Friday, October 28, 2005
Neal Murphy
Even though I lived with this guy for two months, dranks with him ALOT, he came out to NYC and covered my ass at the CD Launch, this is my only photo of him. He is a great guy whose marrying my great friend Briar, and had my back the whole way while I was out east. (Because, of course, he's from Alberta)He's in the hat. The bartender(bald guy) is saying hello to fisty.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Alexis Mazurin - great guy - gone way too soon!
NYC Comedians
Heres some pics of some comics I work with in New York. Great guys, fun to hang out with, supportive and funny. I guess thats the difference between the Big and Little Apples. Meanwhile, I'm back to walking with my car impounded due to lack of funds. Money is a mofo, and this world is more expensive when your poor. Canadian entertainment grrrr.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
the poem
INSOMNIA
By R Lett
One thirty - Two
Two thirty - Three.
Three Fifteen:
Three thirty - three forty-five
Three fifty six,
seven
eight…
nine…
Four am and I can’t sleep.
Inside my head now – in much too deep,
No way I’m dozing off with all these meetings
and arguments, all these things that go on
in the very busy place I call my brain.
Four Ten:
Half the world has no access to safe drinking water,
but everybody has access to Coca Cola.
They killed Orson Welles.
They crush genius for exposing mediocrity.
Four Fifteen:
They? who is they? am I they?
Never.
Four Twenty Five:
My teasing yawns are like false labour.
Eyelids shut out the darkness.
Bright as a Dallas afternoon beneath my lids.
It was Kennedy that wakened fear to us.
My generation – X, Y , zed, whatever.
Fucking Americans – USA – unlimited supply of assholes.
The Divided States of America.
I was three and a half that November.
Cracked my whole family up
TV repeated footage of his funeral so much,
I said
There goes Kennedy again.
I couldn’t sleep,
that night – a war started,
under false pretenses
on color TV ‘til I was 12.
Charlie crouched in the Jungle
Shit, still only Saigon.
They’re still there – he’s all gone gone gone.
Four thirty three.
They smart-bombed Baghdad one sleepless night when I was thirty
And nine elevened New York when I was forty,
Weapons of mass deception,
Katrian, Rita. Michelle (not a hurricane – my ex-wife)
Tsunami – Bali, and Pakistan,
Rwanda, somolia, bierut, palistine, hastings.
Four forty-eight…
And the telus bill
Four fifty
And the iron is still on
Four fifty four and twenty seconds
I don’t have an iron..
Four
Fifty
Nine
and
By R Lett
One thirty - Two
Two thirty - Three.
Three Fifteen:
Three thirty - three forty-five
Three fifty six,
seven
eight…
nine…
Four am and I can’t sleep.
Inside my head now – in much too deep,
No way I’m dozing off with all these meetings
and arguments, all these things that go on
in the very busy place I call my brain.
Four Ten:
Half the world has no access to safe drinking water,
but everybody has access to Coca Cola.
They killed Orson Welles.
They crush genius for exposing mediocrity.
Four Fifteen:
They? who is they? am I they?
Never.
Four Twenty Five:
My teasing yawns are like false labour.
Eyelids shut out the darkness.
Bright as a Dallas afternoon beneath my lids.
It was Kennedy that wakened fear to us.
My generation – X, Y , zed, whatever.
Fucking Americans – USA – unlimited supply of assholes.
The Divided States of America.
I was three and a half that November.
Cracked my whole family up
TV repeated footage of his funeral so much,
I said
There goes Kennedy again.
I couldn’t sleep,
that night – a war started,
under false pretenses
on color TV ‘til I was 12.
Charlie crouched in the Jungle
Shit, still only Saigon.
They’re still there – he’s all gone gone gone.
Four thirty three.
They smart-bombed Baghdad one sleepless night when I was thirty
And nine elevened New York when I was forty,
Weapons of mass deception,
Katrian, Rita. Michelle (not a hurricane – my ex-wife)
Tsunami – Bali, and Pakistan,
Rwanda, somolia, bierut, palistine, hastings.
Four forty-eight…
And the telus bill
Four fifty
And the iron is still on
Four fifty four and twenty seconds
I don’t have an iron..
Four
Fifty
Nine
and
the martinizer shows up.
Brett was middling in Vancouver, so we got a chance to hang out. He's reading the screenplay Peter and I have going, and Kevin and I worked on my poem, INSOMNIA, which I performed the following night at the open mic at The Butchershop (very cool venue on 22 and Main).
PS. Apologies to all the waitstaff everywhere, but I do believe the staff at the Vancouver Yuk Yuks are the best!!.
the amazing web
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