I would like to offer apologies to our more aged readers. Please be aware that Rob’s opinions do not necessarily reflect those of the remainder of aov. “Grandmother sex” (see post below) is, of course, a beautiful and natural thing and we here at aov (myself, at least) would like to stress that we are very supportive of all the seniors out there who enjoy satisfying sex lives. Not so supportive that we’d like to actually hear about your sex lives though. And no pictures. I cannot make that clear enough. No pictures. None.

So, to sum up: Enjoy all the “grandmother sex” you can get, but go easy. Paramedics prefer their heart attack victims fully clothed.

Because I write a great many things which do not go anywhere. This is as good a place as any:

The Zyphoid Process
She punched him as hard as she could. He felt her fist land just below his ribs. It hurt like hell. He couldn’t breathe.

He felt her fist land, centred just below his ribs, right on that bone – the one whose name he could never remember, except that it started with a “z”. It hurt like hell and he remembered in first aid class how they were all told to be careful when doing the Heimlich manoeuvre. If you went too high, you could hit that bone which extends like a tab between the bottom of the ribs and starts with the letter “z”. You could hit that bone and break it off.

He could hear her crying. Turning around to leave. She was walking away.

He thought about the bone snapping off from the breastbone and floating around his chest. He tried to remember first aid class. Did it lacerate the heart, or puncture the lungs?

He thought about that sharp fragment of bone, severed and misplaced, floating about his chest. He thought about that jagged, errant satellite orbiting his vitals. What was that tickle in his chest?

He couldn’t breathe and he thought about a sharp fragment of bone floating around his chest and slicing open his heart.

By the time the pain subsided and he thought to open his eyes, the hallway was empty and she was half a block away.

The Cadre’s Poetry Spectacular is out on the newsstand, busy living up to its title.

Featuring a cover designed by silverorange’s Geoff Gibson, this issue of UPEI’s student newspaper is actually better than sliced bread. It features poets who run the gamut from first time bards to weathered veterans of the genre who have books of poetry under their proverbial belts.

Anyone wishing to get their greedy little paws on the Island’s finest print publication should visit the Robertson or Main buildings on campus. The Cadre is also available at finer coffeehouses and bookstores around Charlottetown.

I should also mention (in a breezy, offhand, devil-may-care fashion) that I will be The Cadre’s Editor-in-Chief next year. As such, I will soon be defaming people in print, as well as on the Internet.

Many thanks to media guru Dave Moses and fellow aovist Rob Fletcher for their submissions.

Frying up burgers like they was motherfuckers.
Yes. He do.

Check out “Canada Geese” from Gordon Downie’s solo album, “Coke Machine Glow.” The Tragically Hip meet Frank Black. Very nice. Yes.

I like the sleepy mornings; the sleepy afternoons. When your eyelids are difficult sandbags to lift. When the only things your senses understand is a familiar tired warmth, and that somewhere nearby there is coffee.

And I say: “coolin’.”

“What’s Up Fatlip?” by Fatlip, formerly of hiphop group The Pharcyde is currently my choice for song of the year. It’s the saddest funny song I’ve heard in a while and it’s got a chorus you’ll be humming to yourself as you strut down the street (rocking a diaper or not).

Also: Some days more than others.

I can’t believe I forgot to pimp my work which has surfaced on Forget Magazine. But then, you’re reading it every day anyway. Right?

Also. You must see this. But then, since I recently recommended this site which links to it you’ve probably already seen it. Right.

The person who lives above me is in the midst of the world’s longest shower.

Fine.

Except the pipes in this building have recently started to make an unbelievably distressing high-pitched screaming noise which apparently only dogs and myself can hear.

Go to A Whole Lotta Nothing. Nice site. In case you don’t find it there, here is a picture of a cat.

Goddamn. The shower has not ended yet. Excuse me, I am about to instigate the world’s shortest and most violent confrontation.

Three bootlegged Beck songs you should obtain:

Mexico (live@KCRW)
An touching acoustic number about getting stoned and robbing a McDonalds.

One Foot in the Grave (live@W54th)
Some mean harmonica action accompanied by clever crowd banter.

Pulling up Roots (live with DJ Swamp)
No beck here actually. Just DJ Swamp rocking hard with the hard rock. Yeah. It’s like that.

Novocane (live@Muchmusic)
Beck screaming like the death-metal superstar you never knew he was. Also a discussion with Sook-Yin Lee about the current location of the fish he had for supper.

Send me some goddamn poems.

You, the so-called “readership,” need to redeem yourselves after your pathetic showing at the rock-uber-thing.

Your reluctance to send me your poems can’t have anything to do with the “difficulty” of writing of poems. If Dylan Thomas, a drunk and an Irishman, can cobble some words into a poem, anyone can. Even slack-jawed ne’er-do-wells like yourselves.

I’m serious about this. Really. Show some love, goddamn it. We show you love daily (nearly). It’s the least you can do.