December 1997

Pressure. I love it. More is better. Less means that something is wrong. I got sick the other day. I got bronchitis for the third time this fall. I also got a mild case of laryngitis. Pressure. I love it. So now Iím on a whole whack of fun drugs: Amoxicillin, Fluticasone Propionate, Beclomethasone, Ornade, etc. etc. Things are beginning to talk to me. I have conversations with inanimate objects. Strangely enough, they're actually kind of interesting. We had to cancel a couple of shows yesterday. Winnipeg, Thunder Bay... sorry, sorry, sorry. Pressure, I love it. I'm having a hard time concentrating. I'm having a conversation with my keyboard. Excuse me, won't you.

The thing is there is no thing. That's what the alphabet told me. Only mountains of deliberation. Mountains of unknown quantities to climb. Climbing unknown quantities. I found out that letters don't like numbers very much. The alphabet told me. They don't like words either. They think words are an excuse to keep them down. Only I and A don't seem to mind. They're words unto themselves. I was looking in The Pocket Book Of Quotations for a quote about pressure. There aren't any. Strange that a book filled with quotes by writers doesn't have any about pressure. All of the quotes are actually kind of boring. My friend David Dylan is a novelist. I called him on the phone and asked him for a quote about pressure. He had this to say: "Beep, Beep, Beep". The number was busy. How delightfully accurate of him. I don't think I could have found a better quote. Pressure: Beep, Beep, Beep. I love it.

I've got this little light problem. On-off, on-off. The light bulb of my dreams is not the brightest of lights. The light bulb of my dreams has a switch like normal people, not a chain. In the basement where the mongoloid kid lives is where my light bulb is at. Fucking typical. There are jars of preserves on the dust covered shelves and antipasti. There are old vacuum cleaners from the fifties and an orange couch from 1971 that can't shine without light. Looking down from the ceiling, the mongoloidy kid is chained to the floor and can't reach high enough to pull the chain and turn me on. There is a mirror in the corner, half draped with an old bed spread, that he tries to see his reflection in. I don't want him to turn me on. I don't want him to see it. At night he dreams of a place that I envy. I hear him make warm purring noises and say poetic things that he will never repeat in his waking life. He must see himself in his dreams and be pleased. Perfection rarely pays off but in such a place. My filament, the inner core of my being, my soul, makes me work. Trapped here I can't let my soul shine through without refuting his. It's a fuck of a predicament you see. Pressure, beep, beep, beep, and the coloured girls go: do-do-do-do-do-do.

I got through to Dave. He had this to say about pressure: "Umm, shit. That about sums it up." I liked his first quote better. Telling him about it, so does he. I also tried listening to David Bowie sing about pressure but I ended up getting in to a long, drawn out, conversation with my CD player about how I don't take good enough care of it. I have come to the conclusion that home appliances are flippant. Not to my surprise, I also learned that my CD player hates my computer keyboard. It seems the alphabet isn't too popular with anyone. My toaster, on the other hand, just hates bread. Pop Tarts, it seems, are better conversationalist. Bread, like people, comes in a variety of colours. According to my toaster, none of them get along very well. I guess I'd be pretty annoyed if Ding! was the only sound I made too.

I woke up this morning with an idea. This idea of mine is flawed. Actually, I'm flawed and the idea is perfect. My idea was to invent flawed perfection. You might think that I'm an idealist now, but I figure that it can be done. Your flaws are your perfection. Your flaws are your individual super powers. Coming from a guy who talks to his toaster you might be skeptical. That would be a good way to start. No Beep, Beep, Beep, just flaws. Oh what a party it would be. Lots to talk about. Fun, fun, fun. Someone recently asked me if Bobby in Invasion 1 was supposed to be Bobby Fischer the chess player. Well, you're right, it is. He doesn't have a phone number. He's got flaws. No one can find him. You've got to love that. Bobby beat the Beep, Beep, Beep. Bobby is my hero for that.

I'm gonna wind up and finish this thing. If anything goes wrong between now and then donít be too angry with me. It's all just bad timing. It's all just bad blood guardians. It's all just in my lungs. The Beep, Beep, Beep can't kill my flaws. So I'll see you all in a little while. Somewhere over the rainbow in isle 3, House Wares. Ding!

Answers To Frequently Asked Questions:

1 Dave and I are currently getting together some tabs for songs both new and old, so hang on if you're dying to know some of the secrets of our universe.

2 There seems to be a great deal of confusion surrounding the GYOZA. Like I explained in the last manifesto, they're Japanese dumplings. Get your ass to a Japanese restaurant and order some. Your questions will be answered.

3 Yes, other members of the band will be writing in the manifesto. Up until now they've been rather uninterested in it so I just keep on keeping on.

4 Check the tour dates on the tour page to see if we're coming to a town near you soon. If we aren't, complain.

5 Hopefully we will be doing some all ages shows in the very near future. Vancouver and some other places are slated for the new year but nothing's been confirmed at this point.

Unfortunately I have to fly to Montreal tomorrow morning at 5:30, so that's all that I have time for right now. I know that many of you have asked for personal replies and we'll try to get to them as soon as we can. From now until the 20th of December we'll be busy, so please forgive any delays regarding anything else that I've forgotten. Beep, beep beep.