I know that this probably has no significance to anyone. Besides my spelling getting worse. But I’ve noticed in an almost Seinfeld glimpse that there are a lot of sounds in this world. And some of them speaks to us. Like air-conditioners. I was in a grocery store many years ago. I haven’t had to go back since. And I heard a new Bob Dylan song. I love Bob Dylan. So I stopped with my three grocery carts and listened. It was an air conditioner.

Yesterday I heard a low moan in my basement. I thought it might be a small animal in the house. Which had been hurt. Or someone singing “Georgia”. It turned out to be clothes hanging on a wooden pole. Moving with the breeze from an open window.

And then there are creaky gates, squeaky floor boards, springy beds. They are all mimicking us. Like parrots.

If man was eradicated from this planet I am confident that aliens landing would hear us. Listen. We’re everywhere.

Terry Brennan

July 11, 2012

We used to play football in the rain. Soccer in the snow. We both loved Harry Belafonte. His mother used to bring cold lemonade out to us on hot days. I skipped grades. And graduated before Terry. And then Terry failed a grade. We went to different high schools. Our friendship continued for a couple of years but eventually faded.

Years later I went to a reunion. At our old elementary school. Terry’s old girlfriend was there. I think her name is Judy. Someone I can’t remember joined us. Judy asked if I had heard from Terry. I heard that he was playing backup for Phil Ochs. The  person who had joined us said that Terry was dead. My mouth dropped. Judy started to cry. She soon left. For years after that I wrote stories that Terry was in. Stories about the things we did.

And then I heard this performer. On the net. He might be the Terry I knew. He looks a little too young. But Terry was a good looking guy. I have to find out more information about this guy. I know he performed in Toronto in clubs. And that he took off to California. But is he the Terry Brennan I knew?

From the tradition of Bob Dylan, Gordon Lightfoot, John Prine and Steve Earle comes a troubadour straight out of the heart and soil of this fair, wide land.

Brennan’s teen years were spent haunting the clubs of Yorkville Village in Toronto, eventually sharing the same stages as some of his heroes, Phil Ochs, Erik Anderson, Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, Tom Rush, Buffy St. Marie…the university for this aspiring young guitar player.

The winner of numerous songwriting contests and awards, Brennan has been honing his craft for decades. Throughout his years as a cowboy, a forest ranger, an actor, a mountaineer, a miner and more, he has been writing and singing of the people and places he’s known. His songs have a deceptive ease, which leaves us with the sense that they have already been with us for a long time.

Terry has recently moved to Victoria from Vancouver, and is rapidly becoming recognized as one of Vancouver Island’s most outstanding performers. He is an urban country folk artist, blending the raw honesty of rock and country with the poetics and intelligence of the folk tradition. His extensive repertoire features songs of bitter love; songs of social injustice; songs of leaving and loneliness; songs of returning and joy. He is held in the highest esteem by other songwriters and musicians he’s worked with, some of whom include Brennan’s work in their own repertoire.

This doesn’t mean much. But I just read it. Originally there were no lower case letters. Everything was caps. Plus. There were no spaces between words. Could you read it?.



April 29, 2012

It was my wife’s birthday this weekend. So I have to say that she is a great girl. The flower girl in my…

Happy Birthday Honey

Somebody had to wake up

October 31, 2011

I had a dream. Or maybe it was a new television series. Everyone died in their sleep. The whole planet. Right away you imagine that someone had to survive. A wino. Someone working the graveyard shift. Someone who couldn’t get to sleep. Even in your dreams we as homo sapiens are eternally optimistic. Somebody had to wake up. And somebody did. Me.

Fox Trot Logic

September 28, 2011

The Pythagoreans were an odd lot. Even too. They believed in the power of mathematics. Numbers specifically. Everything had a number. A tree might be 38. While a cloud could be 456.  As odd at that sounds let us remember atomic numbers. And the Periodic Table.

(Left foot forward)

I read an account that suggested that if a meteor of appropriate size was to pass by Earth (and not hit us) that the magnetic quality of that meteor could scramble all of our computers. That is we would be blind. All the information that was on our hard drives would be a mess. Airplanes would fall out of the sky. Cars wouldn’t start. Anything operated by a battery would cease operating.  Civilization as we know it would end.

(right foot forward)

Remember The Matrix. Seems fanciful. That life could exist as a computer program. But that is one possible explanation for the universe. It fits the Pythagorean view. (In my view)

(slide left foot sideways)

What if there were a sun, a black hole, a huge gadget looking like  an on/off switch that if it passed to close to the earth could turn life…. off. We could call it a virus. But I prefer on/off switch. (In the parallel universe theory, anything you can think must exist someplace.) All life disappears.

(slide right foot over to meet left)

Perhaps not life. Perhaps just consciousness. So that in very short order all sentient life forms would disappear. Us. The cat. Spiders. Everything else would keep functioning for a while. Until it broke down.

(left foot back)

An alien life form lands on the planet. Long after our disaster with the on/off switch.

(right foot back)

Their quest. What happened?

(end of dance)

CUT Thats my movie.

It was actually a drama for televisionin the 1950s. I can’t remember the name of the show. Or any of the actors. All I remember is that the aliens looked like us. And they were the size of a salt shaker.

Too or not to Too

September 10, 2011

My eldest daughter has convinced me by example. She has about 20 tattoos. I thought for awhile that she was hideously disfigured. But like my conversion to Starbuck’s coffee I have come around. And now I’m going to get my own tattoo. A facial tattoo. The one I’m interested in is the one Mike Tyson has. I’m also leaning towards dragons. My friend Victor Genova tells me that the chicks really dig the dragon. Some kind of sexual fetish. I’m thinking a dragon off to one side of my forehead. Or perhaps under my eye on my cheek bone. Of course I might wimp out. And put one on my chin that I could cover with a beard if I didn’t like it in the future. Who knows? Any suggestions?

The Empty Bed

August 21, 2011

My wife is in the hospital. She feels fine. But there was something odd about her ECG. So I sleep alone. The bed is so indifferent to me. Doesn’t really want my company at all. I think it is attached to my wife. Four o’clock in the morning. I can hear the universe outside my window. Creaking. Our cat jumps up on the bed. Curls up in a ball. Next to my chest. Her purring is comforting. Five thirty. I wake up. What day is it?

Notes from a Landmine

August 10, 2011

This prose poem was written in the heyday of Dylan, Ginsberg, and the other beat poets. I was living on Church Street at the time. Alone. Some days I used to sit out on the front steps with a cup of coffee and watch the traffic of people up and down the street. A local whore used to sit with me. Sometimes. When her feet got tired. I wouldn’t say we were close friends. But she drank my coffee. And after we’d gotten to know each other better she asked me to be her pimp. She said she used to get off on the sound of her pimp punching some guy in the ribs.


Notes From a Landmine


Some time in the future. In the next 5 minutes. Creatures from a distant planet (L.A.) will pay us a visit. They’ll park in a NO PARKING zone. Perhaps they know someone at city hall. They’ll be responding to a distress call. NOT TONIGHT DEAR. I’VE GOT A HEADACHE.


When they land there won’t be a sign of life. It’ll be after 7:00 and everyone will have fled to the suburbs. Or else will be in the kitchen eating a snack. They’ll grab a VW. Beat it up. Try to get some information. Out of it. Only to discover that the BUG only speaks German.


They’ll visit deserted expressways. Which they’ll treat with great respect. As one does to all holy places. There’ll be corridors of empty buildings. Broken glass. Overturned garbage cans. Some form of husbandry. Will be their conclusion.


The drive-ins will be half empty. They’ll be playing a festival of robt. Stack films. Pink bottoms will bounce up and down on back seat springs. A concussion of squeaks and moans. Modern jazz will be there conclusion.


Elevators will run up & down the marrow. Of vacant office towers. Out of control. A red headed kid in uniform will take bets. On how they’ll finish. Parking meters will read VIOLATION. There’ll be a

commission set up. To investigate. Its findings will include.


Lunches should last from ten thirty to three. Longer if food is served. All pedestrians should be compelled. To wear crash helmets. Air bags. Parachutes. And a year’s supply of prophylactics. And a warning should be placed. On all packages of cigarettes. LOVE DOES NOT CURE ALL.


There will be colleges full of crumbling merchandise. So that by the time you have enough degrees. Some kid will call you. Grandpa. And sell you to a Rest Home. At a handsome profit.


Chesterfields will begin to sag and rot. Still gripping a guarantee. That will have a life span. Of several million light years. Sewers will be breathing. A hot black smoke. Whistling through some manhole covers of old Lawrence Welk favourites.


It will be instantly recognized by the cosmic travellers. That the sewers cannot carry a tune. Finally the visitors will depart. Resport will be read in part. ‘everything seems quite normal.’



Human Flight

August 9, 2011

I couldn’t believe how beautiful this video is. I would never be caught dead doing this. But… look for yourself.

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