Young George Washington played by Jack Nicholson.

I have resisted the urge for far too long.

I'm going to tell you all a tale my mother wouldn't want you to know, because she's polite, and courteous, and respects the feelings of others.
Those atributes must have skipped a generation.

But this is a secret story, so keep your traps shut--Mum's literally the word, fuckers.

So Mumsey (M) works with this gal we'll call A. She's a real go-er, and continually keeps the town busy-bodies well stocked with fresh gossip to exchange over coffee or bridge. The sweetest gossip about her, however, had nothing to do with A boffing so-and-so's husband, or drinking too much and popping a squat on Main St., or going outside during winter without sensible shoes--oh no. In this tale A plays only the role of Innocence.

Thirty years ago when rubber met pavement, and the roar of a finely-tuned Harley filled the air, rubber did not make a vital connection elsewhere, and so A was born.
Nothing slows an easy rider down more than stopping to buy soft serve ice cream for some brat, or pulling over to throw a tit in some rug rat's mouth; so mom went one way, dad the other, and baby was left to be raised by grandma.
Classy people, eh?
Some time when A was a kid, her dad hooks up with some new old lady, then promptly murders her with an axe.

Yes. An axe.
And you know what murdering someone with an axe makes you--an AXE MURDERER.

Her father was an AXE MURDERER.
I bet you didn't even know such a thing truly existed, did you?

I didn't.

Neither did M's boss, M'sB, when he came in to work one morning chuckling away to himself.
What was so funny? Glad you asked.
M'sB had just read that some dude with the same last name as A, and who was an axe murderer jailed in Kingston, had just died.
"Someone related to you, A? Har har har!"

. . .and the 2004 Foot In Mouth Award goes to. . .

My mother won't admit it (because she's polite and considerate, you'll recall), but the look on her boss' face when A said "OMIGOD! OMIGOD! That's my DAD!!" must have been a classic.
What are the odds, eh?
Your dad's a convicted axe murderer--he dies--and you're the last one to find out.
And they way you find out is some clown you work with pulling a nudge-nudge wink-wink routine.
From Office Hero to Office Zero in five seconds flat. The thing that haunts me about this story is: that could have just as easily been me cramming foot.

The footnote of this story is (and I have it by good report from my mother and two childhood friends who have each done some light lifting at her home, if you follow me) she leaves the teevee on for her father. . .who now sits patiently in an urn on her kitchen table.

"Dad gets lonely."

His favorite show? Lumberjack Challenge on OLN.

i made that last bit up.

Sorry Mr. Jobs--"I'd Rather Have Jesus"

Today I purchased a brand spanking new Mac G4 iBook.

It's a thing of beauty.

With luck it will improve my blogging habits.
Realistically, it won't.

Lacking a mouse pad, I've turned to my RCA Victor Stereophonic recording of George Beverly Shea's "How Great Thou Art" (arranged by Ralph Carmichael!!). It seems to work out very well. The added benefit of having G. B. Shea condemning me with his eyes curbs my internet porn searches.
Please, if you happen to know that this record album is worth thousands of dollars DON'T TELL ME. I've been dragging a mouse across it all day, and have likely ruined its patina.





I had toyed with the idea of calling this entry:
"Give me Jesus, or Give Jesus Death!"

It's too close to Easter to be funny.
God will make my chocolate bunnies taste bitter.

Best. Job. Ever.

At some point in high school, I began thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up.
As a young boy I had answered the question with the truth of the time: "I want to be a policeman!" I illustrated my desire with a stick B wearing a cop hat, shooting hyphens at a burglar who lay dead, x's where his eyes should be, in a pool of red. The sun, as he always did in my illustrations, had a big smile on his face as he looked down upon the carnage.

I received a "Good Job!" and a stamp of an elephant wearing a sailor's cap from my teacher for my effort.

High school led me to think that perhaps I was too much of a wuss for policing, and shouldn't it be a nicer life just pretending to a police officer in the movies and on teevee.
So actor it was.

I met a gentleman on Parliament St. the other day who chose a much different path from both the Young B and the Present B: he turned on and off the ignitions of a sheik's Mercedes Benz collection. All day. Every day.

To describe him, I can't avoid telling you that he had one proper arm, and one that was more like a chicken wing. That was not his key turning arm, thankfully, or heaven knows what he would have grown up to do!

The SmartCar, which I may or may not begin calling Dilton after Archie Comic mainstay Dilton Doiley (who was the smartest person I knew growing up) served as Matchmaker for this platonic meeting of two men with little to do. I was waiting for one of my beer customers to open her doors; he had a shipping tube which his chicken wing was flipping around like a baton--neither of us particularly busy.

The conversation grew so quickly from Smart-centric questions to "I worked for a sheik in Dubai who was so stupid!" that I don't even recall how he and I got in Dubai. But with an opener like that, I quickly forgot all about Dilton and threw myself headlong into the "Arabian Nights" tale unfolding before me.

"Every day I turned on each of the sheik's 160 Mercedes, let them run for 10 minutes, then turned them off. I had a stopwatch."
A was answering a question I suppose he saw in my eyes; more accurately, my eyes were saying "What the fuck!?" not "However did you know when the 10 minutes were up?"

"For this I was paid $100,000 American dollars! Which is very good money. But this sheik was so stupid. He was illiterate! He couldn't even write his own name! He could afford to pay me $100,000 American dollars, but he couldn't buy himself some sense!"

I was more happy at this moment than I had been all week! And it was THURSDAY! This man, A, was making my day a classic!

"He thought that I had caught the eye of one of his 20 wives--he had 20 wives! it's true!--and came to me one day. He told me, 'I know that you are trying to fuck one of my wives, and I want you to leave. Here is one million dollars. Go.' So I went. And it was not true that I was trying to (hand gesture roughly like that of throwing a jab in boxing) his wife; but he had so many wives that he couldn't fuck them all himself! He would fuck one for maybe one week, or two--a month if she was really hot--then leave her and marry another. He was so stupid! All these wives and he couldn't fuck them all!"

Such a waste! I swore, silently, that I would never marry so many wives that I could not sex them all up. The key would be to have a great personal organizer.

There was no stopping my new friend! How'd he leave Dubai with a million dollars?
"Taped to my body--that much money is heavy and hot to wear!" (I'm sure that I'll never know)

Were there any other jobs? Perhaps I could get a sweet job, too?
"He had twenty or thirty Phillipino servants, because they were small, and he fucked all of them too! Men and women! And he gave them a thousand dollars to keep them quiet."

I suggest passing on that job if you see it come up on Monster.com.

Was there a uniform?
"One day I took him to a market, because he wanted a new robe. We found this robe made from baby camel hair--the mother was killed, then the baby pulled out and skinned--and the sheik wanted this. He paid way too much for it; but he had no sense!"

How much is too much for a robe made from aborted camel baby fur, really?

I was heartbroken when the restaurant owner showed up, bringing an end to my deeply engrossing conversation with A about the "dumbest sheik in Dubai"; but all good things in life must come to an end.

Waving goodbye, I couldn't help wondering how someone gets to a point in their life when they get paid great money to do something so beautifully simple--something they love. . .
. . .then I took a nice long pull off my Steam Whistle, which I am obliged to have as part of my Sales duty (we like to call it 'rotating the stock') and thought about what to have off the menu.

Work work work.

Wanted: Cowboy for 'Village People' Tribute Band--NO POSERS!

There are a few specific types of people in the world that I would want to survive a nuclear holocaust.

A short list includes: people who dance like no one is watching; people who's glass is always half-full; people who do as they please; people who don't spend their lives up to the holocaust appologizing.

Those fit for extinction are: people that have desk calendars imploring them to "Dance like no one is watching!", "The glass is always half-full!", "If it feels good, DO IT!"; namby-pambies.

While my twin brother C and I were in Edmonton on business, we saw a man fit to repopulate the Earth after a cataclysmic event (and would likely enjoy the challenge of all that sexin').

The Sandman Hotel in Edmonton has a grotto of sorts, complete with an indoor pool, hot tub, and astro turfed picnic table area--a very relaxing and social atmosphere. The rooms of the Sandman overlook this grotto; some rooms even have patio doors opening on it.

At one in the morning, mountain time, there came a whoopin' and a hawlerin' from this grotto which C and I could not resist investigating. Earlier, there had been some teens enjoying booze at the picnic tables while a fella and his mother relaxed in the hot tub. By the sounds of it, the relaxing was officially over.

Peeking out from our second floor room, there below us was a rail thin, 60-something-year-old in tight Levi jeans and a huge, white, ten gallon hat. He hollered for everyone to stay exactly where they were--he'd be right back! For the deaf, his broad gestures communicated the same message, with the same enthusiasm.

C and I smacked our lips and poured a scotch.

Moments later, the Cowpoke returned to the pool deck (running) in nothing but his ten gallon, some tighty briefs in tastful navy, and a huge lit cigar. As if that wasn't a big enough statement, he put an exclaimation mark on it by dropping a perfect cannon ball into the hot tub. The son and mother didn't even see it coming.

The high-jinx he got up to befit a man one third his age--he was powered by what must have been enough booze to drop an ox, and an unchecked libido in full bloom. Finally, to conserve energy, he began floating in the pool like a corpse adrift.

Neither C or I saw what happened to his cigar.

As the evening began to wind up, thanks to some fat killjoy from the front desk who, at 2:30am came and, in a "Romper Room" voice said, 'Let's pretend that it's 5 to 10, okay? Five more minutes!', I made a mad sprint across our dark room to get my camera. Don't ask me why, but i desperately wanted to have a picture of this perfect specimen of 'homo parti animalus'; but the room was impossible to navigate!

Crashing around, grabbing at everything in the dark room like a drowning mariner, I hit the lightswitch. This, in turn, illuminated C pressed against the window wearing nothing more than his tighty navy briefs. He went into shock and, rather than take evasive action, stood perfectly still like a chameleon.

I am sad to report that, by the time I had camera in hand, it was already too late. The cowboy was gone.

Leaving only a girl with massive fake tits in a flimbsy white Hooters bikini, attempting to have sex with her "friend" in the pool.

damn it all.

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

The beauty of blogs is that anyone can do it.

"From A to B" is certainly an example of just some Johnny Canuck whiling away at the records of his day, never really attempting any high falootin' political discourse, or sharing anything too painful or profound. Mind you, one can find plenty of what my blog lacks at other blogs.
For instance, Mortgage talk!
Some folks just can't stop themselves once they get started writing about something they love, I guess.

In many ways "Nathan" has become a Mortgage guru to Googlers just as I have become the first, last, and only word on Shitzus. Humbling as it is to know that "From A to B" is such a gross disappointment to someone looking for help during their Shitzu-related crisis, I'm not nearly as active as the guy at Printinginfo in garnering hits. The 3 per week I get, after Shitzu-inflation is removed, is plenty.

incidentally, if you look at "Nathan"'s profile, you'll notice that he employs 5 other blogs to get the mortgage word out. Literally, just the word "mortgage", though he has tried to corner the market on "cancer", "insurance" and "Freddie Mac".
The power of blogging to the people!!

Sage words.

I live across the street from a house which is covered in the most unlikely graffiti of any house that I have ever seen. I swear that I'm not exaggerating.

To start, even before you consider the prose, the fantastic colours catch your eye.
Then, you notice the stuffed animals stapled mercilessly by their ears to the soffet.
Lastly, the messages:
"Our police are doing a great job!",
"I had a Labatt Blue and Molson Canadian at Wayne Gretzky's and took a cab home!",
and finally,
"Kids killed by drunk drivers can't hug Pandas!"

No, they certainly can't.
They also can't:
. . .play croquet with 'The Beatles'! (for more than one reason)
. . .sit on a pole for the Guinness record!
. . .explore the Scenic Caves near Collingwood!
. . .go through a period of loving Weird Al Yankovic!

Rich lives, full of potential, cut short by someone who should have just taken a cab.
Think about it.

There's no business, like snow business!

On Eastern Ave between Broadview and Carlaw Marky-Mark is shooting a film.
The film takes place during Christmastime, one gathers, as production crews have hung lights and ornaments all along the street. Last Friday it was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas as I drove to work--except that there was no snow on the ground!
I could hear the producers screaming on the line from Hollywood:
"God Damn Canada! The one thing you would think it was good for is snow, and now, in the middle of winter, there isn't one God damned flake to be seen! Jesus H. Christ, find me some fucking snow!"

So on my way home, production crews were blowing snow, chipping ice, and laying down long rolls of white cotton batton to make Eastern Ave in Toronto, Canada look like a snow-covered street in Brooklyn. Which, incidently, had its own snow.

Sunday evening it snows like there's a sequel to "The Day After Tomorrow" being shot.
Monday morning, a discouraged production crew begins melting snow to match footage they had already shot when snow was hard to come by.

"God damned Canada! I wish to God that damned Chinook would make up its God damned mind!"

Gentleman's Paradise by the Dashboard Lights

I've given many, many people a quick Q&A period on my dazzling Smart car.
How fast? How much? etc. etc. etc.
I always invite people to sit in it; and occasionally, I'll give them a ride around the parking lot.
It brings me joy to bring joy to the lives of others.

I could be more selective about where and when (and with whom) I bestow my particular brand of philanthropy, as I learned outside Jilly's Gentleman's Revue at Queen and Broadview.

Perhaps the time of day, or the dark, moonless night, or the reputation of the neighbourhood should have put me on alert; but no! When a fella, obviously drunk, knocked on my window as I warmed up the Smart in a Green P lot across from Jilly's, my first instinct was to chat.

When he asked me if he could sit in the car beside me, "because it's so cool looking!", I should have said that I needed to get going--that if I didn't show up at my house in 5 minutes, my wife (a cop) would get her gun and come looking for me.
Instead, I said "Absolutely!".
Not just "yes"; but "absolutely".
This is when, on The Flintstones, The Great Gazoo appears over Fred's shoulder and says, "What on Prehistoric Earth are you doing, Dumb-Dumb?!"
I have no Great Gazoo to assist me in my daily choices.

When "Brian" climbed in beside me, left hand shoved deep into his coat pocket, my inner voice found only these two words: Oh snap.

I positioned my hand near to the driver's door handle, knowing in my heart I came from a long line of "flighters"--men who didn't know how to fight, and weren't interested in taking any first-hand pointers.

As it happens, B2 was very well-versed in our lovely little brewery, and spoke with enthusiasm about the brand and the biz in general.
I began to feel so comfortable that I moved my hand slightly away from the door handle, and was just taking back my Oh snap! when he asked me if I'd like to smoke some crack with him.

My hand went back up in flight position.

Rescuing me from B2's persistent crack advances was a lonely friend, Barry (B3), who B2 had abandoned in Jilly's Perv's Row. I gave them both bottle openers for their praise of Steam Whistle; in return, they swore to buy some of our pilsner once safely back inside the Club.
After my new friends staggered away, I checked to see if B2 had wet my passenger seat.

It left me, the Great Philanthropist, wondering whether or not I'd share my last rock of crack with some random beer salesman I had just met.
My generous streak and love of my fellow man, I figure, stops at sharing crack.

Sunni Triangle on my Face

My poor little Smart gets me a lot of attention.
It's kind of awkward.
At stop lights people stare and grin and wave at me, which is fine for the first 10 seconds; the remaining 20 seconds crawl by. What was once an exciting, new relationship full of hope and promise soon develops the all-too-familiar signs of wear-and-tear. Honeymoon period over, smiles get strained, waving hands get limp with fatigue, we find out that we have nothing in common, and lastly, we begin to avoid each other. A phone call? Tune the radio? Read an inane billboard? Do anything but spend time with each other.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.

It has become so common for people to stare at me in my car (or perhaps more accurately, just my car) that I've finally stopped feeling like I've done something wrong.

Which is precisely when I began doing things that could be considered 'wrong'.
I got too comfortable.
I stopped noticing people noticing me, and went back to all the filthy habits people have while driving in their car

Singing along with the radio. Conducting symphonies with twinkles of my fingertips. Picking my teeth. Picking my . . .
. . .danger, Will Robinson. Danger.
Late one night, after dropping off my fiancee, I indulged in a quiet little bit of nose maintenance, wherein I removed something that I shouldn't have, and my nose began to bleed.
Disgusting, I nose; and now, quite urgent.
Tipping my head back, I looked for something to dam the crimson tide. A Kleenex Rick Schroeder, to borrow from the movie of the self-same name; or a little paper Dutchman.
Nothing.

I could feel the blood sticking its big toe into my moustache, and knew that something must be done, and quickly.

I did what I had to do, and stuck my finger back in my nose.

I stopped at a red light.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a vehicle come to rest beside me. I could feel eyes first on my car, then on me. In the silence of the night, above the rattle of the Smart's V3 diesel engine, gales of laughter mingled with the cold winter air.
My finger hung fast.

For the next 20 seconds my relationship with the passengers in car next to me would mirror Canadian/American relations. I showed either incredible pluck, or vain stupidity, and continued to press my finger into my nose; they would look on with disbelief, humour, and quiet superiority.
And I would pretend that no blood was shed, and that nothing was wrong, and everything was perfectly normal.

Shitzunds and Poomans and Bears, Oh My!

An alarming trend has emerged from my statistics page: it seems I have become the foremost source of Shitzu-related questions on Google.

From "how to get my shitzu to eat" searches, to "shitzu + daschund cross" to "shitz dogs" to the very word I thought that I had made up, "shitzund"--yes, I've got it all here, folks!
The traffic seems to be generated by an entry called "Eat Shitz and Die" of August 23 of 2004. Something about that entry has garnered a lot of interest. I have to say that it by no means provides useful information regarding the shitzu breed of dogs--but I'm reluctant to scorn these people, as they make up a large part of my readership. What a dilemma!

My answer is to write, even just briefly, about a breed of dog that I hope others are searching for: a Poodle and Doberman cross I like to refer to as the "Pooman". The "Pooman" came up in a conversation I had with my fiance about entertaining dog-crosses I would make given the time, skill, and island laboratory of Dr. Moreau. Indeed, at the time my musing about a Pooman made me laugh so hard I nearly didn't say it all. Which, I maintain, would have been a great loss to the overall comic history I have laboured hard to build in her mind.

So, Shitzund and Pooman fans the world over: come to me!
Come to me and be profoundly disappointed!

I also rate very high with those who seek "nude chicks"--but I want to discourage that element from visiting too often. The last thing I want is a freakin' Sausage Fest here.

Hospital Hijinx!

I recently had some uncomfortable business with my testicles which led me to St. Michael's Hospital Emergency.

Waiting in the triage area, one gets an appreciation for the trials those who work in emergency rooms around the nation face every day.
To my left, a guy who's foot was sore, and he wanted everyone to know about it. It was unclear whether his sore foot or his loud behaviour were directly related to, or a result of, the amount of mouthwash he had drank for breakfast.
To my right, an old salt whose smile looked like bubble gum with a few shards of glass stuck in it, and who, when asked, reported:

"My gums are shit and my teeth are falling out."

When told that St. Mike's has no dental surgeon, his reply was:

". . .and I have leprosy."

The look of panic which overtook a wheelchair-bound grandmother sitting on the other side of this leper was classic. Up until that moment she had been looking as miserable and vacant as possible--a pantomime to effect quick admittance--hoping, as we all did, that if you look pathetic enough the triage nurse will take pity on you and save you the hours-long wait in queue for a doctor. Upon hearing that leprosy was in her midst, she became saucer-eyed and tried to roll away. Not being a regular user of wheelchair's, while also trying to be discreet and not offend the leper's feelings, she failed to realise that the wheelchair brakes were engaged. She was getting nowhere, but it wasn't for lack of trying.

And lastly, across from me was someone's poor demented father who had taken a spill during his morning walk. The someone in question was clearly too busy to be dealing with dear old dad; dear old dad's hand, it should be noted, was the size of a small Nerf football. I couldn't help but stare--it was the HUGEST hand I have ever seen--and he kept flapping it in an irresistible way. He was tantalizing me to look; he was dangling bait to catch people with poor manners.
I had to bite.

Needless to say, my emergency room experience turned out to be both very interesting and very pleasant. I received excellent service, and would recommend it to anyone looking for something to do on a Friday night when they've broken something as a result of drinking. Or who have shooting pain in their balls.

Oh, how the Smart have fallen!

My Smart--the apple of my eye!--the cream in my coffee!--the head on my beer!--the hole from my donut!
My poor little Smart got real sick, and the only people I have to blame are the filthy French.

While traveling late one night from A to B (A being beautiful Old Chinatown; B being character-filled Parkdale), my lovely fiancee by my side, the Smart's dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree and lost all special braking control.

To many, this might have been cause for alarm; having piloted the Heart of Darkness (my '69 Fairlane Ranchero), where braking control could never be taken for granted, this was just par for the course.

Over the course of 11 days, my Smart's diagnosis from the Service Department at Downtown Mercedes-Benz went from "minor" to "critical failure"--the Old Yeller type of critical failure--and a "minor seal problem" led to "total wiring overhaul".

As the Smart was birthed in France, I say "J'accuse!". Thanks in part to what I suspect was an unscheduled croissant and wine break while the Foreman was away, my Smart got a bellyache that led to some pretty major replacements.
I'm surprised, as the French have a long history of working very well with the Germans.

Twenty-Four Hour Salt!

My brother, who chose to move from the Don Jail escape corridor to very nearly into the tennis courts of Mimico Jail, has a new threat to his home. . .and this time it has nothing to do with raccoons eating his beloved goldfish.

To his rear a new industrial development which would see cement production, and the advertised promise of road salt to be available around the clock to serve a sodium-hungry public better, threaten the sanctity of his hot tub and barbecue oasis.

This has an obvious impact on my freeloading lifestyle.

http://www.newtoronto.ca

His wife is very handy with a computer; the neighbours have turned out to be very organised, and very pissed off. The last information meeting, my brother reported, saw screaming and yelling unlike anything the 8 city officials present have ever seen. City counselor Mark Grimes took the raspberries and waved middle fingers during December's Santa Claus parade through New Toronto as a 'call to arms', and has since worked closely with the Citizens of New Toronto to stay cancer-free!

Check it out.
Looking for a hot date with Municipal politics? Join them.

Right makes Right.

I was cruisin' with my finest beeatch the other afternoon in Bam-Bam (The Smart), and while we were stopped at the lights on Front at Church, this ratty mini-van beside us, and one carlength ahead, pops his vehicle in reverse and backs up even with us.

Down goes our window, as we're used to the celebrity our Smart attracts, and get ready to answer any questions they may have about safety, or speed, or roominess--the usual.

A- "Is that a Benz?"
B- "Yes it is!"
A- (to the back seat)"See! Fuck you! I told you that it was Benz!"
Clearly he and his kids had disagreed about the lineage of The Smart.

Without any gratitude, the mini-van rolled forward one car length and waited for the green.
The driver did have what appeared to be a modestly smug, self-righteous look on his face. Though objects in mirror could be smugger than they appear.

Worst. TB. Ever.

One of my dearest old chums and I decided to do some Christmas shopping together.

I was early, rummaging around the documentary DVDs at Sunrise, when my cell phone rang. It was him. He was late. His College Streetcar was not moving.
What was going on?
He didn't know; the streetcar in front of him was standing still as well.
Was there an accident?
Didn't seem to be.

I waited.

Forty-five minutes later, he turns up with this big grin, bursting at the seams to tell me just what had taken so long.
Apparently, just after we spoke, everyone from Streetcar 1 filed off and piled on to his streetcar (#2). They were followed by a public health worker dolled out in some protective clothing and a face mask.

A- "Alright. Who was on the first streetcar there, raise your hands."
A general show of hands.
A- "Alright. And who was on this streetcar, raise your hands."
Another general show of hands.
A- "Okay. Anyone who wants to be tested, follow me."

His cavalier attitude did not go very well with his protective clothing.
People began to ask, quite loudly, just what the hell they might be tested for.
A- "Now, now, now--I can't tell you anything but that people on the first streetcar may have been exposed to a communicable disease. If you want a test, come with me. Going once. Going twice." (a casual look around) "Gone!"
And just like Kaiser Soseh, the public health worker was gone.
His ominous message connected with a few people, who began to file off the streetcar, and on to the Toronto Health Winnebago for their tests.

After a few minutes, Streetcar 1 patients began to climb back on to Streetcar 2, as Streetcar 1 was being thoroughly examined by several members of the public health squad. My buddy noticed someone he knew, and wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened.
C- "What the hell was going on in your streetcar?"
D- "There was this homeless dude at the back, and he was coughing and coughing, in mean, hacking all over the place. Then he finally gets enough breath to say, 'This is the worst TB I've ever had!!'"

Lovely. What a perfect statement.
My life experience only allows me to make such sweeping condemnations as:
This is the worst hamburger I've ever had!
or
This is the worst Pauly Shore movie my roommate owns!
or
This is the worst wurst at Kitchener-Waterloo's Oktoberfest EVER!

Nothing there, aside from the Pauly Shore movies, would strike a chord of fear in anyone. Not like the qualitative statement our dear, under-the-weather homeless gent is able to make regarding his "TB".

Apparently, after the subjective assessment of his own condition, a worried fellow-communter ran up to the driver, reported that someone at the back had TB, which set off a chain-reaction. Driver to control: TB present.
Control to Public Health: TB present. Public Health to Control: TB is bad. Control to Driver: TB is bad. Driver to himself: coffee break!

The cherry on top of all this hub-bub is that, in the stampede from Streetcar 1 to Streetcar 2, the suspected TB case buggered off! This is the best time to get the hell out of Dodge!

It is nice to see how much fellow Torontonians care about each other.
If I ever come down with some dangerous infection, I hope that my fellow citizens allow me to run off to a corner and die in peace. I also hope that my eulogy takes a page from the Public Health's crowd control manual:

He may have led a noble life, and could be fondly remembered by his friends and family. Going once. Going twice. . .

One tough BITCH.

I had a ward named Ali.
She was a loving and intelligent Jack Russell terrier that loved, as the package had forewarned me, "Love my Liver Bits" from a pet boutique on the Danforth.
Sadly, I had to surrender her to the Toronto Humane Society because life as my dog, though luxurious in treats, is want for adequate together time.
Heartbreaking.
But before we went our separate ways, Ali, my fiance, and I had an exchange with an old woman who no doubt drown her children in the bath basin; in their stead, she now rolls a Pekinese with a goiter around in a child's pram, while a much perkier version of the same races about leashless.
The goiter dog is pathetic. It's goiter rivals the dog's snout in length, and it's owner's demeanor in awfulness. Funnily enough, the dog is the same colour as iodine. The Pekinese on the loose is entirely useless, ripe with an eager curiosity Ali, on this particular night, attempted to cure her of.

Ali was attacked by a Pit Bull during her time on the street, which has left an indelible mark on her. She loathes other dogs (apart from my parent's toy poodle, a dandy named Kelsey, whom she adores--though he could never love her back, for his heart belongs to a lifelike monkey puppet he enjoys sinful entry with in our laundry room in Lucan). You can imagine where I'm going with a story who's principle players are a dog that hates other dogs, a dog which is not on a leash, and an old lady you already know me to hate.

So Ali is biting this freewheelin' Pekinese on the face, and my fiance is telling the old hag "My dog is not friendly!" (no kidding) Ali is literally, as Erika describes it, chopping on the Pekinese's face; the Pekinese is pulling one of those, "Sorry? Come again? Jeez, that hurts!". The old lady shows surprising pluck, and says "Your dog is a bitch!"

To which I exclaim:

B- "Excuse me? Did you just call my dog a name?"
A- "Well, she's a female, isn't she?"
B- "Oh! Come! On! We're not swearing behind mom's back right now! A female dog's a "bitch", a "bastard" is the son of an unwed mother, and "fuck" is seal in French; but trust me: rarely do I use them in their intended context! You called her a name! That's ridiculous!! That's pathetic!"

She began to walk away, muttering to herself, sickly dog before her, wounded dog behind.

B- "Come on now! Shame! On! You! How old are you--calling a dog names!! You should be ashamed of yourself! Shame! Shame! I hope everyone in the neighbourhood heard how shameful you behaved! Calling a poor, defenseless dog names!"
E- "It's illegal to have your dog off of a leash! (to Ali) Good for you! You bit that dog very well! Good girl!"

I continued to question the old lady's nobility, language skills, and general character loudly until my lungs were empty. It felt so good to feel so right! I mean, who calls someone else's pet a name simply out of malice?

I don't go over to my brother and sister-in-law's house and say, "You stupid fucking goldfish. Swimming in your own piss like a bunch of fucking idiots!" I don't.

And if I did, and I was caught maligning the fish for no reason, I certainly wouldn't say, "What? They're not 'Ryukin Goldfish'? I thought they were."

Out Smart-ed!

I am now part of the elite "Smart Nation".

I may travel safely at highway speeds, can fit two fifty litre kegs and two twelve pack suitcases of Steam Whistle Pilsner in the rear area, and love to drive it.

I feel extremely safe cocooned amidst four airbags and an F-1 racing-type tubular steel body.

Having said that, I will no doubt say it again and again and again over the course of my relationship with Bam-Bam, my beloved Smart Cabriolet.
I will, however, caution folks who are skeptical of Bam-Bam's ability to protect me (either by way of his several special braking systems and tubular steel, or by rolling over those who mock and defy us like a turbo-charged dwarf elephant). The last man who defamed Bam-Bam designed his own moronic fate.

Near the Summerhill LCBO Bam-Bam and I were placidly waiting for the light to change. A voice from above us spat ill-informed remark after ill-informed remark until I finally had to put the roof down, look way up, and answer his malevolent stupidity with a firm rebuke.

A- (calling from the seat of his large flatbed towtruck)"I wouldn't want to get in an accident with that!! No sir!"
B- "Do you know what safety systems I have to protect me?"
A- "I hope it's a coffin, because you're going to need it if you get hit in that."
B- "Have you ever seen race cars get in accidents? You know that little steel cage that the drivers step out of and wave to the crowd? That's basically what this car is."
A- "I still wouldn't want to get in an accident with that. I need to be nice and high; that's where I'm safe."

It was at this point the light turned green, and I began to roll away. I was just going to call back something to the effect that he would likely never get into an accident driving a Smart, seeing as he would likely never drive a Smart, therefore removing most of the risk of getting into an accident with one. . .when he got in an accident.
Seeing me move made him assume that he could move, which he did--right into the back of the car in front of him. Being so high off the road, I suppose he didn't see the four door sedan his huge towtruck kissed gently.
I didn't have time to chime out "I wouldn't want to get in an accident because I wasn't paying attention, Monkey-Fucker!", which was too bad. It just goes to show that, in a city like Toronto, poetic justice is always stalking you, waiting to punctuate your each and every move with a humbling irony. I love it!

Where I'm from, humbling irony was only ever presented for the amusement of lowing cattle in an ajacent field, making it much easier for one's character to weather.

This man's great misfortune is that he may tow his mistake back to his place of work for his co-workers to enjoy (all at his expense). Talk about hoisting one's own petard! Indeed!

Mr. Blackwell's 'Learning Annex' Graduate

I recently was confronted in an Port Credit LCBO by a woman who sported eyes which looked like two pissholes made in the snow by someone with a bladder infection. I was sampling of our fine Pilsner, decked out to the nines in one of my favorite Western shirts: black, with red desert roses across the shoulders, and fine pearlette dome buttons.

Her eyes were not the only giveaways that she was completely deranged. Her dog, for example, was a very petite mutt, yet she carried a poop scoop the size of a Javex jug. It made me wish for the dog to shit in order to satisfy a morbid curiosity welling up inside. To justify the size of the scoop, the mutt would clearly have to pass a turd the size and shape of a pop can. To do this, it would surely dislocate its hips.
She also, very early in our relationship, told me that:

A- "Honey, that shirt is not workin' for you! It's not! You look like some fuckin' Mar-bor-low Man, or somthin'! Take it off and throw (snap fingers) it (snap fingers) out (snap fingers)!!"
B- "Gosh. I really, really like it, though."
A- "Then you got no taste!"

Then she bolted away, sample in tow, only to single out some poor thirty-something suburbanite in line at the cash and say:

A- "Murray!! You fucking cocksucker! You're dead when we get outside! No one fucks with me like that!!"

The man later made an appeal to leave by the rear door, which fell on deaf ears. Obviously only he had taken the threat seriously. It may have been that she pointed at him with a poop scoop that made the rest of us doubt her conviction.

As she left, clutching a can of Maxiumum Ice, she showed me a pen and said:

A- "Par-lee-ment of Canada! This was Paul Martin's pen, and he gave it to me!"

Again, she lacked credibility in my eyes.

More clever than I thought, she went home (I'm only guessing) and changed clothing. Her new fashion choice far-and-away outdid her earlier drabs--a brilliant red dress of polyester, with a plunging neckline which began at her shoulders and ended, mercifully, just prior to her vagina. She had accessorised with a fat red stretchy belt. It wasn't very becoming; but that's coming from a man who himself has been accused of lacking in fashion sense.
Her strategy was to pretend that we were meeting for the first time. To say 'strategy' is giving her the benefit of guile, which could be flattering this specimen. She very well may have been meeting me for the first time, again.
I gave her a sample, and this time, whether it was the result of the red dress I don't know, she was the absolute picture of feminine grace. Save for the dress.

She left again, this time armed with a can of Yankee Jim.

Who would have thunk that a Port Credit Friday night would have so much character?

In Canada, it's called 'Sparkling White'.

My hometown is many things.
The place where my family has lived for nearly two centuries.
The home of Canada's oldest Shell Gasoline Station.
Rich farmland.

But mostly, it's home to Canada's Bloodiest Massacre.
Yes, The Black Donnellys, so oft referred to as Canadians Tragic Roustabouts, is second most popular reaction to my response "I'm from Lucan"; the first is a blank stare.
The fact that hundreds of people own "Tales of the Donnelly Feud", written and performed by
Earl Heywood "Canada's Number One Singing Cowboy!" (I shorten his title to "Number One Singing Cousin"), or have caught wind of Lucan since A&E christened the village as "the second most haunted place in North America", do little to expand what is a rather cursory recognition of my birthplace and its rich history.

Finally, I met someone to whom the mention of "Lucan" sparked a synapse deep within the recesses of his mind.

A- "Lucan? North of London?"
B- "You got it, Pontiac."
A- "'The Shillelagh'?"
B- "Yep. It used to be on the north end. . ."
A- "That's the first place I ever saw a stripper in a champagne glass!"

And so it went. He recalled the evening in vivid detail, as if retracing his snow-packed footsteps from the evening. Footsteps which led him to a motel room conjoined to the back of The Shillelagh for a 'roll'.
Lucan, for him, was a special, mythical place. Just like it is to me. But for different reasons.

I, to date, have no place where a stripper has performed in a champagne glass for my mind's eye to drift mistily back to. Lucan no longer affords such bourgeois luxuries to the areas lustful Irishmen; so sadly the first generation of Goddard men in quite a while must make their memories elsewhere.

Township of Biddulph Lucan Council, this be a baton I fling from my failing hand to you.

Sleep when you're dead; Pray that death comes quickly.

I went to the film "The Notebook" a few evenings back with my fiance because, well, I suppose we both just needed a good cry.

A word to the wise: get a good night's sleep beforehand. Because I saw the movie with someone that didn't, and boy did they ever have a bad case of the yawns.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Seated safely in the VIP theatre at the Varsity Cinemas, I was impressed at how many women had joined my fiance and I to see the touching story of lost love.
I mean, I couldn't believe that I was the only guy!
I thought that any film Gene Shalit called ". . .as beautiful and rare a love story as ever caressed the heart" would be something men flocked to. Beat a path to. Stepped over their mothers to see.

Apparently I was wrong.
But not as wrong as Jeffery Lyons of WNBC, who cautioned ". . .bring your Kleenex!"
That bastard should have gone on to say, ". . .bring your Kleenex. . . to stuff in your ears, and a pillow to smother your loved one. Then, if you have any strength and willpower left, smother yourself."

Ten minutes into "The Notebook", and two elderly couples turn up on the darkened aisle, late. They hadn't missed anything.
As if their intrusion wasn't bad enough (to be frank, it was nice to have something to divert my attention from the movie) they began to discuss, in outdoor voices, their wish for some nice young people to "volunteer" their seats. To my knowledge, the etiquette of public transit does not apply to movies in progress. Others must have been of the same opinion, as the status quo established before the movie began was maintained, forcing my elders to seek out the only remaining seats--those oh-so-desirable ones at the front of the theatre.

Couple A shared, in very loud exchanges: the plot; clarifications of certain romantic intrigues on which the success or failure of the plot depended; and whether or not TV's Maverick was the actor reading the much-ballyhooed Notebook.
Couple B had a more interesting, passive/aggressive relationship. Husband B, every ten minutes, yawned like a cartoon bear awakening from hibernation.
Actually, strike that--this description of Wookies at StarWars.com is more in line with what I observed:

"(Wookies) tempers, however, are short; when angered, Wookiees can fly into a berserker rage and will not stop until the object of their distemper is sufficiently destroyed. "

(http://www.starwars.com/databank/species/wookiee/)

He yowled like a Wookie being exploited by The Empire; the object of his "distemper" foolishly played on, unawares of the "Berserker" in aisle 1.
Wife B, each time, gave him a withering look. He did not respond to the powers of the Dark Side. Soon she began to yawn loudly right after he did--even anger cannot override the human reflex to yawn after seeing someone else yawn.
In the arch of the Holy Trilogy, this appeared to be "The Return of the Shuteye".
I envied his restful state.

And so the story unfolded, and women wept openly around me while I sat silently, dreaming of my own "Return"--"Alien vs. Predator" is still in the theatre, and it's my turn to pick the next movie.
You see, my fiance and I have a relationship, as far as going to the cinema is concerned, not unlike the one which exists between the Alien and the Predator: Who ever wins. . .we lose.
I figure, over the years, my horror movies will more than adequately cover the innumerable "greatest love story of our time" car wrecks that I am conscripted to see; while she fails to see the value in catching "Friday the 13th: Part 3 in 3-D" before it is lost due to the gross negligence of the Academy's film restoration efforts.

Fodors Toronto:"Blue Balls on a Budget"

I must have a trusting face.

Or an intelligent face.

It could be that I have a lonley face.

At any rate, my face was the most inviting one down at Pier 6 this afternoon when a wayward American traveller, perhaps a little stoned, approached me in his tie-dyed shirt to ask:

A- "Buddy! Buddy! Where's the ferry to the nude beach?"
B- "One block east of here, at the York Quay."
A- "Thanks! Buddy, is there a lot of nude chicks out there?"
B- "Not really."
A- "I heard that there was nude chicks with big guns out there, on the nude beach."
B- "Uh. . .Sometimes there might be. I think, uh, generally it's just dudes on that beach."
A- ". . .dudes?"
B- "Yeah."
A- "Should I go?"
B- "Uh. . .I. . .uh. . .I don't know. I don't think that there will be many 'chicks with big guns' out there today. It's kinda cold."
A- "I just got today to burn. Should I go?"
B- ". . .uh. . .I don't think that it's what you're looking for."
A- "No? (pause) You're sure that there's no chicks out there? Just dudes?"
B- "I think that if it's chicks you want, you should go down Yonge St. to the peelers."
A- "Is that expensive? I heard that the ferry to the beach on the island is only, like, six bucks, and I'm kinda short on dough right now."
B- "Ah-ha. Well. I'd save your six bucks and look at the moon from the docks here."

I left him wondering what course of action to take.
But I couldn't help feeling like I wasn't much help to my fellow man in his moment of need.

Lead by example.

Unlike rain on your wedding day, or a black fly in your Chardonnay, I did notice something whiz past me on the Danforth two nights back that was ironic.
And it wasn't ten thousand spoons when all I needed was a knife.

Helming the Heart of Darkness in the dense traffic that floats down the Danforth can be relaxing--you know, take in the sights and sounds of Little Greektown while sipping an espresso, letting the 'Best of Guns and Roses' on the compact disc player entertain pedestrians and stir rabid jealously in those that wish they were me.

This particular night would have been nicer had a guy driving a Ford Focus covered in decals asking: Have A Traffic Ticket? Speeding Ticket? Don't Want To Lose Points? WE CAN HELP!! not blasted past me, driving down the centre of the avenue (which is to say, at the risk of putting too fine a point on it, directly down the solid line safely bisecting eastbound traffic from westbound traffic) and weaved between oncoming and outgoing traffic until he disappeared into the horizon of twinkling red brake lights.

I suppose, if one was to believe the claims made on his automobile, he was immune to conventional traffic laws--he was, dare I say it, in a class which is . . . Above the Law. A class where there is only one other student: Steven Segal.

I'm with Dummer!

It is good to get out of the city every now and then.

Having grown up in the country, far far far from the city, I was used to people, places, and things being a bit backwards and silly. I mean, we didn't know how stupid, unsophisticated, and occasionally, inadvertently, funny we were, because the people from the city never came and pointed it out to us.

Like my Korean boss putting "Scoop Ice Ream" up on the sign because he was missing the 'C' and thought people would get the point anyway. You know, get the gist of it.

I have lived in the city for one year and eleven months TO THE DAY today, and while driving through the Kawartha Lakes region last week I saw a sign on the roadside indicating which way to drive if one wanted to reach the office of "The Dummer News".
There is a town named Dummer.
They have a paper which they called "The Dummer News".

I wonder if there is a Dummer Elementary School? Or a Dummer Library? Or a Dummer Town Council which decides on Dummer Bylaws?

I laughed for ten kilometers.

Eat Shitz and Die!

Recently, while plying my brand of Pilsner in a local LCBO, an elderly woman came in with her trusted friend and companion, a Shitzund (a Shitzu and a Daschund crossed--a Shitz-wiener if you will) dolled-up in the 11th Century French Rococo style.

A woman with her dog is not in itself an extraordinary sight in Toronto, a city where people love to take their dogs everywhere; even the way she was striking her four-legged friend with her foot was not, unfortunately, an uncommon spectacle. It was the ridiculous abuse she was hurling at the confused, yet well-ribboned, bitch that drew my eye. Abuse hurled in German!

Knowing that wiener Dogs were stoned in the streets of London during World War I and World War II due to their Germanic heritage, I thought it unpatriotic for this German septuagenarian to be assaulting a mongrel of Aryan lineage. The only thing I could think of, was that she was trying to kick the Shitz out of the dog.

As she passed, I remarked:

B- "What a beautiful dog! She's a Shitzu and Daschund cross, isn't she?"
A- "Yes. She's beautiful and I wish she would die."
B- "I see."

The maligned pooch looked up at me from beneath her ridiculous, north-pointing ponytail, her little cross-eyes conveying a certain tired sadness in her soul that only the meek possess. I felt for her and wondered if the Germans would ever change their wicked ways.

I dreampt that a bulldog with a big stick took it to the Kaiser later that night, and felt a bit better.

Nancy Drew and the Missing Poo

My fiance works in a hospital's emergency room.
The night shift.
There is never a dull moment.

Like the time a girlfriend ran her boyfriend through with a samurai sword, then benevolently drove him to the hospital.
Or the time she was nearly done registering a quiet, intense man, before noticing that he was being admitted for "Homicidal thoughts".

I like to pick her up from work whenever I'm not too busying partying or having a good time, because one never knows the type of person lurking about outside the hospital, considering that all the responsible crazies and invalids are safely registered inside.

On a recent visit I overheard, 'eavesdropped on' more like, two homecare workers that had brought their elderly homecare patient in due to "concern". It seems she was pale, cold to the touch, and wouldn't poo.
But more importantly, as younger of the two pointed out:

A- "If she dies, I'd rather these doctors have to explain it."

Yes. Nothing kills the good times quicker than having to explain a body. Especially a body full of poo.

The older homecare worker comforted the younger with a sexy little tale from 'back in the day'.

C- "I was working at a nursing home, and some of those men were absolutely wicked. If they offered me a chocolate I never took it, because one time I did and the old bugger grabbed me by my uniform and tore it right off of me!"

A- "NO!"

C- "Yes! He was a sex maniac! He was sex crazy! I tried not to go too close to any of those men again."

I can't imagine there are many bed-ridden septuagenarian sex maniacs out there; if she didn't exaggerate, and really turned his head as she said, she must be an extraordinary woman! A virtual Viagra on heels!

I stole a peek.

She was not.

Then I began to wonder how effectively one can care for another over a six foot void. If you threw too many air balls, a patient could go without medication for a week.

The Walrus and the Dock

My corpulent Texan friend, the Walrus, had never, ever captained a kayak before; however, "degree of experience" wasn't a consideration for him when deciding to make his maiden voyage a solo one.

If you read no further, know that one should never go out in a kayak, for the first time, alone. Especially if one's tummy is liable to get stuck inside the portal of the kayak.

While driving a party boat full of pre-teen girls over to a lakeside bar for pizza (I know how that sounds, but it was for pizza, and pizza alone) we toddled past the Walrus in his kayak. He looked more like he was wrestling with, rather than operating, the paddle. Having never seen a Texan paddle before, this was my amateur opinion.
The zipper on his life jacket was showing signs of fatigue.

I am not strong in problems dealing with Physics, but if a fully-loaded party boat can best a kayak in the momentum department, something is amiss. Instead of "The tortoise and the Hare", it was "The tortoise and the Turtle".

When I asked if he needed any help, my voice straining to be heard over the indiscreet whispers and giggles of my pre-teen passengers, the Walrus took a page from the screenplay of "Falling Down" and answered only with a steely glare fixed on the horizon. He was either: 1) deep in contemplation, for at the time the WWF(sic) RAW storyline concerning Stone Cold Steve Austin was particularly complex; 2) deep in psychosis, caused by acute stupidity.

We chugged on to the bar for pizza, leaving behind the Walrus, the paddle, the kayak, and the life jacket locked in a dead heat for which one would give up first.

Two pizzas in, with some girls opting to pick off all the toppings on their slices and eat them, and some picking all the toppings off and eating only the crust, we were relaxed and having a good time. The bar was decorated liberally with animals (mostly baby black bears) that had been hit by cars and then stuffed and twisted into idyllic pastoral scenes as if to give them a new lease on life. The stuffed fish even had synthesised slime drooling out of their little gaping maws. It was Norman Bates' America as it would have appeared on the Saturday Evening Post.

I left for the john, and when I came back there was, what appeared to be, a series of dead jellyfishes lying on the floor. They were dirty, wet footprints. Big fat ones.

The bartender called to me:
A- "You're from the camp? Some fat guy broke the dock and sunk his boat. Got my floor all wet."
B- "Really?" I was trying not to laugh. "Sorry about the floor. . .and the dock."

So down I went, to the disabled dock, where my girls were gathered around the Walrus. He was wet from the tip of his toes to the top of his Arizona Diamondbacks cap. As I passed other boats moored along the part of the dock still standing I could hear men laughing and retelling the story of how "that fat guy. . .broke the dock"! I wanted to stop and ask for details. I could see the story of "The Walrus and the Dock" fast becoming a legend--an Aesopian tale of caution--and I wanted to get all the juicy facts.

It was a picture that I wish I had. The Walrus dripping wet, standing barefoot on a half-submerged dock, with a large yellow kayak, also half-submerged, gently knocking on the dock like the Tell-tale heart.
CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK. I know what you did. CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK.

B- "You know, this looks like a perfect example of an Incorrect Docking Procedure, girls."
W- Nothing.
Girls- (tittering)
B- "Need a hand? Where's your sandals?"
W- (pause) "The bottom of the lake."
B- "The bottom of the. . .how'd they get there?"
W- "The dock broke and I fell in."
B- "What happened to the kayak?"
W- "Help me get it out of the water."
B- "Don't you know how to un-swamp your own kayak? It's a one man job."
W- "Just help me pull it out."
B- "You shouldn't go kayaking across the lake alone if you don't know basic kayaking procedures."
W- "Just help me get it out of the water."
B- "Okay. Go back to the bar, girls, and wait for us there. These docks are unsafe--they collapse without warning."

Once we were alone, I showed the Walrus how dead easy it was to pull a swamped kayak onto a dock to empty it. He watched from a safe distance while I worked.
Through questioning I discovered that he had only made it halfway out of the kayak before the dock collapse, and thus all three (kayak, Walrus, and dock) had ended up in Sandy Lake.

B- "Now let's find your sandals. They're rubber, and should be floating around here somewhere."
W- "No. They sunk into the mud under the dock and came off my feet."
B- "So. . .? Let's get them!"
W- "Forget it; let's go back to camp."
B- "It'll only take a minute to get your sandals. Give me your paddle."

So I poked around in the muddy lake bottom until I felt some resistance that could have been sandals.

B- "There! Jump in and pull them out!"
W- "There's leaches!"
B- "There's no leaches! Kids are swimming in this lake every day! Go in and get them."

I'll never forget the sight, till the day I die, of the reluctant Walrus, his face barely above the water line, groping around the lake bottom looking for his sandals in locations I chose based on poking a kayak paddle into the muck. He made this "Gah! Gah! Gah!" noise while he worked that made each breath sound like it would be his last.
And as if he hadn't suffered enough indignity, I took an opportunity I could not pass up. Pointing at a piece of lake dirt that had stuck to his neck as it bobbed up and down I exclaimed, "What's THAT!"

Everything went just as my wicked little mind had planned; that is until, in his spastic rush to escape the leaches, he beached himself on the dry bit of dock I was standing on and broke it.
I joined my pal in the leach-infested Sandy Lake.

The party boat cruised into camp with more passengers than it left with, and two of them were soaked.
And the moral of the story? All good Aesop fables have a moral!

If a dock will not hold a Walrus; it certainly won't hold a Walrus and a Jackass.

Ass Mint

Acting, as a profession, isn't generally bad for your health. The late nights spent drinking, smoking, and carousing can occasionally have restorative powers. Auditions can wear on a fella. 

My most recent audition was especially draining. A popular gum company is creating an ad campaign for their new mint. During the course of my audition I ate several of these mints, the routine being: 

Shake mint into hand. 

Pop mint into mouth. 

Deep breath in (with sound). 

Look right and say, "Hmmmmmmmm!". 

Look left and say, "Refreshing!!" 

 About 12 mints or so into my "performance" the adjudicator stopped me to say: 

 A- "Oooh! The Brand X guys told us to tell the actors not to eat too many of the mints. . .they, uh, cause, uh, may cause diarrhea. So you likely shouldn't eat any more." 

 I can confirm, for the sake of posterity, that by the time he had voiced the concern of Brand X, it was already too late. One would think that an overdose of diarrhetic mints would have a pleasant, refreshing sensation on the posterior, coupled with a minty freshness in the bowl. One would be wrong. 

 My Toilet Duck resigned, and I think that the resident Mr. Clean will spawn children of diminished capacity. 

 This is my Agent Orange fiasco.

Ranchero, we give our thanks and praise.

We all have something in our life that takes us back to a time when things seemed simpler. The smell of a fresh baked apple pie. The feel of sunlight on skin. The sound of kids at play in the park. For some of us, those memories are the only things in our lives that bring us joy, make us feel happy, young, and invincible again.

The Ranchero is this to many many men.
And one of them works at the Executive Car Wash.

While I waited behind the glass of the car wash lobby for The Darkness to set upon the industrial dryer, I watched the art of Chamois Man. His lythe ponytail seemed light as air, flitting from one shoulder to the next like a big hairy butterfly. It did not betray the sadness of the Chamois Man, whose skin was much thinner, I would find out, than the delicate, though durable hyde of his chamois.
I turned my back but for a moment, and missed something--a spark! My imagination has set to work on conjuring the moment up in my mind's eye, but I don't think even the greatest Irish poets working 'round the clock with the most skilled French painters, could capture the moment my Chamois Man met my Ranchero. I don't think that they would know how to paint "Boo-yah!"; I don't think they would be able to rhyme "Boo-yah!". But if they could, they'd be millionaires.

A- "Boo-yah! Boo-yah! Boo-yah! Boo-yah!"

A bellowed each exclamation louder and louder, hopping on one foot, the other cocked up close to his body--he looked like a grungy Arsenio Hall, if Arsenio had been a flamingo.

And with each exclaim he pumped his fist into the air.
He stopped.
But it was only to swish his ponytail from side to side--HE WAS--NO!--It appeared that he was whinnying like a stallion!
SWISH! went his mane! SWISH! it went again!
This was no Flamingo Arsenio! This was Andalusian Arsenio!

The older Chamois Guy asked me, calmly, was The Darkness a '68.
No. A '69.
Was it pretty fuckin sweet?
Yes. It was.

A came up to me, eyes twinkling.

A- "That car is fucking awesome! I never owned one, but I drove a lot of them!" (and a knowing wink)

I wasn't sure what the knowing wink was for; had he stolen a lot of Rancheros as a kid, or did his father own a dealership, or did perhaps in dreams he was cowboy that rode wild Rancheros at the rodeo--I don't know.

Then things got serious.

A- "You know, that car--it takes me back. You know, to a time when I was young and a somebody. I was having a pretty fuckin' bad life since then--until you drove in here--and now, I feel awesome! Thanks man!"

. . .and so Ranchero of Arimathea placed her sun visor on the leg of the cripple, and he walked; on the eyes of the blindman, and he saw; on the head of the Chamois Man, and he remembered. And God looked down, and saw what good the Ranchero had done, and said that She may sit at His right hand forever and an eternity. His Son could sit in the back seat."

Heterosexual, Homosexual, Metrosexual, Ranchosexual

My brother lives in New Toronto across the street from a man who proudly wears the moniker of "Neighbourhood Drunk". People new in the neighbourhood of New Toronto receive a visit, my brother told me, from this man, so that he can state for the record, and in no uncertain terms that he is beyond a shadow of a doubt the "Neighbourhood Drunk".
Then, later in the evening, he'll come back and say, in confidence, that he isn't that much of a drunk--it's the bastards across the street that tell everyone he is.

And so it is into this neighbourhood I mixed the Ranchero, my Heart of Darkness.

The "Neighbourhood Drunk", Drunk A, used what was left of his legs to get over to my open window. They may have been crooked like a dog's hind legs, but he could get around on them pretty well, so long as he had a target to work towards and lean on when he arrived.

A- "That is. . .I'm not a homosexual. Okay? But your car has given me the biggest boner I have ever had. Seriously. It's given me a huge fuckin' erection. What a fuckin' car!"
B- "Thank you. It is pretty sweet."

More drunk talk followed, of which I listen to very little. The Heart of Darkness receives so much admiration from guys down on their luck, on a daily basis, who ask all the same questions and tell me what a fine fuckin' machine she is, that I've started to go on auto-pilot.
I'm guessing Steve Gutenberg has begun to do the same thing when people start asking him about what projects he's been working on lately--so I'm in good company.

I go in to my brother's house, which is surrounded by a white picket fence (literally) and dig in to my delicious meal. My sister-in-law is pretty handy around the kitchen. About twelve bites in, we hear the white picket fence latch open, and across the yard a shadow looms. The shadow's legs are crooked like a carpenter's square.
It's Drunk A.
I'm wondering if he's representing the role of "Neighbourhood Drunk" or "Not Nearly the Neighbourhood Drunk" right now. When he opens the door, the trail of urine staining his jogging pants shorts tells me that clearly, he is either quite drunk, or has a prostate problem.
Seeing as his opening line was NOT:

A- "Hey guys, can I come in. I just got some bad news from my urologist...I have a lazy prostate!"

But was instead:

A- "Guys, I'm sorry, but that car--if it was a chick I'd fuck it! I've got a big--sorry ladies--guys, you know what I mean. It's fucking hot!!"

Then he started doing something that I do fairly often. He made an "OK" sign with his hand, pressing his thumb and index finger together, and splaying the rest of his fingers like a peacock's tail, and started smacking his lips to make a kiss-kiss sound. And he did it, and did it, and did it, until everyone in the room was uncomfortable. Except me. I was trying to figure out if this display meant that I could no longer do the "OK" kiss-kiss action myself. Did this spectacle ruin it?

A left, kiss-kissing all the way to the curb.
I decided that it was still a useful act to resort to when words describing the fine quality of something failed me.

When I left, call it Monica Lewinski-like foresight, but I gave the exhaust pipe a real good looking over. I'm going to put it in the back of my closet and bide my time.

Ranchero Tractor Beam

Any "Star Wars" nerd will tell you that a tractor beam is "an invisible force beam that drags objects from place to place", but only I will tell you that those nerds are wrong.
Wrong wrong wrong.

A tractor beam does not necessarily have to be "invisible". In fact, a tractor beam can be quite visible. It can also have a black metallic finish with red decal racing stripes, and a pair of dangly black fuzzy dice.

The scene: 6am-Parkdale
The players: myself (B); early morning traffic; one guy having his morning coffee.

'Morning coffee' might not be totally true; someone as drunk as he was likely hadn't gone to sleep yet, making his coffee more of an apretif.

Anyway.
I pull up to a red light on Queen and begin waiting my turn. To my left I hear an un-Godly exclaimation, and turn to see this man eject himself from the greasy spoon he was sobering up in, still holding his cup of java, and begin across the street towards me.
The Ranchero had him locked in a tractor beam. I've seen it happen before.
Drunk A stumbled infront of a moving car, which honked, to which he saluted with an upturned middle finger, in turn spilling coffee on his own arm. He stumbled to an eerie stillness outside my passenger window, a watery thousand-yard stare fixed in my direction ("watery" because the cigarette in his mouth was issuing smoke into his eyes, imparing his admiring gaze).

A pursed his lips and plucked the cigarette from its resting place. Then, with the hand holding the cigarette, he placed it gently on the chrome moulding around the window and slowly began to trace its elegant curve. The expression on his faced matched one I'd seen in a movie from the Forties, where this guy watched the mirrored reflection of a woman in her bedroom putting on silk stockings. Forbidden sensual delight.

His caress went from the window moulding, to the chrome running the length of the cruck's box. The expression on his face made me thankful that the cruck stood just high enough to mask the erection surely straining his britches.

The light turned green, and like a stern father who's heart is hardened by the loss of a wife and now stands mute in the face of Aphrodites' work, I stepped on the pedal and demanded The Ranchero leave her lover behind.

The chrome sped out from under A's hand, and there was a second where he stood in the middle of the street as if the cruck was still there, purring underhand--then he looked up to the silhouette of his ever-fading love, staining his eyes to cut through the early morning smog of the city, wishing that life were different. Wishin' that things hadn't turned out like this--drunk in the morning, a daughter that doesn't speak to him, no hope of realising his full potential, AND A CAR HONKING ITS HORN.

My rear view-finder painted a picture of loss: A was fighting with the horn-blower, the spell of the Ranchero broken.

The bumper sticker on the car ahead? "You can have my Ranchero when you pry it from my cold, dead hands!" There's a little picture of a skelton with a Rebel flag waving in a wind of flames.
Cool.

Ranchero Dragnet

Most days I get from A to B in a Fairlane Ranchero. To the people of Riverdale's Ass, who's wake-up call is the opening chords of Mr. Jon Bon Jovi's cover of 'Keep on Rockin' in the Free World' tuned well above legal limits (my opinion), this is not news.
The Ranchero's devil-may-care attitude towards convention--it's striking refusal to be labeled neither car nor truck--has drawn me a lot of attention. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad.

Yesterday morning, it was somewhere between good and bad. It was "The Man".

Roaring down the Queensway, The Ranchero (henceforth referred to as 'The Heart of Darkness', or any part thereof) was urging me to press its accelerator harder. The 'burbs is no place for a 302 small V8 engine. I would have obeyed, save the appearance of a copper pulling out of Licks Burger.

B- "I smell chicken. I smell pork. Run piggy, run piggy! I've got a fork. . .in the shape of Bruce Springsteen's Live album."

I nodded my head in time to the music, rolling past the cop not too fast, but also not too slow--just right.

He pulled in behind me and stayed close on my rear. I looked casually in my rear view-finder.
He was typing on his computer.
He was looking at me.
He was typing on his computer.
He was turning his lights on.
He was blasting his siren.
I, in my naivete, made eye contact with the cop, pointing at myself, then pointed at him, as if to say, "Me? Mais non! Me! Shit."

We pull over. The Darkness was frustrated; told me to run. Told me, "What about 'the stuff' you got behind the seat!!"
I told The Darkness adjustable vise-grips and two sleeves of Steam Whistle coasters were not enough to get me thrown in jail.

He was calling for backup.
I was trying to turn down my Springsteen, but the radio was locked in my glovebox. I was afraid that Officer A would suppose my awkward fumbling for the glovebox as an attempt to attempt to murder a cop. 'American Skin' was blaring--an eerie warning from the Boss to let the music stand.

The cop approached.

A- "license, insurance, and ownership."
B- "Certainly."

I gave him my license, insurance, and the original bill of sale dated August 12th, 1969.

A- "What's this?" (referring to the bill of sale)
B- "It's the original bill of sale."
A- "I don't want that; I want the ownership."
B- "I figured that the bill of sale would prove that since it was bought, it was owned."

pause.

A- "Is this your name. 'Bradley David Goddard'?"
B- "Yes. Is there something wrong, officer?"

He hadn't told me why we were meeting yet.

A- "Yes. I ran this plate, and it is licensed to Mr. C (not his real name). Mr. C is a prohibited driver. If I find that you are Mr. C, I'm takin' you in."
B- "Mr. C owns the car. I am Mr. B, the driver. Mr. C is a prohibited driver because he's in a wheelchair and can't feel his feet."
A- "The computer doesn't mention that information."
B- "Well, take it from me then. I'm not surprised he's a prohibited driver; I wouldn't take a ride from him if he offered it."
A- "Stay here."

He left for his car, to run my license through his computer. Even if he hadn't suggested it, I would have likely stayed put anyway.

Officer A came back after a few minutes and told me that I could go. I thanked him for keeping our streets safe, slid my aviator glasses back on, and shoved The Heart of Darkness in Drive just in time to hear the Boss advise "Baby, we were born to run!"

I must just look guilty.
Like in "American Graffiti", where the cops hassle the kids with the hot cars just for kicks.

This exchange was reminiscent of a time not too long ago when two officers of the law stopped me on the street, at gunpoint, because my duck-like gait smacked a little too much like Al Qaida. But that's another story. . .

The taste of democracy.

The Armchair Garbageman tickled me pink when he anointed Steam Whistle Pilsner the pint of democracy.

Like a politician, I'm reading more in to his gesture, but as my blog will attest, I am particularly fond of dramatic statements.

A mighty wind.

Yesterday my fiance and I were enroute to Focaccia to sample their Summerlicious effort, when a man served up an amuse bouche of homme en chute al dente to whet our appetite.

At Yonge, just south of Hayden St., a man literally sneezed himself off his own two feet, landing face first in the gutter. I immediately thought:
Jeepers! I'd hate to have allergies that bad!
And seriously considered helping him up.

He stood without my help, but just barely, and weeved his way south on Yonge. The 'heel-toe' crossover he was using to walk robbed him of any elegance. I immediately thought:
Jeepers! I hate to be that drunk on Scope!
But something told me he didn't mind being that drunk on Scope.

WASPiest Jew in Kensington.

The other day I was strolling though Kensington Market in a vain effort to find sharkskin suits that fit me. Most were either former closet dwellers of 'fat men with short arms', or 'tall men with long arms'--happily, I fall into the 'average men with mid-length arms'.

I was distracted from my search by a man sitting on the curb of Augusta Ave.; with no job to keep him chained to a desk, he was taking little advantage of the sunny day by sitting in the shade.

A- "Got some change?"
B- "Sorry. Not today."
A- "Are you Jewish?"
B- "No."
A- "You look like you have a bit of Jew in you."
B- "Nope. I'm about as WASPy was they get."
A- "You could pass for a Jew."
B- ". . .thanks?"

I thought, originally, that the man was paying me a compliment. I'm trying not to sound like a boor, but he looked more Jewish to me than, say, my identical twin brother. I assumed that he was paying me a compliment, however strange, by suggesting that he and I were cut from the same cloth. Assuming that he was Jewish. And that I look Jewish. It wasn't until I related the story to my brother, who promptly branded the man "an anti-Semitic ass" for suggesting that my thrift regarding panhandlers was related to some 'religious stereotype' typified by thrift, that I too thought the man an ass.

Had I realised where he was going, I would have drawn from my proud Christian tradition and burned him on a stake.
Amen.

The next best thing.

After sliced bread, the next best thing ever conceived was a miniture, self-inflating WHOOPIE CUSHION!
And I did just as the advertisment directs--I squeezed farts right out of the palm of my hand. What awesome power!

On escaltors! On elevators!
On Jewish Seders!

I tooted wherever, and whenever, I pleased.
And I usually followed the "Bronx cheer" with a few very audible sniffs while casting an accusitory glare meant to implicate any passerbys or fellow passengers.
In elevators I recommend the following procedure:
1. Toot your mini whoopie cushion.
2. Give a digusted look at one passenger (A), who will no doubt try to ignore the goings-on.
3. Look at another passenger (B), smirk, roll your eyes, indicate the first passenger(A) with either your eyes, or a head nod in their direction, and "discretely" wave your hand beneath your nose. Make sure that (A) catches you doing this.

The absolute best time I ever had was lying in wait in a public washroom at The Bay on Yonge St., hidden in a stall, biding my time until nature called someone. Just as my victim began to relieve himself at the urinal, I let my mini Whoopie Cushion off its leash--toot--and followed it with the most agonizing moan of "Ohhh, God".

Immediately A stopped mid-stream for a listen.

I waited silently until the waterworks started up again, then--toot--followed by an even bigger moan, trying to make this one sound more worried and weary. I took my inspiration from seeing (and hearing) a cow giving birth in the middle of the farmer's field across from my house.

Immediately A stopped his relief for a listen.
What morbid curiosity!

I let out another, smaller toot and was tempted to call for my "Mommy", but resisted.

A zipped up and fled, in his haste neglecting to wash his hands.
I stood in my stall, exited, and after an approriate amount of time, exited the lavitory. I suspected A of being cut from the same perverted cloth as I, so while I was exiting I quickly glanced around to see if anyone was paying special mind to the inhabitant of the can who had crapped himself within an inch of death.
A guy perusing frames glanced quickly at me, then back at the frames.

No guy is that interested in frames.

Goo Goo G'SPLAT!

A few years back I worked in the mighty Wisconsin North Woods at Chippewa Ranch Camp (an all-girls camp) and met a Texan.
The Texan was the width of two axe handles across his ass, and easily one of the dumber specimens in the zoo of my life.
I called him "The Walrus".

By the end of summer, he hated my guts, and had gambled his entire wage away on bartop Monte Carlo machines in a place called "Sportsman's Bar". He owed the camp two hundred dollars by the end of August. He was just an amazing beast.

On Canada Day my parents came to visit, and we were outside exhibiting our hearty Canadian spirit by standing and talking quietly and politely to one another, enjoying nature, and considering whether to go to the Rhinelander Rail Museum (we did).
The Walrus was in a jolly mood, swinging merrily on a rustic, tree-hung, swing, chatting up some pre-teen girls.
Suddenly.
A loud CRACK!.
The sound of little girls crying.
The sight of the Walrus, flat on his back, his chubby legs sticking out from the leaves of a broken tree branch now lying on the ground.

No one was hurt.

I think the girls were crying because the "old tree swing" was broken beyond repair.

My father summed up the event just as Lorne Greene might have reported it on CBC radio--
He turned to me, and in a grave tone said:
"That fat guy just broke the branch off that tree."

He sure did. Broke it real good.

Perversion: A success story!

With a title like that, I'm afraid that the payoff won't satisfy.

I am proud to report that when I wrote the following lie I fully expected it to bear fruit. . .

"Alexander Graham Bell invented the Slinkey

In 1957 Alexander Graham Bell was flying a kite in a thunderstorm while enjoying a Coca Cola. When the kite was unexpectedly struck by lightening, the Coca Cola can that Mr. Graham Bell was holding blew to ribbons. Shaken by the experience he strapped the tin ribbons to his feet and bounced home in a hurry. Arriving at home, drunk, he fell down the stairs. Though Alexander's numb body lay limp at the terminus of the stairway, his shoes continued into the kitchen, then on to the den. Legend has it that the tin-ribbon shoes came to rest perfectly at his fireside lounge, though many historians believe this story to have been fabricated by marketeers trying to sell Slinkeys."

. . .and it has!

Two innocent Googlers so farhave happened upon my perversion of the great Yankee history books, and it is my hope that the number will climb to as high as five!

Hey, if it's okay for Americans to write their own history surrounding the War of 1812, then I see my action as simply following in the footsteps they left in the horseshit.

Just a litter bit of advice.

It must be the company that I keep.
Recently I've been very upset at the sight of people littering, and I've been dealing with litter situations like I'm 6'2" and 190lbs.
If I had a goatee and played the tuba I'd be the spitting image of my dear friend The Armchair Garbageman.

Behaving like a hulk of a man is something that I just shouldn't do.

I was with my fiance the other day and saw this punk chuck litter on the floor of the Eaton's Centre. Something in me came loose, and I swiveled on my heel and caught up to the offender.

B- (tapping the punk on the shoulder)"Hey buddy! You want to pick up the litter that you threw on the floor back there?"
A- (surprised, not impressed)"Who the fuck are you? A mall cop?"
B- "No, I'm somebody that doesn't want to walk through your trash; who the fuck are you to throw garbage on the floor?"
A- "So what? You want me to go pick it up?"
B- "I'd really appreciate it if you did."

At this point he became very agitated. He was either: A)very embarrassed and trying to think of the right words to apologise; B)trying to think of a clever way to avoid having to pick up the garbage; C)wondering whether to use his left or his right fist to punch a hole in my face.
Or perhaps, D)all of the above.

He paced back and forth in front of me like a caged tiger, then came right up to my face and delivered his ultimatum.

A- "Okay. Okay. I'll pick it up. Where is it? Show me."

I felt like saying, "Jeez, it took you long enough!" Instead, I pointed to the garbage on the floor and said, "Right there, buddy."

A- "I'm not your fucking buddy!"

Fine.

Then, a light goes on in his head.

A- "Follow me outside. I want you to see me throw this out. Just come with me outside, yeah?"
B- "Hey, if you tell me that you're going to throw it out I believe you. I didn't call you a liar, I called you a litterbug!"
A- "You know, I could throw you down on the floor in, like, two seconds and embarrass you, but I'm not going to do that!"
B- "Fine, fine. Hey, I'm just glad that you picked up your garbage."

And I waved my little condescending wave, the one I reserve for jerks I bother while in a moving vehicle or on the other side of a pane of glass, and chalked another one up for our beautiful city. He left, up the escalator, hopefully to use that street level garbage can that he had so desperately wanted to show me.

Along with my clean streets vigilantism, I've decided to eat my vegetables so that I can grow up big and strong, and become an "environmental champion" just like Woodsy Owl. In the future, I'd prefer if punks just said 'Ye-ye-yes, sir! Right away, sir!" and got their damn litter without all the drama.

And lastly, in an effort to pattern myself after my hero even more completely, my "wise request" will forever be. . .
"Give two shits, don't toss garbage where I sits!"

Instead of a forest ranger, I'll be a litter pirate!

From the mouths of babes.

Yesterday I got a ticket nearly a full two minutes after my parking voucher had expired, so I was asking for it.

I noticed the ticket the same time two slack-jawed teenagers three chapters in to an excellent bottle of Maximum Ice did. They offered their support:

A- "You got a ticket, man!"
C- "Ya! You got a ticket!"
B- "Yes, I certainly got a ticket."
A- "Man, that is an awesome car, dude! It should be illegal to give a ticket to such an awesome car!!"
C- "Ya! Your car is too awesome to get a ticket!"
B- "I couldn't agree more."
A- "It's not right to give that car a ticket. . .!!"
C- "It should be illegal!"
B- "You're telling me. . ."
A- "Fuck, man, that car is awesome! You shouldn't get tickets!"
B- "Yes. Thank you. Write a letter to your member of city council."

I doubt they'll do it.
Sure, right then they thought it should be illegal to give tickets to people who drive '69 Rancheros, but wait until they get home and sober up. Then suddenly all that energy, and all that interest in civil law, will lose its immediacy.

And I'll keep getting tickets.

Judge an audio book by its sound, not its cover.

Today I went to see Supersize Me!.
I stepped into the popcorn line behind a woman who has aged fairly well over her 60-some-odd years and began to daydream about whether or not the documentary was going to live up to its hype.
During my introspection I felt eyes staring at me, and realised that it was the well-kept aged woman before me in line.

A- "You have an absolutely beautiful face!"
B- (I was taken aback)"Well, thank you! I have a twin brother, so there's plenty of this face to go around!"
A- "Beautiful and amusing!"
B- "Ha ha ha!"

To be honest, I wasn't surprised that she found me handsome. I have, since I worked a bingo in my youth, been very popular with her demographic. In fact, my wit and sex appeal have very strong showings with woman aged 58 straight through to 90! I think it stems from the fact that I have a face which looks very well in knitted sweaters. (a caveat--keep your widowed grandmother away from me if you want her chaste image to stay in tact)

She turned to get napkins, and the space between us was bisected by a middle-aged man going towards the ticket wicket.
As he passed, he broke wind with extraordinary vigor. It was shamelessly loud.

My sweetheart turned around in surprise, and there I was, grinning for the wrong reason. Her eyes said, "J'accuse!"; I tried, unsuccessfully, to get mine to say, "Mais non!".
Immediately I inherited the guilt meant to wrack the conscience of the braying ass who had dealt the deal-breaking overture; however, he had more pressing issues at hand, asking the ticket seller in a loud urgent tone for the washroom's whereabouts. . .apparently he was out of room in his pants.

She gave a polite smile, like you do on the subway to the parents of a child you've just observed picking their nose and eating it, and went off to find a seat in Theatre 3.

Had I been on the ball, I would have answered her gawk with, 'You're excused' followed by placing my hand over the top of my tea cup so as to suggest that it needed protection from contamination.

That, or given a surprised look and used a line my father has employed among friends and family--"Did anyone see that little elephant?"

Universal Language of 'Ranchero'

When in my Ranchero, it's hard not to feel like a celebrity.

In fact, while in the Ranchero, it is hard not to feel a number of things. A short list of inspired feelings includes, but is not restricted to:

-feelings of David Lee Roth-like power;
-feeling that, with a six pack, anything is possible;
-feeling that the world changed, for the worse, on December 31st, 1982;
-feeling that, given the chance, a Ranchero driver would never permit a white tiger to bite his head like Roy Horn (of Siegfried & Roy), and would soundly whoop the ass of any tiger, white or otherwise, attempting such bitch-ass behaviour;
-adopt Alfred E. Newman's laissez-faire attitude of 'What, me worry?'

I'd like to see the list of feelings conjured up while driving a Civic:
-feeling that living in the basement of mom and dad's place is okay;
-feeling that Ground FX, decals, and noise of modified Civic adequately replace awesomeness, speed, and ability to haul loads in the bed of a Ranchero cruck;
-feeling that, in a Civic, one could skip 4th period math and not get caught.
-feeling that, given the chance, a Civic driver would never permit Odie to steal his Lasagna like Garfield does, time and again, with humorous results;
-adopt Randy Newman's attitude that 'Short people got no reason to live'.

My point is this: today a pan-handling deaf-mute walked up to me while I was putting a parking receipt in my window, pointed at the Ranchero, then gave the thumbs up.
I nodded.
He then produced a note explaining that he was a deaf-mute looking for money.
I shook my head.
Finally, he pointed at the Ranchero, then at himself, then made a motion like he was driving.
Even though he used proper ten-and-two steering technique in his mime, I shook my head.

The power of the Ranchero to bring people together and bridge language barriers may be exactly what the Middle East needs right now.

Tony Robbins on Mongoose

Union Station is the heart of Canada.
Every creed, colour, and income bracket converge there.
When you mix so many different people together, you really never know what you're going to get.

A few days ago, what I got was a daily affirmation of self.

For the amusement of those in ear shot, a man who's been alive for more years than he has teeth in his head (he most certainly was not 10 years old) was singing 'King of the Road' in an attempt to gain either money or fame. Folks didn't seem to be ponying up much dough, and he wasn't holding a Starbucks cup, so I assumed that it was the latter.
As Janet Jackson was in town I felt like suggesting that he show a tit and really step up his performance. I even started picturing my delivery of the comment in my head--I'd say it loud enough so that the crowd waiting for their respective Go Trains would think that I was both witty and topical, as well as kindly to the homeless and edgy. The remark would surely immortalise me in conversation; my bit of wit repeated to "Train Friends" on the ride home to Oshawa and Markham, making life even more closely imitate the art of "Train 48".

Just as I was about to open my mouth, the Tent City Balladeer sang, ". . .I'm a man of means by no means
King of the belt buckles"!
"Wait a cotton-pickin' minute! That's not the words to the song!!", thought I,"He was referring to ME!"
Self-centredness aside, I was sure that it was me he was referring to because it was I that he was making eye contact with. . .and I was wearing my Bodacious belt buckle which is the size of a large tea cup saucer, and is totally awesome!

B- (with a nod and a wink)"It is the 'King of the belt buckles', that's for sure!"
A- (jolly)"You're an all around guy, brother!"
B- (gracious) "Thanks."
A- (suddenly serious) "No. I'm serious, brother. You're an all around guy! You got it together!"
B- (uh. . .gracious?)"Thanks!"

It was inspiring to have someone that I didn't even know see so much potential in me. To look me right in my belt buckle and know that I was a wonderful person. I felt empowered. I felt invincible! I felt like the mighty Mongoose--if the world ever bit me, I had the strength to bite it right back!

Night Moves

After a lovely night at the movies, while I was attempting the cross John St. at King, I noticed a large Chevy Suburban making a left hand turn, and creeping closer and closer to me.
The little white walking fella was lit up, so for once I was obeying the laws of the land, yet this Suburban was practically on top of me.
I wasn't lollygagging, but I wasn't running.

A- (window down, music pumping, lots of girls inside)"Take your time, buddy."
B- "Next time, just drive over me, jackass."

And, "Scene".

One Tic Tac short of a full hand

The 1969 Ford Fairlane Ranchero I use as a sales vehicle is sick, and I had to take her to "the hospital".
The "hospital" is, in reality, little more than a junk yard decorated with old school buses, a transport trailer that acts as an operating room, and the biggest mud puddle anyone has ever seen. It is a place that little cars have nightmares about and middle age cars threaten to send their parents to--it's a place that, if I was a car, I would pray for death. The "head doctor" at this facility is a charmer I'll call A. He is 'on call' 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, from his trailer on site.

A will never, ever, ever be clean again.
When I first met him and held out my hand for a shake, A reached out, looked at his filthy little paw, gave it a courtesy wipe on his pants, then completed the greeting.

The irony is, if his hand had been clean to begin with, and he wiped it on his pants, I would have thought twice about shaking it.
It's like cleaning an apple that fell into a Port-a-Potty with a dirty handkerchief.

Upon closer inspection of his hand, I noticed that one finger was considerably larger than the rest. And oozing. When asked, A replied:

A- "Oh, that. I cut it with a saw, burnt it with a welding torch, and got a hot piece of metal in it, all in one day."
Then, with a laugh,
A- "The girlfriend loves it!" (thrusting his swollen finger into thin air rhythmically)

Girlfriend?

A then pointed out another finger which was slightly shorter than the rest.

A- "I broke that one eight months ago and just got the use of it back."
B- "Did you go to the doctor?"
A- "Nah. One morning I was eating breakfast and a piece of bone fell out of it. Hard piece bigger than a Tic Tac."
B- "You should have gone to the doctor, pal!"
A- "Nah. What was he going to do? I threw the bone out."

If it offends thee, wait for it to drop off.

Despite appearances, he does do a fine job.
And anyone who will risk life and limb for the Ranchero can't be a bad dude; not on the inside. Deep inside.

I will post when his romantic horizon opens up, for any of the single ladies out there looking for a project.