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At this year’s Toronto Canzine, we  brought together an illustrator, a poet and a zinester for an event that, admittedly, we had little idea of how it would go. A week before Canzine, we gave Andrea Manica, Chris Landry and Leopold McGinnis a list of five Hollywood movies, one of which they would re-imagine, in front of an audience and in their chosen form. A week later, our brave guinea pigs (ahem, contestants) took the stage at Canzine, scribbling, typing and drawing away in a mad race to recreate Ghostbusters. Landry, our zinester, lampooned the film as a “Reagan-era, reactionary screed;” McGinnis, our poet, plumbed the depths of Peter Venkmen’s sexual being and Andrea Manica, our illustrator and ultimate winner, illustrated the highlights of the beloved 80s’ flick, complete with an absolutely adorable flaming marshmallow man. We thought the results too good to keep confined to the Canzine audience lucky enough to hear our participants present their work. So, read on for the most wonderful indie retelling of Ghostbusters…




“They hate this,”

he says

fingers tinkling on the keyboard

“but the ladies love it,”

he thinks.

The charm

His charm

as he lays it on thick

heaps it on

like gravy

spilling over the keys

But she’s not buying it

Looks at him like he’s a crackpot


She’s the one who called

Ghost Busters

She’s the one who called

Peter Venkman

And Peter Venkman delivers

whether its

attention to lonely old ladies

or attention to lonely young ladies

or even middle aged lady crackpots

who call Ghost Busters…


“What’s your name?”

he asks.

“Dana,” she offers reluctantly

“Well Dana.

It seems ok in here to me,”

he says

“But a little messy…”

She seems displeased


That’s how it always starts

but soon

the charm creeps inside

haunts you

gets inside your bones

like ghosts

in the architecture

and at first you think

you want the ghosts out

that you want

Peter Venkman to leave

but the memory lingers

like the dear departed

and soon enough

who ya gonna call

to haunt you?

to possess you in your body

until you’re writing in bed

longing for the keymaster

hovering five feet above

your passion

in feverish desire

until who you gonna call?

You’ll call this ghost buster

to bust your ghosts

to make your eggs pop

right out of the carton

and fry on the tabletop

until you don’t know

what’s come over you

until you scream out in lust:

“There is no Dana!

Only Zool!”


“Oh yes,”

he says

fingers tinkling on the piano

“They hate this.”

“But,” he thinks

“The ladies

love it.”



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