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Started updating my bio Dec 31, 2023. Accidentally wrote four autofiction books. Slid from narrative into monologue—not stream-of-consciousness, more like speech-speed meaning performance. Trained my voice into AI, produced a shit-ton of pieces. Had too many. Needed a place to dump them. Saw a sign that said “Beware, Vicious Dog!” Misread it. Named the podcast Danger, Vicious Dog. Didn’t fix it. Just kept going. Queer. Cosmic. Sarcastic. Cheap. Accidentally committed to the bit. Some voice and art is AI... I don't know how I feel about that... so I'm working on figuring it out... how I feel.
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This episode started while I was trying to work something out.Maybe part of what I was working out is what happens when I stop shrinking myself.I don't need to make a declarative statement about my absolute value. Not here. Not to anyone.Other people get to decide what I mean to them.But if you give me unclear information, I may ask what you mean. And if you don't want to clarify it, that's okay too.We can leave it there.Meanwhile, I keep making things.Apparently that's how I work.I’m Broken; That’s How I Work.
If you are reading this after listening to the episode, congratulations.You have reached the archive.And, like every archive, this one has been curated.Here is roughly what happened.Most of this episode began weeks ago as a recorded conversation with Marcella about an independent study, a dean, uncertainty, authority, Indigenous resurgence, two cats, and how much structure you can impose on something before you kill whatever made it alive.One piece of context matters more than I originally realized.Marcella is Marcella Sunshine, M.S.M. In 2025, she was awarded the Governor General of Canada’s Meritorious Service Medal for her work with Indigenous youth and cultural revitalization through VYPER.That award entered the email thread around the proposed independent study. The dean was already on the thread. People were excited about it. Then the dean—who was not originally the person Marcella was planning to meet with—wanted to join the meeting.Was the award why?I have no idea.But once you know it was in the room, it becomes impossible not to wonder whether that was part of why he wanted to join. I cannot know. So: hypothesis retained, motive not established.Then I kept working on the episode.And apparently working on it some more.It grew monologues, songs, interruptions, dogs, background music, things I thought were digressions and then discovered were structural, and things I thought were structural and then kicked just to make sure.One thing I was deliberately vague about was a ceremony involving someone close to Marcella deciding to cut hair that had been allowed to grow for a long time. Marcella sent me photographs of the cutting.I cried almost immediately.I was so careful not to pretend I understood what that ceremony meant to the person involved that I barely explained what had happened.Later, I put the episode into an AI-generated deep-dive podcast. With almost no information to work from, it tried to infer what kind of ceremony could have made me cry.Wedding became a reasonable possibility.Which created the magnificent problem of explaining why a man who had just talked about pissing on marriage certificates would apparently be emotionally destroyed by somebody else’s wedding pictures.That was not what happened.But the misunderstanding was useful.The reaction belonged to me.The ceremony did not.I rewrote the description to explain that.Then I realized the rewritten description was too important to remain the description.So I turned it into the new opening of the episode.That is why you are now reading this instead.Yesterday, as of the recording of that new opening, was National Day for Truth and Reconciliation in Canada.Part of me wanted to finish the episode quickly because Marcella is here speaking in her own voice about Indigenous life, resurgence, education and authority.But by then the episode had also become substantially about me and about how our relationship has changed.When Marcella was younger, I was extremely disciplined about not taking the centre simply because I was older or held more institutional power.Now the relationship is different.Sometimes she is at the centre.Sometimes I am.Sometimes she kicks back.Good.I am very glad the episode was not ready yesterday. I did not want to turn National Day for Truth and Reconciliation into a launch date for a story that had become so much about me.Instead, I spent part of yesterday finishing an enormous space-rock opera involving Prince Harry, Meghan Markle, John Cage, Raymond Scott, Brian Eno and the Road Runner.Then I came back here.Because apparently this was still not finished.Now it is.Probably.The audio contains the explanation that used to be here.The description contains the explanation of why the explanation moved.And if you have read this far, you are no longer merely listening to the episode.You are participating in the archive.Please kick responsibly.
Before this episode was released, the author sent its cover image to a couple of people close to him, along with the following note:“They get put on a ship to fly to the cosmic microwave background, but it’s going to take thousands of inbreeding generations. But, they are already inbred, so whatever.”This was not sent as a spoiler, exactly.It was more like an attempt to explain why Prince Harry and Meghan Markle appear to be floating in low gravity while strange aliens investigate them with a level of tactile curiosity that would probably be unwelcome under most terrestrial conditions.The recipients of this note may or may not listen to the episode. One of them almost certainly will not, because that would require my partner to become interested in what I make, and we should not suddenly start pretending we are living in a fantasy world.Still, the note was sent.The image was admired.And honestly, it deserves admiration.It is a fantastic image.It suggests exile, absurdity, cosmic indifference, marital endurance, interspecies boundary confusion, monarchy-adjacent reproduction, black-hole-level melodrama, and at least one future Netflix opportunity.It says many things.What it does not do is tell you, in any reliable way, what this episode is actually about.That part is harder to explain.At some point, apparently, Brian Eno gets dragged into it.Raymond Scott is already there.John Cage turns up.So does the Road Runner.There is a coyote somewhere nearby.And eventually a song acquires the title:Babies Still on Fire (Don't Throw Them in the Water, They're Like Gremlins)Which, now that I look at it, may be as good an explanation of the problem as anything else.Putting out the fire may create more babies.So perhaps we should put it out with gasoline.Hi, David Bowie.No. You don’t need to come inside.Trying to stop the recursion may create another recursion.Explaining why that happens may become part of the thing you were trying to explain.So instead, you get the image, the note that accompanied it, the title of a song that probably should not require this much explanation, and this assurance:you may be surprised by what the episode itself has to say.And if you think you understand what it is saying—give it a minute.Also, at one point the Three Tenors accidentally mispronounce themselves. Something like “The Three Teenors.”That was intentional, just like everything else in this episode.
I have a slight fear that explaining this episode will cause me to add something else to it, and I don’t want to. It already seems finished.So this is just information about how it happened.About two weeks ago, I spent an afternoon being a gremlin on Substack. I fed some of what I was doing into AI, asked it to find patterns, and eventually had it make a song out of the whole thing. Then I asked it to criticize that song. Then I criticized the criticism. Somewhere in there, an old song I wrote around 1988 called “Fate’s Bait” appeared to belong with the others.I put the four songs in a playlist called “Gremlin.”Then I forgot about them.Today I opened the playlist and barely remembered what was in it. I listened to the songs once while walking home. For much of that first listen, I could hardly hear them because I was walking beside traffic and I don’t wear in-ear headphones because they make my ears itch.I listened to the first song one more time.Then I started talking.Everything before the songs in this episode was improvised while I walked. There was no outline, no notes and no plan for where I was going. I knew vaguely how the songs had been made. I remembered pieces of my own history as they occurred to me. I talked until the thing reached an endpoint that felt completely obvious, and then I stopped.What interests me now is not whether that counts as impressive improvisation. I’m more interested in what a person is doing when something like this happens at all.Maybe preparation is the wrong model.If you have spent decades repeatedly noticing certain things—how categories work, how language changes what it describes, how individual experience looks different when scale changes, how memory ignores the lines we draw through our lives—perhaps you do not need to retrieve those ideas deliberately. They are no longer a collection of ideas. They have become something closer to the machinery doing the retrieving.So when I speak without knowing what I am going to say, perhaps I am not inventing a structure in real time so much as exposing one.The particularly strange part is that, afterward, when I gave the transcript and songs to AI, it pointed out that the improvised monologue had already introduced, through autobiography, many of the same problems the songs would later make explicit: categories, framing, scale, the fantasy of a closed chapter, the problem of an authentic self, observation as evidence, and the persistence of the person on the other side of a line.Apparently I had heard all of that while barely hearing the songs in traffic.Or perhaps I didn’t have to hear it.Maybe I concoct things out of myself.And whatever comes out will tend to resemble me.And, not out of a responsibility for transparency, I'll note that the above was finalized by AI. If you listen to this episode, you'll experience how I talk.I talk in the same way to AI, but with even more-flowery language. I groove languidly like Billie singing in a bar. Or at least that's how I feel.Maybe I mean Billy Tipton.
I made this while walking home.That is becoming a fairly unremarkable sentence for me to write, which may itself be part of the problem.This one started in one place, moved through several others, and eventually seemed to arrive somewhere I had not known I was going.There is strategic planning in here. Fort Knox. Masculinity. Naloxone. Fentanyl. Benzodiazepines. Caffeine. Medical Assistance in Dying. Sensitivity. The possibility that some people can withstand more chaos than others. The possibility that this fact is neither a compliment nor an injury.There is also a song called “I’m Fucked,” which probably tells you something about the general level of confidence with which I approached the material.But underneath all of that, I think I may have been circling something much simpler.What happens when somebody is doing something because they want to experience doing it, and other people—often very kindly—begin turning it into a project?A direction.A career.A strategy.A thing that should grow.Something that needs an audience, a plan, a destination, a better version of itself.I understand why people do this. It is one of the ways we recognize value. If something seems good, we want to help it become more good. If someone appears capable of something, we want to know what they are going to do with it.But what if the doing is already the thing?What if there is no next level?What if the fact that something exists today does not obligate it to become larger tomorrow?I don’t think this episode argues against ambition, planning, development or improvement. I am not sure it argues against anything.It may simply be me noticing, again, how quickly experience gets converted into trajectory.And how strangely difficult it can be to say:No, really.I am doing this because I am doing it.That may be enough.The episode eventually ends up with “North Is Still North.”Which, now that I think about it, may be the closest thing it has to a conclusion.You can move.You can turn around.You can get lost.You can decide you were going somewhere else entirely.North does not need your strategic plan.
I have instructed the AI writing this description to deliver a message on my behalf.If the maybes, perhapses, I-thinks, I-don’t-knows, caveats, qualifications, equivocations and occasional immediate reversals in this episode bother you, please fuck off.Pleasantly.I don’t mean leave forever. You can come back. Maybe.But I am not going to clean up uncertainty before speaking just so everything arrives looking like I knew where I was going.In this episode I walk home from work and somehow get from Indigenous knowledge to grandmothers and books, ancestry DNA, scatological crime, homelessness, parks, toilets, Canadian case law, sex work, Parisian French, Mahler, foster care, names, bronchitis, exploding televisions, trauma bonds, AIDS, blood in the shower, Silverlake Life, Spotify subscribers and eleven inches.Some of what I say I know.Some of it I remember.Some of it I think I remember.Some of it I may have completely fucked up.And when I know that, I generally tell you.That is not a defect in the argument.There may not even be an argument.There is, however, a 57-year-old man walking home, speaking into his phone in a strange voice that apparently allows him to say things he cannot say otherwise, repeatedly wandering onto an edge that somehow keeps moving with him.The opening closing song is “The Edge Came With Him (Or Was He the Edge?).”The closing opening song is “The Bads, The Worses, and Worstes.”There are lemmings.Imaginary lemmings.There is a missing mouse.Maybe it's not missing. Maybe it's home.There are several things I probably should not have said.Maybe.Perhaps.Fuck off.
So, the description of this one is simple:Oh my dear friend. I am just me. Isn't that true?We start with an art song about emergence from chaos. Then we have a three body problem monologue. Finally, we end with the problem of three bodies.Me, my niece, and the universe.
This might be kind of boring to read, but I thought it needed a description. I just asked AI to somehow convince you that this episode is a perfect weave of Van Gogh, Kafka, Rimbaud and Nietzsche.We could throw in Ionesco too, as I'm quite sure a Large Language Model would be able to figure out why. Was it because Ionesco thought one could argue anything from any piece of work?Well, I wanted to see if the Large Language Model could outdo him, and I could win the Trifecta... if only it was four horses instead. Maybe the four horsemen of the apocalypse?Anyway, here is what the LLM did. Again, it might be boring... and what I've written here is probably sufficient now as the whole description of the episode:Kafka supplies the Castle: bureaucracy arriving after the fact to explain what apparently must have happened.Van Gogh supplies the distortion: nothing changes, exactly, except the sky starts moving because of what it feels like to look at it.Rimbaud supplies the escape hatch: language stops behaving, the “I” becomes suspicious, and somebody climbs over the wall rather than use the gate.Nietzsche shows up afterward with a hammer and asks who decided the gate was a gate, the rule was a rule, the shame was shame, or the self was a self.Then Ionesco walks in and points out that this is all completely ridiculous.Which proves he belongs too.So now we have five horsemen.At the centre of all of them is a kid who discovers that something feels good and then constructs an astonishing amount of architecture around that fact.Eventually there is a Castle.Apparently that’s the episode.
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Started updating my bio Dec 31, 2023. Accidentally wrote four autofiction books. Slid from narrative into monologue—not stream-of-consciousness, more like speech-speed meaning performance. Trained my voice into AI, produced a shit-ton of pieces. Had too many. Needed a place to dump them. Saw a sign that said “Beware, Vicious Dog!” Misread it. Named the podcast Danger, Vicious Dog. Didn’t fix it. Just kept going. Queer. Cosmic. Sarcastic. Cheap. Accidentally committed to the bit. Some voice and art is AI... I don't know how I feel about that... so I'm working on figuring it out... how I feel.
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