Obey the mullet.

This morning the humidity finally got to be too much. . . for a mullet on Broadview Ave.

Piloting my Smart car, Dilton, down Broadview often provides for some early morning diversions, and today was no different. While on my usual southbound commute, I was paced by a man riding a bicycle who wouldn't seem out of place in a Glass Tiger tribute band. His lovely dirty blond locks feathered like a mane around his baby-soft face.
But what made him special, was his dedication to The Mullet Way of Life.

At each traffic light (and just my luck, we hit them all this morning) he would put a foot down, pull out a pink plastic brush from the back pocket of his Levis (impossibly tight for riding a bike), and brush with vigor. The kind of brushing that requires two hands: one for the brush; and one cupped around the brush to form a protective barrier. He brushed like a symphony conductor--his brush, the baton. Each subtle twist and jerk of the brush served to direct the dirty blond chorus towards its climax; every long stroke adding tremolo to his mullet.
Once the light turned green, our Mustang would shake his mane and gallop to the next set of lights. Each red, he would conduct his grooming, or mating, ritual--the message lies in the eye of the beholder.

We parted ways outside "Jilly's", the finest strip club that Queen St. East has ever produced. As I rolled away, he brushed with an intensity that I have certainly never seen looking back at me in the mirror.
The end result? It was like he had brushed erection into his hair--ELECTRIC erection--and all manner of X chromosome, fair or ill-favoured, would succumb to his overture.
His symphony:
Virtuoso Del Sesso
It will surely be divided into 5 Movements:
Movement 1--Eye Contact.
Movement 2--Kissing with Tongue.
Movement 3--Up the Shirt.
Movement 4--Down the Skirt.
Movement 5--Sink the Pink

Now that's a conductor I would love to be First Chair under.

It's Grrrrrrrrr-eat!

My fiancee, E, recently answered the phone and was treated to the following exchange.

E- "Good afternoon, __________!"
A- "Is C______ there?"
E- "No, I'm sorry, she's not!"
A- "Don't you fucking lie to me, bitch! Don't you fucking get me angry! I'm a tiger. . .a T-I-I-I-GER! Look at my stripes. They're long stripes. And wide."
E- "A. You're not supposed to speak to me like this--you know that. If you don't speak to me respectfully, I'll hang up."
A- "FUCK YOU!. . . .watch my stripes. . . ."(click)

It should be said that she works at a job where conversations like this are par for the course due to the clientele she keeps.

I wish I could pull off saying a line like "Watch my stripes!" instead of "Good-bye!".
"Good-bye!" seems so plain next to "Watch my stripes!"



Check my spots, bitches!

Racial Profile a Little Sloppy.

If, in conversation with someone, you venture into the red hot topic of racial politics in Canada, and the person you're speaking to says something like:

A- ". . .yeah, well in Parkdale racial politics is boring!"

You can repeat this story to them.

A week or so ago, while walking the streets of my new neighbourhood (Parkdale), I nearly bumped into someone completely covered in white bedsheets and winter jackets. Over his head was a pillowcase with eyes, nose, and a mouth cut out of it. Judging from the zig-zagging of his stroll, the eyeholes either weren't working, or he wasn't using them. He looked like a Goodwill box with legs. Or a very drunk Casper the Ghost.

If I'm to believe the colour of the mystery man's hands, he was black. This is important when trying to understand the political weight of his sole comment to me as he 'floated' by.

C- "Now I'm the white man."

(pause)

B- "You certainly are."

If, by white man, he defines the parameters of Caucasians to include "drunk by 10am" and "crazy as a shithouse rat" then yes, he was whiter than Pat Buchanan; however, his definition of Caucasians would directly conflict with my definition of 'Citizens of Waupaca, Wisconsin'.
My definition is colourblind, and applies equally to both the blacks and whites of Waupaca, WI.

Had he been wearing a NASCAR hat on his pillowcased head while desperately clutching a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, I may have believed him.

'From A to B' is, and always has been, a safe harbour for Affirmative Action as it applies to the observation of crazies from all creed, colour, and nationality. Hence my motto, 'Crazy is as crazy does!', amended from the outdated and somewhat less AA compliant motto of my forefathers, 'Crazy is as crazy looks!'.

Plumbing's Greatest Punchline.

Recently we took a school bus to the Mandarin buffet in Etobicoke.
A place of such regal beauty that even the carpet bears the familiar pink M of The Mandarin.
A place were no expense has been spared in the quest for a faithfully-constructed North American brand of "Far East" so familiar to us all.
A place were the endless bounty of deep-fried popcorn shrimp is always fresh, sizzling away in it's chaffing dish net.

Heaven.

Of this trip to heaven, I have but one story to tell, and it's about the washroom. This should surprise none of my regular readers.

Making my way to the loo, I found that I was treading in the wake of two young fellows--brothers--about 4 and 8 respectively. There was some confusion, on their part, as to which of the two doors they should enter. The doors were clearly marked with pictures: a samurai for the boys; a Mikado consort of sorts for the girls. The make-up on these icons was surely what was causing the confusion; both characters were wearing angry red lipstick.

They chose wisely.

I followed them into the washroom; but before I was fully in, I heard gales of laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Rounding the corner, I saw the two fellows pointing at the prince-sized urinal (hung on the wall closer to the floor than the kingly urinals to ensure all waste would make it to Lake Ontario, rather than the floor) doubled-over with laughter. The gasping kind of laughter that happens about five minutes into a real hazer.
These two kids couldn't believe their eyes! Apparently they'd never seen a pint-sized urinal before; judging by their reaction, it was better than anything Pauly Shore has done.

I began to get concerned that: 1) someone would walk in on me with two howling young boys and wonder--oh, I don't know what--and haul me off to 22 Division; 2) that they would begin pissing their pants, and never truly enjoy the accommodating urinal.

Finally, about mid-visit for me, one retreated (as if to catch his breath) to a stall; the other, still snickering, decided that it was time to piss into the waiting mouth of the Smurf-esque urinal. This is when things started to get a bit more 'real' for me: the kid in the stall began peppering his snickers with awful-sounding grunts of stress. He would snicker snicker, then hold his breath and grunt. I sounded like a cross between "A Baby Story" on Life, and the canned audience on "Family Matters". This made me and his brother start to laugh; the difference between our enjoyment was, I laughed and did not piss on my own feet. The more the one brother got on like a pig in heat, the harder we two laughed, the wetter the other brother's shoes became. Which made me laugh harder; which made the kid in the stall laugh harder.
Things were getting way out of hand. I had to leave.

Just as I washing up, the grunting from the stall fell silent. For the first time since entering the Mandarin Men's Room, you could hear a fortune cookie crack. Then, a massive splosh broke the silence. All three of us completely lost it.

I was still laughing by the time I made it back to my table, and for the first time in a long time, I was at a loss as to how to begin explaining the cause.

Charlie don't play trombone!

It was a cool and breezy afternoon, and E and I were walking on Queen St. W.--the oft-conjested strip of buskers and panhandlers--when we encountered a performer I had never seen before.
From far away, it was clear that he was a man playing a saxophone while wearing a Chinese rice-picking hat. As we got closer, it became clear that he was in his ninja pajamas. We heard music.
Music that made us want to jump and prance.
Music that made us want to rock the dance.
He was playing "Pass The Dutchie" on his saxophone--how very exciting! I nearly had a full-on orgasm when we got close enough to recognise that the pauses in his rendition of the "Musical Youth" classic were to accommodate a burning cigarette he held in his right hand (making it a little harder to pass to his left-hand side, if he should so desire).
Since "The Gong Show" went off the air, public demand for performers of his ilk just isn't there.

When we passed, I believe he began to sing the opening "This generation rules the nation. . ." part in Chinese; rarely have I been happier walking down Queen St.

Mommy drinks but it's just to fight the plaque.

Parkdale is a place that will never, ever, cease to amaze me. It's many colourful characters; it's endless juxtapositions. There really is no place quite like it. And I am hunting for an apartment, which may result in me vehemently defending my new neighbourhood: Parkdale. 

Nothing is decided yet--any one got a nice, cheap, two bedroom in a house? So the Little E and I are in line at Parkdale's Price Chopper behind a wild-eyed woman and her pre-teen daughter. On the conveyer is four bottles of Listerine, two prepackaged donuts, and a bag of Smartfood popcorn. The woman is counting her change. . .problem! She calls her teenage daughter over to borrow some money (and I'm sure that she was using the word 'borrow' in the same way Susanna Moodie describes her Yankee neighbours 'borrowing' sugar in "Roughing it in the Bush"--they never intend to give it back). 

Finally the bleak truth becomes clear: in toto, there is not enough money for all the items. As a test, in your head, choose which item to forgo in order to make the receipt match the amount of change in your hand: 

1 bag of Smartfood Popcorn; 

2 pre-packaged donuts; 

4 bottles of Listerine. 

 Have you chose one? Was it the Smartfood? The Smartfood that your pre-teen daughter desperately wants? Or was it one of your precious bottles of Listerine, you dirty filthy crackwhore!?! Yes, rather than subtract some of mommy's good times over a bottle of smooth-sippin' Listerine, this class-act poster mom for the Parkdale elite chose to subtract Smartfood--arguably the most healthy thing on the conveyer (next to our lovely spread of fruits and vegetables . . . because E wouldn't let ME have any junk food!)--in the least democratic grocery decision that I've seen all year. 

Good grief. No one's breath is so awful, nor their gingivitis so advanced, that that quantity of Listerine is so urgently needed. I mean, she could have cut her Listerine with fruit juice to stretch the three bottles until the end of the week--the upside being family unity. . . and her not smelling so much like a whore whose just finished fellating a Dentist. "The Toothbrush Family" (a cartoon from my youth focused on improving brushing techniques) would have been entirely different with a tripped-out Mouthwash relative. Susie Sponge would have been bawling constantly at the hair-brained antics of Mouthwash Marty.

Duck. Duck. Duck. Tag!

So. I got tagged by this beast of a man, and now must put on my thinking cap and go to work.

Number of books I own.

I live in a room which I affectionately call "The Library"; however, the primary vice housed in the library (aside from scotch and tobacco) are movies. I've accumulated somewhere in the neighbourhood of 250 books--mostly theatre and history related tomes. One of them a very awesome book published in the 1968 edition of the 'American Heritage Junior Library' series called 'The History of THE ATOMIC BOMB' given to me by The Armchair Garbageman himself! For years I've ignored the fact that stamped on the cover, in large black letters, is the word 'DISCARD'. The interesting thing about this book is that for nearly the entire time I've had it, there has been a four leaf clover pressed onto the page which has a photo of the first atomic detonation, and reads "I am become Death, The shatterer of worlds". I put it there long ago out of some misguided attempt at symbolism; now it means "Frosted Lucky Charms are magically delicious!"

Last book I bought.

The last book I bought was 'Trawler' by Redmond O'Hanlon. He's this crazy old limey travel writer who jumps on a crab fishing boat in the middle of winter for shits and giggles. He's sea sick by page 20--I haven't read much farther yet! I bought it because I saw him interviewed on The Daily Show and thought, "That crazy bastard sounds like a riot! I've got to check this out!" I generally lean towards non-fiction/biography.

Last book I read.

The last book I read was Errol Flynn's autobiography, "My Wicked, Wicked Ways". In the first 20 pages of this one he gets kicked so hard in the balls by a cow after trying to nurse on its udder that he aborts his attempt at running away and returns home. Even at the lush, naive age of 10 he already knew that someday his balls would come in handy. I love the fact that he called his own autobiography "My Wicked, Wicked Ways"; he knew exactly what people thought of him, and wanted to make a splash before he died--why let everyone else roll in the delicious awfulness that was Errol Flynn when he could just as easily join in while he was still able to hold a drink in one hand and a teenager in the other?

5 that mean a lot to me

Good Night, Sweet Prince

This is one of my all-time favorite books. A very loving, but brutally honest, biography of the famous American actor John Barrymore (yes, she IS his great, great something). I love these 477 pages so much that I've given them as a gift before. Barrymore was the type of guy most of us would love to be: live life to the hilt, following your heart, and damning the consequences. He is much, much more a romantic hero than the legendary gin-sodden stories which outlived him reveal.

You Shall Know Our Velocity

This is the Dave Eggers of "Heartbreaking Work...", except with more rough edges showing. Any book that starts at the end (and death of its main character--written on the book's cover, in case any of you were pouting "He RUINED the book, man!")and proceeds to unravel the history of just how he got to where he dies, is setting an ambitious goal: keep them hooked, even when they know how it's all going to end. This book was perfect for me, because I used to flip to the back of "The Hardy Boys" to relieve myself of all the mystery before allowing the stories to build to a natural conclusion.
My fiancee, E, got my copy signed by Eggers, and insisted that he make the dedication out to my dead silver/white Persian cat Petunia. E and Petunia did not see eye to eye in life; their relationship has improved in death.

The Catcher in the Rye

A book which has no doubt appeared many, many times of similar 'tag' lists, but I cannot deny how important it was to my adolescence. My twin brother, C, and I still refer to it as 'The Bible of our Youth'--which may be doing a sizable discredit to our Anglican Minister back home, but there it is! I recall our English teacher at dear ol' Medway High, whom I bonded with because we shared the same first name, and the day he 'snuck' us some copies out of the English Department lock-up--the book was still banned in our County at the time--and told us to read them. We devoured every word. Like "Sweet Prince", my brother gives copies from 2nd Hand stores to folks.

Black Players: The Secret World of Black Pimps

Let's face it: any book written by a husband-and-wife team on the secret world of black pimping has got to be a classic. In the book's second appendix, entitled "PIMP TALK: A Dictionary of Black Hustling Slang" the following entry is made to explain the expression "motherfucker":

"once a serious curse, now a ubiquitous all-purpose word whose meaning is dependent on tone and context. DAS suppl. Meanings can be entirely opposite, e.g., 'I love that motherfucker,' and 'I hate that motherfucker.' Similar to standard usage of 'bastard.'"

Well. There you have it. Just try and put this book down--I dare you, motherfucker!

Dorothy Parker: Complete Stories

After reading this book, I checked for the hair of the dog that bit me.
She was one vicious wit.
If you've never read any of her writing, you must check it out; and once you have, remind yourself that she was living and writing in the Twenties! This broad of one touch cookie.

Nero Wolfe Mysteries

I love them all. They're bubblegum fro the brain, to be sure, but ,very diverting bubblegum. And very, very entertaining. When I ran from Sherlock Holmes, I went straight into Archie Goodwin's arms.

So there it is. Someone needs to start one of these Duck Duck GOOSE games for movies. My taste in movies wouldn't redeem my taste in books; but a pig loves rolling in its own shit.

Thanks for passing this my way, M.

Freezer-burned Rump Roast

I served a lot of beer at the Canada vs. Wales rugby test match out at York on the weekend. A lot.

And by the end of the day, although people were very polite, they began doing things indicative of massive beer consumption mixed with unrelenting heat.

A young man from Wales asked me if he could sit in my large beer trough, as it was filled with ice and water and he was desperate to cool down. This trough holds four 24'ers of beer, is metallic, and was originally intended to water sheep (which must be why this young Welshman was attracted to climbing inside it).
I told him 'Certainly! Just take it off the table so you don't break your neck."

He did so.

Then he proceeded to remove all his clothing--ALL his clothing--and climb inside.

B- "Are you nuts? Your. . .er. . .nuts, will never reappear!"

A roar of approval from the assembled crowd, which was getting larger by the second, cameras flashing. A buddy of his decided to tip the trough over and let the ice water spill out, which he did. But that fatal moment when wet skin touched ice cold metal so immortalized in the film "A Christmas Story" came to life before our very eyes! The Welshman's buttocks stuck fast to the bottom of the trough. Instinctively, he clutched his Twig and Berries to protect them from a similar fate; but who would save his ass?!
Not one of the horde leapt forward to offer assistance.
And I certainly wasn't! There is a limit to my dedicated commitment to the 'Good Beer Folks' way of living, and it involves unsticking other men's arses.

He finally, after some ginger squirming, came loose; but the excitement had taken it's toll; despite the extreme cold, he managed an erection large enough to hang his shirt off of.
Incredible, I know! But true!

I reached to call Mr. Ripley.

If it's important, Canada lost the match.

This Little Piggy Went to The Beer Store.

Having no toes is no excuse for bad manners.

Now that I've got that out of my system, please allow me to explain:
The Beer Store that I attend has a resident rubby who cruises the neighbourhood in an electric wheelchair like he's bigger than Ben Hur. Being confined to a wheelchair is some golden schtick, and most rub-a-dubs would be happy to have it working for then when trying to panhandle change; this guy isn't happy to settle with the same old wheelchair bit--heavens no! Each morning he pulls of his socks--rain or shine--hot or cold--and exposes his raw red feet to the world. These feet, gentle reader, have no toes. These feet, kind observer, look more like roast hams.
That's his trump card.
I mean, who could possibly turn down the advances of a man, in a wheelchair, who has no toes? Only the coldest, basest, most God-less Torontonian that Hell ever shat would deny this man a few shekels.
Enter B.
I've had encounters with this man in the past, and know him for the crude, ill-mannered bird that he is. His volcabulary does not befit a man who, on outward appearances (forgiving the absence of toes), looks like Good ol' Saint Nick; his manners would leave truckers from Detroit speechless. This toeless beggar is not the same Scope-swilling, sing-song loving variety you get downtown; he a breed unto himself.

Leaving the TBS today with my Rockstar roomie D, there our specimen was. I noticed him scooting towards the store while we were unloading empties--it was getting close to Beer o'clock, and he needed to get his show on the road!
As we left the TBS, he mumbled something about spare change, and tossed a forlorn look our way.

B- "Sorry. Not tonight."

We passed.

From behind, I hear this Bronx cheer. A Goddamned raspberry spat at our backs! Who does that anymore?

Me.

I turned around, met his eyes, and gave him some Bronx Cheer right back.
He looked about as surprised as the day his toes fell off.

Now, I know this post sounds cruel and harsh, but I treat these wayward gents with respect. Telling them "Not tonight" isn't as honest as telling them "Not ever", but even still--I always speak to them directly, and respectfully. I feel pretty justified to bring some bugger, toes or no toes, back in line with a taste of his own medicine!

If he pulls that shit again, I'm letting the air out of his ties. After all, I KNOW that he's got plenty of breath to blow them back up.

The Littlest Angel.

I live near the Toronto Hell's Angels Chapter.

I drive past it every day, both on my way to work, and on my way home from work.
It is NOT a secret clubhouse.
If the large number of Harleys on the street outside didn't tip you off, the sign definitely would.

The clubhouse no longer has windows because (so the story goes) a rival gang shot a rocket in through one of the windows and blew the hell (ha ha) out of the place. Hence the cinder block.

There is a member of this chapter who I see quite often haunting the Eastern Ave stripe between Logan and Carlaw. He's always in a multi-zippered black leather jacket. . . and he's a midget. Or dwarf.
He walks around with his chest puffed out and his fists clenched, like a man spoiling for a fight. Dying for someone to make a crack about his height.
I'm dying to see what he rides--to ask him how he manages looking macho on what must be a minibike (like the ones we used to tear around on as kids) or have training wheels. I won't though. He's small, but I'll bet buttons to navy beans that he could stick lay a beating on my ass.
That's all my sport card needs: B-0, Midgets-1.

Still Your #1 Source for Shitz!

The list of Search Engine Queries never ceases to entertain me.

On top of the most recent questions demanded by a public whose thirst for knowledge is unquenchable, are:

"monkey that pisses into his own mouth";
"why do panhandling";
"first-hand: pain in the balls"

Still, after all this time, the shitzu reins supreme (aside from the ridiculous presence of "the" on my list of individual word hits)--its only threat comes from "jail". The black horse on my list could turn out to be either "balls" or "whoopie"; surprisingly, "Ranchero" is tied with "fuck" for last place. Who'd a thunk it?

Sympony for the Devil

My lovely little E bought us tickets to "The" Stratford Festival's production of 'Into the Woods', which we traded for seats last night at the Avon. After seeing "House of Wax" in the theatre, we were in desperate need of the culture.

While on a washroom break at the end of Act 1, I heard some unfortunate individual have explosive diarrhea. Before I could give much thought to the obvious question ("How long was he waiting to drop THOSE kids off? Did he make poopie in his pants?") an unholy symphony of flatulence erupted from several of the posteriors lined up along the urinals. It sounded like Hot Butter practicing before a show!

I've fallen victim to contagious yawns many, many times--hell, just writing about yawning is making me yawn!--but I've never caught a fart.

And I can't say that I care to bear witness to such a rare beast as the "Creeping Fart" ever again.

But if I do, Gentle Reader, I will tell you all about it.

Give it Mikey--he'll eat anything!

This morning my lovely little fiance, E, and I treated ourselves to a bit of breakfast at Fran's on Shuter at Victoria.
After a nice wait in line, we were shown to a table inside (which was against the wishes of the lovely E, who would have preferred a cosy patio spot) and set beside a mother and daughter, who were also having a bit of breakfast.

In hindsight, the fact that there was no room on the patio was a small blessing.

BECAUSE the daughter to my right (E's left) proceeded to eat her toast in the most extraordinary way!
Surely you've heard of, or seen, or ARE, people who cut the crust off their bread before eating it. Nervous, particular people with no regard for the starving kids in China, or the famished inmate in San Quentin's solitary confinement.
Take them out in the streets and shoot them, I know.
However, this queer bird next to us cut off the crusts, one by one, and ate them. Ate ONLY them.
By "them", I mean the crusts.
She carved up a piece of crust, took a nip, then smeared peanut butter on the remaining inch and ate it.
All that she left on her plate was what people generally consider, no matter what their eccentricity, as the "edible bits": big toasted, triangles of delicious soft bread.

It's like buying a Kit Kat and only eating the chocolate (I've seen you people out there who do this--you know who you are!).
It's like opening a bottle of wine and only sucking on the cork.
It's like buying the "Best of Frank Sinatra" and only listening to 'LA is My Lady'.
It's like buying a condom and only wearing it around the house!

. . . but you get the picture.

Like all great character flaws, I blame the parents.
Pulling a stunt like that at the breakfast table should have had some kind of corporal result--smack to the fingers with a ruler, flick to the earlobe, push-ups on the knuckles--something for Christ's sake!
Now the world is stuck with this loopy wasteoid who leaves a trail of perfectly fine triangles of bread in her wake!

"Did anyone hear that duck?"

My little Fiance, who lives in Parkdale, overheard the following declaration outside the MacDonald's at King & Dufferin (my favorite place to eat when I'm Westside!)

A- "I just farted, and y'all just gonna hav' ta sit there an' inhale it!"

I heard Stephen Harper did something like that in the House of Commons two weeks ago.

Ba-zing!

But seriously, having to announce that you farted is humiliating. It's like finally having to say to your best friends, "So. . . I got my hair cut", or WORSE, your lover "So. . .did you. . .I mean. . .I'm finished". If you've got to announce it, then brother, you ain't done it right!

The only real exception to this "Wait and See" rule that I have, is something my good friend (and wang-swinging actor) C practices: calling me in to look at his tremendous shits. This is not something the average person, with average relationships with their friends and lovers, will ever have the pleasure of discovering on their own. It needs to have attention brought to it.

Broken Telephone.

While in Calgary, I took time out of my busy schedule to pick up telephone messages.
This, in and of itself, is pretty common for most folks who have telephones and work jobs where people tend to leave messages asking for this or that. What was extraordinary about collecting messages in the Downtown Calgary Sandman, was that there were a few messages from February which hadn't been intended for me. They had been saved, and left, for someone like me (with a few extra minutes of life on their hands, and little to do with those minutes) to discover.

This is the transcript from Saved Message #1:

(done in the characteristic voice of Yosemite Sam)

S- "I paid for a ticket to ride this'a he-ar mule, and I'm-ah gonna ride this'a he-ar mule! Yeeah, Mule! Yeeah!"

-click-

I haven't the slightest clue who left the message, nor to whom it was addressed, but I'm sure that it made complete sense at the time.

The Save Message #2 was more mysterious.

F- "Miss Stevens, this is Karen at the front desk. You mother has called, and she would like to get a hold of you as soon as possible. She says that it's urgent, and that you can reach her at home. If you have any questions, please call front desk. Thank you, and have a nice stay!"

The 'nice stay' all depends on just what kind of urgent news Miss Stevens' mother has. The fact that Miss Stevens saved a message with very little information on it leads me to believe that Miss Stevens did what I sometimes do--watch teevee and "get around to" returning the call later.
By later, I mean to say "when Bell sends me a recording saying that 'The following message from. . .left at. . .will be deleted from your mailbox.'" Whoops.

Ennui, She Wrote.

On my ride to Pearson Airport, I communed with the hack that drove me.

I love talking to cabbies.

Through his thick Sri Lankan accent he revealed to me, after hearing I was going to WestJet (Terminal 2), that he had just returned from Calgary the night before.

B- "No shit! I'm leaving for Calgary today! What were you there for?"
C- "My sister's wedding."
B- "Good time?"
C- "Busy, but good, yes. The flight was only okay."
B- "Really? How come?"
C- "They have those teevees on WestJet, you know?"
B- "Yes, I know."
C- "They're crap, though. You think it's good, but you know what? I had to watch 4 hours of 'Murder She Wrote'--I do not like this show that much."
B- "Wasn't there anything else on?"
C- "I don't know."

um.

B- "That's a lot of Angela Lansbury for one sitting."
C- "Yes, I know."
B- "Four hours?"
C- "Yes. Four HOURS. Too much of this woman and her mysteries."
B- "I couldn't have said it better myself."

pause.

B- "You like 'Columbo'?"
C- "Who is this 'Columbo'?"

pause.

B- "He's a big flying elephant that solves crime." (smiling at my own wit)
C- "I do not know this. Is it good?"
B- (snickering)"Naw, I'm just pulling your leg; 'Columbo' isn't a flying elephant detective. 'Columbo' just sounds like 'Dumbo', that's all. 'Columbo' is a guy in a trenchcoat who has a funny eye. It's good. Peter Falk is in it."
C- "I would watch the elephant--this sounds good!"(laughing)"No crime could escape him!"
B- "Yeah, I guess that's true."

And so we spent some more time discussing the advantages a flying elephant would have solving crime, and before I knew it--we were at Pearson. I didn't want to leave the cab, I was having that much fun!

Then, just as I was leaving, he calls after me:
C- "You know, Colombo is the capital of my country, Sri Lanka! Maybe this detective elephant could be Sri Lankan? I would watch that for sure!"

I wish more cabbies thought outside the box.

Take a Picture

There is no easy way to tell another man, a stranger, that his fly is down.

Today I tried the "Fraternity of Males" tone: light, but not too light; jocular, but not too jocular; quietly discreet.

It was not a success. No matter how much he may have appreciated my gesture later in the day while talking to his boss' attractive secretary, he still still looked at me as if to say, "Faaaaaaaaaaaag."

I remember when C and I were kids we'd sit in the mall on a bench snapping our fingers in front of our denimed laps. When someone walking by chanced to investigate what was making the snapping sound, only to discover it was our fingers before our balls, we'd give them the dirtiest look possible. Sometimes even 'tsk tsk' them, as if to say, "Keep stepping, you sick Peder-ass!"
Ah, what a beautiful, misspent youth!

"For your safety, and the safety of your fellow passengers, Death will come quickly."

I flew out to Calgary yesterday, arriving just as the Queen was trying to leave.

She took the bad weather with her back to England, where it most certainly belongs.

But flying made me nostalgic for a flight I took a few years ago during a snow storm.
I boarded a flight in Toronto on this little puddle-hopper bound for the East coast; a similar flight that was to leave from Ottawa had been canceled due to inclement weather. An Air Canada representative looked at our half-full plane and decided that the weather couldn't be so bad in Ottawa--so we were sent on a fence-mending mission to collect sad-sacks whose dreams of an East coast vacation had dried up like so many racks of dulce. Great.

What made it even better was the kid next to me.
Throughout his tens years he had likely seen it all. The food! The women! Years that he could look back on, from Heaven, and be proud that he had sucked the marrow out of Life.
At least I hoped so, since we were about to die in an ice-crusted plane on a snow-covered runway in Ottawa for the sake of some pain-in-the-ass East coast MP's crying for their salt air.

Turbulence would under-state the relentless hammering our plane took--a hammering of such bone-rattling intensity I could feel it in my prostate. As a result, an ugly, beautiful kind of terror came over me.
On our approach the boy's mother called from the seat behind, where she sat with her daughter (clearly the favoured child of the two) and assured him that all would be well. This did not quiet what had become very audible prayers to any God ready to listen.

A- (in a weak, shaking voice)"Oh God. . . Oh Jesus. . .Oh God. . .Oh Jesus. . .OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!"

The speed, intensity, and urgency of his pleading increased as our plane bent and bowed to the gusting winter pressures put upon our poor craft. I forgot about my worries, my life left un-lived, and began to wonder not IF but WHEN this kid was going to puke on me.
Or explode his head.

The Stewardess I could see had her eyes closed.

I had to pee.

A- "JesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesus!!"

. . .and we stopped. Crooked, but we stopped.

The rest of the flight isn't worth mentioning.
I will say that once the sun was visible that little bastard next to me stopped praying. I suppose he's also only really good close to Christmas and really nice to sis when he wants to play with her Barbie.

Calgary, North Carolina

Ever since I read about this little cross-burning between consenting adults that took place last night in North Carolina, I've been thinking about it.
I thought about it while I was walking around.
I thought about it over coffee.
I thought about it during a washroom break at Calgary's wonderful 'Ship & Anchor' tavern when I joined a conversation already in progress between a fella that looked like he could be frontman material for a ZZ Top tribute band (Z) and a scrawny dude that looked like the hillbilly kid from 'Deliverance' all growed up (D).

D- "I'd wish there was some rasta nigga here--I want to fight."
Z- "Har har har!"

D was pacing around the can like he had fire ants in his pants; I began reconsidering taking my penis out in such colourful company.

D- "The bigger, the blacker, the better. Fuck yeah!"
Z- "You better hope some big guy carrying a 'Red Stripe' doesn't set out of that stall and kick you in your teeth! Har har har!"

Posing a potential threat to his remaining four teeth did not seem to be 'top of mind' with this fellow--if he didn't sweat the first twenty-eight, the fate of these brave leftovers was, I feel, already sealed. Heaven only knows whether his first twenty teeth as a kid went under the pillow from natural causes.
(By the way, you gotta love a beer company that picks the slogan "It's beer. Hooray beer!")

I went ahead with my original plan of seeing a man about a horse; if trouble broke out, I wanted to have most of my urine in the proper receptacle.

D- "Fuck him! I hope he does! I've been to jail for whoopin' ass; some nigger would be worth it!"
Z- "Har har har!"

D started to preen in front of the mirror. One supposes that even a racist dresses for success when going about his bigotry; a wet, flat palm smeared over the part in his hair did not make him appear: 1) 'more professional'; 2) 'less deranged'--take your pick.

The stall door opened--moment of truth--and I wanted Mean Joe Green, or Refrigerator Perry, or Mike Tyson to come blazing out, fists swirling and Red Stripe bottles shattering, and punch a hole clear through this pathetic ex-con.

A frightened teenager slid out like a slug and made a dash for the door like it was his mother's arms.

And I didn't hear him flush.

Z and I washed up while D dried his head under the hand blower--insert obvious 'hot air' remark here--and we three merry gents left the John together. As D bounced out to the street I noticed him snag a waiter by the arm and ask to get some water brought to a puppy sitting by the patio railing. I could see his singles ad in my head:

SWM: 40's but looks 20's. Lovely hair; winning smile. Hates Negroids. Loves puppies (both kinds). Seeks same for intimate relationship and more?

Karma Police

When I heard the pop of beer crowns at 10am, I knew there was going to be trouble.

My neighbours on the first floor bought a house, and are moving today with the help of a rather rag-tag group of "professionals". It is clear, by the long lines of tar sealant on their big yellow truck, that there isn't a spot they won't try to cram their conveyance into.

The popping of some Grolsch bottles was followed by the sound of breaking glass. The fellow responsible for that most terrifying of all the moving sounds (next to 'snap', 'bump' and 'oh fuck!') didn't know I was watching him when he threw the crowbar he used as a church key onto the floor of the truck. He didn't know that I saw the crowbar bounce off the floor and smash a mirror. Whoopsch! He certainly didn't notice me when he looked around nervously, then took a moving blanket and laid it over the mess of broken glass. He tippy-toed off the truck,

Tippy-toed!
He looked ridiculous tippy-toeing.
He looked even more ridiculous tripping down the ramp as he tippy-toed because, while making his clandestine exit he tilted back his head and took a long, celebratory swig off his bottle. The perfect crime! However, this swig carried his gaze skywards, off his feet, and he tripped.
If you can't multitask--don't.
If you can't walk without looking at your feet--don't take your eyes off your feet.
If you can't multitask, and must always be able to see your feet while walking--don't become a mover.
Beer will not help cure the shortcomings listed above.


And now one of them has been sprayed by a skunk!
What the fuck!!
It's midday; they're making so much noise that they couldn't sneak up on Helen Keller, and one of them gets sprayed by a skunk!!
These guys are a pack of mongoloids.
or
It could be Karma for the broken mirror.

Can mongoloids get bad Karma?

The Colonel Tips Poorly

This afternoon I executed one of the most important functions under my authority at the brewery--I went to get the birthday bird at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Yes, you heard it right. Each employee that celebrates a birthday at my place of work is treated to 40 pieces (two buckets) of juicy KFC. They are expected to share with the rest of the staff.

While on my errand of goodwill, I overheard the fella at the till next to me order two of the day's specials: one for him; one for his noisy rugrat. The total came to $5.11, and he stood there clutching a fiver.

A- (long sigh)"Only one then, please. I don't have any change."
C- (long, sad look at his pathetic father who doesn't have 11 cents)
B- "You just need 11 cents? Here, I've got change."

I produced 26 cents, which was the closest I could come for convenience. I passed it to the cashier. The forlorn expression on little C perked right up.

A- "Many thanks!"
B- "No problem. I'd hate to see someone go hungry over 11 cents."
A- "Thank you."

I turned away so that he and his child could have their moment of celebration together, and that's when I overheard him exercising the pride his newfound wealth had brought him.

A- (to the cashier) "Keep the change!"

I turned to look at him.

That was my fucking change. A man who didn't have a dime and a penny to rub together a moment ago is now flashing around my change and bestowing tips on the help. AT A FUCKING KFC! Who tips at a fast food joint anyway?

You can't take it with you, I suppose.

If I had have wrapped my boney little fingers around his throat like Devil B was telling me to do, His Majesty would have discovered that you can't take KFC Twisters with you, either.

Thar's Crooks in Them Thar Hills!

Sometimes life moves way too fast.

Like this evening, for example.
I was traveling westbound along the Gardiner in my little Smart Dilton, when I noticed some flashing police lights on the Queensway. What could this be? i wondered.

As I approached, my speed a slick 100km/h, I noticed someone pop out of a four door sedan (which had obviously been traveling down the wrong side of the Queensway) and make a mad dash down the hill towards the train tracks. In pursuit were the guys who get to push the buttons for all those flashing lights--our Boys in Blue!
It stopped being a footchase about the time our nere-do-well lost his footing on the steep embankment, and continued down the hill falling ass over tea kettle.
Our Thin Blue Line were much more surefooted, and avoided following the rogue driver's lead.
As I zoomed past, I could see our Boys dusting off the hooligan; the hooligan did not appear to know what went wrong.

Looking in my rearview mirror, I sighed. Nowadays, nobody has time for anything; not even a little rubbernecking.

A rose by any other name. . .

Ever since a guy was clubbed to death outside where I work, my Mum has been on edge. She doesn't like the idea of C and I (or anyone, for that matter) living in a city teeming with murderers.
So it wasn't helpful last night for a crazy lady (we'll call her 'A') with lipstick everywhere on her face but her lips to accost me while I was on the phone with M.

Now, I'm not entirely unfamiliar with Toronto's unconventional lipstick fashionistas, but some are so far ahead of the trends that they look just plain crazy.
I mean, if you're trying to get folks talking about, and WEARING, big red clown lips, lipstick-blushed cheeks, and lipstick forehead dots, don't get greedy and try to bring back slouchy leg warmers in mint green as well! Assume that great things take time, and perhaps approach change in stages. Build on the clown lips once they've established a following; ease folks in the the heavily-rouged cheeks and forehead bullseye--don't just dive right in and expect complete compliance!

I'm getting off topic. I'm no fashion maven, and should not make attempts on Star Jones' crown.

So. . . I'm on my phone with M back in Lucan, when our heavily rouged fashionista approaches me and sticks her paw out. I wasn't sure if I should: slap it and ask for a high fiver in return; check to see if she washed up for dinner (or just ran the tap--sneaky brat!); or tell the old palm reader joke we used to do at bowling when we were kids, wherein I take her hand, tell her I see a big house in her future with a pool in the backyard, then spit in the palm of her hand where the pool line would be--hilarious!!

B- "Can I help you?"
M- (on the line)"What's going on??"
B- "Just a crazy broad with lipstick all over her face, hold on. Can I help you? You want I high five?"
A- (shakes her head)
M- "Brad--where are you!?! Tell me where you are!!"
B- "I'm fine, Mum. Do you want some money? Because I'm not giving you any."
A- "Give me a fuckin' quarter!" M- "WHERE ARE YOU! ARE YOU NEAR WHERE YOU'RE GOING?!"
B- "I'm fine, Mum. I'm almost there. And you--not tonight."
A- "I just want a fuckin' quarter! That's cheaper than a whore!"
B- "You're correct; but I'm not looking for a whore tonight either."
M- "I HATE YOU GUYS LIVING IN TORONTO!"
A- "A FUCKIN' QUARTER! I'M CHEAPER THAN A WHORE, ASSHOLE!"
B- "Mum--calm down. I'm fine. And you--you need to learn a little bit about marketing yourself. Telling me that you're cheaper than a whore isn't necessarily a good thing."
A- "FUCK YOU! A FUCKING QUARTER!!"
M- "BRAD!!"
B- "Mum--I'm fine. YOU--no quarters for girls with bad manners, no matter how pretty their makeup is!"
A- "ASSHOLE! A FUCKING QUARTER!"
B- "Yes. Good night."
M- "You guys are moving home. That city is crazy."

And so it went.

One dead body, and an altercation where raised voices and cuss words were used, and my mother is terrified. She called me this morning to see if I made it home okay. I told her I had, but not before I encountered the cheapest whore in Toronto--ten cents!! She did not share my enthusiasm for this joke.
M knows, as all folks in small towns believe, that bad luck comes in threes. I'm about due for my third bout of bad luck.
The way I see it--my luck's picking up. I haven't had much to write about lately.

Helios sucks balls.

Have you ever thought that the setting Sun was chasing you?

It'd be a pretty scary thing, if you thought that it was actually happening to you, wouldn't it?

E and I saw a lady this evening on Queen West who was trapped in just such a pursuit. . . and she didn't take it lying down.
She hurled about as much abuse at the Sun as I'm sure it has ever received at the hands of one person. I realise the Sun is used to criticism; I mean, the Cancer Society has made it out to be this big Boogeyman over skin cancer, so the Sun is used to taking its licks--but this lady was being a total bitch!

F-this! And F-ing that! She was up one side of the Sun, and down the other. Dirty rotten piece of. . . she just wouldn't let it go. But the Sun kept coming.

Meanwhile, folks trying to make the left on to Queen from Portland were having trouble seeing around her: her invisible soap box--her final stand--was taking place directly in the middle of Portland.

She finally decided that gesturing with only one hand didn't seem to be getting her threaten messages across, so she set down her coffee. . . in the middle of Portland.

A car promptly ran over her coffee.

This did not improve the situation.

A lady in a red Mazda tried to talk some sense into her.

This did not improve the situation.

Secretly, E and I did not want the situation improved.
We were glad the coffee was flattened. We cheered when the red Mazda offered colloquial support.
But then dinner came--we looked away for only a second--and the crazy lady was gone!
Had the Sun scorched her to death?
There were no ashes.

I appeared the Sun had totally wussed-out and set without incident.
The Sun, as our Crazy Lady rightfully said, is a fucking pussy.

If I were the Sun, things would have gone down much differently.

God Bless Bon Scott!

This evening E and I were at the Epicure Cafe having a nice meal despite the fact that our favorite beer, Steam Whistle, is not on tap, when I had a sudden urge to pee.

While stationed at the urinal I had a choice of many things to read on the wall. My favorite was a "conversation" in which four people had taken part. It read:

God Bless America!

then someone had scratched out '. . . America' and edited the message so it read:

God Bless Canada!

then someone had scratched out '. . . Canada' and edited the message so it read:

God Bless Iraq!

and finally, someone had scratched out '. . . Iraq' and edited the message so it read:

God Bless Women In Leather Pants!

Which claim would you throw your blessings behind?
Perhaps you'd take up camp with Pope Benedict and scratch out '. . . Women in Leather Pants' and edit the message so it read:

God Bless Everyone. . . except those faggots, and the jihads, and people who wear condoms, and people who say 'aboot'!

You may as well just switch it back to "God Bless America!" and save yourself the embarrassment of spelling "faggot" with only one "g", as many amateur Conservatives do in downtown washroom graffiti.

Littlest Hobo movin' on to Heaven.

This morning my mother alerted me to the fact that a dead body was found outside Steam Whistle Brewery.
Then told my brother and I we had to move home because Toronto was too crazy.
This from a woman who lives in a town were "a few good Catholics" got together and murdered the Donnelly family in the middle of the night.

I would have preferred the sentence "The body of a dead man was found late last night. . ." read, and be repeated by newscasters as:
(from the Toronto Star) ". . . in the shadow of the Rogers Centre";
or,
(the Armchair Garbageman diplomatically suggested) ". . . at the base of the CN Tower".

I fielded endless enquiries from troubled, or nosey, customers calling to ask, "Hi Brad. . . hey, what's going on?"
I started saying:
"Molson-Coors Bohemian's shittiness killed him; Molson-Coors dumped him on our lawn to throw cops off their trail";
"Bavarian Purity Act requires the sacrifice of a 45 year old virgin";
and my favorite,
"He's just sleeping, sweetie!"
Folks didn't really cotton to my brand of current affairs-based humour. I bet if they saw the same light-headed kidding about a wayward corpse on "Air Farce" or "Train 48" they'd be repeating this gold at their water cooler!

The funniest part of this whole affair, if there is one, is that the brewery played host to a party last night where all the caterers were dressed up as RCMP officers. Red surge and all! To a casual observer, it would have been the most well-protected place around, save being locked up in the hoosegow.

Perhaps it isn't that funny after all.

Hit a doll, win a prize!

My beloved works in the classiest part of town. . . if by "classy" I mean "easiest to score crack and ass with ready cash". Where could this Utopia be?
Nowhere else but Sherbourne and Gerrard.

Today on her lunch break, she witnessed a crack whore in her natural habitat (cracked out of her gourd) slowly creep across the street. She paid no mind to the traffic desperately trying to anticipate her intoxicated weaving and darting, and blatantly ignored the red hand urgently flashing away at the corner. A jaywalker on a trip all her own.

A van responsible for getting plumbers from job to job screeched to a halt, and the occupant landed on the horn.
Our little crack whore didn't even flinch.
The horn continued, much in the fashion of Toronto drivers, long and unabated, until our tiny crack whore turned and placidly extended her middle digit to the blower.
As soon as she had staggered just past the centre line on Sherbourne, the van shot past her. As it did, the plumber inside threw a water bottle at the crack whore's head.

The water bottle found its mark.

The crack whore continued to the opposite sidewalk, turned around, and began her protest:
C- "ABCD 12(mumble)GH I got your number down, an' I'm gonna call the cops."
The van was gone.

I doubt they took her threat of prosecution seriously.

Having such deadeye aim must certainly mean this plumber's walls are covered in CNE Midway treasures such as: "Van Halen" and "Bon Jovi" mirrors; pink feathers attached to a roach clip in a semi-Aboriginal manner; Toronto SUN Girls 1992 Calendar (still in the wrapper); and a large Bart Simpson doll. Great talent never goes unrewarded.

Uncle Tom's Kegger

Today I was delivering beer to a yacht club.
I know--la dee dah--I've always wanted to be a lady who lunched.
Anyway, I was wrestling with two 50L kegs on the dock (they each weigh about the same as me, so working together they had me outclassed) and this voice from behind me says:

A- "Hey, Boss, can I give you a hand?"

I turned to find that a young black fella was where the voice was coming from.

Boss?

I was overjoyed to have the helping hand, but A kept calling me Boss the whole time.

A- "This handcart is broken, Boss."
A- "The weather shor' is nice, Boss."
A- "These kegs are heavy, Boss."

What the hell? Had I stepped into "Amos & Andy: Candid Camera!"?
I was starting to feel a little like Huckleberry Finn, but I didn't know how to say, "Hey, Midnight, ya' mind not callin' me Boss? I'm getting a little bit of white guilt over here."

I watched him work with the other guys from the kitchen, and he didn't call them Boss. He did most of the work, mind you--fucking slave drivers!--but he didn't call them Boss.

To me, Boss could be the dude that gets your ass fired, or the dude that rocks Jersey--I do not appear to be either in my torn vintage Corey Hart denim jacket. So I was left a little puzzled.

When I got back on shore, I heard the CBC report that Canadian Hate celebrity Wolfgang Droege--famed for trying to start a new GTA Klu Klux Klan Chapter in the 70's--had been shot dead in the Beach. How is it that my life manages to stay so topical all the time?

As a tailnote to the CBC link: what kind of shitty neighbourhood do you have to live in where police respond to "complaints of gunshots"? If people are only mildly put off by gunshots, do the police go back to planning their Ball? If people complain too much about gunshots, do they just roll their eyes and say, "Alright, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, alright. Where exactly did you hear the gunshots this time?" (in that condescending tone that some police have mastered when speaking to certain tax payers).

The King is Dead--Long Live the King!

My Juno-nominated roommate D and I were returning from the Little Chinatown market this afternoon casually discussing whether we should have rice or noodles (or even rice noodles) with our fresh vegetables and deep-fried soy triangles, when a man with very, very few teeth headed us off.

A- "Gottalight?"
D- "No."
B- "Yes."

I pulled out a book of matches in which my fiancee and I have designed personal tattoos for one another, and separated a match.

A- "Thhhhanks."
B- "No problem."

We got very close to one another--his breath was sweet with the smell of high octane beer--and he cupped his hands around mine to protect the flame. After much wobbling on his part, and compensating on mine, we were able to light his cigarette.

A- "Youknow. . . this little whore come up to me last night (unintelligible) Come'ere!"

He gestured me to get closer, and raised his hand in a conspiratorial way, shielding D from his comment.

A- "Tell me I'm better than Elvis. Say 'Yes'."
B- "Yes."
A- (pointing to D)"I've got a witness you said that!"
B- "It was my pleasure; and, you are."

. . . better than Elvis.

Even though I didn't hear him sing, or see him swivel his hips, I knew in my gut that he must be better than Elvis. I mean, Elvis has been dead for nearly 3 decades; A smelled like he'd only been dead a couple of months.

Dangerous Kinky Offender Spotted in Posh Riverdale!

My twin brother, C, and I were riding the Rocket last night on our way to a rock concert.
We were sitting quietly, absorbing all the goodness the TTC had to offer--soaking it up before Monday morning, when it'll all be gone--and enjoying each other's company.

We're close.

I noticed an old Asian fellow seated to C's right elbow. He was dressed in a brand new, brilliant yellow raincoat, making him hard to miss. But I had noticed, long before his raincoat, the pair of handcuffs clapped on to his right wrist. Both bracelets clasped firmly to the same wrist.

I nudged C to check it out.

He started to snicker.

Dude was either ready for some freaky, KINKY shit to go down--any time, any where--or had been arrested by a Newfie Police Officer.

N- "Shor', you'll be comin' wit me now. B'y Jasus! Where the feck did that ol'Asian feller go?! An' he got me 'cuffs as well!! The fecker!"

Cold War.

One sunny afternoon I was down in the Harbourfront waiting on a bar to open up. Although the sun was pumping out rays, the temperature was easily hovering around -25 degrees Celsius, so I sought cover in an antiques shop to warm up and waste some time.

In the back, on what I assume was an antique chesterfield, an older couple lounged in the late afternoon sunlight. The old gal jumped to her feet, and spoke at once. As soon as I heard her, I knew that she was showing me some trademark eastern European hospitality. "Welcome! Welcome!" and the likes.
I unwittingly made the mistake of opening up the conversation with one of the tried-and-true workhorses of shallow conversation: "Sure is a cold one out there today, eh?"

Everyone uses that line. It's a staple. Sometimes when I meet people I open with the pat answer to the 'cold enough?' question without ever having been asked--that's how often I hear it.
A- "Hello!"
B- "It certainly is!"
A- "Isn't it, though?"

As I found out, with Siberians the weather is never, ever, as cold as it once was back in the Motherland.

B- "Sure is a cold one out there today, eh?"
S- (from over on the chesterfield)"Bah. You don't know cold."
B- "Well. . .I grew up in the snow belt. Nothing ever seems colder than those mornings I spent waiting for the bus. Ha ha ha! It might have had somethin. . ."
S- "Bah. In Siberia, it is always dark. It is always cold. Canada--winters are warm."

Sure, sure, sure. And in Siberia you had to pull your brothers and sisters to a Gulag by dogsled, barefoot, while the KGB listened in on a bug via Sputnik. The Russians are a grim people sometimes.

S- "Look at this."

The old fella gestured limply at a large painting on the wall.
It was a dramatic grey-toned work depicting a boat smashed on a rocky reef, in the shadow of some menacing fjord. In the foreground, a Russian sailor was in his final death throes.
S- "That's Siberia. That's how cold it is."
B- "Yikes."
S- "You couldn't handle it. You are too weak; Canada is warm."

Can't argue that. I wasn't about to drive Dilton, my Smart, into the Harbour and see if I could match S's portrait of true Siberian suffering at the hands of Russia's Old Man Winter. I much prefer our pussy Canadian version of Old Man Winter.

Lesson learned: don't argue the cold with a Russian--they'll always trump you. Siberia. Leningrad. Stalingrad. Those dudes have seen some pretty seriously shitty winters.




. . . doesn't really mean they should get to whine about it for decades. I mean, I've done my fair share of shoveling, and you don't see me hammering myself on a cross.

um. Do the KGB still use Gulags?

Sign of Spring

Have your groundhog, Wiarton.

The Birders can take their robin red-breast and trumpet his praises until they are hoarse.

For me, and hopefully many others in the fine metropolitan city of Toronto, Ontario, the first true Sign of Spring is what I witnessed today: a midget on a full-sized bike. Summer, my friends, is nigh. Rejoice!

You'll never know how much I wanted a picture of that little fellow cruising along, thumbing his nose at gravity--but it wasn't to be.

I suppose like all signs of spring: people don't believe it until they see it for themselves. I could see fifty robins on my parents lawn in Lucan, and Mom wouldn't think spring was sprung until she saw one herself (like I'd LIE about seeing a robin to fool my mother into a "false" spring)!
Same goes for the first midget on a bike--you wouldn't want me to spoil it for you by having a picture.


My father believes that the first sign of spring is when London, ON vagabonds begin washing their socks in the Thames River.

You be the judge.

Public is on Notice: Your Ass is Ours!

Watch out.

That's all I can say.

I just joined a Smart Car Bulletin Board!
We're going to organise, and we're going to rule this city like the Civics were never able to do.

Think you're safe in the mall?

No way.

If someone holds the door for us, we'll roll up and down the Eaton's Centre concourse causin' shit.

Think you're safe in the heart of Yorkville?

No way.

Even if Cumberland is choked with cars (as it usually is) we'll take to the narrow sidewalks causin' shit.

Think you're safe on the 401 and the DVP?

No way.

We'll be all up in your rearview mirror, causin' shit. . . so long as you do not exceed 135kms/h.

Think you're safe at your momma's?

No way.

My posse will be there, spelling each other off, showing your mom something the Postman only whispered in her ear once, but was never cool enough to try. And we'll be parked sideways on your street in all the spots your VW Wagons won't fit in.

BA-zing, bitches!


Watch for us.
Everywhere.



Keep watching--I ain't frontin'.
We'll be all up in EVERYWHERE.

Cheap at Twice the Price!

Very few people will know this, but there is a place in Toronto that prices ceramic busts of Elvis at very competitive rates.
Or so they say.

I was on Parliament St. the other day, and happened across a joint that pedals all sorts of ceramic fare--ceramic greyhounds, ceramic Big Birds, ceramic Porky Pigs--but the ceramic token to rule them all is surely the Ceramic Elvis.
They carry Him to two very nice finishes: gold lamé; and 'living colour'.
I, being a dyed-in-the-wool Elvis fan (my mum hung a grinning, guitar-toting Elvis poster at the foot of my bed when I was young), felt immediately drawn to it. The only other person I have even known to own a gold lamé bust of Elvis Presley was our childhood babysitter H--it should be mentioned that she also, as a result of an unhealthy fascination with "Gone With The Wind", named her child 'Katie Scarlet'. This is not good company with which to align yourself.
Nevertheless, I wanted it.
My fiancée is nearly as big an Elvis fan as my mother--which means that come June I must buy 2 of Carlton Cards "Limited Edition" Singing Elvis Presley Christmas Ornaments--so, I'm in effect, investing in the future.

I enter this store. I price the bust of the King of Rock'n'Roll. It's &29.99. My inner voice cries "Horseshit!". I approach the till.

B- "Would you take $20.00 cash for a gold lamé?"
A- "No."
B- "No?"
A- "We have the cheapest price in city for Elvis. $29.99 is a good price. You will not find better."
B- "Cheapest in the city? You guys are actually in a price war with other ceramic Elvis bust distributors? I don't believe you."

But A stayed firm. She argued that $29.99 was indeed the cheapest price, and invited me to find cheaper. I, as a matter of fact, know where the Ceramic Elvis bust is the SAME price (Parliament & Gerrard) but didn't feel like really getting into it by splitting hairs. I mean, if I was feeling energetic, I would have suggested she move her prices to $29.98.
I was not.

The sad thing is, I still don't have a bust of the King in my procession. If anyone happens to know where such a bust may be bought for less than $29.98--count me in!
Now that the Pope is dead, I need something to guide me.

Trouble Rode In on a HUGE Ugly Horse.

After finally summoning the courage to relate a story my mum had sworn me to secrecy over (check out an earlier post about an axe-murdering father) I find this Pandora's Box of confidential tales too difficult to close again.

At the risk of making my dear friend cross with me, I must share what I feel is one of the most perfectly comic morality tales of all time. Move over Aristotle . . . there's a new flawed individual in town.

My friend C is an actor. The type that, unlike myself, works constantly. He works hard at his craft, and is very deserving of all his success. But the glaring light of celebrity can become hot--too hot for some.

You will no doubt see where this Aristotelean tragedy is headed early on in my re-telling. For the English scholars in the audience today, I will break my retelling of this tragic tale into sections under appropriate headings to illustrate the building storm.

Tragic Heroes are:

BORN INTO NOBILITY:

C is named after a great Persian King.


RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR OWN FATE

C was cast in the CanStage Canadian Premiere production of "Take Me Out", which some folks may know is the story of a gay baseball player that contains several scenes of full frontal nudity played out in a shower.
That's right--this ain't your mother's "Punch & Judy" show.
He took the job.


DOOMED TO MAKE A SERIOUS ERROR IN JUDGEMENT

Knowing that the job called for him and not his trousers, as well as dealing with issues of homosexuality, C decided to discourage his parents from attending a performance. In pleading his case, C told his parents they would likely find the issues dealt with in the play uncomforatble; he did NOT tell them about the Free Willy aspect of the show.


ENDOWED WITH A TRAGIC FLAW

The production came and went--another success for C! And seemingly the perfect crime; his parents had not wised-up to the fact that he had been showering in front of packed houses at the Bluma, swinging around his inheritance, leaving an indelible mark on Canadian theatre history. C thought that indelible mark was the "Canadian Premiere", which is surely a remarkable accomplishment; however, it is not the indelible mark I will forever associate with the production.
The indelible mark to which I refer, was left on one fan's blog. The title subject for this man's blog entry: A Review of Penis Sizes in "Take Me Out".


Eventually, Tragic Heroes:


FALL FROM GREAT HEIGHTS OR HIGH ESTEEM

One night C's father and brother were out on the town having a few pints, talking about C's great success, and C's father, F, got nostalgic; a misty-eyed nostalgia that only drunk men experience, where all the love and emotion they bury so deep inside comes bubbling up to the surface. F decided to go and Google his beloved son's name. The first hit of his search was related to C's most recent show, "Take Me Out", and was entitled--yes--"A Review of Penis Sizes in 'Take Me Out'".
The following is what F read:

"C: Low-hanging balls with a nice tuft of public hair; cut; the most well-endowed of the entire cast; easily 4-5 inches flaccid."

Ba-zing!


REALIZE THEY HAVE MADE AN IRREVERSIBLE MISTAKE

That night, C noticed a message on his cell phone.
After his password was entered, and he hit 1 to listen to the 'New Message', he heard a familar voice.
It was F.

A rough transcript follows:
"C. It's F. [it should be noted that F used not "Dad", but his Christian name as an introduction] I think you might want to google your name and see what the gay men of Toronto are writing about you. If your relatives read this and find out that all you are is eye-candy for the faggots of Toronto, it will kill your mother."

End of message. To erase it, press 7; to save it, press 9.


FACES AND ACCEPTS DEATH WITH HONOR

Even though F's voiced sounded eerily placcid, the message was clear: I know what you did this winter, you dirty, dirty boy.
The message may have also revealed that C has a bigger slong than F; although, in the conversation that followed, the subject of penis size was not discussed.
If C knew about the penis size disparity, he would be guilty of hubris, which is another trademark characteristic of tragic heroes.

MEET A TRAGIC DEATH

C did not die--here we part ways with the Aristotelean structure of tragedy.
Unless, in an art film kind of way, his innocence died in the eyes of F.


FOR ALL TRAGIC HEROES THE AUDIENCE IS AFFECTED BY PITY and/or FEAR

That, I leave to you, Gentle Reader, and the comments function active on this blog.
I know that I, for one, will forevermore live by the following Golden Rule:

WHEN IN DOUBT, WHIP IT OUT. . .BUT DON'T FORGET TO GIVE DAD A SHOUT.

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.