It's All Business

It seems like there are just too many things to do on this planet. Each and everyday could be filled with the most amazing utmost ridiculous adventure, but we all know that would be far too exhausting to execute everyday. Sometimes we just enjoy sitting down and letting the somewhat lovely curse of laziness take over. It happens; some might say it’s inevitable. I would like to discuss a few things with you today, but the first one is about energy. At the time I was learning about it, my closed mind didn’t allow me to completely indulge in the idea that we are all living off one big mass of energy (could you call it mass?) that we all forced to share.

I know hearing that might give you the impression that I am some kind of up-in-the-air-whacked-out-smoked-too-much-weed-drank-too-much-coffee-hippy-free-spirit. Yes I’ll have to admit that some of that is true, but I have not adventured too far into the depths of hippy psychological idealisms that I’ve been lost. There are, however, some bizarre conservative mannerisms that linger around, cleaning up the roaches and crushed beer cans that litter the insides of my mind. Is this the grown up part of my mind? Is this the thing that makes my 21-year-old fragile mind trick itself into thinking that I’m some kind of person ready to lull my living carcass around in the professional world? Oh shit, I hope not.

The professional world is around every corner that we look, the newspaper stands, the television, this MacBook that I am typing on. It’s all business. All of the consumer products and even the food that we put on the table has a background of busy bees buzzing around with their necks embraced with a tight white collar squeezing their pudgy necks until their faces are permanently red. However, this is all some misconstrued construct that I have created in my head. I am also losing the point of what I was originally trying to say. Hold on a sex. Whoops. Hold on a sec. Right.

 Secondly, it’s been quoted millions of times and posted effortlessly on countless facebook profiles that clutter the walls, but just because we’re growing/grown up it doesn’t mean that we have to act like some kind of uptight suit monkey that regulates our human race into it’s own death. Death by economy, death and taxes, death by smartasses, oh the list will never end.  Where is our sense of imagination? Since everything has already been done and being original is pretty damn close to redefining and destroying the smart-ass quote, “nothing is impossible,” or the lovely “never say never.” Suck a dick puke breath.

I remember the times when I’d sit next to a globe spin it and drag my index finger along the surface and see where my imagery flight ticket was going to take me. Or when I’d sing into a chicken drumstick as if it was a microphone, in my boxers at the top of my lungs pretending that I’m some kind of rock star legend, that was classic from day one, with a tattoo of a bee on my knee because I was the BEES KNEES. Shit, don’t lose yourself out there boys and girls. It’s these moments that keep us alive. So here it is, I present to you a friendly reminder to those who give a shit, or don’t at all, stay frosty. It’s a big wild beautiful world out there, but a lot of assholes inhabit it too. Let’s share the love and the energy, and if you have to, flip a few birds to a few assholes.

Ludwig
By Johnny Hanuse
February 7, 2012

I was walking around the woods doing my regular rounds to get some wood to fuel fire in my fine cabin. I can polish my guns and smoke my drum tobacco and have CBC Radio 1 playing in the background in warmth. My newest gun rests snugly against my leg in my boot. A silenced 9mm Beretta just incase I get into too close of an encounter with a beast of the wild. I take break to sit on a stump to roll up a drum ciggy and that’s when I heard the scream. I quickly tightened my suspenders, grabbed my axe and whispered to my Beretta, “ maybe today is your lucky day baby girl.”

I head towards the location of where I suspect the scream came from. There it was a house settling into the woods getting covered in moss. I crouch down to avoid getting caught from the viewpoints of any windows. I creep up to the door and barely open it to take a peek to see how many enemies I have to take care of. I see no one. I close the door and reach down for my silenced Beretta, cock it, then enter the house.

I can hear grunting in one of the rooms in the back of the house. I take each step very carefully not to blow my cover with creaking floorboards. I was not as successful as I would have hoped, but it seemed as though I was still in the clear because the grunting continued. I walk through the kitchen of the house to the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. I stand at the end of the hall and listen to try and figure out what the target was. I saw a red cloak poking outside of the quarter-opened door at the end. I point my gun forward and proceed quietly down the hallway. While strafing down the hallway I see a basket with scones spilled on the floor. I was a step away from the door when my conscience stopped me dead in my tracks. I have been in the woods for a very long time. They said that I would go crazy if I spent too much time out here alone. I figured with CBC I wouldn’t get bushed and lose my mind. No, I am sure someone is in danger; I need to investigate this further. I place my left hand on the brass doorknob and my Beretta in my right. I slammed the door open the light from the window hits me dead in the eyes. The blurriness goes away and I can see clearly. It’s the Big Bad Wolf I knew it.

“Where’s little red riding hood and the elderly woman?”

“Oh c’mon Ludwig you know I didn’t do any such things. You know I’m not into that stuff anymore.”

“You better start telling a whole lot more truth or I’m gonna start blastin’”

Big Bad Wolf sits silently with no response. I squint my eyes and peer as deep into his as I possibly can. Some movement and muffled screaming come from the Big Bad Wolf’s stomach.

“I knew it.”

I squeezed the trigger and put a bullet right between his eyes. His head whiplashed back and the chair rocked back and forth with his feet stretched out dragging on the floor. Once again the movement and muffled cries for help. I bring down and slice him open as if I was using a scalpel. I reach in and pull the elderly woman and little red riding hood out of the stomach.

“Oh my goodness, thank heavens you came and saved is Ludwig, I thought I was going to be dead for sure.” Said the elderly lady.

Little Red Riding hood was leaning forward puking.

“Well you guys are a little filthy, but you’re alive. Alright let’s get you guys cleaned up and get some food in ya.”

They both begin walking down the hallway to the water closet. As they walk down I hold myself back and wait until they can’t see me. I bring my Beretta to my face. So close that I can smell the fresh gun powder and kiss it.

“You did a very good job today.”

And I walk into the kitchen.

Tasty Old Bread

Tasty Old Bread

By Johnny Hanuse

A fine beer may be judged with only one sip, but it’s better to be thoroughly sure. – Czech Proverb

I grew up in Squirrel Cove, Cortes Island. There was a boy that lived up the street from me who was a few years older and his name was Steve.

One day when Steve and I were just hanging out thinking of ways to get into mischief and we came up with a grand idea of stealing a beer from his old man’s fridge. We opened up the fridge and there was a half finished 12 pack of beer in there. The Budweiser was gargantuan compared to our hands, but we weren’t afraid to tackle it down as a team. Even though Steve’s father wasn’t home we decided it would be a good idea to hide somewhere where nobody could find us. In the garage storage there were shelves that granted us an easily accessible route to the rafters above the carport. We climbed up and sat on top of the doorframe and positioned our feet soundly on the 2 by 4’s that stretched across the length of the garage. Steve with a mischievous smile asked,

“Alright are you ready?”

I looked at the beer and nervously nodded my head. Steve cracked the top and the foam formed; we both let out a giggle. He took the first sip, it was a small, but his facial expression was not promising.

“What? Was it really gross?” I asked.

“No it’s really good, here try it,” Steve replied.

He passed me the can. I looked down at the beer and spun it gently.

“Look, I did it so that means that you have to do it too.” He said.

“Well okay I guess I’ll have to giver a go.” I said.

I took a sip and it didn’t take long to send alarms screaming to my brain. I didn’t want to projectile vomit beer over everywhere, but that’s exactly what I did. The beer went through the plastic covering and dripped down onto the concrete of the carport making it visible to anybody that would walk by. With the fear of getting caught Steve instantly shouted, “What the hell man? Some one might see us.”

Cringing at the thought of my parents discovering yet another mischievous deed is one thing, but this was far more major than anything we had done before. This sort of mission required the utmost secrecy.

“Hey Johnny I got an idea. Wait here for a sec I’ll be back.”

Steve crawled down the shelves and ran into the house. The Budweiser was sitting next to me. It was staring at me and toying with my psyche. The label was far more professional than any of my favorite soft drinks. I picked the beer up to get a closer look at it. One of the most common adult beverages was right in front of me but it was so alienating to hold it and say that it was my own. I spun the can around in circles again to attempt to get familiar with it. The bitter smell of the beer that I had spat all over the place was beginning to stink. On many evenings I have seen my parents and their friends sit around and have casual beers, but I knew it was something that I shouldn’t be doing unless I was 19.

Steve walked out of the house with a large jar and a spoon in his hand. He opened the door to the storage,

“Here help me with this,” he said.

He passed me the jar I had to lean down as far as I could to reach it. I grasped the top of the jar and carefully lifted it without spilling the dark liquid that was in it. He climbed up the shelves with the spoon in his mouth and sat next to me. He grabbed the Bud and poured roughly half of it into the jar of grape juice; he took the spoon out of his mouth and stirred. He brought the jar to his mouth and took a gulp and let out a big sigh of refreshment. He passed the jar to me and simply said, “Try it.”

I grabbed the jar and took a generous slam. Swishing the liquid back and fourth in my mouth did not make it any easier. It was like swallowing cough medicine but eventually I choked it down. And like a game we passed the jar back and forth taking sips until we got half way through. After that point we decided that it was quitting time. Luckily we didn’t finish the beer or else our climb down the shelves might not have been as easy as we had anticipated.

beer |bi(ə)r|

noun

an alcoholic drink made from yeast-fermented malt flavored with hops : we’ll have three beers | I'm dying for a barley sandwich.

After I take down 8 bottles of beer from the wall,

There are still 92 still left.

Throughout the entirety of it I’ve been making visits to the stall.

The meanings of the mornings are often bereft.

People have had some times never to forget,

Or perhaps not even remembered a trace.

From the seediest to the cleanest it’s deemed legit,

And is enjoyed no matter the place.

Sometimes I’ll dabble in a cup of tea or water,

But come the weekend I’ll take a brew or two

Stout, draught, ale and lager yeah you gotter.

I will say this and I say it true:

Just because I drink during the day light hours

I’m not addicted to it dear,

It don’t exactly make my breath smell like flowers

But I just really really appreciate beer.

The problem with the world is that everybody is a few drinks behind- Humphrey Bogart

After that day Steve and I didn’t touch a beer for a very long time. Eventually, curiosity killed the cat and I ended up not saying “No” to having a beer and in fact over time I welcomed the idea. It’s not that I was peer pressured into drinking a beer; it was simply an experiment that had some side effects such as: habitually going to weekend parties, smoking marijuana and having pre-marital sex. There is this strange feeling inside me that says maybe beer helped me grow up a bit. That might seem completely ludicrous, but maybe for some of us being completely chaotic and irresponsible is one of those check marks that just needs to be checked. I could understand if it’s not because it’s certainly not a pro health choice. Addiction, one of the key contributors of automobile accidents, liver problems and the list goes on.

But as you know, after a few beers people’s emotions loosen up and have more of a liberal outlook to our self-restraining social regularities that can sit like a monkey on our backs. But can also make you look like a fool it you’ve had too many.

You get all of this!

And it also includes a nice little hangover, which is a constant reminder that we have consequences to pay if we have too much fun.

hangover |ˈha ng ˌōvər|

noun

a severe headache or other after effects caused by drinking an excess of alcohol.

On example of having too much fun, which I’m sure some people can agree with me is the first time that I had a beer in pub with my old man. My plane landed in Auckland New Zealand. My parents, Julie and Gil, greeted me and we caught a cab to the hotel. After dropping our belongings by our beds we sat down and after an hour of sharing adventure stories.

“So, you guys are on vacation you must know where a good pub is?” I said.

“Well there is one down the street from our hotel. It’s called the Red Lion of something like that.” Dad said.

“How would you guys like to go for a pint?” I said.

“Are you serious? It’s two ‘o clock in the afternoon.” Mom said.

My dad and I already had our jackets on and were putting our shoes on.

“Later mom, we’ll be at the pub.” I said.

Queen Street was as busy as it always was. My dad and I walked towards the pub.

“So how are things going in Australia?” Dad said.

“Well they are really good. I get to surf all the time with a bunch of new friends of mine.” I said.

“You working?”

“Yeah I’ve been back and forth between a bartending and landscaping. It’s pretty good I get cash in hand.”

“Good.”

The sign read “Red Lion.”

“Ah, this is it boy.” He said.

“Alright let’s go get ourselves a pint.” I said.

The dim lighting made the red walls look quiet compared the bright lights advertising the choice of spirits guarded by the kiwi-accented gentlemen. The Mac’s gold was served into two pints and put onto the bar. The head was a finger and a half in height and barely bowling over the top. The Kiwi-accented man named his price and my old man was reaching for his wallet and he asked, “how much was-“

“No it’s fine, I got this one.” I interrupted and handed the man a 20.

“Alright, I guess I can let this one slide pup.”

Magic must have sped up the clocks because that was probably the fastest 6 or 7 hours that had gone by in my life. Beer is good for you, but also really bad. Drink responsibly.

.

Let us take off our watches, turn off our cellphones, and have a moment for our selves. The pile of books filled with words and images stacked and stored in our brains are getting a little dusty my friends.

Chapter 1: Page 1

Before you were born, we have to face the fact that most of us were swinging around inside our daddy’s testicles; so putting off to the side any sort of sugarcoated reality, this was you and I. As human nature took her imperishable grasp on our souls, love was made and as we all know:

We came into this world kicking and screaming without even knowing that we plummeted a place and piece of mind of our own, but not by choice.

As time naturally went on our appendages and mushy brains started doing their purposes. Verbal communication, potty training, and personality traits started to penetrate through the ugly baby that we all once were. Congratulations your first step, your first solid ingested, to be digested, your first love of mommy and daddy. After a mass array of explorations giving us the ability to finally call ourselves people. While travelling the long contorted road of life, we very slowly developed mannerisms that strengthen our individuality. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we all have a purpose; it just means that we’re alive. If you were fortunate to have access to an education to be forced upon our forever-expanding brains, life just sort of continues on its merry way.

The constant ringing in our ears of stories read to us, lullabies, fairy-tales, Harry Potter, vampires whatever the literature may be, the fire of imagination is lit for us and the choice is ours whether or not to keep stoking it. This is not lecture about how you should appreciate the written word, it is just simply about how you and I are different, and that’s one of the more spectacular things in life; is it not?

I know what you’re thinking, cut the bullshit.

Okay. Fair play.

There are a number of different reasons for the bullshit I assure you; our everyday lives are a constant battle for energy. One of the major battles with our selves is: Where the hell is the direction that I am supposed to go again? And why? Shit I need money, money sucks, and rules suck, but so do vacuums my friends. It’s not like we have one chance to get everything right, we live, we learn, we fuck, we make mistakes and if were not doing these things, you might as well be dead.

Chapter 2 coming soon...

Conifer

by Johnny Hanuse

While abusing the readiness of information from the internet, I was doing mundane amounts of research on all of these prominent writers, who were popular in the past. I thought to myself, why should I spend so much time obsessing about these people who aren't even alive anymore? They wrote because it's just what they did naturally. When I spent so much time wondering about them and how they did things, it slowed me down in what I was doing in the first place. I know in the future plans of going to school and studying these folk will happen but since right now its autodidact learning, the gain isn't quite clear. Most likely all of these classic writers had majorly unique personalities, which wouldn't surprise me if it was horded to themselves in their writing space. Sometimes it helps just to stop thinking, and just write with the knowledge that you have. Writing today is so much different than it was; things nowadays require a different approach, so why not branch off from your own tree.

This is a realization that I got caught up and forgot the difference between influence and trying to be something that you're not. We all strive for something, but keeping in mind that you are your own flavour, and individuality is a blessing. Maintaining a balance between the joys of writing for what they are and pushing forward to improve by study could be the key for being able to produce more words all the time. Also not to judge yourself too much because there are so many other people that will do that for you. Humans are creatures of emotion and habits, utilizing these traits and putting them into words can create wonders. Look around, look what we have accomplished already. The countless writers out there all have their own approach to things, whether you're a business writer for newspaper or a sci-fi writer exploring into the complete unknown for over a thousand pages. They are contributing to our lives. So maybe the next time you sit down decide you want to write something to not worry about how "good" it is because everybody comes from a different place of appreciation. These classic writers achived their names by writing what came natural to them but perhaps for you and me we wouldn't have a clue how to even approach it. One thing that surprises me everytime I think about it, and how it makes more sense everytime it comes up, is our life is completely lived from our minds.

I always make the joke to myself that I will become one of those people that write the cooking instructions for a no-name brand food company, just so I can make a steady dollar. This is a joke because I enjoy writing but I don't think I would ever let it get to this point. I don't have plans to write for millions of dollars but maybe one day I'll make a bit of money to live off but it won't be a job, just a hobby that helps me in a few different ways. Our contribution of arts will always be taken in different ways so don't sweat it; branch off from your own tree.

A Bachelor with a Bachelor in Bullshit

We have to go to work. It gives us all an opportunity to adventure away from the house, and if you are young and live in a fairly large city you most likely have room-mates; so rent is somewhat an achievable task. This shared living gets very chaotic quite regularly, it can even get to the point of either learning how to be flexible or you might as well pack your bags and throw the peace sign in the air.

Here's the thing, because money helps us through the times and referring to the quote said and used so many times before me, "money can't buy you happiness" it can just put a roof over your head; which could render useful. When I open the door to some old time friends jamming chill music setting the atmosphere , I feel at home. The syncranized moving of hands pounding down on the guitar strings, note by note you sink more into your chair to relax and kick your shoes off. The times get stranger every year that goes by and all sorts of situations change our outlook, but tell me this, where would you rather be, honestly? It seems impossible to get by without any alone time, but going through the early 20's requires a bit of chaos and mayhem. So in the end it's all worth it. Put this through your noggin, it couold be likely (of course depending on your situation) you will end up having a place of your own. Sitting all alone in your place reminiscing about all the crazy things that you did "back in the day." Speaking of crazy things, sometimes friends get the idea that we are on a "mission" whether it's finishing the freshly opened 20 pack of Lucky Lagers or trying to impress pretty girls with wit and an obnoxious sense of humour. Chasing these missions enevitably call for long nights.

In the past it was considered normal to drink at bar and then get in your car and drive home. In the now, we seem to constantly find glitches in the behavior of the past and get so caught up on rules and regulations, "public safety" and what not. So this means there is no driving unless you want to cause harm to yourself or others, cabbies and the shoelace express are the main means of transportation. Depending on the location of the "mission" it could mean sleeping crumpled on a love seat in a strange home kilometres away from home (which from now on will be referred as the ranch). The next day the major task is simply returning to the ranch. In the ranch I sleep on an army sized cot 2.5ft wide, 6.1 feet long (normally measured in inches but I'm no mathematician so measuring it in feet is easier to describe and visualize). The cot is placed right at the top of the stairs by the main entrance, in between the kitchen and living room, perfect for a 20 year old bachelor. The only problem with this location if that sometimes after midnight friends decide it's time to have a "mission" or come home from one, while trying to catch some sleep for work the next day, another partially sleepless night.

When you wake up feeling haggard going to work the next day to your boss yelling/screaming and speaking serious words if disappointment about your perfomance; just bare a smile. Knowing that you do have a home somewhere to rest your head, friends and family can almost gaurantee a place a place to crash. Why not give them a call or e-mail? See what's up.