Athenian Hospitality.

What on earth possessed Athenian airport interior designers to hang images of Amelia Earhart and failed early designs for personal flight systems in their cafeteria I'll never know. My lovely wife, E, who is already an anxious flyer, did not need the cold comfort of seeing a photograph of another woman who flew AND NEVER SAW HER FAMILY AGAIN. And let's face it: the pilots of those early flying machines likely had their fair share neighbours and friends saying, "Are you fucking nuts? You're going to jump off Butler's Hill with that on your back?"; the concepts inspire even less confidence today than they did 100 years ago.

Athens International Airport should have just hung a photo of the Hindenburg and been done with it.


My lovely wife also has the unsettling habit of loudly discussing the safety records of airlines once we've boarded. She became certain, once on board our 737 Agean Airlines flight to Santorini, that Agean had operated the plane that recently crashed outside Athens. She was equally suspicious of our Olympic Airlines flight to Rhodes; a suspicion which became more acute once we had started across the tarmac--on foot--and she realised that she would be taking her first propeller plane ride. Thankfully, all the souvlaki stayed where it belonged: hammering away on her colon.

More to follow.

It's all Greek to me.

To my faithful friends,

I am happy to report that my little buddy, my long-suffering fiancee E, has finally changed her monogram, as well as her status as a Miss.

Knowing her well, I am assuming that she will now be known as a Ms., and begin pulling her hair back in tight little buns, and chasing children off our Parkdale lawn with a broom.

The short and long is this: we are, and have been for over a week, in Greece. My lack of posting, though no surprise to frequent vistors, should be excused on account of the fact that Greece isn't very internet-friendly.

To whet your palette for my return, I say simply this: I gained one more mortal enemey during our travels, and will likely never be welcome to let a car from Drossos Moto Rental on Santorini ever again. If the exchange of blows, or, more accurately the dispensation of blows by one, and reception of them by another, be any gauge for the quality of the tale, then this one will be a doozie.

I have it from a reliable source that I am a "Stupid man!"--he's an expert in the field, I assure you.

My warmest.
B

Nana's got nada.

This evening I was on our front porch, smoking one of my lovely John Calich pipes, when I overheard the neighbour seeing a friend out. I wasn't prowling; it was my night off.

X- "Have a good night."
Y- "You too. . .oh! You were going to give me your record albums!"
X- "Yes. You're right. I'll get them."

X sounded like he had made some drunk-talk promise of ' You like it? It's yours.' and then thought better of it now that his buddy was nearly off his hands.
He trudged back into the house and retrieved the booty.

X- "Here you go. My record player hasn't worked in years. I suppose you'll get more use out of these than I will."

His tone confirmed my suspicion that the records had been offered in a haste now regretted.

Y- "Great! . . . Nana Mouskouri? . . .oh. . ."
X- "She's great! You'll just love her! That's nearly all of her albums from '67 until '91!"
Y- ". . .oh. . .I thought they were going to be, like, Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra."
X- "Nana's great! You'll love her!"
Y- "Thanks."

I've tried to sell friends on shit I like before (the merits of 'Sleepaway Camp 1' is something I'm continually lobbying my friends for support on) and it never works. All that happens is people go away thinking, "Holy fuck! He likes that? I don't know if we can be friends any more! I just don't know."

After the usual good byes, Y went down the stoop and over to the trunk of his car. He tossed the prized Mouskouri vinyls into the trunk like dirty gym socks, took a glance around, then pulled a bottle of Capt. Morgan's Spiced Rum out and poured a few fingers into his steel travel mug.
I shit you not.
Screwed the bottle closed, took one last disgusted look at his new Mouskouri discography, closed the trunk and drove away.

What. A. Prick.

If one of my buddies insisted on grabbing my vinyl off me, then reacted like I had handed him a shit sandwich, I would have smacked him in the chops and returned the discs to my library. The cajones on some ungrateful turds on this ball of mud never ceases to amaze me.

That being said, the Value Villages of Toronto are full of Nana Mouskouri's albums and never once have I dropped the 25 cents required to play. Anyone who gets photographed for their album cover wearing eyewear as big as Steve Allan's and still expects to get laid deserves my befuddled respect, but not my quarter.

Someone, anyone, speak something!

Last night was date night for my little E and I.
The happiest night of the week, right?

yeah.

Usually.

Last night one of the activities scheduled was something I laughingly referred to as "charity work for my fiancee" to a workmate.
It was the one, the only, Les Miserables. I bought tickets to this SOLD OUT theatre EVENT months ago so that there wasn't 6 weeks of long faces moping around the house.

It started off with a hell of a bang at THE BEST FRENCH RESTAURANT IN TOWN, Le St. Tropez. Amazing! (and I hate the French!). An apropos amuse bouche for the main event: Les Miserables.

Sitting in our seats, eagerly awaiting 3 hours of full-on, laugh-riot, French Revolutionary madness, we cooed at each other and made lovey-dovey eyes. And just as the lights started to dim, and some French peasants entered marching in time with the music, a soft male voice from behind us asked, with urgency:

M- "This isn't a musical, is it?"

Too late, pal.
He didn't need the answer; his sigh had already been drown out by Jean Valjean singing about washing away his sins with sweat.

If some dude has never heard of Les Mis:The Musical--one of the longest-running Broadway musicals, which already spent innumerable curtain calls in Toronto at the Royal Alex--then he deserves his fate without pity.
No. Don't pity him. He's already dead.

Things mom never told you about anal sex.

Never short on supply of terminally crazy residents, Parkdale pleased last night during the cocktail hour I was sharing with friends on the porch.

My twin, C, and my rocker roomie D, were tippling the good stuff when an old friend strolled by sipping from a can of Guiness. He was merry enough for the four of us.

A- (calling out to any one of the three of us on the porch)"Are you man enough to take me? The man-child?"
B- "I don't reckon we are!"
A- "I don't reckon you are, either. You callin' me nigger? I'll call you. . . white nigger!"

Then he turned his smiling menace on some pretty pedestrians walking by on the other side of the street. I imagine they crossed after hearing his exchange with us, not wishing to be a party to the loud shouting of racial epithets. He was flirtatious:

A- "Hey laaaadies! Let me spend some time with you! I promise not to put it in your ass; I don't want no fart burns on my dick!"

He looked back at us as if to say, 'Fellas, you know what I'm talking about here, don't you? Those fart burns?'. We looked back as if to say, 'Damn those fart burns!'; I hope it read from twenty paces.

A- (to D, who was puffing on a Belmont Mild)"Hey buddy! You got a smoke? No? Probably your last one, eh? Well. . . I'll share something with you. A fart. But it's not just for you; all must share it!" (and again, louder) "ALL MUST SHARE IT!"

Immediately, the mantra from my youth spent in Beavers sprang to mind: sharing sharing sharing. I even did the Beaver Tail slap in my mind. Wooooop--SMACK!
While I was daydreaming, A flitted out of sight; but he left us with his infectious energy, his love of life, and, of course, his fart. The evening, we all knew, was looking up.

Like The Littlest Hobo, he just keeps movin' on.

Maybe tomorrow. . .

Have Gun, Will Travel. . . to Parkdale.

My former-roomie/current rockstar D has been crashing with my beloved E and I in Parkdale.
Following the good form we pioneered during our childhood together, and perfected in school, we've been eating only things cooked over a fire (my Fiesta Barbeque) and drinking only things that come from a Roundhouse, or Scotland. As a tribute to our mothers back home, we always always always invite a vegetable to dinner.

And we watch movies, and documentaries, and smoke pipes, and laugh at our own jokes.

Two nights ago we were walking home from Cockbuster with three selections for the evening--Sin City; Suspect One; and Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson--although, we were disgusted with the complete absence of any 'classic' films available to rent. We had been there in search of 'The Battle of Britain'. We had been relaxing on the porch for about 5 minutes, when we heard "POP! POP POP POP! POP POP!"; then the squeal of tires; then silence.

D looked at me.
I looked at him.

D- "Did that sound like I think it sounded like?"
B- "I think so."

We were, of course, referring to the familiar song of the Parkdale Lead Lark.
No experts on the sound of handguns discharging (we grew up in the sticks were everyone had piddling little .22s) our suspicions were confirmed by the sound of sirens approaching from the distance.
A party on a front lawn a few doors down, even closer to the corner where we heard shots fired, raged on uninterrupted (or unimpressed).
When the police arrived, a few of the nere-do-wells from the halfway house at the corner were babbling away to the police officer like little kids trying to please their father:

X- "I heard a 'POP! POP! POP!"
Y- "I saw the car speed away, but I didn't really get a good look at it!"
Z- "Why don't you just let them all kill each other?"

There were no casualties.
The sobering sight of the night, was seeing officers looking for bullet casings on the sidewalk we had just come down 5 minutes earlier.
I would later refer to the evening as being filled with "just some random gunfire"--perhaps a touch cavalier on my part. I mean, in Toronto, you really need TWO bodies to raise the pulse of the citizens nowadays, don't you?
If you want it to make the news, at least one of them should be white.
Now, I'm not trying to tell shootists how to do their job--heavens no--I'm just saying.

Look who's pimpin'!

Our neighbourhood crazy--the 'born again' white man (a black man who put a white pillow case with eyeholes over his head and claimed "Now, I'm the white man!")--hit the streets again the other morning dressed in full pimpin' regalia. All I saw was billowing purple-ness. Then leopard print. Then an ostrich feather. Then--HOLY SHIT--I almost hit him with my SmartCar Dilton!

My mother always told me to wear clean underwear in case I died, unexpectedly, away from home (presumably she would change my underwear before medics arrived in the eventuality that I died at home); I hope that this gentleman wears clean platforms, a clean purple wide-brimmed fedora (with leopard trimmings), a clean purple satin robe, and a clean, brown, three piece suit when he strikes out for his early morning pimp, because if his jaywalking is habit, he'll be dead before the month is out.

Swerving and slowing to miss Mr. Bojangles, my window down, I received a bit of advice. Not the usual, "What the fuck!? Learn to fuckin' drive, Douchebag!!" advice; financial advice that went a little like this:

Mr. B- "Hey brotha! I could pimp your car to a Suburban for a dollah!"

My SmartCar. To a Suburban. That's pretty funny!

As I drove away, he yelled after me:

Mr. B- "What do you say, MoFo? Allllll-right!"

And he just kept on a'groovin' and a movin' down the lane.

God I love this neighbourhood!

And hey, if you're looking to make a little somethin' somethin' on the side with your gas guzzler to help fiance rising fuel costs--call me. Dilton's birthday is coming up, and I want to surprise him.

When two unicyles meet.

Yesterday, while waiting for the Queen's City Yacht Club tender at York Quay, I saw two kids (siblings, I believe) collide while riding their unicycles.
They were following their father, who was on a proper BI-cycle. (clearly Darwin chooses him, and not his offspring, to advance)

I was a little upset that they didn't fall into the lake, as I've always wanted to dive in and rescue something spontaneously, like in the movies. Typical male hero complex, I know; but Thunderdome needs heroes.

I don't know what possessed them to roll down through the York Quay on unicycles at that time of day--it's a real cluster-fuck with all the tourists and pigeons. Likely just showin' off.


One of my close friends took up the unicycle "to meet girls". Seriously. Believe it.

How to Do Absolutely Everything!

On two occasions recently someone has come to my blog looking for instruction on "how to miscarry".

Jeeez-us!

All you had to do was ask. Check out this Irish website for some great pointers on how to carry, and miscarry, items during a move.

Hope it helps.

Catholic a-No-Go!

I was at a wedding recently which led me to think the following unsavory thought:
I wish Catholics would burn in Hell.

I was in a Catholic Church at the time, so you'll pardon me for already being in a bad mood.

Maybe not ALL Catholics; just the ones who believe being Catholic is so cool and being Anglican is so NOT. Like the Mother of the Bride on this particular day, for example.
We were hitting a nice groove about one and a half hours (that IS NOT a typo) into the service when the Most Reverend Toothless led his flock in an intonation of "The Lord's Prayer". I was an altar boy for years and years in a High Anglican Church, and can still remember a time in school when we had to actually SING 'Oh Canada', SPEAK 'The Lord's Prayer', and READ from the Bible (a long time ago, I know)--so I take to 'The Lord's Prayer' like a fish to water. Could do it in my sleep.
But THE CATHOLICS, unbeknownst to me, have some half-assed abbreviated version that omits some of my favorite bits of Deity ass-kissing--the Kingdom, Power, and Glory stuff--and substitutes in a few moments for the Reverend to moan on about something--I don't know what--before finishing the regular way. Needless to say, I kept rolling on "The Lord's Prayer" while the rest of the parishioners fell noticeably silent.

Great.

Now everyone knows I'm Anglican. Terrific.

As if I wasn't enough of an outsider, then the Reverend Father forbids--FORBIDS--me from taking Communion. Now, to be truthful, he didn't single me out personally and say:

R- "Everyone! Come and have a bit of Christ with me! Except you, B, unclean beast that you are."

No. Instead he gets all timid, like a kid forced to apologise for saying something completely honest, yet completely inappropriate, and says:

R- "Now, in the Catholic Church, Communion is a sacred right. . ." blah blah blah ". . .and I ask that only people baptized in the Catholic Church partake."

The fuck you say?
I don't recall Jesus--a Jew--being too fussy about who He shared his wine with. Hell, He even let the dude who was to betray HIm get crunked. Why so picky now, Catholic Church?

Supposedly I could have gone up and crossed my arms and received a blessing--but fuck that shit--the reason I can't get the drinky-drinky in the first place is because I'm going to Hell for being Anglican; what on Earth do I need this guy's blessing for? So he can get some wood being close to a Devil? Bah!

So I sat it out, steaming like I've never steamed before.

AND THEN, to top it all off, during the "Sharing the Peace" part of the service (hour two) when people are supposed to be nice to each other and actually share some PEACE, the mother of the bride turns to me, shakes my hand, and says:

MOB- "Learn your 'Our Father'."

BEEEEE-ATCH! The words you're looking for are 'Peace be with you, brother.'

I know my "Lord's Prayer"; I'll learn this so-called "Our Father" when Christ falls off the cross!

I was so fit to be tied I just wanted to drown someone in the cistern.
But I didn't.
Nearly, though.

Thank God for Summer's Army!

The biggest and best difference between Parkdale and Riverdale I've noticed so far?
The Ice Cream trucks!!!
Mr. Softee! Mr. Soft Serve! Dippity-Doo! Dairy King!
No matter where I am in the house, I can hear one of those delightful gentlemen rolling down my street with their merry tune dancing on the air, floating me out of my seat and onto a sea of fancy! Parkdale's finest hour!

Riverdale, on the other hand, only had the Knife Sharpener come to visit. Hearing the tinny clang of "The Blade Runner"s bell doesn't excite the imagination in the same way visions of slush puppies and twist cones do.

Of course, I never had to fight crack whores and degenerates for a place in line by the knife sharpening truck.

Reclining Hostility

There was this old bastard sitting on his walker at the end of my driveway this evening when I returned home. He looked like he was getting ready to auction off my SmartCar Dilton's spot to the next eager CNE visitor looking for cheap parking--dirty Capitalist!
He was most certainly from "Leisure World" down the block, as only residents from the said "retirement retreat" have eyes that are perfectly void of ambition.
I stopped the Smart, blinker engaged, and waited for him to haul his ass off his walker seat and shuffle to a more convenient bit of acreage. He didn't budge.
I gave a light toot of the horn in place of screaming, "Get. The fuck. Outtamyway!"
All that did was get him to focus his thousand yard stare at the impending doom idling before him, and heave a sigh--there were no other signs of life.
I wound my window down:

B- "Hey pal! Ya mind scootin' over a bit? You've picked a hell of a place to take a break."
A- "Scoot yourself!"
B- " . . . " (blink) "Come on, give me a break, buddy."
A- "You give me a break!"
B- "I will, if you insist. My car doesn't look big or mean, and it doesn't have 4 Wheel Drive; but its driver hasn't any conscience and will keep trying until he runs you over."
A- "Show some fucking respect for the elderly!"
B- "If you don't fucking move, I'll be paying my respects to the dead! Now scram!"

He wobbled to his feet, muttering cuss words the whole time under his breath, and shuffled out of the way about as slowly as molasses in winter. I rolled up my drive and parked with no further exchange.

Now I was all riled up, and fit to hunt bears with a stick. Of all the damn days to bump into a born-again slack-jawed teenager, and I run into one just minutes before I attempt to assemble my new barb-que. Shit.

Le Mew. Le Purr.

There is a skunk in Parkdale.
Likely more than one, but I've only had the pleasure of meeting the one who lives under our neighbours porch. Perfectly symmetrical white lines down his back, with a fluffy coat coloured stealthy black--the envy of his peers, no doubt.

I think he looks like a "Kevin".

And "Kevin" let's one rip every three nights RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW. What he's spraying, I don't know; all I know is that he sure likes to cut the cheese. And I'd sure rather he didn't.

All creatures wet and wonderful. . .

. . .Parkdale has them all!

This evening, while my parents were visiting the 'Big Smoke' direct from the small town I grew up in, during a fine meal I prepared which we enjoyed on the porch, two different residents of "Leisure World" passed by.
They had both pissed their pants.
As Huggies Diapers once highlighted through demonstration: boys wet mostly in the front; while girls wet mostly in the back.

Now, sure HE could have dropped a soda in his lap; and SHE could have sat in the splashing pond near Queen St. . . but I highly fucking doubt it.

True crime is nothing like 'Ocean's 11'.

The other night, while lording over some bottles of Steam Whistle like a despot, a great idea came to me.
I won't describe the great idea--it was to involve a theft of something relatively innocuous--but I will describe my plan. It involved a ladder which I likely shouldn't have been thinking about climbing, considering how many wow-ee pops I'd had to inspire me in the first place; nevertheless, my loving E turned me loose on an unsuspecting Parkdale, and I was ready for some Pink Panthering.
This 'recipe for disastrous hijinx' had but two ingredients: the first being myself; the second being a ladder.
I had myself.
Earlier in the week I had noticed a ladder in my neighbour's back yard--PERFECT!
I now possessed all the ingredients necessary. . .or did I?

Dressed in black, not by design, I shuffled into the neighbour's backyard, grabbed the ladder, and proceeded to walk away nonchalantly. My 'just out for a stroll in Parkdale under the cover of night' demeanour (an activity which, in truth, doesn't exist--EVERYONE 'strolling' in Parkdale at night is "working") lasted only until I ran out of arm's length; then the ladder, which refused to follow, and my hands (which refused to let go) worked in tandem to bring me flat on my back.
What. The. Fuck.
Being a bit on the 'tight' side, I stood, gave the ladder a scowl, and then grabbed it and gave another pull.
Still nothing.
Pull pull pull.
Nothing nothing nothing.
I couldn't budge the damn thing, and the whole time I'm thinking, "This puny ladder's got nothin' on me!".

That's when I heard, "Hello?", followed by a bunch of whispering.

Hearing someone's voice call to me brought about the gravity of my situation: I was dressed in black in someone's backyard wrestling with a ladder. It likely didn't look too good.
I kicked into acting mode, looked towards the sky and around the yard like I was confused or dumbstruck, then zig-zagged back down the driveway.

Two minutes later I was safely in my house watching ALL the neighbours search their 'estate' with flashlights and rakes.

Two days later, while my lovely E was having a visit with her bridesmaids from the 'burbs' (who already think we'll die a grisly death at the hands of some deranged crack whore) when our upstairs neighbour stopped to tell the ladies:

G- "Now E, I don't want you to worry, but two nights ago the next door neighbours had a PROWLER. He was trying to get a ladder to do God knows what, and one of them scared him away."

E's bridesmaids eyes are larger than saucers by now.

E- (in rehearsed horror)"Oh my!"

G- "Now, don't worry, THE POLICE WERE CALLED, and everything should be okay. Just maybe keep your windows closed."

E- "Okay. I will."

Cue the bridesmaids losing their shit, only to be comforted by E stating under her breath, "B was the prowler."

Do they make greeting cards they say something to the effect, "Sorry I was prowling around your yard last night. . ."?

Polar Bear Camoflauge

It's official.
I've just finished moving into my new home in Parkdale, and already the accolades have started piling up.
Through an empirical evaluation of Spencer Ave, I have determined that I, B, am shirtless more often than any other crack whore or dementia-addled old fart on the street. The second and third floor residents have encountered me SHIRTLESS on average once a day since the start of the month. In that time they have seen me do the following things shirtless:
drink a beer;
use a circular saw;
take out the garbage;
dump waste illegally;
relax on my porch in a large round chair.

In short, I've settled into Parkdale living just fine. I'm showing some promising signs of assimilating with the riff-raff long before the chilly season, when shirts must be wore rather than tied around the waist.

How did I become such a skid?

The Proof is in the Tampon.

E encountered the total nutbar whom I paid some finger service to a few days back, and he was in full roar this time.

Days ago, when A had floated past me dressed as a bargain basement Casper and told me "Now I'm the white man," I had been disappointed. Was that all he had to say?
Some flames, I supposed, burn bright--but only for a short while.

I was wrong.

This flame is still burning.

Dressed once again in his 'white man' disguise, A screamed at my beloved E, "The white women are liars! They have white blood in their veins--WHITE BLOOD IS WHAT THE WHITE DEVIL HAS--and when they menstruate, they bleed white!! All white women are liars!!"

I was surprised that E was so forthcoming with this tale, as A had made some pretty damning statements about white women (of which she counts herself a lifetime member)--it inevitably led to some tears on my part, and some difficult questions she answered, in my opinion, far too quickly.
Questions such as:
B- "Are you a liar!?!"
B- "Do you menstruate white!?!"
B- "Are you a devil or demon!?!"

Tough, difficult questions to ask your true love. Questions I hope you never have to ask your fiancees. Tough.

And the tricky part about asking a lying white-blood-bleeding She-Devil questions to which you want answers is: You never know if you're getting the truth.

Anyway--that's between Me and E.

While this deranged man was on his screed, another half-way house philosopher weighed in on the issue, adding helpfully (and showing surprising proof that Affirmative Action is well becoming a part of our social fabric) that:

C- ". . . hey, hey, hey! Whites aren't the only liars! Blacks, Asians, Koreans, Brown People--they all lie too! Not just the whites!"

A made absolutely no indication whether he heard C's protests--cries for equity on this damn ball of mud--and continued his harangue at the expense of white women everywhere.

Myself? From one white man, to another aspiring white man: I wouldn't have been able to stomach seeing him affiliate my good white complexion and fine Y chromosome with such extremist opinions and behaviour. We white men have made painstaking efforts over the last few months to bring a fuzzy exterior to our blunt diplomacy, deceit, and tyrannical power-mongering that it does not one bit of good having one of our own breaking step and behaving like some sort of 'sexual jihadist'. It's bad for our new "Brand Image": White Men--Not the same dudes that wouldn't let your grandma vote, or your mom abort you, or your brown-faced country do their own thing!"

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.