to sink it in The Big Pooper, AND win the big prize. The contestant who wins this week will go up against Mr. Pees his Pants, a.k.a. Mr. Poops his Pants, a.k.a. Mr. Poopy Pants.

One question we often ask our contestants is, who would you rather be:

the Poopy, or the Pooper?

What an exciting game show, don't you agree?

Super Duper
Looking for boogers
One finger up your nostril, the other up your pooper
Mister Hooper, up the pooper
of Mister Cooper



Do you remember Photo Radar? Do you remember why it was cancelled? Because it worked.

Photo Radar did exactly what it should have done: it got motorists to slow down while driving. People smartened up real fucking quick to the fact that they were being caught on camera, and as a result, the Government started to lose in revenue because people were getting less speeding tickets. Speed traps and all the rest are a source of revenue for the Government. They don't care that lives were being saved because people were aware of the fact that they WOULD be caught if they were speeding.

Here is something to think about: They make the law so that you can only go 90 - 100 km/hr; yet, they make vehicles that are capable of going twice that fast. Why? Can't we just make cars that only do 85 km/hr? Sure. They want us to speed. It's a source of revenue or them, and it's the reason we all pay through the nose for automobile insurance.

Think about it.





That band we were hearing yesterday, was that The Who?


You mean it was Yes?

No, fool!

You're telling me that the song was called "No Fool?" I don't recall Yes ever doing any song called "No Fool."


Wait, there's a band called No? I have never heard of such a thing. Is it a Yes tribute?

I couldn't tell you. Your guess is as good as mine.

You mean, it's The Guess Who?

Jesus Christ man. You can't possibly be this thick.

"Thick As a Brick"...that's by Jethro Tull. I know that one.

No Fool!

Oh, yes it is.


Now we're back to talking about No. Do they cover a song by Yes called "No Fool?"

I don't know about any Yes Tribute Band.

But, you said that they did a song called "No Fool."

You're thinking of a song called "Fool On The Hill." The song we were hearing the other day is called "Baba O'Riley."

Who is that by?


Wait a minute! I have never heard of any band called Precisely.

Look, you're the one who started all this. I never mentioned anything about anybody.

About who?


You keep saying Yes. Who is it?


Are you trying to confuse me. Now you're going to have me surfing YouTube looking for songs by Yes called "No Fool" and "Exactly."

Look, who were we talking about at the beginning of this fucking conversation, assuming you can remember that far back?

You mean The Who?


So, it is Yes Then.



So, I have just finished a show where my band has opened up for the Harvesters. The bass player and I are talking, and I tell him that the sound man taped our show, and never gave us a copy.

"Oh, he's notorious for doing that. Funny thing is, he was once doing a show where he was doing sound for a band called Crazy Finger. A cop pulled him over and, even though he was out of gloves, the cop still gave him a cavity search."



There once was a cab driver named Steve
Who used to blow his nose on his sleeve
And he saved all his dough, so he could get a blow job
From his girlfriend once every New Year's Eve...



Lili, you know that I miss you baby

You treat me real bad, and like always, you know I'm especially grateful

I just can't wait for those extra special moments when you make me grovel at your feet

And, those times when you treat me like I'm your soccer ball, well, let's just say that I deserve 'em

Just so you know, I wish that I had what it takes to be your man

And, if I have overstepped my bounds with this one

Please feel free to put me in my place

Stomp Me Mama



Invisible Sun is a Police Tribute band.

Enjoy this true story involving the Police:

It's 2007, and I am at a spot called The Media Club. A friend of mine who happens to be a local Vancouver personality at a big time radio station tells me that The Police are in Vancouver rehearsing for a huge upcoming world tour, and they are launching it right here: a once in a lifetime thing. This is the first that I have heard of this, and I am stunned to say the least. I had just read an interview with Stewart Copeland that said The Police were NOT going to get together because Sting doesn't want to. My friend then tells me that Stewart Copeland had been spotted early in the morning at a coffee shop right next to The Four Season's Hotel, just in case I wanted to try and bump into him.

Sure enough, the next morning I am there at 6:45 AM, listening to my headphones. I decide that if he doesn't show by the time my album is finished, I will just pack up, and go home. Well, the album reaches its end, and just as I put everything away, sure enough, he comes out the front door, a man on a mission. I run outside and say, "Mr. Copeland Sir."

He looks around, trying to figure out where the fuck this voice is coming from. Then he spots me, chooses to ignore me, and goes about his way. I realize that I have annoyed him, thinking to myself, "Oh no. I've really stepped in it now," and, somehow, I manage to squeak out, "I play in a band called Invisible Sun. We do a tribute to The Police."

He stops, turns around and says, "Right. Good luck with that." As he leaves he waves goodbye to me, and I go home amazed that I was able to get that close to one of my heroes.

It was wonderful to get the chance to hear them play live as a trio. They did it out of a spirit of friendship, which for me, was the best part of the concert.



Please excuse the mistakes that you are hearing me make on the bass tonight. I am playing a six string bass with a really wide neck, and it can be challenging reaching some certain notes.

Most of you have never had to get your hand around something as big as what I got right here...



Christmas is not a Christian holiday. Catholics and Christians celebrate it, but, it's not a Christian holiday: it's a Celtic Pagan ritual that was appropriated by the Roman Catholic Church. The reason the Church sanctioned this festival is because they saw the economic potential of this celebration.

The Evergreen tree was/is a symbol of fertility to the Celts. December is the coldest and darkest time of the year; but, The Evergreen tree survives. The opening of gifts was an offering to the Gods, as a way of offering prayer that there would be another season: one that would yield a bountiful harvest.

As far as the Birthday of Christ is concerned, the Roman Catholic Church has no clue as to the true birthday of Jeshua Khristos. In fact, if Jesus were alive, and he witnessed the atrocities committed by the Church, including: the things they did to Galileo; the things they did during the Crusades; and the things they did to young boys, (castrating them so their singing voices would remain pure and perfect), Jesus would probably call the Church "The Enemy."

Christmas evolved over time because it gives people hope. It's interesting that something as noble as that could be tainted by lies in the interests of commerce. I can't say I blame people though. Our present economy would probably die without "The Christmas Spirit."



Why is it we're all allowed to go around yelling about how bad the Government is?
You hear it all the time: "The Government Is Big Brother!"
You sure as fuck can't say that shit in Orwell's 1984.
The message is clear: "Don't Fuck With Big Brother!"
The reason nobody is threatened with "Shut - up, or we'll fuckin' kill you!",
is Big Brother appreciates the free advertising.



Christians believe that you're supposed to go to Church on the seventh day.
The seventh day is actually Saturday; but, we all go to church on Sunday, which is the first day of the week.

Somebody lied to me.



Lili is never around
She has better things to do than spend her time with me
I should start singing a song Sting once wrote about stalking his ex-wife,
"Every Breath You Take, I'll Be Watching You"

Lili's real boyfriend may want to beat me up,
"Hey buddy! Are you stalking my wife?"
"No sir, I'm just singing her love songs."



Lili beautiful,
You're leaving me for Doug,
It's just not fair,
How am I supposed to admire your beautiful clothes, your beautiful face,
and your beautiful hair?
But Doug will treat you real good. I know that he likes you.
He'll make a great companion, he will be kind and fair,
and in the end, that is all that I care about.



I get a kick watching the way all these clowns be fighting over you
All of you bozos should know, that it's me that she loves the most.

For at a very early age, you only had to look in the mirror, and you knew
that there would be many, yes many men who would beg to be your slave.
Men who would drop down on their hands and knees and crawl butt-naked through miles of
barbed wire, broken glass, and tiny little razor sharp metal shavings,
for the chance to work up the courage, the nerve, the bravery,
just to share with you their deepest darkest cravings.

But you don't need their words:
You can tell just by the look on every face, that they will carry with them
as the fondest of memories for all time, knowing they got to spend five,
count 'em five minutes talking to a woman so fine.

Of course I get a kick watching the way these fools drool over you.
So do you.



There will probably come a time where you will be out with your woman, (grocery shopping, the library, a movie perhaps), and through no fault of your own, a gorgeous, drop dead bombshell will walk by; a woman so riveting that she could stop traffic on a one way street. Now, don't panic when your woman decides to put you on the spot by asking you, "Is she prettier than me?" the way to handle this question, is to act real surprised, and respond by saying, "Who? You mean that fat pig? Get real. She looks like she just crawled out of bed. Besides, her tits are too small. Naw, I like got nice jugs."



I have a new girlfriend
It's called Youtube.

Two things that I like about it:
it doesn't talk back, and, no matter how rough it gets,
I don't have to worry about anybody pressing charges.



So, my friends and I have just graduated from high school, and my one friend has just been dumped by his girlfriend, (who happens to be a classical music snob). The next thing I know, she's mastering all the lyrics to these real corny Country And Western songs, (along with my ex-girlfriend), and going to the local meat market, (a cowboy bar) to score. My friend explains to me that his ex-girlfriend is learning these tunes so that she can impress the drunken rednecks in the bar, get picked up, and get taken home for a real good time.

"You mean to tell me that the only reason they're committing all this Cheatin' & Drinkin' horse shit to memory is so they can get ridden like they were in the rodeo?"
"They don't really care for the music?"
"Does this tactic work for you and me as well? If we knew the lyrics to these stupid songs, would some drunken, recently divorced cougar be itchin' to take one of us home for a roll in the hay?"
"Sheeit! Is that all someone has to do these days to get laid? You Picked A Fine Time To Leave Me Lucille..."



It's around 1993-94, and I end up writing a song with JONATHON called "MY LITTLE FRIEND" and another song on my own called "CRISPY RED BURRITO." Both songs can be found in my Box Set. Here's the story behind "My Little Friend."

My friend/landlord DON has asked me if I know anybody who would be good to move in with us, and rent the other room upstairs. I tell him my guitar player DORIAN is splitting up with his girlfriend, and he needs a place to move to; so, I'll ask him.

ME: "Hey DORIAN, DON wants to know if you would like to rent the other room in his house. The rent is cheap, and the place is beautiful..."

DORIAN: "No, I don't think I can; mainly because I like to have my own space. I'm the sort of person who likes to be able to run around my house naked when I feel like it."

ME: "Well, I'll let DON know: he might still say yes."

So I tell DON, and his answer is, "No, there definitely won't be any of that. He may be proud of his little friend, but I don't want to be seeing it."

The thing is, when I showed the initial idea to JONATHON, I remember asking him if this was too twisted; but, he said the message is quite positive: "I'm not ashamed..." Jon once told me that when it comes to the one you love, the fact is, that certain people will just bring out special things in others. A funny thing about "MY LITTLE FRIEND" is, that whenever I hear this particular song, it reminds me of why I think it's a mistake for a woman to go and get breast implants. I mean, it's your body: do what you want with it. I personally don't need a woman to have huge knockers in order to find her attractive. If you happen to be fixated on size, then I'm not the right person for you. In the end, I think that the song says that you should only be yourself.

Then later on I wrote a song called "CRISPY RED BURRITO", which also has a demented story behind it. My friend was working at 7-11, and I went to say hello to him. He told me that he had a guy come in, open his tench coat, and flash him. The fellow said to my friend, "Life is a crispy red burrito." So, I ended up writing a song called "CRISPY RED BURRITO." The fellow who plays drums on the song (a smart young chap who goes by the name DEVON) said that quite often, when we see people act up, or show off in some way, that it is really their way of exposing themselves. I tend to agree. I imagine that I'm as guilty of it as anybody. I'm pretty sure that my aim as a musician is strictly out of a desire to prove myself: even if I know that I'm only trying to prove myself to myself. One thing I can tell you is that I sure didn't stick with it for the money. There's all sorts of reasons to decide to become a musician, besides the fact that you love a certain music: you may want to get rich; you may want to score women; you may want to make your parents take notice of you; you may want to validate your life by becoming famous; or it might be as simple as wanting to be able to make folks like and admire you. None of these reasons is wrong; but the point is that, somewhere along the journey, you will hopefully discover that it is not only okay, but actually essential, and even necessary, to learn to believe in yourself. That's when you really win.

Just like the Genie in the bottle that's lying in the lamp that you found: The more you rub it, the bigger it gets.

I once joked to a beautiful lady friend of mine one time, "My fat stomach isn't the only part of my body that gets extra large!" And, she actually blushed. Yes, it's true, I was being bad; and, it's probably evidence of Napoleon complex, or something. But, then I said to her right away, "Sometimes when a man is being a total pig in front of you, it's really his way of saying 'I find you beautiful'." Surprisingly, she agreed.

I want to leave you with one last thought, if you are ever kind enough to buy, and listen to my work: it is interesting that there's not one, but two songs on my Box Set inspired by stories about people going around and showing off their genitals. Take that one home with you.



It's 1997. I'm 26 years old, and I've just arrived in the VIRGIN ISLANDS. The first thing I learn is that you can carry an open beer around with you wherever you go; but, you can't take your shirt off in the confines of town. I'm here with my band: we're called SWEET THURSDAY. ADAM is the guitarist; STEVE is the lead singer; MARTY is on drums; and I'm on bass. I'm a little reluctant to be here: I'm afraid that the trip will be a lost cause; but STEVE comes here every winter, and makes his living playing music. Sure enough, within two weeks, we're gigging up a storm. MARTY and I get hired on as the rhythm section for ADAM and STEVE. We also get taken on with THE MATTRESS COWBOYS, as well as a jazz fusion group that calls itself TUESDAY NIGHT JAZZ. All three groups are well received, but it's with SWEET THURSDAY that we make the most noise.

The guys warn me that there's a lot of crackheads here, and I'm told that if they give me any trouble, don't bother going to the police. It's not long before I'm exiting a club one night, and a Rasta-crackhead who goes by AHKIL, comes up to me and says, "You gonna give me your money or I fuck you up!"

I don't say anything: I just smile, and walk away, and he starts to follow me with, "Who you smiling at, white man? Blah, blah, blah." I stop and wait for him to jump me from behind: thinking that when he gets close enough, that I'm going to have to fight him; but, he backs off. Later, I'm outside, and he waits until everybody has gone back in, and he starts with the threats again. I sit there, and wait for him to make a move, but he just goes wandering off, spewing some tirade about some nonsense. One of the locals fills me in, that this AHKIL won't remember anything by tomorrow. Later on, he asks me point blank why I don't like him, and I give him an earful. He's obviously ashamed of his behaviour. There's quite a few Rastas who like my band because I sing songs by DENNIS BROWN and PETER TOSH, so they want to be our friends. I realize that AHKIL has got it in him to be a nice guy; so, I forgive him, and from then on he minds his manners while I'm around.

During our first gig, a big fellow by the name of HOMEBOY comes up to each of us, and hands us a $20.00 bill. He tells me that if this had been last year, he'd be giving us $100.00 each. I have a pretty good idea where he gets his money from, and I don't need to be told by the bartender to stay away from him; but MARTY and ADAM think that this is cool. They get this idea in their heads that HOMEBOY is our protection, and that as long as we're here, "Nobody will fuck with us." the problem is that HOMEBOY likes to imbibe in the shit that he's selling, and he's going noticeably more and more crazy everyday, from cocaine psychosis. Then he starts to show his true colours. First he sucker punches ADAM; then, he goes around having conversations with the mailbox. One day I see him, and he's talking to thin air, about how he gets his drugs from TORTOLA, another island. Then something really bad happens: there's an argument at one of the bars, between HOMEBOY and another individual, over the song that's being played on the jukebox. HOMEBOY takes out his pistol, and shoots the other fellow, and kills him. Everybody on the island knows who did what: it's no secret, but the V.I. police department doesn't have any witnesses who will come forward; so, they hold onto one of HOMEBOY's friends, trying to get him to roll. HOMEBOY is a little nervous about all this, and so he mails his partner a pair of running shoes, with drugs inside of them, hoping it'll keep the guy's mouth shut: only, he makes the mistake of putting his return address on the package, and the feds come along and apprehend him for sending narcotics through the postal system. That's the last we ever see of him.

One night I'm at home alone, and I kill a cockroach in the bathroom, before turning in early. I wake up to see a figure standing in my living room. He sees me and walks out and, because it's pitch black, I assume that it's STEVE: only, I find out later that STEVE never came home, so I know it was an intruder. I tell myself that it's my bad karma coming back to haunt me for killing that poor innocent little creature, and I name our visitor "The Ghost of the Cockroach". Then, sometime later down the road, I wake up, and see "STEVE" on our patio, and I make the mistake of assuming that he woke up for a quick pee. "STEVE" climbs over the railing, and I'm horrified because I think that I've just seen my friend jump off the railing and plunge to his death. Then I see that the real STEVE is still fast asleep, and I immediately realize that "The Ghost of the Cockroach" paid us another visit; and that this time he managed to steal my wallet. Luckily for me, I kept my money hidden, and all that I lost was my identification; but, my cage really gets rattled by this little episode. The next day, a neighbor explains to me that the guy who is the prime suspect in all these break-ins is a fellow by the name of DELANO. He's just been released from jail, and everyone assumes that he's responsible. I find out where this man lives, and I go up to his house, hoping to find my I.D. His neighbour comes outside, to see what I'm doing there, and I tell him about the break-in at my house. He fills me in as to what's going on, and, as I leave, I tell everybody that if this character ever comes back to my home, I'm going to pick him up, and throw him off of my balcony. I later get a glimpse of DELANO, and I know that he's not as tall as the "Ghost of the Cockroach", and that he's not the guy. I make sure to tell the chief of police that someone other than DELANO was responsible for the break-in at my house, as I feel bad for jumping the gun. I want everybody to know that DELANO has been wrongfully incriminated; but, there is still a strong suspicion amongst the locals that DELANO is friends with the real culprit, as I'm not the only person who gets robbed. word gets around the island that I've gone up to his house looking for my I.D.; people know that I'll defend what's mine, and whoever it was that broke into our place doesn't come back.



I've met a new friend. His nickname is GRUMPY THE DWARF. He's a little eccentric, but he plays congas and likes to jam. He has me over to his place up on the west side of town. He has some interesting stories to tell, but whenever I ask what he does for a living he acts like it's a big secret, telling me that that is a very personal question. He also happens to be a bit of a perv, as I later find out. There is a number of women who hate him: I even know a couple who find him to be scary. I feel bad for him whenever I hear people knock him though, because he's always nice to me, and he likes to know that I'm feeding myself.

We're sitting outside of the local coffee shop, and a car drives by. The driver slows down, and points his finger at my friend, yelling, "Hey, scumbag. I want to talk to you!" My friend goes inside because he knows this guy means business. The fellow parks his car, and follows GRUMPY up to the bar. He's furious. He goes right up to him and accuses him of hitting on his teenage daughter.

"You were hitting on my daughter!"
"No, it wasn't me."
"Fuck you, you're a pedophile! You made advances towards my daughter. She's 17!"

Pandemonium breaks out, as the irate father proceeds to punch my friend in the face, one hit after another. GRUMPY starts panicking, and tries to run away, realizing he can't weasel his way out of this one. It's obvious that this bloke really has it in for him; he's in such a frenzy that he grabs a bar stool, and throws it at GRUMPY, missing his head by inches.

"You're a pedophile!"

Finally, me and my friend MARTY step in and tell the guy this has to stop, or we'll have to call the cops; but the two ladies behind the bar have no intention of assisting at all. As far as they're concerned, the chickens are coming home to roost. It turns out that GRUMPY was sleeping with this guy's wife, and he decided to see if he could also get a little action with his daughter as well. My friend who owns the coffee shop finds the whole incident to be quite funny, and isn't remotely worried about the damages to his place. He says the comedy is worth the price of a broken barstool.



It's late spring of '91, and I'm sharing an apartment with JIMMY and LISA. JIMMY'S a fun guy to hang with, as he is also a musician, and a soundman, but his girlfriend is a bit of a cow, to say the least: anytime she's mad at him, she takes it out on me. They fight all the time, but he tells me she's great in bed, so they keep living together. He really likes to get loaded and screw her brains out, which is fair enough, but sometimes it gets out of control. He's not a violent drunk at all: just a bit of a slob. One time I hear both of them screaming. I can hear him screaming at her, and how she doesn't take care of him; she's screaming at me to bring her a bucket and a cloth, because he's vomited all over their bed. One night an ex-girlfriend of mine named DIANE is over visiting: she's also friends with LISA. I usually stay up late on my days off, as I work graveyard at the nearby 7-11. At about 2:00am, she follows the two of them into their bedroom, and doesn't come out until around 6:00 am. I don't say anything as she leaves, but I can hear JIMMY and LISA arguing, and I know what it's about. She's furious with him for penetrating another woman, even though it was her idea. She's crying up a storm, and he's yelling, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I thought you wanted me to!"

Finally, the time comes where she decides to move out: which is just fine with me, as she's horribly rude a huge percentage of the time. She comes back over to the apartment from time to time, unaware that he's been bringing home other girls and fucking them as well. The thing for me that gets awkward is that I know all these women from high school. It doesn't register with me right away what he's doing, but I soon figure it out. He's scoring as much pussy as he can, and he's not remotely concerned about the consequences. The first girl to come over is MELANY. At first I assume that she's his new girlfriend. Then he brings home TANYA, and does her, never mentioning the other two broads that he's also banging. A third girl named SARA is in the picture, only briefly; which is too bad for him, because even I think she's gorgeous. I'm jamming in a band called HOB NOB at the time, with a friend named IAIN. We go over to my apartment to grab my amplifier, and, as soon as we walk into the door we see JIMMY and TANYA having sex in his bedroom with the door wide open. It gets worse from here.

One night I get woken up at about 2:30 in the morning. I can hear a voice in my hallway, belting out the lyrics to a song called "WE'RE HERE FOR A GOOD TIME" by Trooper. I go out to see what the hell is going on, and he's brought home another girl: only this one is new, and she looks awfully young. They spend the whole weekend screwing, moving around to every room in the house (including mine when I'm not home). They even enjoy each other's company WHILE I'M IN THE SAME ROOM. Sunday night rolls around, and he's exhausted from the ordeal. He's tired, and needs to go to sleep because he has to work in the morning. She still wants to go, and starts screaming at the top of her lungs about how he's not fucking her: and she's loud. She starts in on me that she wants me to have sex with her: "Will you fuck me IAN?" that sort of thing. I know the neighbours can hear this, and I tell JIMMY, "For God's sake man, put it in her mouth if you have to. The neighbours will complain." One night he's doing her, and he's drunk as usual. He gets her to make wild noises, loud ones, about how she likes the way he fucks.

"Yes, fuck me! Your dick is so huge!" stuff like that. The neighbours start pounding on the wall, so I go out into the hallway to tell those two to be quiet. He says to me, "It's okay, it's just me with SARA." Her name was actually AMANDA. She stays with us for the month. In the time we get to know her I find out from her mother that she's actually a 15 year old runaway that likes meeting guys in the bar, and shacking up. What I also accidentally find out later, one day while I'm coming home, is that she has also been bringing home strangers, and having sex with them for money, while JIMMY and I are elsewhere. I still remember the time I was sitting in my dining room, listening to a STANLEY CLARKE record, while the two of them are watching football in the living room, right next to me. I go over to check what's on the TV, and I notice she's got his cock in her hand. She was giving him a blowjob right there while I was just a few feet away, totally indifferent to whether or not I would notice.



I'm in the Eighth Grade. My new friend KEN is a bit of a rough character, but he's a good guy. He doesn't take any shit from anybody, and he makes a point of telling me that the other classmates are gay.

"You know that kid named DEVON: the one with the poofy blonde hair. He's a fag for sure. You can tell by looking at him."

He likes for us to go to the shopping mall downtown, so we can deliberately get under the skin of the security guard by loitering, and sitting places where we shouldn't. One day at school, a kid named NEIL makes the mistake of coming up to my friend, and scribbling on his arm with a pen, before class starts. KEN throws NEIL up against the door and kicks him 5 or 6 times in the shins, dropping him to the floor. After that, people make a point of leaving him alone: which I quite like, because it means they leave me alone. We like to go into the underground tunnels that take the creek down to the river, thinking it's a great adventure. That is, until we come to a sight that is quite gruesome. We find the carcass of a dog that is hanging from the ceiling. It's real dark down there, but I clue in right away that somebody, either an individual or a group of people, took real pleasure in torturing this poor animal to death, stringing it up from the tunnel's ceiling, and leaving it there. KEN tells me not to breathe in, and we both get out of there as fast as we can. We never go back.

He lives in an apartment downtown with his older brother who works to support both of them. KEN can live with his brother as long as he stays in school, which he does begrudgingly. He would rather drop out, and do something enjoyable with his time, as he can't deal with all the morons: both teachers and students. But his brother is in charge, and it's the only family he has. We hang out at his place, and even though we're both underage, he offers me a beer, telling me that his brother won't mind, as long as we don't do anything stupid to piss him off. By this time however, I've sworn off drugs and alcohol, because my mother is a weekend alcoholic; she drinks every weekend, and can't help but take out her hatred of my father towards me. I have to endure a lot of verbal abuse when I'm at home, and it leaves an impact on me: I grow up with the idea that I'm never going to be good enough for anybody. There is a fair amount of alcoholism in my family, and I know from everybody else's behaviour, that there is a correlation between how much you drink, and how much of an asshole you become. So I decide at an early age that I don't want to spend my life getting loaded.

We shoot the shit, and the topic of fags always comes up. He detests every one of them. I relay a story to him about the time I was at CAMP CHIMO, and how one of the camp councilors, named LARRY, starts to fondle my leg by playing footsie with me, while we are in the whirlpool. I don't say anything, but I get out right away, and make a point of avoiding LARRY from then on.

I don't think anything of it when I tell this story to KEN, because by this time, after everything I've seen, I've come to the conclusion that this sort of thing is to be expected from people: that nothing should surprise me anymore, because it's typical. But KEN gets furious with me and starts screaming:

Then I find out that the reason why he's so upset; he's torqued about the whole thing because he got sexually assaulted by a kid in his old school, who went by the name of DANNY. What happened was, KEN snuck out of P.E. class, and went back to his teacher's desk searching for the answers to the following math test: unaware that DANNY was following him. The kid sneaks up behind KEN, and sticks his hand down KEN's sweatpants, and starts to grab KEN'S genitals. KEN smiles, and gently places the guy's hand into the open drawer of the teacher's desk. While DANNY is unaware, he slams the drawer on this stupid bastard's fingers, breaking all of them. He then proceeds to beat the piss out of this cocksucker. The only thing that stopped him from killing this little creep was the fact that the teacher came along to see what all the noise was about, and broke up the fight. Sometimes there is justice in the world. Every once in a while you get what's coming to you. Do I feel sorry for DANNY? Not at all. He was a total piece of shit who got what he deserved. The moral of this story isn't that fags all deserve to be beaten up for their preferences, but rather, how I feel total and utter contempt for those who will not take "NO" for an answer.



So, I've just got back to Canada from studying music at Berklee College of Music, in Boston, MA; I'm 19 years old, and I'm living at Home again. TREVOR is going to college, and MITCHEL has a job working at Elk's, which is located in the mall downtown. I've got this idea in my head that TREVOR, MITCHEL, and I are going to be a band: we're going to write songs, record them, go out on the road, and become famous. We have some interesting jams, but soon it becomes clear that MITCHEL isn't very interested in the songs I'm writing, and I find his songs boring as well. I'm totally envious of MITCHEL though, because he's going out with CAROL, the manager of Elk's; she's gorgeous, and she really likes to get it on with him: especially AT WORK. The other employees at the store are often left alone to fend for themselves as the two of them go off to the back and fuck like mink. Nobody says anything to anybody, since CAROL is the boss, but everybody knows exactly what's going on. It gets so that we often have to cut our rehearsals short, because she needs servicing. MITCHEL finally decides that he's had enough of her attitude, and he dumps her, which leaves her devastated, but I can't help but be green with envy. Some guys have all the luck.



I'm four years old, and I am an only child. My mother is raising me as a single mom: she works a full time job at the hospital as a secretary; and, like most single parents, she needs to find somebody to look after her kid. She brings me to a woman who goes by the name of PAM MAXWELL, who is running a daycare without a license. At the time, I have no idea that this is illegal, but it doesn't take long before I learn that this woman is bad news.

PAM has four children of her own: KELLY (10), MONICA(7), RINI(6), and RYAN (who is just an infant). Right off the bat, RINI makes a point of hating me. From time to time, there are other children in the house, but he likes to single me out. KELLY and MONICA are both nice enough; and RYAN is just a toddler, but RINI has it in for me, and he makes a point of telling me so. Looking back, I wonder if it might be because he thinks I'm taking his mother away from him. The first time I get hurt, both RINI and I are in the back yard, and we're sitting in this little fort we made. The fort is made out of cinder blocks, and one of them falls, and lands on my head. I start to cry, and I'm bleeding. PAM comes to the back to see what all the racket is about, and I tell her that I'm injured. She simply tells me not to make so much noise, and she goes inside: I pick up on her indifference right away. Thankfully, she has an elderly fellow working for her by the name of HERBERT, who tends to my bleeding forehead. HERBERT is responsible for doing all the cooking and cleaning, and tending to all the babysitting chores. He does all the work for PAM, and he is actually a fairly nice man. There are times when he is up to his eyeballs in kids, but I'm more fond of him than anybody.

One morning, I'm sitting in the living room with her four children, and I can hear her screaming at the top of her lungs. I can't remember what she's yelling about, but I see her come out of the bathroom, and she is totally naked, with a towel wrapped around her head. I point out that she's not supposed to be naked in front of me, and KELLY tells me that there's nothing wrong with being naked. I notice as he's saying this to me, that he is making a point of looking away from her. There is another morning where KELLY, MONICA, and RINI are away at school, and I am watching television in the living room by myself. PAM is still in bed, and she calls me into her bedroom: I go in to see what she wants. She tells me to get into bed with her, so I climb on top of the covers; but, I immediately discover that this is not the same as cuddling up to my mom, and I get out of there as quickly as I can. I'm relieved that she's too out of it to bother with me, and I make a point of staying quiet, because I know that the more she sleeps, the better off I will be.

RINI is relentless: his antagonism towards me is 'round the clock, and the only one who seems to notice is HERBERT. When I tell PAM that RINI is always trying to hurt me, her response to me is, "Don't be a tattle-tale." She's also willing to get physical, although it only happens a couple of times. But RINI knows that I'm scared of his mother, and he makes a point of using this against me. He hands me a kitchen knife, and tells me to go stab RYAN. I tell him I don't want to, but he tells me that if I don't do as he says, he'll sick his mother on me. I'm already afraid of both of them enough as it is, and I don't want her putting her hands on me anymore. The next thing I know is I'm standing in the living room while RYAN is playing with his toys, and I'm terrified. HERBERT comes along and sees the knife in my hands. Luckily for both RYAN and me, he takes the knife away from me. But nobody hears me when I try to explain that it was actually RINI who tried to make me do this. From then on, PAM makes a point of locking me in her basement as soon as I arrive at her house from school. I get sent down there, and I am left down there. This goes on for quite some time. Sometimes I am lucky and MONICA comes down to play tag with me. Sometimes however, RINI comes down to pay me a visit. I can remember one time where MONICA quickly hides me in the closet, underneath some clothes: making sure that RINI can't find me. He asks where I am, and she tells him that I'm outside.

RINI has a fondness for standing at the top of the stairs and telling me that I'm going to be in this basement forever. "Your mother is never coming to find you," he says. He's downstairs with me one afternoon, and he says to me, "I'm going to cut your balls off." I'm not sure what he's referring to, but I know it can't be any good. I'm glad that I'm sitting in the crib, so that he can't get his hands on me. Later on, I ask my mother what my balls are.

"What are my balls?"
"Don't say that word."
"But what does it mean? Does it mean my eyeballs?"
"I don't want you using that word I said."
"RINI says he's going to cut off my balls. What does RINI mean when he says he's going to cut off my balls?"

My mother realizes that this is not a place where she wants to be sending me, and she quickly finds me another daycare. A lady named MRS. NICKEL is kind enough to quickly take me in for a day, knowing that my mom is desperate to get me away from PAM. The new daycare that I get sent to is much better, and I am relieved to finally get away from PAM and RINI. I used to believe that my mother sent me to this woman as a punishment for something bad that I had done. As we are leaving PAM's house for the last time I say to my mother, "Please don't make me come here anymore. Whatever it is, I promise I won't ever do it again." My mother knows that sending me to this place was a mistake, and thankfully, I never have to see PAM ever again.



I'm just at the end of highschool: it's both a high time, and a low time for me. I've recently lost my Mom to cancer, and I'm devastated. But, before I graduate from Grade 12, I somehow also manage to win a scholarship to a place called BERKLEE COLLEGE OF MUSIC; it's in BOSTON, MA. All of a sudden I'm a big deal around town. There are people who normally wouldn't give me the time of day, who are all of a sudden making a big fuss over me. There's a lot of folks who are telling me that I'm destined to become famous and, I have to admit, that it does actually go to my head. My name is in several newspapers: this turns out to be my 15 minutes of fame. During my few weeks at my summer job, I get aquainted with a girl named STACI, who's real impressed that I'm actually going to attend this big time music school. We hang out a bit and, while everybody else warns me to stay away from her (because they all think she's a vulture), I can't help but be flattered by the fact that she thinks I'm the bomb. I don't actually get involved with her though, as I am still carrying a torch for my ex-girlfriend.

Late one night, STACI and I are sitting in a park, and three guys walk past us. They notice her right away, but fail to see me. One of these guys says to the other two, "Hey, let's rape this girl." I immediately get up and start walking towards the three of them, thinking that I'm going to have to fend them off while she gets away to safety. Right away they notice me coming at them; luckily for me, they take off and I don't have to fight any of them.

I enroll into music school, and I discover that, even though I do well grasping the theoretical side of my studies, I'm way out of my league when it comes to playing jazz. What I really want to do is to get good at writing pop songs, and have a career playiing rock 'n' roll. To my amazement, I find that the other students here really like me, even though I'm not remotely capable of holding a candle to any of them. I have been carrying around this belief with me my whole life that people are always going to dislike me; but, here I make friends with all sorts of people: a few of whom are going to appear on albums that I will later buy. One musical prodigy is a fellow by the name of MATTHEW GARRISON. He's the same age as me, and already he's one of the best bass players in the UNITED STATES. His father is the late JIMMY GARRISON, who was the bass player for the legendary JOHN COLTRANE. MATTHEW is extremely kind to me: to the point where he allows me to come into his practice room, and give me all kinds of tips on how to improve. I manage to see him in the music library, and I get him to sit down and listen to "ADAGIO FOR STRINGS" by SAMUEL BARBER.

There are a couple of problems I have while attending BERKLEE though: the first one is that I have a fellow who makes a point of stalking me. He tries to introduce himself to me as another musician, but he's really a predator with a prediliction for young college boys. At first I'm not sure what his angle is, but I make a point of staying away from him, as I've learned over the years that you can't trust some people. The head of my dorm warns me that this man is notorious for trying to drug people who are unsuspecting, and then having his way with them while they're asleep. I'm tempted to beat the living shit out of this guy the next time I see him, knowing full well that I could easily do it; but, they warn me that this could lead to trouble with the cops.

Then there's my room-mate. He's into SATANISM, big time. This doesn't particularly scare me, but he's desperate to creep me out, so that he can have our dorm room all to himself. He tries all kinds of tactics to terrify me. He makes all kinds of threats, such as: how his drug dealer friends are going to get me; how he has an unregistered firearm, and how he can use it on me, and not get caught; how, if he kills me in my sleep, it won't be his fault at all, because he'll plead insanity... blah, blah, blah. There's already people here who have had dealings with this fellow, and some of them are worried that he might hurt me; even though, in actual fact, he really has no intention of doing any such thing. He's just trying to scare me into moving out. It gets to the point where I can see that this guy isn't going to stop being a slob, and I finally get out of there. I realize that there is no point in hating this guy over any of this though, and I forgive him. But by this time, I've had enough of this place. I know that there's no way I stand a chance making a go of it playing jazz, and I'm not interested in playing anymore classical music as a double bassist, so I leave music school and I never go back. I decide that if I'm going to achieve anything musically, it will have to be in popular music. I realize that all those years I spent dreaming of getting away from my surroundings was a mistake; you have to be able to be comfortable in your own skin, regardless of where your path takes you in life. It's later explained to me that I probably had no choice but to leave music school behind, as I was still going through a period of mourning over the loss of my mother.

Before I leave the U.S. I take a trip to NEW YORK to visit a friend named GLENNA. She's an amazing musician, and she knows tonnes of well-known jazz people. When I arrive in NEW YORK, she forgets I'm coming, and doesn't actually come to pick me up until 3:00 in the morning. While I wait for her I am amazed by the number of homeless people sleeping in the terminal. She finally arrives with her room-mate and another fellow, and they drive me back to her apartment. I notice that there is something wrong with the guy driving the car, and I later discover that he's coming down from being high off of cocaine. When I ask why on EARTH he does the stuff, GLENNA's room-mate tells me with total vitriol that it's a fun thing to do. She makes a point of explaining that cocaine doesn't automatically make you dangerous. Lots of people use, and they do it without hurting anybody. I make a point of keeping quiet around certain issues from then on, because one thing I know about myself, is that I'm really good at putting my foot in my mouth. I get introduced to a lady named TESS, unaware that she's married to BRANFORD MARSALIS, who is one of my idols. She's quite gracious, and devastatingly beautiful. She calls the house to invite me over to the recording session of BRANFORD's latest album; but LILLIAN, GLENNA's room-mate, doesn't want to wake me up to tell me about it. While I am there I also take in a gig by MINO CINELU: he's played with MILES DAVIS, WEATHER REPORT, and STING. The bass player is TRACY WORMWORTH, who has also played with STING, and is absolutely amazing. I leave the show totally stunned, knowing that I'll probably never see anything better, ever. At the end of my semester I return home, and try to start a band with my friends from highschool; I eventually spend the rest of my life struggling to make a go of it in songwriting. I desperately try to find a project that will succeed; and, even though I don't get famous, I do make friends, with whom I form some different bands. I get better as a musician, and a singer, and over time I manage to write some interesting little ditties, including a song called "HOW'S CARLOS".



I'm in junior high school, and I've just started to learn how to play the bass. I work hard, and my music teacher has taken quite a liking to me. I don't have a lot of skill on the instrument, but I practice my assignments, and after a short while, I make some progress. The other kids are amused that I can play "BARNEY MILLER". One day I play this riff, and someone tells me it's the theme to the movie "REPOMAN". So, I end up with not one, but two nicknames. My buddy KENNY calls me BARN while everybody else (including my English teacher) calls me REPO. My one friend, JAMIE, yells out REPO every time he spots me in the hall. He idolizes me because I'm a pretty decent bass player. He doesn't have a lot of friends, and he gets picked on a lot; but he's especially fond of me because I'm nicer to him than some of the others.

I start to notice that he's sporting bruises around his face. It turns into quite a common occurrence, and I wonder if he's getting hit by his parents. I start putting two and two together, hypothesizing that this is where he gets his low self esteem from and, sure enough, when I question him about it, he confides in me that his father has a habit of smacking him around. I decide that there's no way I'm going to put up with this, and I tell him that this is coming to an end, NOW. I explain to JAMIE that this is not his fault: that he's not a bad kid, and that his father has something to answer for. The first thing I do is I tell my mother about his predicament, and she agrees that we need to take him in, and give him a safe place to stay, until he has somewhere else to go. I report this to the councilors at school, and they go through the proper channels to see to it that the ministry gets involved, and that he is removed from his father's care. I'm uncertain whether his father ever had to face charges, but, JAMIE is eventually relocated to EDMONTON, and I never see him again. I hope he's doing okay.

It's around the time of EXPO '86, and our music class is down in the lower mainland, competing in the provincials. There is a recording studio on the site where you can go and cut a track of yourself singing a song of your choice. NELLS, JERRY, and I go in to record "EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE". The whole thing is a disaster; NELLS and JERRY are too kind to come out and say that there should be a law passed that would prohibit me from ever setting foot near a microphone again. My singing is so bad, that everyone who hears it breaks out into hysterics. People (including my mother) tell me that I should do the right thing, and stick to the bass: that would be the smart thing to do. But, I have this urge to be like STING: he is my idol. Still, I have to say that I think my persistence did pay off in the long run. I'm actually an okay singer today; I now get lots of compliments for my vocals from quite a few people, and, I think I'm still improving. Learn to believe in yourself, even if there are those who want to tear you down. Don't ever give up.



I'm 27, and I'm staying at my friend's house while he's away. I'm walking home one day, and I notice this kid who happens to be sitting on the sidewalk. I ask him if he has run away from home, and he tells me that he has. I remember how my friend ROBERT once explained to me that there are people who prey on kids who are on the street, and I say to myself that I want to help this kid while he still has a chance. His name is KEN, and since he has no place to stay, I tell him that he can crash on my couch for the night. I warn him not to steal anything, because that'll only get me into trouble. I take him down to DAIRY QUEEN, and I buy him something to eat and, luckily for me, he turns out to be the perfect house guest. The next day, I advise him to go to Social Services to get assistance, which he does; and I continue to go about my business, thinking I'll never see him again. But I run into him about half a year later, and he's doing well. He's found a job, he has a place to live, and he makes a point of thanking me for helping him. I'm glad I was able to.

There is another time when I'm walking home, and a fellow asks me where the highway is. It's winter, and it's dark, and he wants to hitch hike all the way to to CALGARY, so that he can try and find a job (as a hairdresser). I notice that he has an accent, so I ask where he came from originally; he tells me he's from IRAN. It turns out that he's a political refugee, and he has just arrived to CANADA, and he has no place to stay. So I decide to take him to the local coffee house, and I buy him a bowl of soup. Then we walk down to the hostel, where I buy him a room for the night. I tell him that he doesn't want to hitch a ride to CALGARY at this time of night, in this weather - that he's better off doing it in the morning. Before I leave him, he tries to give me a necklace for doing this for him; but I tell him to keep it, because he might need to sell it down the road.

My friend DAVE makes the noble attempt at helping a couple of girls get off of heroin, so that they can stop working the streets. It's no easy task, as being a prostitute is all they know. We find out the hard way that their dealers can get a hold of them even when they're in the psychiatric ward. One of them confides in me that she's been raped so many times, she doesn't care if it happens anymore. She has a young daughter, and she's HIV positive. They both manage to stay clean for awhile, then they fall back into their addictions. There is no point in warning them that what they do is terribly dangerous, as they've seen it all.

I won't try and pass myself off as someone who does this sort of thing all the time. I don't need anyone to tell me that it's impossible to save the whole world. However, I do know that I have a good heart, and even though I have a raunchy sense of humour, I try my best to get along with everybody. I consider myself to be a human being of compassion, and I wish that the rest of the world would stop shitting on those who are less fortunate. A lot of people who get caught up in the wrong circumstances have suffered from some form of abuse, either from family or strangers. I also know how this feels; but, luckily for me, I never took to using. People who tell me that I don't know what I'm missing fail to take into account that addiction never brought any real happiness to anybody. One thing that I do know is that there's somebody in a third world country right now, who would love the chance to live in NORTH AMERICA in hopes of having a safer, and healthier place to live. I remember that I once told a police officer, out of depression over all the bad things that were going on, that there was a better world on the other side. He responded by telling me, "There's a healthy life right here." it turns out that he was right.



John Calvin must die, because my parents want to buy property in Heaven; and, they think that you can do it the same way you buy real estate: hoping that if they send money to Jesus they will be saved. But, they can't help it that they are afraid, everyone's afraid. That's why we live in Lawyerland.

What is the definition of a good lawyer: someone who knows how to lick your ear while they have their way with you. So, don't worry if you actually go and do something really bad, because some big name lawyer will get you off, and they will lick your ear while they do it. And, when you finally do get off, and all your friends look at you and say, "So, you finally did learn how to give a good blow job after all." You can respond by saying, "Shut - up! It didn't taste that bad. He was a nice man."

We have a situation where we are living in a "Criminal Justice Industry." The service being provided in this case is the brutal processing, sentencing, and incarceration of non-violent citizens for misdemeanor possession. It's big business for Government, it's big business for organized crime, and it's big business for lawyers. The punishment is far worse than the crime being committed. They would rather lock people up at a cost of $50,000.00 per year per inmate, rather than pay $20,000.00 a year each to keep them in schools. End Prohibition. Give the addicts their drugs for free, so that women no longer have to get into a car with Robert Pickton. Final Judgment will be reserved for those who create the criminals.

The scientists in NASA are debating if there is any bacteria surviving under the polar ice caps on Mars. Well,they can debate all they want about the water left on Mars, because there sure as fuck isn't any water left here on Earth anymore, (at least none that you can drink). And, what there is left the lawyers are selling to us in plastic bottles. Plastic money, plastic food, plastic music, plastic bags, and new and improved plastic body parts. Pretty soon, there won't be any real people left either.

We need to realize that Marc Emery is not the enemy. Vanilla Ice, Milli Vanilli, and Barry Manilow are not the enemy. There are people on our planet who are starving, our world is being litigated away, and our children are being sold off to corporations. I am asking all of you fucking lawyers nicely: give us back the rain.



There has come a time where we all need to stand up, and question what we are doing. The reason that we need to do this is because we are killing ourselves with hate. The fact is, we are closer to Armageddon than we want to be, and, the genocide must stop. We need to bring an end to the Apocalypse. We need an Apocalypse of the Apocalypse.

It is actually stupid for me to sit here and say we all must get along, as all that I am doing is preaching to the converted. But the people who are in charge of all the killing have to realize that this system that they have created is going to bite them in the ass Big Time! What I mean to say is, War is big business, because every time a bomb, a bullet, or a rocket is spent, it means not only has somebody died, but it also means somebody has also made money as well. There are better ways for you to make money. Can you imagine how many lives would have been saved, (on both sides), if we were to drop clothing, food, and medicine on the people of Islam, rather than bomb civilians and children with explosives. It would have been way better for the world to see that than have everybody witness the Invasion of Iraq. I'm a firm believer that if you are an architect of war and terror, you will pay for it in the end. Final judgement shall be reserved for those who create the criminals.

I don't really believe in God; however, I do believe in Heaven. You may disagree, but it is my view that the Universe created life for a reason. I believe that the planet and the Cosmos are alive. I believe the purpose of life is so that when we die, we go back to The Source, and not only become stronger, but also make The Source stronger as well.

One of my best friends, (the smartest man I know), calls himself a Dialectic Materialist, (someone who only believes in things that can be measured by their material composition, i.e. atoms). I ask, what about things that have no material existence, things that only go on in our minds: thoughts, beliefs, dreams, fantasies, delusions. What are we to make of these things? Are you telling me that my paranoid delusions are concrete?

I definitely believe in Evolution: I believe that Architecture, Music, Radio, Television, The Sony Walkman, and The Internet are all evidence of Evolution. The writing is on the wall when it comes to Darwin's Evolution of the Species, and to dispute the evidence is completely asinine. However, at the same time, I also believe in a life force, with a duality to it, (George Lucas' Star Wars is an appropriate analogy). You may laugh, but his best movie, (Star Wars: Empire Strikes Back), is about friendship. You really believe that it is Harrison Ford who would put his life on the line to save others, (even though in actual fact what he really wants to do is run away). It is also the reason George Lucas is rich. I do believe in evolution, and, I believe that this thing that I call The Source, (or life force), is evolving.

I am against eternal punishment, as that cannot be motivated by my father's love for me. I agree with Bertrand Russell that the belief in eternal punishment is immoral. However, I do believe in both Karma as well as The Cycle. I believe that every bad thing that I have ever done has come back and made me wish that I had never done the bad things that I have done. As far as The Cycle goes, it's really just something where a series of smaller cycles eventually make up a greater cycle, until it all meets to an ultimately huge cycle. Once it reaches its peak, it starts all over again. I believe that The Mayan Calendar is an example. Some people are trying to outrace The Cycle: can't be done. Some things have to happen in their natural sequence. Time will tell how well we have learned from them or not.

I believe in The System by Design: I don't believe that the Earth was created in six days, however, I do believe that the respiratory system, the circulatory system, the cardiovascular system, and the reproductive system are all intentional. I believe that there is something behind the planet's precipitation system, and the way that it works. I believe there is something behind the Solar System, and the way that it works. I believe there is something behind the Earth's seasonal system, and the way that it works. Winter exists for 2 reasons: one is because this is where we get our water; the other is to help the planet cool down. You have to remember that the Earth is a very hot place. I believe that there is something behind the Earth getting enough time in the sun, as well as getting enough time to cool, that keeps everybody alive. Keep this in mind, if the Earth were to stop rotating, one side would freeze, and, one side would fry.

As far as I know, one of the things meteorites do when they crash here, is bring nutrients, minerals, enzymes, bacteria, fats, microbes, and proteins and all the rest to the planet. It's how this chunk of rock gets the building blocks it needs to create life (time and time again). There have been about seven (7) mass extinctions on our planet. Every time, even after it died, life still somehow managed to keep coming back again and again. Funny enough, the ancient Greeks believed that life here on Earth came about as a marriage of Earth, (Mother, Gaia), and Sky, (Father, Uranus). Interestingly enough, they were not the only ones who believed this.

The Earth is a gift from Heaven.
These craters are a gift from Heaven.
Life here was a gift from Heaven.

I believe we owe it to ourselves, (and each other), to show compassion for people as well as animals. Violence, pollution, as well as the butchering of animals, (when we should be eating a plant-based diet), has Mother Nature screaming for dear life. The warning signs are about: HIV, Ebola, Swine Flu, Coronavirus, and all the rest is Mother Nature's way of saying we had better clean up our act. Because if we do not, (and I know that this sounds weird), there will be no tomorrow. The belief in the Dominion over all the animals is bullshit. Raising these animals in captivity, and harvesting them in the conditions we do where baby calves and baby pigs testicles are cut off WITHOUT an anesthetic is barbaric. AND, if you support this, you deserve to get cancer of the bowel and die.

Will I be forgiven? Will I be rewarded for the kindness that I have shown animals? Will you?

You may have an issue with me playing Jesus; but, just remember that it isn't a lot of fun being Jesus when you think about it (not when you look at how he ended up). It's nowhere near as bad as playing God. That is what the people in charge of The War Machine are doing: they are playing God (something nobody has the right to do).

Something to think about.