Viet Cong & Beaver Trapper: Brothers in Arms

On this Canada Day I thought that I would share an interesting encounter I had with a fella from Vietnam one summer while I was working in the States.

Waiting in line with this Kiwi I was working with, we were kidding around and he began to tease me about being a Canuck. A Vietnamese gent behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was Canadian (and I most certainly am).

V- "You know, we two have a lot in common."
B- "Really? Why do you say that?"
V- (conspiratorial look around)"We are the only two countries to ever beat America at war."
B- "How do you. . .you mean the 'War of 1812'?"
V- "Yes. During the invasion we learned about your war, and how you were outnumbered, and how you won."
B- "Geez! Most kids in Canada don't know much about the 'War of 1812'--I'm very impressed!"
V- "We knew that if Canadians could beat the Americans, then we too could do it."
B- "Hell! We whooped 'em! The White House is white today because we sailed down to Washington and burned it!"
V- "YES! We two share a bond because of this."
B- "I appreciate that."

I've always loved that run-in, because: 1) I'm a huge War of 1812 buff; 2) I've always felt kids in Canadian schools should learn more about their short heritage in Canada--farther back than WWI & Confederation (although I think WWI is an pivotal moment in Canadian history--so is, I guess, Confederation). I mean, here we have a guy half a world away who likely possesses more knowledge, albeit for propaganda purposes, about a key moment in Canadian history than most contemporary school children.

To me, that's something to be very proud of. In a dark moment in Vietnamese history, gallant little Canada was a source of light and hope.

Totally radical!

Wisdom of our Fathers

Last weekend I helped out with a CD launch (Randy Hutchings--Atlantic Avenue--it's very good) and, of course, there was beer involved.

And once you break the seal, as we all know, you pay the price.

So, I was in the can settling up a debt when this dude strolled in, saddled up beside me at the trough, and decided to strike up a conversation.

I was wearing a nice, summertime straw fedora.
I needed to say that for the story to make sense.

A- "Nice hat!"
B- "Thanks! I'm pretty keen on it myself."
A- "It's very nice."
B- "Yup. It covers up my pattern baldness, which is swell."
A- "My father used to say, 'If you've got a good hat, you'll get great head'."

He smiled broadly. We were making a lot of eye contact for the urinal.
. . . .

I hadn't heard that expression before, but I was pretty sure that it should have sounded more like, "If you've got a good hat, you'll get A great head".

I was a bit at a loss for words; urinal discussions can be like that.

B- "Well, my father used to say, 'The hat makes the man'."

Up I zipped, splashed some water on my hands, and strolled out.
I couldn't tell if I was being propositioned or not. I'm used to the crowd in Toronto at Buddies being a lot more direct--like, explicitly direct--to see if they could make me sweat. One friend used to tell me that every straight guy was 10% gay, and he was going to find my 10%--which, after a few shots of Jagermeister, might make it up to 15%.

Regardless of what may have been implied, it's not a great 'saying' anyway. A good haircut does more than a good hat.

The Aging Boomers

Yesterday I was visiting one of my favourite live music venues in Calgary, Broken City.
The sun was out--it's golden rays warming all the lovely Steam Whistle Pilsner drinkers on their rooftop patio--and life, at that moment, seemed perfect.

Then I went back to my truck, which was parked in the alleyway, only to discover a rough looking guy pissing behind my wheels.

B- "Hey!"
A- "Sorry, buddy! But at my age, when you got to go, you got to go!"
B- "How old are you?"
A- "Forty seven."
B- "Well, to be honest, I hope when I hit your age I'm not so incontinent that I start taking slashes, in broad daylight, behind bright green trucks, in busy alleyways. You couldn't have picked a more conspicuous place to piss, pal."
A- "Yeah, well. . . you got any samples?"

I need to emphasize that while this exchange is taking place, he's still pissing.

B- "I think that you've had plenty of hydration."
A- "Bye!"
B- "Yeah."

What possessed him to try and solicit free beer from me while while standing behind my truck with his penis in his hands I'll never know.

I tried to back out extra slow so that I didn't splash any of the effluence on my lovely unnamed truck.

The Wonders of Pert Plus continue. . .

With the 21st Century phenomena of a cell phone in every hand, I've realised that social habits on the mean streets of Calgary have changed.
It used to be that if you were talking to someone, a third party wouldn't interrupt the conversation until: 1) the first conversation was finished; or 2) the third party was invited to join in on the fun.

Yesterday I was on the phone while parked in my '68 Chevy Pickup Truck (it's a very bright, Steam Whistle green) with someone who I'm not wholly familiar, nor they me, and one of Cowtown's colourful Bottle Depot crackheads approached my open window for a chat.

Now, I have a Palm Treo, which is the size of a sandwich, and is impossible to miss when it's pressed against my ear. Let alone the fact that my hand is up around my head, which can only mean two things, really: 1) I'm on the phone; or 2) I've been hit in the ear with a spitball.

But the fact that I was otherwise engaged didn't stop this admirer from interrupting my call:

A- "That's an awesome fucking truck."
B- "Yes--"(to the phone)"pardon me--yes, it sure is."
A- "What's in her?"
B- "A 350.
A- "That's an awesome fucking paint job. I'm a painter, so I know. And it's fucking awesome."
B- "I know."
A- "You know how to keep this looking like new?"
B- "Barely. How?"
A- "Pert Plus. You know Pert Plus? That shit will make your truck shine like the sun! It'll make it look so fucking hot! That green will pop!!"
B- "That's a great tip--thanks."
A- "Pert Plus. Not Sunlight or Dial or some shit. It's fucking awesome!!"

And with that, he raced off to join his buddies, who were Bogarting a joint on him.

I had to explain to the gal on the other end of the phone that my life is divided into three equal parts: selling beer; sleeping; and talking to everyone and their Uncle Kevin about my truck.

Oh--and sometimes I'm saving the universe from blond alien bombshells who are trying to take over the world by sleeping with college boys. (Look for Decoys 2:Rebirth--Coming soon!)

Parade of the Exiled Bachelourhood Brick-a-Brack!

So far the most tangible advantage of my newfound bachelourhood is that I may now repatriate some of my favourite pieces of crap!

How this stuff didn't assure my eternal bachelourhood in the first place speaks more to my dear departed E's own poor taste than mine.


Joan Collins

A stuffed crocodile? Why not? At least he died with a smile on his face. . .





Crosschecking Christ

For a guy who grew up in the desert, he sure looks pretty comfortable on skates.
Perhaps the Christians and the Jews could settle their differences once and for all with a game of shinny?

The New Holy Trinity

Santa has a lot to be thankful for--that little fella in the manger is his gravy train. If it wasn't for the Lil' JC, St. Nick would have his sleigh yolked to Irish immigrants.

Oh snap!



My most prized piece of art, "Have a Nice Day". I don't know what possessed someone to capture this particular conflict in oil and canvas, but it got me through some tough days in University. No matter how shit things seemed, I was never having a day as bad as the badger.
















. . . I've always really loved the badger's expression: equal parts of surprise and pissed off.

Never judge a book by its cover.

Yesterday, while attempting to exit one of Downtown Cowtown's most difficult street level parking lots a guy startled me by coming up to my window and poking his head in while I was tuning the old iPod to some Journey.

A- "This got a HEMI in it? Har har har!"
B- (startled to the point of prairie dogging in my shorts) "No. It's too old--it's a '68."
A- "Cool. You look like a guy who does acid."
B- "Nope, sorry."
A- (looks at me like I'm a dirty liar, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, 'What about now?')
B- "I drink beer."

He skulked away like I had stung him deep.
I've learned recently that one person can think they know someone, but they really don't.

Rectum? I nearly killed'em!

Yesterday I was walking past a falafel place in Calgary's downtown when I overheard a conversation going on between a vagabond on the sidewalk, and a dude (girlfriend in tow) who was sitting on the patio eating.

V- ". . . I've got a rectum a mile long. . ."
D- (distinct look of dismay)

I have no idea what that has to do with anything.
I would've given him some pocket change to not repeat that statement while I was eating.

He blowed up real good.

So my wife left me, and the biggest change I've noticed so far (aside from the lack of her, her belongings, and general happiness in my house) is how it's affected my relationship with telemarketers.

And let me tell you, the telemarketers and I had it good before my wife pulled the kill switch on all that.

Let me take you back to monday, and the sad duty of what I referred to as "the division of spoils". Little E, having already returned to Toronto, left me in charge of her belongings, and subsequently the two Newfoundlanders who came to move all her stuff out. I'm a natural leader, so I was happy about this.

But, and no candy-coating here, it's pretty fucking sad seeing stuff you're used to having around the house for the last 6 years stroll out the door NEVER TO BE SEEN OR HEARD FROM AGAIN! (it's also pretty fucking exciting--well, not super exciting--to be able to release all of my old ugly junk from exile). Anyway--

Just after the parade of belongings had embarked for Toronto, some poor bastard G called from "Children Blown Up By Landmines Unexpectedly Foundation" or some like-minded agency. I wasn't in much of a chatty mood.

G- "Thousands of children every year are maimed by landmines--your donation of $200 would go towards purchasing a wheelchair for one of these unfortunate kids."
B- "Sorry, I'm not flush enough right now to help out."
G- "Well, imagine this: these poor children were running and playing in the street one day when suddenly a landmine took away their freedom to be a child. Your donation of $100 could go towards giving them back their freedmon."
B- "Yeah, look, I'd love to help out, but it's like I said, G, I'm just not flush enough right now to do it."
G- "You know, most of these children have been orphaned by warfare in their--"
B- "G? G? G! I have told you twice now that I'm not flush enough to help out, okay? And I don't appreciate you pulling this sentimental manipulative 'legless orphan on a dirt floor' shit on me to try and wring out some money!"
G- "It's a serious issue--"
B- "I know landmines are bad--they've always been bad, that's nothing new--but my wife just left me! Who's going to help me out? Huh? You?"

I threw the trump card out on the table.
I couldn't believe I had just yelled such a statement, at a stranger, into the phone.
I couldn't believe that 'hanging up' didn't occur to me first.

Not surprisingly, neither of us knew what to say, so there was a laboured silence on the phone.

G- "I'm just speaking from the heart, sir--"
B- "Well, I have no heart anymore."

And THEN, only THEN did I hang up.

What kind of a line is that? "I have no heart"--what the hell is this? "The Wizard of Oz" by Tennessee Williams?

After I got over the shock and surprise of my own behaviour I realised that "My wife dumped me", as a phrase, has a lot of potential. Unpleasant company? Aggressive salesman? Drop the bomb!

'68 Chevy in Cherry Condition

Driving home on the highway yesterday a middle-aged "lady" yelled at me from the centre lane. I nearly steered into a road sign--she startled me so!

Between the highway lines, holding a fair gallop of 100km/h, the following exchanged ensued:

A- "How old is that truck?"
B- "It's a '68!"
A- (huge laughter)"I lost,"(laughing out of control)"I lost my virginity in a '68!!"

They sped off down the highway.

To myself:
B- "That's some decent mojo for my wheels, that is."

Any takers? No reason the '68 can't still work it's magic.

Coug a loo ra loo ra!

Yesterday afternoon I had the real pleasure of spending it on a golf course pouring draught beer out of the back of my truck with a good friend and lots of sunshine.

Later that evening I was asked by a blitzed-out cougar in a cowboy hat if I wouldn't mind sharing a drink and doing a duet with her of the Eagle's classic "Hotel California" with the live band (who bill themselves as a "Jameoke" band--you sing, they play).

Lo, how quickly things can change!

Putting the 'Sub' in 'urban' culture.

The other day I boarded my neighbourhood bus in Marda Loop to begin the trek downtown for a beer-related event. Good times! The sun was setting in Big Sky Country, and the evening was turning out to be a postcard perfect summer night.

I had one of my tie-your-own bowties on (one that matched the bright red sport coat I was wearing, ofcourse) and I was ready to party. The guy in the business suit across from me did not look like he was ready to party, but as I soon found out, he was "with it". Was he ever.

An absolutely stunning gal boards the bus, and all the men are stunning into silence. The kind of silence where people are even afraid to breath. She was decked out to the nines (not unlike my own dashing self) and knew it.

Once she had found her seat at the back of the bus, the Suit (A) gave me an approving smile. I took the liberty to challenge his smile with a remark:

B- "You know, thank God for summer. The Lord blesses us for four months a year where gals wear fewer layers."
A- "Word up on that one, brother! Word up!!"

Word up? Word up, brother?
You've got to be kidding me. A dude in a suit does not get to repeat something he saw on a beer commercial.

Osama ruined my tee shirt!

During Hot Docs this year--Hot Docs, incidentally, is my favourite time of year--I was catching a between-doc pita along Bloor when I saw a fat nerd take the ball passed to him by a cute girl and pop it.

The Poindexter was wearing a tee shirt depicting Yoko's John Lennon, who in turn is wearing a tee shirt that says "NEW YORK". It's a "classic" image.

The cute girl, whether she was just trying to pass time in the line or actually start a conversation I don't know, commented:

C- "That's a really cool tee shirt!"

The awkward nerd's response?

N- "Yeah. . . I bought it before 9/11--like a day before. So, yeah."
C- ". . .oh. Cool."
N- (struggling to follow up)"I only wear tee shirts, pretty much. I've got Cannibal Corpse, Pantera, bands like that."
C- ". . .oh. . ."
N- "They're all pretty cool."

The flickering ember of his virginity burst back into a roaring fire. I wish I could have been his Cirano di Bergerac and led him away from discussing his tee shirt only clause. How would I have improved upon the situation?

B (as di Bergerac)- "These guys are never going to serve us! We need to do something or we're all going to die from hunger! Let's Roll!"

It wouldn't have improved his chances of getting laid, but come on! Pantera concert tees? It would have at least amused me.

Carry On, Diana Ross!

Doing beer tastings at liquor stores is just one of my many responsibilities. I really enjoy the activity because you meet a wide variety of folks (some encounters which I have recorded here in this very blog--the most notable entry involved a Shi Tzu dog which catapulted my Google visits into the teens!). Two weekends ago I had a classic encounter.

Two admittedly gay men in ridiculously small shorts approached my booth and I plied them with some of our fine golden brew. They were in a fabulously rowdy mood, and things rapidly descended into the realm of a "Carry On ______!" movie.

Commenting on our lovely green packaging and sexy bottles:

A- "If we choose beer by the appearance of the packaging it MUST mean we're GAY!"
I told the boys I had different criteria for establishing sexuality.

They howled with glee and mentioned something about sucking cock.
I told them they were getting warmer.

The Saturday afternoon gin shoppers were getting nervous.

He was really vamping it up.

The train really came off the tracks when I invited them to try my fellow salesman Neil's beer.

A- "If there's a Bob here then this beer will have some head!!"
Huge squeal!

Neil. Bob. Head.
But it's actually a very good pun as well; beer, of course, is best enjoyed with a bit of head.

They were the highlight of my day.
They were not Neil's highlight--he's true blue Calgarian.

Decoys 2: A Real Mouthful

All in a days work on the set of "Decoys 2:Rebirth", you might say. This particular evening, movie magic took a back seat to movie petroleum jelly, as I was attacked by a beautific blond Decoy in the horrifying climax to Scene 111: Nick's Blue Balls. The latex tentacles wrapped around my arms were slimed up and tied to my wrists; off-camera an SFX guys looking much like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur, clasped to the tentacle 'reigns' while I writhed in fear. The menacing tentacle trident was animatronic, and would pinch at will. That greased-up beauty forwent passing "GO" and landed right into my mouth. I'm shy, and struggled with admitting here that the KY Jelly didn't taste so bad. (Other actors asked to execute the same intimate action needed honey applied to the tip; I'm only a gentleman from the skin out, and required no such inducement). After this, a greased-up FX performer (one of the SFX designers, Sylvania Yau) got into her latex alien suit and straddled me as I lay prone in the snow. Lying in the cold, wet "snow" (at this point, we had shifted to an indoor set) under an alien matron, covered in KY Jelly, I felt about as close to being "reborn" as I'll likely ever get. Dig the Hawaiian shirt I got to wear! And yes, that is lipstick smeared around my lips. The lipstick isn't mine. And I didn't get it off the tentacle. It belonged to the talented Lindsay Maxwell, an alien temptress I managed to outmaneuver in order to save my own skin.

What happens at West Ed stays at West Ed.

Those visiting the West Edmonton Mall--The Greatest Indoor Show on Earth (not counting my performance in the sack, which isn't necessarily limited to the in of doors)--can consult the Sea Lion enclosure's "Wall of Fame" to see none other than trusty B cozied up next to Jazz, the Sea Lion Adultress!

I am in exceptional company! My mash photo is right next to Ben Mulroney's (although he looks altogether too uncomfortable with a sea lion that close to his hair) and underneath some guy who looks a lot like Bronson Pinchot (his claim to "fame" I suppose).

Whether I deserve such a lofty accolade is neither here nor there.

What could be next? The "Wall of Fame" at Dangerous Dan's Diner, your favourite alien courtesan attempting to finish one of James' Coronary Burgers? Let's hope.
Maybe James will let me wear his fruity hat?

. . . if I promise not to smudge his Mayim Bialik autograph.

Have you seen this cruel, evil bastard?

Returning to my job as a beer salesman might sound like a harsh dose of reality after battling buxom blond aliens, but it's less arduous than you might think.

Fact of the matter is--I love my life.

Sitting at the rail of my new favourite SWP account, I inadvertently bellied up beside a total class act. Barely able to stand, the first alarm bells should have sounded when he took one look at my tweed snap-brim hat (which I love to bits) and said:

A- "Are you an Irish Catholic green beer drinking bastard?"
B- "I'm at least two out of the four things you listed."
A- blink.

Then he proceeded to explain to me the following formula. I'm going to have trouble writing it down accurately, because it made absolutely no sense.

A- "Did you watch the Oscars?"
B- "Yes."
A- "What a crock of shit, eh?"
B- "Ye--"
A- "They give out 24 Oscars, right?"
B- "No idea."
A- "They give out 24 Oscars. . ."
B- "Sure, if you say so."
A- "They do. Twenty four. And they give out 24 Grammy Awards."
B- "Okay."
A- "Now add those two together. Do it."
B- "It's, geez, 48."
A- "And multiply it by 2, for two awards shows."
B- "Easy, slow down. Uh, 96."
A- "What happens to the other 4?"
B- blinks. "What 'other four' are we talking about?"
A- "That other four. . .what happens to them? Who gets them?"
B- ". . . uh. . . who?"
A- "I don't know--but I'd like to. I'd like to get my hands on them--those four--and I'd like to win 4 Nobel Prizes as well."

This calculation, although meaningless to me, obviously meant something to him. He certainly wanted those Nobel prizes; he went on about them for a few minutes. . .until he sidetracked himself, and dropped this bomb:
A- "The Easter Bunny, he's coming around soon--that bastard!"
B- "What beef could you possibly have with the Easter Bunny? He's pleasant, well-dressed--"
A- "He never has any pants on when I see him!"
B- "Maybe because he's always crapping out chocolate eggs for children?"
A- "Yeah, hey, he gives children candy, right? Chocolates and eggs and gum, right? But what does he give the elderly?"
B- " . . .nothing, really. My mom--"
A- "--He fucking. . ."(index finger up to signify an important point)". . .eats them. Eats them whole!! Dirty fucking--"
B- "He doesn't eat the elderly! He's friendly and jolly!"
A- "That's Santa, and he fucking well does! If I were you, I'd stay the fuck away from him this year. You're getting a little old for the Easter Bunny. He's gonna put some sauce on you, and eat you up whole. . .dirty fucking Easter Bunny that he is!"

It was around this time that my friend's agitation had attracted the notice of management. Moments later, pockets out-turned, A was gone. I leaned to the bartender and said, "Dude was blitzed! Did you hear what he had to say about the Easter Bunny? Eats the elderly?". The bartender nodded; A had already told her that tidbit of information.

I wonder if it was fear of the Easter Bunny's appetite for elderly that gave Peter Pan his unhealthy obsession with youth? I already know that Michael Jackson's security entourage caught the Easter Bunny with ol' MJ's head in his mouth, all chewed to shit.

"Little Rabbit Foo Foo running through the forest! Picking up the elderly and bopping them on the head!"

Maid in Man-underwear.

Hotel living can be trying when done in long stretches; and over the last three months, I've done my share of it.
It's not that I'm crazy about making my own bed--it's not that at all! I just always feel like I'm being watched and graded. What kind of underwear does he have in his suitcase? What kind of books does he read? Is he this big a slob at home?
I have to tidy up my room and fold my towels before I leave just so the maid doesn't think I'm a piglet.

My mother used to make the bed before we left hotel rooms for the day--little did she know, that's the worst thing you can do to a maid.

Unless your twin brother C is visiting you, and when he leaves the room to let you take a nap, flips the "Please Make Up" sign on the door.

The scene:
Me, lying on top of the duvet in my underpants, mouth hanging open, dead asleep 32 minutes after playing host to my family in an Edmonton room.

I was startled awake by the feeling that someone was in my room, watching me sleep.
I was right. Some poor middle-aged maid was gaping at me, eyes like saucers--neither of us had expected to find the other, and certainly not in this condition.
She fled.
Then later slid a note under my door asking if I would kindly leave a note outside my door telling her when it was okay to come back. I didn't realise how uncomfortable the situation was until I left later that day to shoot some scenes for Decoys:Rebirth, and noticed that the tag on the door had invited the poor maid to her fate.

M- "Yeah. The guy in room 1208 is a total pervert. He was even waiting on the bed for me! In his underpants!! Pretending to sleep!!!"

Talk to the door.

There are a lot of firsts in life. First steps. First words. First kiss. First time having a woman rip a door off its hinges and throw it at you. First recital. First Communion. First airplane flight.

Perhaps I should back up a bit.

Last night, while you all slept (surely--it was around 4am) an alien babe ripped a door off its hinges and threw it at myself and a couple of my movie buddies.
To give this brand of entertaining stunt to the folks at home takes no less than three different types of doors: the real McCoy; a wooden door; and a foam door. Even upon closer inspection they all look pretty similar; so much so, that the actress who did the throwing didn't realise the door had been changed until she tried to use it.

Today I get a slimy tentacle in the face.

Weeeeeeee!

Ride Mindbender or die tryin'.

Maybe those familiar with the spotted past of one of West Edmonton Mall's brightest stars won't find the title to this post funny. But riding the Mindbender knowing that it's got a taste for blood makes the experience all the more enjoyable.

Hollywood measuring stick.

Shooting for "Decoys:Rebirth" has been going very, very well.
A couple of days ago we did a party scene at the U of Alberta campus bar featuring the musical stylings of local ska band (Mad Bomber Society) and a packed dance floor with only the best beauties Edmonton has to offer. But I felt, after submitting my character 'Nick' to rigorous dramaturgical analysis, I needed something more. Something to give "Nick" a 'third dimension'.

I asked the director for a cougar.

. . . and no, I don't mean the kind of cougar that steals babies out of splashing pools in the backyards of Southern California.
A real, "experienced" lady.

A call was put in to the casting director, and a cougar was produced.
When I met her, I tried to be diplomatic:

B- "Hi! I play 'Nick'; they've told me that you're my date for this scene. Nice to--"
C- "--I'm your 'cougar'. Nice to meet you, too!"

I can honestly say, there is no business like show business.

As I approach my late twenties, I've realised that there really is no male equivalent to the graceful transition from 'college hottie' to 'cougar'; there is just "horny young guy" and "dirty old man". I've begun my steady march downhill. Oh snap indeed.

Exterminate with extreme cleavage.

Friends and lovers,

It is a deep pleasure to tell you all that I am currently shooting the sequel to that blockbuster sci-fi horror classic "Decoys".

Not this kind of decoy:


This kind of Decoy:


Appearing in "Decoys 2:Rebirth" realises a lifelong dream of mine to perform in a genre of film that has occupied more shelf space in my voluminous film collection than any other.
A synopsis for the original chiller thriller read:

". . . college boys find themselves in a scary position when they make the discovery that some of the most lovely coeds on campus are actually aliens in disguise who are using sexuality as a means to conquer Earth"

Decoys 2, though not yet encapsulated so succinctly, might read:

". . . college boys once again find themselves in a scary position when they re-discover that some of the second most lovely coeds on campus are actually aliens in disguise who are using sexuality as a means to conquer Earth. . . only this time, fo' sho'!"

It's a much lighter take on Extra Terrestrial domination than Steven Spielberg's laugh-dry snorefest "War of the Worlds", and there is (I promise) considerably more frontal nudity. There has even been threats of my own nakedness--look for my bare barrel chest and soft milky shoulders to be tastefully lit for the sake of advancing my subplot.

As scripted, two aliens attempt to seduce me "using sexuality"--but suffering for one's art has become a hallmark of mine since receiving simulated fellatio from a man in a hot tub during the "Undressed" years. The indomitable Joel Greenberg, an acting professor, director, and friend whom I greatly respect used to tell us to "earn it" when referring to actions on the stage; after reviewing the script, I am proud to say that Screenwriter Miguel Tejada-Flores has given me the tools with which I may earn the T&A placed before me.

I promise you, in all the solemnity blogging will allow, that when I say, "She wants to jump your bones, bro--what're you waiting for?" I say it for you. . . the people who got me where I am today.

Please direct all well-wishes to my agent.

Much love,
B

"Do you heart Alberta beef, punk?"

My brother-in-law J was in town visiting and I decided there was no better way to get him into an 'Alberta state of mind' than to take him shooting.

Now try to keep your socks on, my old Ontario friends! Don't go thinking that I'm going to take the scotch off my deer hoof gun rack, take the rack off the wall, and mount it in the back window of my pick up; I'm not there. . . yet. I just wanted to show him something distinctly Western that didn't involve 'Brokeback Mountin' or throwing all my recyclables in the garbage. And since he's over 19 the thrill of a lower age of majority in the province (18 years) was lost on him--so shooting it was.

We chose the 'Dirty Harry' gun, a .44 Magnum; and an S&W .40 Cal. Very fun little pea shooters.

While waiting to get our guns, but after we had signed a waiver stating that, in the event we face the guns anywhere but down the shooting range, we release "The Shooting Edge" from any legal liability if they take us out. Dudes wear sidearms and extra clips while walking around the store. They're ready for shit to go down. Two clips worth of shit to go down. Anyway, while we're waiting this freaky looking Albino (they're all freaky looking, I suppose) starts telling some cock and bull story to the store owner:

A- ". . . I'm gonna use this to settle a score."
O- " . . . ?"
A- "I live down in Alabama, and there's this great son-of-a-bitchin' alligator which ate my dog. I'm gonna use this here gun to kill 'em."

Yes. And how does one respond to a statement like that? A statement like that from an Albino?

O- "What kind of dog did you have?"
A- "Had a Rottweiler. Damn 'gator. But I'll get 'em."
O- "How big is the alligator?"
A- "Fifteen feet--thereabouts. I don't know what that is in metric."

How thoughtful.

He packed up his gun box--the Albino has to wait a day or two to collect his handgun--and his laser sight, and left. I don't think anyone knew what to say. I'm not even sure anyone wanted to say anything, just in case the Albino was listening and came back and shot us.

I was asking our 'Ranger' how business was, and he said that when Paul Martin threatened to outlaw handguns during the election, they nearly sold out of handguns. The 'Ranger' said, jokingly, "Everyone in Calgary must have a gun now. Man, we were busy!". Thanks, Paul. You've started an arms race in suburban Calgary. All I've got is a baseball bat under my bed; how am I supposed to protect myself from my neighbours? And what about the sewer gators?!?
Fuck.
Gonna have to get me a gun.

Red means 'stop'. . . or 'blood'.

My lovely wife E loves to ski.
It's her most favourite winter sport ever.

I do not come from an athletic family.
Not even mildly athletic.
My most favourite winter sport is bowling. I can bowl like the devil.
5 or 10 pin, it don't matter to the Jesus.

Living within spitting distance of the mountains now means that every morning when I wake up, my lovely wife reminds me that we should go skiing. Because we're "soooo close". When I lived close to 'Jilly's Gentlemen's Club' in Toronto, the same logic did not follow.

I relented last weekend, and while waiting for my ski lesson to begin, my lovely wife came to visit me--I was sunning myself on a bench, soaking up the 'good life'. I stood, like all gentlemen should, to greet her. She was still coasting along on her skis, and moving fast enough that, if left to gravity, she would have slid right past me. To make sure that no such affront was made, so stuck her ski pole out in front of her, like a lance, and stopped herself in a timely manner by jamming the ski pole into my crotch.
Not my thigh.
Not my stomach.
My balls.

Suspiciously, this act followed close on the heels to a discussion we had after watching a reality programme featuring families with little Holy Terrors, wherein she said, "We are--I AM NOT--having children."
Well, darling, not if you keep that up.

Don't give me the Conch!

It is baffling to me how I became the #1 Yahoo Search result for:
what can I do when i don't feel appreciated by my girlfriend?

The fact that I successfully navigated my girlfriend from sinful living into a marriage proves nothing.

My advice?
1) Dutch Ovens. Do them often, with no apologies.
2) Get "caught" giving yourself some "appreciation" (read: jerking off).
3) Cry for no reason and, when asked, tell her "It's nothing. Nevermind."
4) Kill her pet--grief can bring people together.
5) Leave an MSN conversation window open on her computer wherein a user named "Kitty_80" constantly says, "LOL! You are so FUNNY!!"; "That's a great picture of you! ;)"; and "I can't believe that you gorilla slammed that midget at the bar the other night!!"
6) Pretend to be talking on your cell phone, and when she enters the room start laughing until tears come to your eyes, spot her, and tell the person on the other end, 'Gotta go'. Then hang up.
7) Buy a Pilates DVD and start doing it at her place religiously.
8) Bake yourself cookies and don't share.
9) Give her the finger while she sleeps, just to blow off some steam.
10) Send yourself a mock-up 'Boyfriend of the Year!' certificate and open it in front of her. Then say, in your most withering tone, 'This certainly couldn't be from you. . . does your mother have my/our address?'

This may give the under-appreciated males woefully searching Yahoo a much needed shot in the arm.

. . . Mail Order brides from 2nd and 3rd World countries may also be the answer.



With the popularity of Brokeback Mountain girls need to remember that in the 21st Century guys have choices. So always remember that YOU'RE A WONDERFUL INDIVIDUAL. . .no matter what a stinky girl thinks of you!

Can't Fight Fate

Question:
Where do you not sing along with Taylor Dayne's "With Every Beat of My Heart" while wearing a beret and buying NY Cheesecake with a pink tube of 'writing icing' and bananas?

Answer:
In line behind two dudes buying steak in a downtown Calgary Safeway next to Stephen Harper's riding.

Stopping mid-conversation to turn around and look at me, the only answer I had for them was:

B- "This was an awesome single."

I don't know why I was wearing the beret, but it didn't help diffuse the situation.
It "Ain't No Good".
It was no "shelter" for me.



New EP in '06, biz-atches. Dayne touch this!

A face only a mother could love.

I make faces at babies. Can't help it. I'm a baby face maker.
Always have been.
Always will.

Once I encouraged a kid on the 504 King Streetcar to mimic my monkey face (bending my ears out with my fingers, crossing my eyes, and sticking my tongue out in a crescent shape) and the poor little bastard got in big trouble for sticking his tongue out at me.
And he wouldn't stop.
He kept sticking his tongue out and trying to bend his tongue into a crescent with his fingers and his mother kept smacking his hands away from his mouth and telling him to "Stopit!". No sooner did she let go of his grubby, slobbery hands and they were up mushing his stuck-out tongue in half.
The kid had moxie, I'll give him that.

The other day I was with my lovely wife E, and an opportunity to pull a face at this infant in a stroller came up, so I took it.
I shouldn't have.

There I am, mugging away like a Christmas Panto champ, and I hear:

M- (whisper whisper)
F- "Excuse me? Hello? Hello? Hi."

I look up, eyes still crossed, to face two very uneasy parents. The father looked like he was ready to throw down.

B- "Sorry. I''m a baby face maker. Ha ha ha!"

No response.

B- "Sorry."

But what really hurt wasn't being looked at like I was some kind of lurking pervert--the kid didn't even smile once.
Tough crowd.

1st Place Dick

The other night my lovely wife E and I were taking in the open mic night at Karma (a very cool little art house bar in Calgary's uber-hip Marda Loop) when some muscle bound tool--wait, I'm getting ahead of myself--when some guy with a crew cut came in with his girlfriend hanging off of his arm. Did I mention he was wearing a medal.
Out to the bar.
A medal.
Around his pickle barrel neck.

I was dying to know: 1) what the medal was for?; and 2) what on Earth possessed him to wear it to a bar?

Thankfully beer has always provided me with enough courage to be so brazen as to ask strangers wearing medals exactly what I should be celebrating them for, and this evening was no different. The owner of the bar was sitting nearby our "hero" and I stopped to ask him if he knew why A was all glamed up in gold medalions. He didn't, but shared my thirst for knowledge and encouraged me to go forth and ask.

With so many people counting on me, I plunged into A very intimate conversation with his girlfriend, G, and asked:

B- "Sorry to interupt, but I noticed when you came in that you were wearing a medal. Mind if I ask what you got that bit of hardware for?"
A- (wondering if he should punch the grin off my face and onto the floor)"You can ask. . ."
G- "--it's mine! I won it in a marathon! He put it on at my place--I don't know why. "
B- "Oh! So you're riding on her coattails!"
A- (clearly not pleased at my implication that he couldn't have done it on his own)"What's your name?"
B- "Brad. What's yours?"
A- "Scott. What's the date today?"
B- "The 25th--if these are going to get tougher, I want the medal."
S- "One year. One year from today I'll have my own marathon medal--BUT, you got to do it too. We'll meet back here, one year from today, and if you don't have a medal for running a marathon I get to kick your ass!"
B- "I'll be here!"
S- "And if you don't have a medal, I get to KICK. YOUR. ASS."
B- "Tell you what--I'll be here, but if I can't win a marathon I'm going to work out so that you can't kick my ass. Fair?"
S- "Shake on it."
B- (shakes pudgy hand)
S- "One year. I get to kick your ass. You better be here!"
B- "I will be. But don't get your hopes up about kicking my ass. I'm going to work out--pump iron. I'll be ready."
S- "One year."
B- "One year."

The owner was killing himself laughing. This dude Scott was a total pilon.

Thing is, I never got a satisfactory answer to my original question: why on Earth did he think wearing a medal to the bar would be cool? I mean, I only know of a handful of guys that could pull that kind of shit off, and they're all in the photo below:

Don't bother checking; Scott isn't there.

Men are not created equal.

I have made a number of new friends out here in Cowtown; some of them totally awesome, and some of them opened their conversation with me like this:

S- "Hey Brad! Good to meet you! I just got done directing some porn--sorry I'm a little late."

He wasn't late at all.
Some segue.

S then went on to describe to me how to win a fight in a pool hall, as he had done, by using a splintered pool cue to break a man's collar bone. Or bones. He made two karate chop motions, so he must have really done a number on the guy.

S is nearly 5'5", and the best part of 175lbs.

He was also with John Lennon the day he got his hair cut when the Beatles broke up. And introduced Rock and Roll to Denmark. Yes. The whole country.

There will, no doubt, be more to say about S in the future.

Anyone else have friends they'd like me to look in on?

There's a worm in my Apple.

So. . .my beloved iBook Gord has been sick, as I have mentioned.
Well, last night, while performing a simple work exercise to get it back into shape, my little buddy expired. There were no friends or loved ones at his deskside during the final moments. He was discovered by a technician this morning who quietly folded down the screen and unplugged Gord's power cord.
Then I received a telephone call, one that no computer owner ever wants to get, informing me of little Gordy's passing.
The Tech could have at least drove a black Cadillac over to tell me.

This final, gruesome, turn of events follows close on the heels of a phone call I made to Apple Canada to complain that FileVault was the reason why my iBook had been so sick. The end of the phone call:

A- ". . .so, it's a software problem, and if you recall in your agreement, software is not Apple's responsibility. We would recommend you not use FileVault, as there are issues with that programme."
B- "I realise that. Everyone is telling me that I shouldn't use FileVault. Why is it on the bloody computer if Apple is advising me not to use it?"
A- "In some situations it is an appropriate application."
B- "Do you guys use it in the office?"
A- ". . .no. We've been advised not to."
B- "Aha. So, can Apple do anything to compensate me for the large service bill I'm about to get?"
A- "As I said, I'm sorry, but Apple doesn't cover software issues."
B- ". . .so, you're telling me, basically, to go sit on a tack?"
A- ". . .um. . .I guess."

FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!

So now, as the second month of B's Computerless Existence begins, Apple agrees with my boiling down of the situation, and THANK GOODNESS all that is left in my home office is tacks!
The guys at MyMacDealer in Calgary have been fantastic, mind you. It is through their diligence that the hard drive fault was discovered. Some time next week Gordy should be reincarnated into Robogord. Rebuilt. Better than before. Part Gord. Part warranty hard drive. All mine.

Put seat in the upright position.

My computer has been in the computer hospital since December 16th.

The delay is not the computer's fault; the blame for this protracted illness lies solely upon the shoulders of my certified Mac service team member, S.

My lovely wife E and I were up in the City of Champions sniffing around, and found ourselves at the doorsteps of a Chili's Restaurant. Yes. The same Chili's who employed N'Sync to sing "I want my baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs!".

In the middle of dinner I had a pretty serious lapse of wits and suddenly dropped my fork and reached down to my lap to fasten my seat belt. E wasn't quite sure what the hell I was up to, and to tell you the truth, neither was I. I regained my senses in the middle of searching the bar's bench seat for my lap belt just in time to see my wife quietly asking herself if she made the right choice in marrying me this past October.

Why it happened? I can't say. The Smokey Chili Cajun Chicken Something-or-Other wasn't that awesome.
In fact, it wasn't awesome at all. The only thing I can think of, is that the bar's bench seat reminded me of the bench seat in my new ride--a '68 Chevy.
So sexy. Dual chrome exhaust. 350 Engine. AM/FM radio. We're thinking of calling it: Betsy (E's choice); Lucky (B's choice); or Betty (our compromise). Any feedback would certainly be appreciated.



I'll be back in the swing of things once my computer gets it's shit together.

Rolling in his manger.

*a high five from Jesus was the best Christmas present anyone could even hope for!

I was Christmas shopping and not Holiday shopping today because I'm a little Irish Anglican. I made the mistake of wishing a store clerk who looked about as WASPy as myself a "Merry Christmas!"; the clerk retorted "Happy Holidays!"
I fumbled around for an apology, and said that I hoped I hadn't offended by wishing him a Merry Christmas.

A- "Oh, no worries! I celebrate Christmas!"
B- "Oh. I thought that since. . .you know, Happy Holidays. I thought maybe you celebrated a different holiday."
A- "Nope."
B- "Okay! Good. Merry Christmas, then! Again!"
A- "And Happy Holidays!"
B- ". . .yeah."

I get the whole Christmas vs. Holidays fiasco. I have friends who celebrate all kinds of things this time of year--Hell!--I've got friends who celebrate Christmas and don't particularly fancy Christ! But is it so wrong, from one Christian to another, to exchange a wish of 'Merry Christmas' in public? Does my language always have to be inclusive? I mean, I say 'Happy Birthday!' out loud, in public, even when I know that not everyone in the bar is celebrating a birthday.

Perhaps I'll start saying, "I'm having a Merry Christmas!" and then look to the sales clerk for a response of "And I'm having a Merry Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus/Winter Solstice myself!" Sharing can be fun.

The Beef on the Feds

People who are confused by federal politics need only look as far as Table 12 at my local A&W Restaurant for clarification.
It is preferable that any who attend the A&W tutorial have no existing opinion on anything, read at a Grade 6 level, and like icy cold mugs of root beer.

I sat close enough to overhear a Father and sometimes pundit explain, with the aid of The Calgary Sun, the current state of Federal politics to his eager-to-learn pre-teen daughter. Like most loyal Sun readers, he was only looking at the pictures.

F- "This is Paul Martin. He's the Prime Minister right now, but not for long. He's done a lot of lying. We don't trust him."
D- "Why?"
F- "Because he's done a lot of lying. This is the New Democrats leader. If he's elected, he'd give all our money--like the money for your Christmas presents--to poor people."
D- (silent horror)
F- "I don't remember his. . .Jack Layton--that's his name. I think he's married to a Chinese lady."
D- (silence--maybe confusion, because there are no Chinese in all of Alberta)
F- "Stephen Harper--our guy--is the Conservative Leader. You know that Mom and Dad and you are Conservatives, right?"
D- "Yeah."
F- "If he wins, hopefully things will get better for us out here--we'll get more of a say. Remember what your favourite colour is?"
D- "Pink!"
F- "And? What's the colour of Dad's tie?"
D- "Blue!"
F- "Right! Want to know anything else?"
D- "No."

So. There you have it. This poor girl just had to know more about the election, and dear old dad filled her in.
After this short lecture on politics, F turned to his onion rings to rebuild his strength.

D- "Are we fighting any wars right now?"
F- "No. The Americans are."
D- "Why?"
F- "Because. . . Did you have fun shopping for Christmas presents for Mom tonight?"

Without the assistance of pictures his wellspring of knowledge had dried up. The Father employed, perhaps unwittingly, the classic American strategy of Distraction to get himself out of a tight spot, while saving face for not really having an answer.

God, I love my new hometown!

A beer for me, and one for the biggot.

This afternoon I spent it, as all good salesmen should, sipping beers around town trying to drum up business and rapport with the staff. I affectionately call it "Rotating the stock".

Bellied up to the bar at one of my new "locals" I met a postman trying to drown out the cold Alberta Clipper that has gripped my new fair city. We started talking.

Was I from England?

No. (I get all kinds of wild guesses at my accent. In truth, it's really like Ottawa Valley crossed with East Coast; don't ask)

Did I like SW beer?

Yes. It's a hobby turned occupation for me.

What did I think of Calgary?

Very nice. Exceedingly friendly.

And that's when the veil started to slip.

A- "Well, you'll see. It's not that friendly. I was born in Tilsonburg, and old timers still rag on me for being from out east."
B- "Sheesh! How long did you live in Tilsonburg? I'm from close by those parts. My father used to listen to 101.3 Easy Listening all the time in the car. Drove us nuts."
A- "Three years. We moved to Calgary when I was three."
B- "And the old timers still consider you 'from out east'?"
A- "Yup. Alberta's rich. The richest in Canada. They hate sharing their fortune with a country that doesn't give them anything in return."
B- "Well. . . . I hope they aren't too hard on me."
A- "They will be."
B- "Oh."

Here comes the bomb.

A- "You'll find that Albertans are pretty conservative."
B- ". . . "
A- "My wife and I, we're pretty open-minded; we have niggers as friends."
B- "! ! !"

I shit you not. He tried to candy-coat his statement by lowering his voice when he said "niggers", but there it was. Like a shiny new bike he'd been dying to ride all winter! I gawked at him. Dropping the "N" word is like having a naked dead baby lying in the corner and trying not to talk about it. But when you think you should maybe mention it, you have no idea where to begin. He let me off the hook.

A- "Hey, we call them that in front of them--they don't mind! I mean, that's what they are. We get along great!"
B- ". . .what do you do for a living?"

Cross burner? Hate-monger? Jim Crow advocate? Grand Master?

Postman. A sub for folks who call in sick.

It should be said that EVERYONE else I met today was exceedingly nice, and didn't bring up gooks, wops, chinks, limeys, retards, midgets, crackers, faggots, or dykes--much to my relief.

Aloha Stranger!

Yesterday I attempted to do laundry for the first time since leaving Toronto.
Yes.
I did have to recycle-wear a few things in my small suitcase in order to make it this far. It would have been easier if my lovely wife hadn't needed her suitcase, which, God forbid any police are reading this, is big enough to pack her entire body in.
Not that I would.
But I'm warning her: the cooking better improve!!

I was excited at the idea of fresh clothing, but couldn't operate the machine. It's an old decommissioned coin-op which required a "trick" I didn't know. So I went and knocked on my new basement neighbour's door. My overweight, slightly deranged neighbour who has elected to live in a basement apartment for 20 of her last 60 years. Who the fuck does that?

M- "Just a minute!"

She answered the door in what once must have been her favourite pair of black jogging pants; now, a shadow of their former self, the jogging pants were more consistent with what I know to be 'beaded curtains' than athletic wear. I use the world 'athletic' loosely. I should, as a hilarious pun, instead write 'athletic where', for there was little evidence that the jogging pants were there (and greater evidence of thigh, than I would have liked).

She was very helpful, and showed me the 'trick' with her free hand; the other hand was trying, in vain, to clutch enough material to make a veil, for modesty's sake.

After telling me not to worry, that she was a severe epileptic, and that if I discovered her lying in the hallway to go about my business (so long as she wasn't bleeding or in immediate danger), she dashed back to her room.

M- "I wasn't dressed when you knocked!"

I resisted calling back, "You still aren't!"

Move over Manitoba!

To illustrate how friendly Calgarians are, I submit this brief anecdote.
I was in 8th Street Sushi, and struck up a conversation with the owner while he busied himself making my lunch box special. We ventured onto the subject of my house hunting, and I told him that I had scored sweet pad in Marda Loop, to which he replied:

S- "Hey! Marda Loop? I got a buddy who lives down there; he's in pharmaceuticals. I should get your number so he can give you a call. You guys could get together for a beer!"

Here I am, some random dude that has walked in off the street, and the bossman is trying to hook me up with a new friend!
I could be an axe murderer on the lamb!
This isn't the first time I've had mutual friends forced on me; it's happened likely 6 other times since I've been here.
People just look at you, and if they think you've got a trusting face, they offer up their friends to you.
Wild.

But I like it!

Never bring your fists to a phone fight.

I just realised that I never elaborated on a tale from our honeymoon which was hinted at several posts back. It was in regards to an altercation I had returning a defective Smart car to Drossos Moto Rental on Satorini (specifically, in Oia).

I know how Smart cars are supposed to ride. I piloted one of the first Smart cars in Canada, my beloved Dilton, every day for a year. So when we E and I were driving home through a winding mountain pass after sunset with no dashboard lights apart from this one:



Coupled with the poor handling and funny noises, I had my suspicions that we would plunge to our death.

The next morning I decided to go and confront the good shopkeeper about his wares, and ask for a rebate on my rental fee. The AC didn't work, the airbags didn't work, the car handled like a goat, and the dashboard was but a memory as soon as the sun went down.

I brought up the issues with a large Greek man whom I assume to be the owner, and he categorically refuses to believe any of my claims. He even goes so far as to say that the airbag light, the ever-present beacon of death, is actually a seat belt light.
To prove this, he gets in the car and fastens the seat belt.
I insist that, having my own Smart car back in Canada, I know that light to mean "Airbag no workey"; why else, I ask, would the stick man have a large orange in his lap?

More resistance, and then finally, he just walked away.

But before he did, he told me that I was "a stupid, stupid man".

I was getting a little steamed. I pursued the issue back at the reception desk. And pursued it. And pursued it.
Until finally he blew out of his chair like a hand grenade had gone off behind the desk and bellowed, in a long monstrous roar, "GET OUT!"

In my line of work I've had to deal with a few Greek business men, and if there's one thing I've learned about them, it's that they love to yell at you. This behavior used to scare me, and sent me running to the hills slipping in my own shit; but I'm out of my training pants now, and know that it's all talk.

Usually all talk.

Sure, I stood my ground, much to his amazement. I even rose to the occasion, roaring my own, "GIVE ME A REBATE! THE CAR IS UNSAFE!"
I also got to use, for the first time, "My wife was in that car, and you deliberately put her in harm's way!"

It was then that he picked up the phone to beat me. I rightly guessed he was bluffing, and stood my ground.
He rounded the desk, put his fat gut and 6'3" frame tight against mine, and bellowed, "GET OUT, YOU STUPID MAN! GET OUT!" No movement on my part. Steely stare. Then, "I'll CALL THE COPS!!"

Well, he did have the phone in his hands, and since he pussed out of beating me with it, he might as well use it.

B- "FINE! I'd love to tell them about how unsafe your cars are, and how poorly you've treated me!"

It was then that he tied to beat me with the phone for a second time. This time, he actually started to swing the phone at my head. While I braced for impact, he ran out of telephone cord, and the phone shot out of his hands and landed on the floor behind the desk.
Having failed at beating me, we decided to push each other around a bit. I"m 5'10", and not more than 135lbs. holding my marble collection, so the struggle was pretty one sided. I can't say that I gave as good as I got; but I gave as best as I could.

Desperately enraged, he picked me up off my feet in a big bear hug, crushing me with his strength, and threw, yes, threw me out the door.

Did I mention that this whole time an Aussie had been waiting patiently in a chair to rent a car?
Yeah. He did nothing. Up the Anzacs with a rubber hose!

Once I landed on the cobblestone outside, I was fit to hunt bears with a stick. We spouted off at each other, him all the while calling me names; myself, all the while, protesting that he could have killed my wife. I finally cracked and said,

B- "Why is that I'm the one with the complaint, and you're doing all the name calling? You know what? Fuck you!"

A lady shrieked, "Don't say that! He's a Greek man! He'll KILL you!!"
I shit you not.

He didn't kill me.
I didn't get a refund.
The Aussie DID rent a vehicle.

My lovely wife E? I turned up at poolside, broken sunglasses on my face, to her reading a book and having a drink.

E- "WHAT? What happened to you?"
B- "This Greek guy tried to beat me with his phone."

And now you know, the rest of the story.

Calgary in a nutshell.

I realise that every single pissy little town in the Maritimes, the Midwest, New England, and Northern Ontario boast:

"Don't like the weather? Wait 15 minutes and it'll change!"

Har har har!

Those people are all bullshitters. The only place in the world with weather that can turn on a dime is Calgary, Alberta, Canada.
One minute,
sunny, clear skies, 18 degrees celsius.

53 seconds later. . .
cloudy, snowing, -16 degrees celsius.

This Calgary Chinook is more temperamental than a two year old on crystal meth.

My new expression is:
"Experiencing nice weather while it's snowing on your friends and family in Ontario? Wait 53 seconds, or be forced to eat your words, Showoff!"

The milk's gone bad.

Hoo boy.
So I'm going to wobble through the finish line with a Meme I hadn't noticed I was tagged for by talk talk talk looking nearly as pathetic as those marathoning types who believe that 'just finishing makes me a winner."

The Meme rules require me to find the 23rd post of my blogging career, and seek out the fifth sentence.

Ah yes. One of my very favourite posts about a man named Kottaris--I think his first name was 'David'--he, or someone close to him, used to google his name constantly for more information, lifting my hits preciously close to 8 a day!
Mr. Kottaris got drunk, began sexing up a cow in Riverdale Farm, and was taken into custody only after he had made bedroom eyes at a horse and clunked a Riverdale employee on the head with a beer bottle. Remarkable man. Remarkable life.

On to my appointed task:
"I wonder if this is what Stompin' Tom would call a 'Thunder Bay Thursday Afternoon'?"

Having just been through the T-bay recently, I can say without hesitation that people there have the good sense to fuck their cows and horses at night, not mid-afternoon. Think of the children! Would someone please think about the children?!

James Bow set the bar higher by writing some piece of fiction to go along with this meme relic. Great idea.

Money for Nothing, and the Milk for Free

B & C sat in jail.
Their shoe laces, watches, hemp necklaces, and belts had been confiscated by Thunder Bay's finest.

C- "A lot of fuss over a little animal buggery."
B- "Mmmmm."
C- "Did you see the sign?"
B- "Hmm? What sign?"
C- "The one about 'absolutely no sexual activity in the field'?"
B- "No. I'd be surprised if a sign like that actually existed. I think--"
C- "Well that's our out then! There were--"
B- "--I think it's implied."
C- ". . .really? Implied?"
B- "I think it might technically still be illegal."
C- (pause)"That's a bit Draconian, don't you think?"

. . .

C- "What about consent? That cow looked at me in a very consensual way."
B- "Consensual--what? The cow looked at you in what? a consensual way?"
C- "Yes. A very consensual way."
B- "You can tell that to the judge; I'm pleading guilty."
C- "You do that. You can rot here in Thunder Bay for the next 30 days for all I care! I'm fighting this!"
B- "What happens if you say 'The cow consented, in a very consensual way' and the judge asks you how old the cow was?"
C- ". . .what?"
B- "And the farmer says that the cow is 3. That's practically veal. Then you're up for statutory rape of a farm animal. That sounds worse than bestiality in my books."
C- "I didn't think of it like that."
B- "Yeah. Well. Why don't we just sit here quietly and wait for this whole embarrassing affair to get over and done with?"
C- "Okay."
B- "I mean, it's bad enough they have us on suicide watch."
C- "Yeah."

. . .

C- "Isn't this what Stompin' Tom called a Thunder Bay Thursday Afternoon?"

. . .

C- "I mean, I think we've been misled. I'm sure that's a song by Stompin' Tom! Sure of it!"

. . .

C- "That old fart should be here instead of us. Liar."

the end


Surely that's offended so many of my readers, that I'll get the flag and finally be left to my own devices.
I'd love to Meme others, but I doubt anyone is left. Or will talk to me.

Just be thankful I didn't compose a story about Kenora Sunglasses.

Bingo Bango

An election is in our future, and Joe Clark heaves a sigh of relief (misery loves company)

Now I'll get to see the true nature of my new hometown: Calgary. If a Federal election doesn't make this town go "pop!" I'll eat my new cowboy hat.

Who knows, by this time next year, I might be living in a whole other country called "Alberta"?

I hope not. My mother will have a fit if I'm living in other country.

Thin mountain air goes straight to my head.

Look, I don't know what's happening to me, but today marks the second straight week of me arriving in the lobby of the Sandman Hotel Downtown Cowtown only to discover that:

I'm flying low;
My barn door is open;
The Buick is hanging out of the garage;
The cucumber has been tossed from the salad;
Mr. Wang! Now seating a party of one!;
Rain caused the worm to come up for air;
It's getting breezy;
I've had a wardrobe malfunction;
The pig's out of the pen;
The Rooster's flown the coop;
The elephant is cooling off in the trouser Savanna;

and finally, as a self-serving nod,

I've accidently revealed where Saddam has been hiding his Weapons of Mass Destruction.

I think that the guys at the front desk are getting suspicious. Each day I enter the lobby, mock surprise (because I'm not surprised after two weeks), and face a pillar to pull myself together. Once I did this at the END of my workday.

I must be losing my mind.
Please tell me Reagan didn't start his slide in the abyss by showing up at State dinners with Bonzo's banana falling out of the tree.

Everything's cool--Dad's hip to it.

I just had a Yahoo search of:
"fart during the anal sex"

Does this old bugger listen to "the rock and roll", do a little of "the marijuana" while having some of "the anal sex" all the kids seem to be having today?

Next search:
"teeth fall out during the anal sex"

Yanksgiving Special: Turkey

I can't decide if the guy I saw tonight was someone I would want as my boss, or not. He was pretty "full on".

Sitting in the M Bar of the Sandman Downtown, I was treated to the worst spectacle of employee dismissal I have ever seen. Not having seen many of them (speaking from the perspective of a model employee) I can't say my statement holds a lot of water; I will, however, allow the public to decide whether or not I witnessed a holocaust of employer decorum.

He was drunk when I took my usual seat for dinner.
"He" being a boss in his late 50's who sat beside a young lady who seemed to be making painful attempts at polite conversation.
I learned, by eavesdropping, that she had just been canned; her hands were folded over a manila envelope containing what I assume was her "golden handshake". He boss, however, was making very affectionate, very drunk, overtures to her. Touching her. Consoling her. Telling her how lovely she was, and how he always thought, even for an employee, that she was special and lovely.
He was even creeping me out, and I didn't have to sit next to him and keep saying, "Well, thank you. This should be a good opportunity for me. I needed a change."

What took the cake was when he asked his former employee if he could borrow her phone to call someone to pick him up: he was soused.

Holy crap.

She let him. She let him burn her fucking airtime minutes to find someone to pour him in a cab.
The surrogate had no sooner arrived, when she "what a privilege" and "I need a new adventure"'ed her way out the door. The surrogate, another female employee (or trophy wife) escorted bossman to the John. He was so bombed that there was no way he was navigating himself there on his own two feet.

I have never, EVER, seen something so painfully inappropriate in my life.
Having said that, had I been in her shoes I would have found better topics for small talk than she managed to muster, such as "So, you ever tried a Hurtz Donut? No? You want to?"

Glory Hold unnecessary.

Yesterday afternoon, immediately following the Calgary Santa Claus Parade, I stood beside two girls having a conversation that would have perhaps been more appropriate with fewer children around.
I hope I'm not becoming a prude.

A- "Lucas, he's from India, and he knows this breathing technique that allows you to give a blowjob and breath at the same time!"
C- "Really?"

What being from India has to do with this special talent, I haven't a clue.
What I do know, is Lucas would probably make a hell of a didgeridoo player.

If this is true, it puts to rest the old barroom joke of "breathing through the ears"; clearly, that's not necessary if you know Lucas.

Mohawk'ed driver, no survivor.

Last night, while walking home from renting some movies and buying some Nibs, I looked across the street and saw one of the biggest mohawks of recent memory.

Kids don't seem to do much of that sort of thing anymore. Soon, my children will only be able to learn of the mohawk from Police Academy movies. . .but I digress.

The Mohawk was pushing a comparatively more subdued punk in a wheelchair; they were both trying hard too look as if they didn't give a shit about the world. The Mohawk, who was "driving" should have given more of a shit about pushing his buddy in the wheelchair, because just after I looked away, I heard a cry of "SHIT!". I turned back just in time to see the wheelchair (and its passenger) racing down the sidewalk leading underneath some train tracks, and without it's driver.

I immediately thought, "Oh snap."

The wheelchair clipped a part of the retaining wall, and ejected its occupant onto the sidewalk. Life had suddenly become a lot less "devil may care".

Dude on the ground was okay; we got him back in the saddle, no harm done. His ejection had gone much smoother than Goose's.

Which I think gives me permission to laugh.

Rainbow Ejection.

Yesterday afternoon I went to the "Chick Pea" for lunch, even though I had, while in Greece, sworn off souvlaki as a sign of solidarity towards my lovely wife.

In Greece, they only eat souvlaki. Nothing else.
Well. . .maybe goats tails--but nothing else.

I broke our unified front against souvlaki, sure, but that's between her and I and no one else.

Sitting near me were two gentlemen, both whom I had stood behind in line. One had never had souvlaki before, and the other one had appointed himself as "expert" on the subject of Greek cuisine. The "expert", E, quickly exhausted his knowledge of Greek food when faced with a barrage of questions from the Greek virgin (ooooh! Naughty!). V pointed at nearly everything in the joint, asking "What's that?" or "What's this?"; E didn't have all the answers, though wouldn't admit it, and began giving vague responses that trailed off--I think he was hoping that a server might interrupt him with a sharp, "Lettuce? Hot sauce?" and put an end to the field trip lecture.

They both ended up, seemingly by accident, getting Chicken Souvlaki Deluxe, which so far as I could tell, was no different from my Regular Chicken Souvlaki. Apart from the price, that is. I think the owners bump annoying customers up to "Deluxe" as some sort of tax for being a pain while in line.

The big Greek V, right before my very eyes, sneezed after taking two bites of his Deluxe. It was an open-mouthed sneeze that carried tzatziki, lettuce, tomato, red onion, parsley, chicken, hot sauce, pickled turnip, and pita five feet from where he was seated. What a show! All the colours of the rainbow; but unlike a rainbow, which is fleeting, these colours stuck to the floor and chair which represented, for lack of a more romantic description, "The End of the Rainbow".

E- "That's happened to me before. The hot sauce."

And then it was back to the business of eating.
No "Excuse me!"
No effort to clean up the mess.
Just more face filling.

Classy.
Just like the kid who pukes out the bus window on field trips.

Terror Level: Code Brown.

I was feeling a little touch-and-go this morning as I made my sales rounds on foot in downtown Cowtown; my colon surprises me with chaos now and again, but only when I least expect it (or when it's least convenient).

Nearing 17th Ave, the so-called Red Mile, and I began seeing spots. Things felt like they were deteriorating, and I couldn't determine whether, if I attempted to bleed off some of the pressure building up in my abdomen, it would be a big mistake.
Before I could weigh the pros and cons, my body decided for me.
It felt like the One Second Plumber had gone off in my trousers.

For those that have to ask, "No, it was not a good feeling."

It was so cold in Cowtown that I couldn't distinguish whether the new, warm feeling in the back of my lap was as a result of body-warmed gas, or body-warmed shit.
It is a humbling moment entering a new account for lunch, reporting immediately to the little boys room and inspecting your trousers to confirm or deny rumours started by your right brain.

For the record, I enjoyed lunch with a cup of coffee. Having been that close to the edge without going over, I was in need of another adrenaline fix.

From the Horse's Mouth.

OF the many things I have misspoke about on blind dates in my past, the one thing I always managed to avoid was ominous warnings.
Things I have heard others say upon first meeting:
"People think I'm a total bitch!"
and
"In my last relationship there was commitment issues. . ."
Both are totally inadvisable remarks. (I'm married, so I should know how to get this ball in the end zone, kids!)

Last night, while I tucked into my Calamari Penne Something-Something, I eavesdropped on what appeared to be a first date. These two kids did not know each other very well, judging by the content on their conversation.

The girl chimes in, during a quick exchange:
G- "You should never trust a woman!"

Didn't Don Knotts shoot himself in the foot in The Apple Dumpling Gang, too?

There is no small talk, only small talkers.

Hotel bars are littered with business folk trying to make it through the lonely night, counting the minutes until seminars and plant tours begin again at 8am. For some, the time cannot pass quick enough.

Two business associates seated beside me at the bar last night had what can only be described as polite conversation. Polite, because the one dude managed not to fall off his stool laughing at the other.

After a long silence--their talk about sports completely out of gas.
A- "Do you read American Gamedog?"
C- "No."

I wanted so badly to ask C if this question was a continuation of a conversation about gamedogs the two had had earlier in the dog, or whether, as I suspected, it was the worst attempt at making small talk I had ever heard.

A- "I just rediscovered it recently. I don't have a gamedog. . ."
C- "I was just going to ask if you had a dog."
A- "No. I don't have a gamedog, but I'm considering getting one. It would be tough, because I'm on the road so much."
A & C nodded and looked into their drinks. I think C was trying desperately to conjure up a yawn.

on the radio, Phil Collins' 'Can't Stop Loving You' begins

A- "This song is Number 1 on my travel mix CD."
C- ". . .oh?"
A- "I love it. It's kind of about traveling."

Yeah. Kinda.
It's more about leaving, which is what I'm sure C couldn't stop thinking about doing himself.

I felt so bad for this guy, that it made be glad I was alone. No offense, my darling wife. You would never spring getting a subscription to The Shih Tzu Reporter on me over dinner. And I love you for that.

Freedom Toast.

Last night, down at the bar, I did a bit of bonding with another lonesome salesman.

He was from Houston, and I from Toronto--that kept us laughing for hours!!

Once I had run out of my limited knowledge of sports, I decided to dip my toe into the dicey situation in France at the moment.

B- "Boy! Those French really have a doozie of a problem on their hands, eh? Kids burning cars like crazy!"
H- "Yeah, well, that arrogant nation had it coming, see."
B- ". . .(pause for irony). . .yeah, well, we've had our problems withe the French too."

I decided to turn things back towards sports, and the CFL game earlier in the afternoon: Stamps vs. Eskimos!
He decided to call it a night.

Snake wrestling.

This is from my "Oldies but Goodies" file.
It involves Armchair and is mildly homoerotic.

I am sure that you will all enjoy.

When Armchair (A) and I, our rockstar roomie D, and my twin brother C all lived together in university, we shared Apartment 801. Those three numbers, when used in that configuration, are still magical.

From 801's balcony nothing escaped our watchful eyes. We were Waterloo's equivalent of the "Justice League" without all the complications that come from the burden of super powers.

It was from our "Watchtower" late one night while A slept that myself, C, and D peered directly into the intimate moments of a young man's life. It was clear that he was struggling with the burden of being away from home, the loneliness, and the 'not getting laid in his Freshman year'. How he was coping with this, was to take advantage of unrestricted internet access devoid of the parental filters his parent's computer in Burlington had.

D- "Is that dude. . .what's he doing?"
C- "I don't know."
B- "I think he's beating off to internet porn!"
D- "Let's get A's binoculars!!"

The words had barely left our eager mouths, and A was out of bed and down the hall with his binoculars; it was the quickest I had ever seen him move.

A confirmed our suspicions; it was an unholy union of one soul locked in a sinful embrace. If he was going to keep this up all year, this dude needed to invest in some curtains, or hang a bedsheet up.

A few weeks later we were entertaining guests in 801 and the subject of our neighbour and his seemingly insatiable, chronic, habit/relationship. One of our guests asked which apartment 'across the way', as he lived across the street. We eagerly pointed out the glass sliding door which had been our porthole of entertainment nightly.

Sure enough, it was his roommate. Small world. Among other things.

The next day a bedsheet hung over the window. To this day I have never seen the poor boy's face.

Torontonians rejoice!

Let it be known that after an empirical analysis of the City of Calgary, conducted over the course of three separate visits in three separate seasons, there are more random piles of vomit here than in Toronto.

Thankfully, it's always frozen when I meet it. Even in summer. Because Calgary is that cold.

I think Toronto stills edges out other cities when it comes to random puddles of urine.

Hi, My Name is: Ron Swayze

While traveling on the Trans-Canada highway with C, we saw nature's wonder in great abundance. We encountered the living, breathing niceness that seems to be the hallmark of what it is to be Canadian. We drove through flurries of snow, forests, rock cuts, and limitless flatness. But the thing that sticks out in my mind isn't all that. It's Ron, a welder's assistant on the gas line running near Swift Current.

In what we thought was an abandoned Travelodge, while soaking in a hot tub with some Steam Whistles we imported from Ontario, a pot-bellied Teddy Bear drove up in his truck, came into the pool area, pulled off his clothes, and jumped in with us. We became fast friends, and soon learned he was employed in the hard-knock life of the pipeline. He made a hospital's ER sound akin to a walk in the park when describing his occupation; he painted a portrait of a man being paid to flirt with danger 12 hours a day. We were duly impressed.

As with all initial contact between males, it turned out to be macho posing. After a while, the truth materialised; replacing the portrait of a roughneck pioneer in the wilderness of the Prairies, was a Lite Brite sketch of coffee breaks and extended periods of slacking off. . .in the wilderness of the Prairies. . .far from a supervisor. The only thing consistent with his original portrayal was the extremely good pay. But such is bonding between males: first, it's how tough your life is; then, it's how much easier, sweeter, it is. I do it myself.

From out of nowhere two pre-teen boys materialized and began romping in the pool. The presence of young, impressionable ears took none of the colour out of Ron's stories; he was just getting warmed up. He had just begun to elaborate on his statement:

R: "Roadhouse is pretty much my favourite movie, because I lived it every day back in the late 90's."

We had to know more.

R: "My first night bouncing at my buddy's bar, this Indian lady picked a fight with another lady--white lady--and I thought 'Cool! Cat fight!'. But they wouldn't stop, and it was getting out of hand. I told the Indian lady--she was lying on the floor--that she had to leave, but she could come back tomorrow. I was bent over her, and she grabbed my hair and told me to 'Fuck off!', you know."

The two boys overheard this and started to giggle and whisper.

R: ". . .and she wouldn't let go. I didn't know what to do. My boss came over and said, 'You let go off his hair and get the fuck out, and I'm not going to ask twice!' Then he just took his steel-toed workboot and kicked her in the cunt."

Yes. He dropped the 'c' bomb. Like it was no different from an "if" or "but".
R had a big grin on his face.
The boys looked horrified; all splashing had stopped.

Chris and I nodded appreciatively; any man who skips pussy, vag, clam, hair taco, 'the pink', and twat in the company of relative strangers is a man we could learn a thing or two from. What we now had to come to terms with was that everything R knew about life and living he learned from this man. . .

Dy-no-mite!

I was just searching for Calgary Stampeders tickets on Ticketmaster, and the verification word was "liger".

It's pretty much my favorite animal.

My lovely wife is jealous because I spend all day searching for hot tixs.



Bred for their skills in magic indeed!

Often imitated, never duplicated: Bruce Lee

Before I left for Alberta, a coworker of mine showed me his homemade nunchucks.

He's an older guy.
He hides his nunchucks in two different socks in his truck--completely legal--he assured me.

Amused, I asked him to show me "a thing or two with the 'chucks".

On his third underarm pass, he hit me in the elbow so hard it made my left arm go completely numb. The numbness lasted for over an hour. That ended the fun as quickly as it had began. He apologised and hid the nunchucks like some pre-teen stashing porn.

He has sais, but I decided it would be better that I not ask for a demonstration. I prefer blunt force trauma to sucking wounds.

Alberta Bound

My twin brother, C, and I have just completed the long haul down the Trans-Canada from Toronto to Calgary. We did it in a lime green '68 Chevy Truck--very hot! The new news is that I've been made Regional Manager of Alberta for The Good Beer Folks and am moving here. . .Parkdale, I hardly knew ye!

The move will be for a year or so.
I hope Cowtown is as full of crazies as Hogtown is; I suspect, however, that no place on earth could possibly have as many nuts as Toronto. I will do my best to find them.

Wawa has not one, not two, but no less than THREE large geese. What town needs that many oversized geese? What town council, buoyed by the success of one large goose, decides that a flock is needed?
And why build them all the same? Why not make an Elvis Wawa Goose, or a Pete Rose Wawa goose?


I hope St. Thomas' mayor doesn't visit and get it in his head that more Jumbos are needed to stimulate tourism.

How much excitement can one town contain?

A treat to make your pee stink.

Teenagers are pushing their luck heading out with a grocery bag on Halloween.
They are completely deluded if they think that dressing, to quote one hair-brained girl, "as myself" is going to make anyone who bought the candy (particularly one who bought the candy, then got dressed up in lederhosen to pass it out) eager to fork it over. There should be no reward for Halloween complacency.

Which is why last night while passing out candy AND barbecuing dinner, all done gracefully in lederhosen and knee socks, I chastised a brood a teenage boys who dressed as "themselves". One can afford such risks when renting their home, as the threat of getting the house egged is of little consequence.

But I didn't send them away empty-handed--heavens no!--I asked if they would each like a piece of barbecued asparagus instead of my candy bars. First they grumbled, eying the candy bowl, trying to figure out if i was just like the other gutless suburban weenies who had fattened up their grocery bags after saying, "Those aren't very creative costumes!" or "Aren't you a little old for Halloween?".
Nothing doing.
Asparagus or step off, bitches.
Then they each held out their hand and took a spear of asparagus. Shit, they even thanked me!
I felt like I had done something constructive with the problem they had presented by encouraging them to make the healthy choice, without being as cliched as passing out apples (which still suck as a Halloween favour).

My warm feeling ended when I realised they had each ate 22 cents worth of Peruvian asparagus.

Saint Martin Caballero, we give thee thanks.

The warm, fuzzy feeling you get while acting as a good samaritan can quickly be overshadowed by threat of death.
Or so my good friend C and I discovered the other morning while having coffee on my porch in Parkdale.

A slight woman with a large dog appeared in my driveway and called for help.
A- "Can you guys help me? I'm leaving my boyfriend because I think he's going to beat me! Help me!"
B & C- "Certainly!"
A- "I'm waiting for a cab. Just stay with me while I wait for a cab--he doesn't like other people around."

We dropped our coffee and went to her aid streetside, though I felt no self-respecting abuser would try to hit a woman with such a big, man-hungry dog like hers.

B- "Where's your boyfriend?"
A- "He's in my apartment--I'm afraid he's going to do something to me--he's got a tomahawk!"
C- ". . .a what?!"
A- "You know, it's like an axe on one side, and a hammer on the other--"
B- "A tomahawk?!"
A- "Yeah."

I felt a sinking feeling. A feeling I get, in the pit of my stomach, that reminds me of all the times my mother told me Toronto was a big, dangerous, scary place in which I would surely have my life taken from me in a violent, un-Godly way.

C- "What's your boyfriend's name?"

Good. We would at least have something to scream while he removed our scalps.

A- "Gord."

Gord? Gord:The Last of the Mohican? Gord sounds more like some dude who would be carrying a rolled up copy of the Toronto Sun as a weapon.
I made a quick glance at my recycling bin to take stock of wine bottles that could possibly be used to slow Gord's progress on his tomahawk rampage. As usual, there were plenty.

A- "I'm leaving him today. I don't have any homework due tomorrow, so I'm leaving him today. Can I have a smoke?"
C- "Sure."

As C passed her a smoke, she grabbed his hand, looked at it, and said:
A- "You're an actor."
She grabbed my hand, while C stood dumbstruck, and said:
A- "You're an actor, too. He's the successful one."
Dead on. We stood completely speechless. C is an actor. C is much more successful than I.
C- "How did you know that? From our soft hands?"
A- "I just felt it."

In Parkdale it may not seem like too grand a leap of faith to identify two handsome-ish, well-groomed young men as actors; I would, if playing mystic, be more likely to guess 'singer-songwriter' more often than actor, mind you.

The first taxi pulled tentatively towards us, wound his window down, and told our friend that he would not accept the dog in his car. Her response was quite out-of-step with the occupation she had just told us she was training to enter: social worker.
A- (to the cabbie as he sped away)"Fuck you, you Muslim asshole! My dog is likely cleaner than your dirty cock!"(to us)"It's likely true, too, Bastard."

The second taxi wasn't far behind, and as our mystic friend who was taking the first step to safety, she turned to C and told him that she would see him later--paused, with a glance skyward--and said, "Christmas. She you at Christmas." Then, in an effort to help her dog get in the taxi she kicked him in the ass, and rode out of our lives as quickly as she had entered. No sign of Gord and his tomahawk; but a little unsettled by her show of some 6th sense.

For the record, neither of us were wearing 'Les Mis' tee shirts.

Romance is Dead.

Two nights ago I attended a fundraiser for this fella who goes to Nepal each year and teaches literacy to women--excellent cause. Though worthy as the cause was, the evening was overshadowed by a budding romance which exploded into bloom mid dance floor. . .but I should back up a bit.

There was a burly, bow-legged bulldog strutting around the loft we were mingling in, shoving his under-bite into as many plates of pate as were left at knee height. He was being whored out at $5 a pop for novelty photos taken before a giant painting of a dog house ($6.50 if you wanted him to 'slip you the tongue').

There was also a young baby, curious as a kitten, who was trucking around on all fours, inspecting every nook and cranny.

The bulldog had noted Mr. Baby earlier in the evening, but it wasn't until our young friend had crawled well out of his mother's reach, and onto the "dance floor", that the bulldog took any real interest in his quadruped comrade. The dog's interest developed into an unhealthy infatuation quickly, and before anyone could intervene, the bulldog had mounted the baby, and was humping away to beat the band; the baby's head was banging off the floor in rhythm to the pelvic thrusts his diapered ass was receiving. Baby didn't seem to mind so much. Of course, the bulldog had about 20lbs on the baby, and prison etiquette tells you that once cornered, let the larger aggressor finish his business "the easy way" rather than "the hard way" because it's going to happen "anyway".

The inter-species love overture continued, mother unawares, for what seemed like years--I was impressed by the bulldog's stamina, and was glad that my lovely wife wasn't there to draw comparisons--and was eating up every delicious minute of it. This spectacle was better than all of the leg-locks I've seen dogs put on unsuspecting guests over the years, and I didn't want it to end.

The mother, however, did not share my enthusiasm for nature's beautiful ballet, and clutched baby away from his sinful enbrace. Even after all the bum-banging and head-banging the baby endured, he didn't seem to register what had happened, and was still wearing the same stupid grin he'd had on after upseting the garbage can. Baby was full of a love for living that most others have long ago lost; and a giant leap ahead of his peers, who will have to wait until prom night for someone to dry hump them on the dance floor.

The baby was left humming Sir Elton John's Circle of Life; the bulldog, Tina Turner's What's Love Got to Do With It?.