October 2, 2009 | Heroes

We will return to our regularly scheduled programming on Monday.

a certain pride here

Charles Bukowski (Open All Night)

I don’t care to have my writing

praised too often:

it’s dangerous for the writing and

for me.

Writing is what one does,

it’s like a spider spinning its

web.

you do what you have

to do.

yet, regarding praise, I sometimes

weaken,

say when they write me

from the prisons that they

like my stuff.

or I like it better yet

when they write me

from the madhouse that they

like my stuff.

the bit I liked best, though,

was when the

madam of a Nevada whorehouse

wrote me

that she and the girls

liked my stuff

and anytime

I was in the neighborhood

I could have all of it I wanted
for free.

that beats

any notice I might get

in the N.Y. Times

hands

down.

July 31, 2009 | Heroes

As some of you are no doubt aware (we’ve spent the better part of a year and a half intermittently shilling for it), this is the official blog for our humor book, which comprises a Great White’s snaggle-toothed mouthful of a title:  “The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death and Other True Tales of Drunken Debauchery” (to be known henceforth as ‘The Shark Book’, in the interest of energy conservation and somehow reducing our environmental impact on the high seas).

That we are known as ‘The Shark Guys’, should come as no surprise either, not because we’re fond of the phrase ‘We’re gonna need a bigger boat’ (though we are) or slurp enough fin soup to risk endangering them;’ rather, this is what marketing genius gurus refer to as ‘branding’. We sincerely hope you like it, as it’s far too late to change it now and it’s preferable to, though not as accurate as, ‘The Drunken Debauched Guys’.

This site is updated thrice weekly. Why three you ask? Well, some really good things come in threes: threesomes, celebrity deaths, a Bronze medal (we’re Canadian, it’s the best we can hope for), jazz trios, six-man tag-team matches, [Please See our Worst Masked Wrestling Gimmicks] and it’s the atomic number of Lithium. [August 3rd is also auspicious in our home province as it's a holiday]

Along with our notable  Top 10 Lists, product reviews, travelogues, beer tastings, movie reviews and reasons why you should not bring the Turbo Jam DVD set to the office,  The Shark Guys site will provide information about the authors: freelance journalism, radio appearances, press, readings, outstanding arrest warrants, and of course news on the next book. Speaking of which, we are currently working on that book. Some of you might have noticed the posts have been getting shorter lately: this is not to reflect people’s diminished attention spans or laziness on our part, but rather, diligent toiling toward our deadline.

Heads up: Next week, we will be in New York City for matters relating to said book and perhaps updating research on our post ‘New York City Versus Toronto’, though we believe it’s entirely accurate and in no way misleading. As a result, expect a Monday post and then a short hiatus as we take the Staten Island ferry out for a joyride, scale Lady Liberty’s heights and get some R&R in the East Village and Brooklyn. The last time both of us were in NYC together, it was the week of September 11.

This mini vacation could not come at a better time, especially if the Toronto City Council votes down the strike resolution and those of us in the downtown core continue to be overcome by the fumes emitted by the garbage.

Thank you to our growing readership and feel free to spam as many friends and acquaintances with links to this site.

Have a great weekend and on a related note, enjoy Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

The Shark Guys

June 26, 2009 | Heroes, celebrities, music

We were uncertain whether to blog about Michael Jackson’s death since we’re in the business of flambéing tabloid-fodder celebs whenever we have the opportunity (though we must stress how much we also relish poking a stick in the common man’s ribs).

Michael Jackson was the king of the tabloids (who until yesterday were referring to him as “The Self-Proclaimed King of Pop” – get ready for more shameless post-mortem backstepping than after Diana’s death), the wellspring of more checkout-aisle drivel than anyone who has ever lived – yes, we stand by what would be hyperbole about anyone else – and the punchline to more late-night monologue jokes than OJ Simpson and any two American presidents you got combined. Hell as recently as Monday, we were pulling out of the gift-that-keeps-giving Jacko joke bag.

But we’re also children’ of the 1980s, a decade that thankfully preceded the YouTube generation. Had somebody’s mobile phone camera been trained on us back in those days you might have seen one or both of us in those leather jackets with zippers, pitting a Michael Jackson doll in an uneven fight with a Mr. T action figure, or wearing one glove (doing so and coming through Canadian winters with all fingers accounted for was just good luck). Neither of us would ever own up to behind-closed-doors moonwalking, but let’s just say that Michael Jackson was as much a part of 80s childhoods as He-Man, bad cinema, and insatiable yuppie greed that shat on the hopes and ideals of the two decades that preceded it.

Chris remembers hearing Thriller for the first time at his cousin’s house and it blowing his mind. Noel remembers a running feud with an older neighbor kid who ridiculed him for saying (in the chirpish voice of youth) that Thriller and Bad were awesome. The neighbor insisted that Michael Jackson was just a poor man’s Lionel Richie and was not afraid of doling out a noogie to get his point across. (If that guy’s reading today, let’s just say that, Thriller, the best-selling album of all time – which in effect is an untouchable record because computer piracy has killed the album – well, it wasn’t put out by Lionel.) What we both remember are sounds that will forever be there in our minds. We think back to our childhoods and remember this music and – unlike the majority of 80s television and the second Terminator film – it stands the test of time, and we give ourselves credit for not having tin ears at that age.

Of course, then there were the 1990s. Michael Jackson’s musical output deteriorated and things got from cute weird – who wouldn’t want a pet chimpanzee (though maybe not to hang around with an aged Liz Taylor) – to the kind of weird that made liking him as a musician an awkward thing to admit.

It seems that if you’re a celebrity from a humble start, that included in the welcome gift bag you get upon entry into the club of the super fabulous is a posse of bloodsuckers incapable of giving advice other than “I think it’s time you sign the monthly pay slips, boss.” Throw in a mind that is not exactly a specimen of sound health and the results are inevitable – Howard Hughes insane and pissing in specimen bottles while his fortune crumbles, Mike Tyson boxing tomato cans for the minimal cash that’s in it, Michael Jackson building the Neverland Ranch, and inviting children into a world that screamed, “We find on behalf of the plaintiff”.

The charges against him lose some steam when you look at those making them.  What manner of person sends their kids for pajama parties at the home of a pop star who is, at best, a troubled middle-aged man who thinks cotton candy should be available on demand?

We’re not the types to look back on Annie Hall or Hannah and Her Sisters with a perspective skewed by the Soon-Yi affair – they remain classics… though we will drop Woody like a turd from a tall horse if he does another film with Scarlett Johansson. (Some things are just unforgivable). A creative work of merit stands above and apart from the personal shortcomings of its creator. Thank the pharaohs for that or we’d be in trouble.

For those of us who grew up with his sounds causing us early ear drum damage, his music gets the first two or three tracks of our life soundtracks.

Michael Jackson produced more great music between the ages of six and eight than any of the Idol programs will produce in their entire run. R.I.P.