To start, nothing in this documentary is true.
I’d say it’s a true story, but I’d be lying to you.
To quote A Few Good Men, “You can’t handle the truth”
even if overheard in a confession booth.

You’ve already heard about the poison tongue
and in testimony, here’s one.
See a past Thursday – at a once a year thing.
A bell tolled, a nationwide furious ring.

All gather near the Bone at the centre of the universe.
They meet, laugh, enjoy their time, cordially converse
in modest groups of two or three.

The honest ones bitch and moan
on behalf of others, of course. Me?

After 3 days of social media
where I outed myself as crazy
My social experiment began
Your memory may be hazy.

But not mine, and not some of your peers
whose gracious and sometimes listening ears
will have already heard gossip and falsehoods
about yours truly. Maybe from John,
Jill, or Julie. Maybe you think I’m a con
or perhaps you know I’m a fool,

so intimated by a hostess
on whose behalf I did school
last year, hoisting a camera
on a Steadicam, parading for Pride
with a trusty assistant and bike by my side.

Nevermind that day. What she said on our night
was important. She said “you’re dead right
or a fool if you work on something for 10 years.”
I’m nearly both. Think you lost your ears?

The truth is, she didn’t say dead right
she just said “a fool.” What a dark night
of truth it was for me
of the 10 year documentary.

If only it were my first. It’s the second.

The first was worst. For 9 years I reckoned
without receipts or a paper trail
only text files and quicktimes. A CRA fail.
Given continuing large posted losses,
a two year hiatus. For what causes?
No wonder they think I’ve gone wrong.
What sort of fool would continue so long?

Goddamn you, it’s to make this work of art.
Which, without you I’ll finish as an old fart.
I’m the fool, with PTSD
along with anyone who supported me.

Fuck you, CRTC, and producers too.
I’ll raise the money from family and friends,
And then I’ll raise you.

I showed up at your party
looking like a flea-ridden misanthrope
because that’s what you all looked like
when I showed up full of hope
in a suit, back in 03, your laughter so hearty
in my days of five movie plays
loving your trailers and watching you pitch
Someday I’ll be there, I said. Now I bitch
that I can’t afford Hot Docs.

Because I’m crazy
What have you got?
You think I’m lazy?

Lazy? I’ve freelanced and wrote
and researched and recorded
and on top of it all, I tote
it all in a bike. Yes transported
by legs and stored on hard drives
enough data to edit for 3 more lives.

I thought twice about what I tried.
Attending the party looking like a crazy guy.
Most of you who I looked in the eye
looked away, or fixed, to run and hide.

Empathy! Action! Sister! Brother!
That’s what documentary’s for.
A door out of your life and into another.
And why I’m still here, knocking at your door:

A roller coaster ride across space and time
Bear witness to many compassionate crimes.
Find out what it’s like to have a half-brother
half-dad, obstinate mother, second mystery dad,
kept at a distance. In dark history. Super bad. So sad.
Enough that his name was kept in shrouds,
and will remain there for this film. In the clouds.
It’s possible someone might kill him, if I say it out loud.

What it’s like to run a cult. To get medical weed.
To, without conscience, spread your seed.

Find out what it’s like to have six fingers
and a name no-one can pronounce;
the same name when you get to the city
for which every jew will give you an ounce
of their budget. That is, because you’re one of theirs
yes, they are the sacred Jared sayers!

My people, I guess.
Except my mom’s an atheist at best.

Feel what it’s like to only be able to see your nose
or to have a dick the size of a fire hose;
to try out virtually every drug
to have the friendship of two lawless thugs.

And as an example of how to bring life to a stop
to be dropping acid and pulled over by cops
on the day your driver’s carrying three ounces of weed
a scale, six pills, sticks, and seeds.

What it’s like to be a woman giving birth
What it’s like to endlessly roam the earth.

If you want, i can take you to Saudi
I’ve been there, or to go see a Gaudi
I’ve got friends there
Really, I swear!

I’ve got a story like no-one else
And it’s great for talking about mental health
So come on and put your cash on the line
Please, even the score, your handicap for mine.


Speaking of golf, Bell, if you wanted to talk,
Lets talk about my bill,
which creeps up like a stalk
of GMO corn every month. Kill
me it does, or my future self.
A lower bill would help my mental health.

Now that that’s done,
wasn’t it fun?
If I may be so brash,
how about some cash
In exchange for those meetings
and all your pre-recorded greetings?

And as for you Rogers, with your doc-u-mentary fund
why don’t you tell me exactly what happened
on that trip to Maine, where antidepressants seeped
into my brain, and made me forget about the creep
at the end of the bar, who stole 8 phones
that night. How many other loans
can you call in? How many extra bills
without service assessed, and for what, the thrills?
You sent me to collections
on fraudulent charges
because i’m vulnerable,
a bankrupt. Your largess
amazes me, and by that
I mean your corp-ulent pride –
but lets put all that aside.

Where’s your documentary fund today?
Send some of that fund my way!

Oh and you. Blue ICE? COME ON NOW.
am I supposed to make a film
with your money?
come on guys, this isn’t funny!
Just kidding gals
Thanks for hiring me, Blue Ice
for that BTS. Such a nice surprise.

No BS. Yes, as for everyone else
this is my life, and I ruined it for you
Toss me a penny or sponsor a brew.
Better yet, some cash will equalize
The lack of a documentary prize
for slowest filmmaker.
That’s what I am
a PTSD sufferer
and a bit of a ham.

Loosen your pursestrings,
DOC members.
This is your day.
From the burning embers
of your years of neglect
Put aside your tears of regret.

The point is we’ve been separated
made to share crumbs
while media-garchs sit on their bums
but what if we co-operated?

It’s time to pay.
Indiegogo launch day!