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?