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.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Monday, October 31, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
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?.
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?.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Athenian Hospitality.
What on earth possessed Athenian airport interior designers to hang images of Amelia Earhart and failed early designs for personal flight systems in their cafeteria I'll never know. My lovely wife, E, who is already an anxious flyer, did not need the cold comfort of seeing a photograph of another woman who flew AND NEVER SAW HER FAMILY AGAIN. And let's face it: the pilots of those early flying machines likely had their fair share neighbours and friends saying, "Are you fucking nuts? You're going to jump off Butler's Hill with that on your back?"; the concepts inspire even less confidence today than they did 100 years ago.
Athens International Airport should have just hung a photo of the Hindenburg and been done with it.
My lovely wife also has the unsettling habit of loudly discussing the safety records of airlines once we've boarded. She became certain, once on board our 737 Agean Airlines flight to Santorini, that Agean had operated the plane that recently crashed outside Athens. She was equally suspicious of our Olympic Airlines flight to Rhodes; a suspicion which became more acute once we had started across the tarmac--on foot--and she realised that she would be taking her first propeller plane ride. Thankfully, all the souvlaki stayed where it belonged: hammering away on her colon.
More to follow.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
It's all Greek to me.
To my faithful friends,
I am happy to report that my little buddy, my long-suffering fiancee E, has finally changed her monogram, as well as her status as a Miss.
Knowing her well, I am assuming that she will now be known as a Ms., and begin pulling her hair back in tight little buns, and chasing children off our Parkdale lawn with a broom.
The short and long is this: we are, and have been for over a week, in Greece. My lack of posting, though no surprise to frequent vistors, should be excused on account of the fact that Greece isn't very internet-friendly.
To whet your palette for my return, I say simply this: I gained one more mortal enemey during our travels, and will likely never be welcome to let a car from Drossos Moto Rental on Santorini ever again. If the exchange of blows, or, more accurately the dispensation of blows by one, and reception of them by another, be any gauge for the quality of the tale, then this one will be a doozie.
I have it from a reliable source that I am a "Stupid man!"--he's an expert in the field, I assure you.
My warmest.
B
I am happy to report that my little buddy, my long-suffering fiancee E, has finally changed her monogram, as well as her status as a Miss.
Knowing her well, I am assuming that she will now be known as a Ms., and begin pulling her hair back in tight little buns, and chasing children off our Parkdale lawn with a broom.
The short and long is this: we are, and have been for over a week, in Greece. My lack of posting, though no surprise to frequent vistors, should be excused on account of the fact that Greece isn't very internet-friendly.
To whet your palette for my return, I say simply this: I gained one more mortal enemey during our travels, and will likely never be welcome to let a car from Drossos Moto Rental on Santorini ever again. If the exchange of blows, or, more accurately the dispensation of blows by one, and reception of them by another, be any gauge for the quality of the tale, then this one will be a doozie.
I have it from a reliable source that I am a "Stupid man!"--he's an expert in the field, I assure you.
My warmest.
B
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Nana's got nada.
This evening I was on our front porch, smoking one of my lovely John Calich pipes, when I overheard the neighbour seeing a friend out. I wasn't prowling; it was my night off.
X- "Have a good night."
Y- "You too. . .oh! You were going to give me your record albums!"
X- "Yes. You're right. I'll get them."
X sounded like he had made some drunk-talk promise of ' You like it? It's yours.' and then thought better of it now that his buddy was nearly off his hands.
He trudged back into the house and retrieved the booty.
X- "Here you go. My record player hasn't worked in years. I suppose you'll get more use out of these than I will."
His tone confirmed my suspicion that the records had been offered in a haste now regretted.
Y- "Great! . . . Nana Mouskouri? . . .oh. . ."
X- "She's great! You'll just love her! That's nearly all of her albums from '67 until '91!"
Y- ". . .oh. . .I thought they were going to be, like, Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra."
X- "Nana's great! You'll love her!"
Y- "Thanks."
I've tried to sell friends on shit I like before (the merits of 'Sleepaway Camp 1' is something I'm continually lobbying my friends for support on) and it never works. All that happens is people go away thinking, "Holy fuck! He likes that? I don't know if we can be friends any more! I just don't know."
After the usual good byes, Y went down the stoop and over to the trunk of his car. He tossed the prized Mouskouri vinyls into the trunk like dirty gym socks, took a glance around, then pulled a bottle of Capt. Morgan's Spiced Rum out and poured a few fingers into his steel travel mug.
I shit you not.
Screwed the bottle closed, took one last disgusted look at his new Mouskouri discography, closed the trunk and drove away.
What. A. Prick.
If one of my buddies insisted on grabbing my vinyl off me, then reacted like I had handed him a shit sandwich, I would have smacked him in the chops and returned the discs to my library. The cajones on some ungrateful turds on this ball of mud never ceases to amaze me.
That being said, the Value Villages of Toronto are full of Nana Mouskouri's albums and never once have I dropped the 25 cents required to play. Anyone who gets photographed for their album cover wearing eyewear as big as Steve Allan's and still expects to get laid deserves my befuddled respect, but not my quarter.
X- "Have a good night."
Y- "You too. . .oh! You were going to give me your record albums!"
X- "Yes. You're right. I'll get them."
X sounded like he had made some drunk-talk promise of ' You like it? It's yours.' and then thought better of it now that his buddy was nearly off his hands.
He trudged back into the house and retrieved the booty.
X- "Here you go. My record player hasn't worked in years. I suppose you'll get more use out of these than I will."
His tone confirmed my suspicion that the records had been offered in a haste now regretted.
Y- "Great! . . . Nana Mouskouri? . . .oh. . ."
X- "She's great! You'll just love her! That's nearly all of her albums from '67 until '91!"
Y- ". . .oh. . .I thought they were going to be, like, Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra."
X- "Nana's great! You'll love her!"
Y- "Thanks."
I've tried to sell friends on shit I like before (the merits of 'Sleepaway Camp 1' is something I'm continually lobbying my friends for support on) and it never works. All that happens is people go away thinking, "Holy fuck! He likes that? I don't know if we can be friends any more! I just don't know."
After the usual good byes, Y went down the stoop and over to the trunk of his car. He tossed the prized Mouskouri vinyls into the trunk like dirty gym socks, took a glance around, then pulled a bottle of Capt. Morgan's Spiced Rum out and poured a few fingers into his steel travel mug.
I shit you not.
Screwed the bottle closed, took one last disgusted look at his new Mouskouri discography, closed the trunk and drove away.
What. A. Prick.
If one of my buddies insisted on grabbing my vinyl off me, then reacted like I had handed him a shit sandwich, I would have smacked him in the chops and returned the discs to my library. The cajones on some ungrateful turds on this ball of mud never ceases to amaze me.
That being said, the Value Villages of Toronto are full of Nana Mouskouri's albums and never once have I dropped the 25 cents required to play. Anyone who gets photographed for their album cover wearing eyewear as big as Steve Allan's and still expects to get laid deserves my befuddled respect, but not my quarter.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Someone, anyone, speak something!
Last night was date night for my little E and I.
The happiest night of the week, right?
yeah.
Usually.
Last night one of the activities scheduled was something I laughingly referred to as "charity work for my fiancee" to a workmate.
It was the one, the only, Les Miserables. I bought tickets to this SOLD OUT theatre EVENT months ago so that there wasn't 6 weeks of long faces moping around the house.
It started off with a hell of a bang at THE BEST FRENCH RESTAURANT IN TOWN, Le St. Tropez. Amazing! (and I hate the French!). An apropos amuse bouche for the main event: Les Miserables.
Sitting in our seats, eagerly awaiting 3 hours of full-on, laugh-riot, French Revolutionary madness, we cooed at each other and made lovey-dovey eyes. And just as the lights started to dim, and some French peasants entered marching in time with the music, a soft male voice from behind us asked, with urgency:
M- "This isn't a musical, is it?"
Too late, pal.
He didn't need the answer; his sigh had already been drown out by Jean Valjean singing about washing away his sins with sweat.
If some dude has never heard of Les Mis:The Musical--one of the longest-running Broadway musicals, which already spent innumerable curtain calls in Toronto at the Royal Alex--then he deserves his fate without pity.
No. Don't pity him. He's already dead.
The happiest night of the week, right?
yeah.
Usually.
Last night one of the activities scheduled was something I laughingly referred to as "charity work for my fiancee" to a workmate.
It was the one, the only, Les Miserables. I bought tickets to this SOLD OUT theatre EVENT months ago so that there wasn't 6 weeks of long faces moping around the house.
It started off with a hell of a bang at THE BEST FRENCH RESTAURANT IN TOWN, Le St. Tropez. Amazing! (and I hate the French!). An apropos amuse bouche for the main event: Les Miserables.
Sitting in our seats, eagerly awaiting 3 hours of full-on, laugh-riot, French Revolutionary madness, we cooed at each other and made lovey-dovey eyes. And just as the lights started to dim, and some French peasants entered marching in time with the music, a soft male voice from behind us asked, with urgency:
M- "This isn't a musical, is it?"
Too late, pal.
He didn't need the answer; his sigh had already been drown out by Jean Valjean singing about washing away his sins with sweat.
If some dude has never heard of Les Mis:The Musical--one of the longest-running Broadway musicals, which already spent innumerable curtain calls in Toronto at the Royal Alex--then he deserves his fate without pity.
No. Don't pity him. He's already dead.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Things mom never told you about anal sex.
Never short on supply of terminally crazy residents, Parkdale pleased last night during the cocktail hour I was sharing with friends on the porch.
My twin, C, and my rocker roomie D, were tippling the good stuff when an old friend strolled by sipping from a can of Guiness. He was merry enough for the four of us.
A- (calling out to any one of the three of us on the porch)"Are you man enough to take me? The man-child?"
B- "I don't reckon we are!"
A- "I don't reckon you are, either. You callin' me nigger? I'll call you. . . white nigger!"
Then he turned his smiling menace on some pretty pedestrians walking by on the other side of the street. I imagine they crossed after hearing his exchange with us, not wishing to be a party to the loud shouting of racial epithets. He was flirtatious:
A- "Hey laaaadies! Let me spend some time with you! I promise not to put it in your ass; I don't want no fart burns on my dick!"
He looked back at us as if to say, 'Fellas, you know what I'm talking about here, don't you? Those fart burns?'. We looked back as if to say, 'Damn those fart burns!'; I hope it read from twenty paces.
A- (to D, who was puffing on a Belmont Mild)"Hey buddy! You got a smoke? No? Probably your last one, eh? Well. . . I'll share something with you. A fart. But it's not just for you; all must share it!" (and again, louder) "ALL MUST SHARE IT!"
Immediately, the mantra from my youth spent in Beavers sprang to mind: sharing sharing sharing. I even did the Beaver Tail slap in my mind. Wooooop--SMACK!
While I was daydreaming, A flitted out of sight; but he left us with his infectious energy, his love of life, and, of course, his fart. The evening, we all knew, was looking up.
Like The Littlest Hobo, he just keeps movin' on.
Maybe tomorrow. . .
My twin, C, and my rocker roomie D, were tippling the good stuff when an old friend strolled by sipping from a can of Guiness. He was merry enough for the four of us.
A- (calling out to any one of the three of us on the porch)"Are you man enough to take me? The man-child?"
B- "I don't reckon we are!"
A- "I don't reckon you are, either. You callin' me nigger? I'll call you. . . white nigger!"
Then he turned his smiling menace on some pretty pedestrians walking by on the other side of the street. I imagine they crossed after hearing his exchange with us, not wishing to be a party to the loud shouting of racial epithets. He was flirtatious:
A- "Hey laaaadies! Let me spend some time with you! I promise not to put it in your ass; I don't want no fart burns on my dick!"
He looked back at us as if to say, 'Fellas, you know what I'm talking about here, don't you? Those fart burns?'. We looked back as if to say, 'Damn those fart burns!'; I hope it read from twenty paces.
A- (to D, who was puffing on a Belmont Mild)"Hey buddy! You got a smoke? No? Probably your last one, eh? Well. . . I'll share something with you. A fart. But it's not just for you; all must share it!" (and again, louder) "ALL MUST SHARE IT!"
Immediately, the mantra from my youth spent in Beavers sprang to mind: sharing sharing sharing. I even did the Beaver Tail slap in my mind. Wooooop--SMACK!
While I was daydreaming, A flitted out of sight; but he left us with his infectious energy, his love of life, and, of course, his fart. The evening, we all knew, was looking up.
Like The Littlest Hobo, he just keeps movin' on.
Maybe tomorrow. . .
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Have Gun, Will Travel. . . to Parkdale.
My former-roomie/current rockstar D has been crashing with my beloved E and I in Parkdale.
Following the good form we pioneered during our childhood together, and perfected in school, we've been eating only things cooked over a fire (my Fiesta Barbeque) and drinking only things that come from a Roundhouse, or Scotland. As a tribute to our mothers back home, we always always always invite a vegetable to dinner.
And we watch movies, and documentaries, and smoke pipes, and laugh at our own jokes.
Two nights ago we were walking home from Cockbuster with three selections for the evening--Sin City; Suspect One; and Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson--although, we were disgusted with the complete absence of any 'classic' films available to rent. We had been there in search of 'The Battle of Britain'. We had been relaxing on the porch for about 5 minutes, when we heard "POP! POP POP POP! POP POP!"; then the squeal of tires; then silence.
D looked at me.
I looked at him.
D- "Did that sound like I think it sounded like?"
B- "I think so."
We were, of course, referring to the familiar song of the Parkdale Lead Lark.
No experts on the sound of handguns discharging (we grew up in the sticks were everyone had piddling little .22s) our suspicions were confirmed by the sound of sirens approaching from the distance.
A party on a front lawn a few doors down, even closer to the corner where we heard shots fired, raged on uninterrupted (or unimpressed).
When the police arrived, a few of the nere-do-wells from the halfway house at the corner were babbling away to the police officer like little kids trying to please their father:
X- "I heard a 'POP! POP! POP!"
Y- "I saw the car speed away, but I didn't really get a good look at it!"
Z- "Why don't you just let them all kill each other?"
There were no casualties.
The sobering sight of the night, was seeing officers looking for bullet casings on the sidewalk we had just come down 5 minutes earlier.
I would later refer to the evening as being filled with "just some random gunfire"--perhaps a touch cavalier on my part. I mean, in Toronto, you really need TWO bodies to raise the pulse of the citizens nowadays, don't you?
If you want it to make the news, at least one of them should be white.
Now, I'm not trying to tell shootists how to do their job--heavens no--I'm just saying.
Following the good form we pioneered during our childhood together, and perfected in school, we've been eating only things cooked over a fire (my Fiesta Barbeque) and drinking only things that come from a Roundhouse, or Scotland. As a tribute to our mothers back home, we always always always invite a vegetable to dinner.
And we watch movies, and documentaries, and smoke pipes, and laugh at our own jokes.
Two nights ago we were walking home from Cockbuster with three selections for the evening--Sin City; Suspect One; and Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson--although, we were disgusted with the complete absence of any 'classic' films available to rent. We had been there in search of 'The Battle of Britain'. We had been relaxing on the porch for about 5 minutes, when we heard "POP! POP POP POP! POP POP!"; then the squeal of tires; then silence.
D looked at me.
I looked at him.
D- "Did that sound like I think it sounded like?"
B- "I think so."
We were, of course, referring to the familiar song of the Parkdale Lead Lark.
No experts on the sound of handguns discharging (we grew up in the sticks were everyone had piddling little .22s) our suspicions were confirmed by the sound of sirens approaching from the distance.
A party on a front lawn a few doors down, even closer to the corner where we heard shots fired, raged on uninterrupted (or unimpressed).
When the police arrived, a few of the nere-do-wells from the halfway house at the corner were babbling away to the police officer like little kids trying to please their father:
X- "I heard a 'POP! POP! POP!"
Y- "I saw the car speed away, but I didn't really get a good look at it!"
Z- "Why don't you just let them all kill each other?"
There were no casualties.
The sobering sight of the night, was seeing officers looking for bullet casings on the sidewalk we had just come down 5 minutes earlier.
I would later refer to the evening as being filled with "just some random gunfire"--perhaps a touch cavalier on my part. I mean, in Toronto, you really need TWO bodies to raise the pulse of the citizens nowadays, don't you?
If you want it to make the news, at least one of them should be white.
Now, I'm not trying to tell shootists how to do their job--heavens no--I'm just saying.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Look who's pimpin'!
Our neighbourhood crazy--the 'born again' white man (a black man who put a white pillow case with eyeholes over his head and claimed "Now, I'm the white man!")--hit the streets again the other morning dressed in full pimpin' regalia. All I saw was billowing purple-ness. Then leopard print. Then an ostrich feather. Then--HOLY SHIT--I almost hit him with my SmartCar Dilton!
My mother always told me to wear clean underwear in case I died, unexpectedly, away from home (presumably she would change my underwear before medics arrived in the eventuality that I died at home); I hope that this gentleman wears clean platforms, a clean purple wide-brimmed fedora (with leopard trimmings), a clean purple satin robe, and a clean, brown, three piece suit when he strikes out for his early morning pimp, because if his jaywalking is habit, he'll be dead before the month is out.
Swerving and slowing to miss Mr. Bojangles, my window down, I received a bit of advice. Not the usual, "What the fuck!? Learn to fuckin' drive, Douchebag!!" advice; financial advice that went a little like this:
Mr. B- "Hey brotha! I could pimp your car to a Suburban for a dollah!"
My SmartCar. To a Suburban. That's pretty funny!
As I drove away, he yelled after me:
Mr. B- "What do you say, MoFo? Allllll-right!"
And he just kept on a'groovin' and a movin' down the lane.
God I love this neighbourhood!
And hey, if you're looking to make a little somethin' somethin' on the side with your gas guzzler to help fiance rising fuel costs--call me. Dilton's birthday is coming up, and I want to surprise him.
My mother always told me to wear clean underwear in case I died, unexpectedly, away from home (presumably she would change my underwear before medics arrived in the eventuality that I died at home); I hope that this gentleman wears clean platforms, a clean purple wide-brimmed fedora (with leopard trimmings), a clean purple satin robe, and a clean, brown, three piece suit when he strikes out for his early morning pimp, because if his jaywalking is habit, he'll be dead before the month is out.
Swerving and slowing to miss Mr. Bojangles, my window down, I received a bit of advice. Not the usual, "What the fuck!? Learn to fuckin' drive, Douchebag!!" advice; financial advice that went a little like this:
Mr. B- "Hey brotha! I could pimp your car to a Suburban for a dollah!"
My SmartCar. To a Suburban. That's pretty funny!
As I drove away, he yelled after me:
Mr. B- "What do you say, MoFo? Allllll-right!"
And he just kept on a'groovin' and a movin' down the lane.
God I love this neighbourhood!
And hey, if you're looking to make a little somethin' somethin' on the side with your gas guzzler to help fiance rising fuel costs--call me. Dilton's birthday is coming up, and I want to surprise him.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
When two unicyles meet.
Yesterday, while waiting for the Queen's City Yacht Club tender at York Quay, I saw two kids (siblings, I believe) collide while riding their unicycles.
They were following their father, who was on a proper BI-cycle. (clearly Darwin chooses him, and not his offspring, to advance)
I was a little upset that they didn't fall into the lake, as I've always wanted to dive in and rescue something spontaneously, like in the movies. Typical male hero complex, I know; but Thunderdome needs heroes.
I don't know what possessed them to roll down through the York Quay on unicycles at that time of day--it's a real cluster-fuck with all the tourists and pigeons. Likely just showin' off.
One of my close friends took up the unicycle "to meet girls". Seriously. Believe it.
They were following their father, who was on a proper BI-cycle. (clearly Darwin chooses him, and not his offspring, to advance)
I was a little upset that they didn't fall into the lake, as I've always wanted to dive in and rescue something spontaneously, like in the movies. Typical male hero complex, I know; but Thunderdome needs heroes.
I don't know what possessed them to roll down through the York Quay on unicycles at that time of day--it's a real cluster-fuck with all the tourists and pigeons. Likely just showin' off.
One of my close friends took up the unicycle "to meet girls". Seriously. Believe it.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
How to Do Absolutely Everything!
On two occasions recently someone has come to my blog looking for instruction on "how to miscarry".
Jeeez-us!
All you had to do was ask. Check out this Irish website for some great pointers on how to carry, and miscarry, items during a move.
Hope it helps.
Jeeez-us!
All you had to do was ask. Check out this Irish website for some great pointers on how to carry, and miscarry, items during a move.
Hope it helps.
Catholic a-No-Go!
I was at a wedding recently which led me to think the following unsavory thought:
I wish Catholics would burn in Hell.
I was in a Catholic Church at the time, so you'll pardon me for already being in a bad mood.
Maybe not ALL Catholics; just the ones who believe being Catholic is so cool and being Anglican is so NOT. Like the Mother of the Bride on this particular day, for example.
We were hitting a nice groove about one and a half hours (that IS NOT a typo) into the service when the Most Reverend Toothless led his flock in an intonation of "The Lord's Prayer". I was an altar boy for years and years in a High Anglican Church, and can still remember a time in school when we had to actually SING 'Oh Canada', SPEAK 'The Lord's Prayer', and READ from the Bible (a long time ago, I know)--so I take to 'The Lord's Prayer' like a fish to water. Could do it in my sleep.
But THE CATHOLICS, unbeknownst to me, have some half-assed abbreviated version that omits some of my favorite bits of Deity ass-kissing--the Kingdom, Power, and Glory stuff--and substitutes in a few moments for the Reverend to moan on about something--I don't know what--before finishing the regular way. Needless to say, I kept rolling on "The Lord's Prayer" while the rest of the parishioners fell noticeably silent.
Great.
Now everyone knows I'm Anglican. Terrific.
As if I wasn't enough of an outsider, then the Reverend Father forbids--FORBIDS--me from taking Communion. Now, to be truthful, he didn't single me out personally and say:
R- "Everyone! Come and have a bit of Christ with me! Except you, B, unclean beast that you are."
No. Instead he gets all timid, like a kid forced to apologise for saying something completely honest, yet completely inappropriate, and says:
R- "Now, in the Catholic Church, Communion is a sacred right. . ." blah blah blah ". . .and I ask that only people baptized in the Catholic Church partake."
The fuck you say?
I don't recall Jesus--a Jew--being too fussy about who He shared his wine with. Hell, He even let the dude who was to betray HIm get crunked. Why so picky now, Catholic Church?
Supposedly I could have gone up and crossed my arms and received a blessing--but fuck that shit--the reason I can't get the drinky-drinky in the first place is because I'm going to Hell for being Anglican; what on Earth do I need this guy's blessing for? So he can get some wood being close to a Devil? Bah!
So I sat it out, steaming like I've never steamed before.
AND THEN, to top it all off, during the "Sharing the Peace" part of the service (hour two) when people are supposed to be nice to each other and actually share some PEACE, the mother of the bride turns to me, shakes my hand, and says:
MOB- "Learn your 'Our Father'."
BEEEEE-ATCH! The words you're looking for are 'Peace be with you, brother.'
I know my "Lord's Prayer"; I'll learn this so-called "Our Father" when Christ falls off the cross!
I was so fit to be tied I just wanted to drown someone in the cistern.
But I didn't.
Nearly, though.
I wish Catholics would burn in Hell.
I was in a Catholic Church at the time, so you'll pardon me for already being in a bad mood.
Maybe not ALL Catholics; just the ones who believe being Catholic is so cool and being Anglican is so NOT. Like the Mother of the Bride on this particular day, for example.
We were hitting a nice groove about one and a half hours (that IS NOT a typo) into the service when the Most Reverend Toothless led his flock in an intonation of "The Lord's Prayer". I was an altar boy for years and years in a High Anglican Church, and can still remember a time in school when we had to actually SING 'Oh Canada', SPEAK 'The Lord's Prayer', and READ from the Bible (a long time ago, I know)--so I take to 'The Lord's Prayer' like a fish to water. Could do it in my sleep.
But THE CATHOLICS, unbeknownst to me, have some half-assed abbreviated version that omits some of my favorite bits of Deity ass-kissing--the Kingdom, Power, and Glory stuff--and substitutes in a few moments for the Reverend to moan on about something--I don't know what--before finishing the regular way. Needless to say, I kept rolling on "The Lord's Prayer" while the rest of the parishioners fell noticeably silent.
Great.
Now everyone knows I'm Anglican. Terrific.
As if I wasn't enough of an outsider, then the Reverend Father forbids--FORBIDS--me from taking Communion. Now, to be truthful, he didn't single me out personally and say:
R- "Everyone! Come and have a bit of Christ with me! Except you, B, unclean beast that you are."
No. Instead he gets all timid, like a kid forced to apologise for saying something completely honest, yet completely inappropriate, and says:
R- "Now, in the Catholic Church, Communion is a sacred right. . ." blah blah blah ". . .and I ask that only people baptized in the Catholic Church partake."
The fuck you say?
I don't recall Jesus--a Jew--being too fussy about who He shared his wine with. Hell, He even let the dude who was to betray HIm get crunked. Why so picky now, Catholic Church?
Supposedly I could have gone up and crossed my arms and received a blessing--but fuck that shit--the reason I can't get the drinky-drinky in the first place is because I'm going to Hell for being Anglican; what on Earth do I need this guy's blessing for? So he can get some wood being close to a Devil? Bah!
So I sat it out, steaming like I've never steamed before.
AND THEN, to top it all off, during the "Sharing the Peace" part of the service (hour two) when people are supposed to be nice to each other and actually share some PEACE, the mother of the bride turns to me, shakes my hand, and says:
MOB- "Learn your 'Our Father'."
BEEEEE-ATCH! The words you're looking for are 'Peace be with you, brother.'
I know my "Lord's Prayer"; I'll learn this so-called "Our Father" when Christ falls off the cross!
I was so fit to be tied I just wanted to drown someone in the cistern.
But I didn't.
Nearly, though.
Thank God for Summer's Army!
The biggest and best difference between Parkdale and Riverdale I've noticed so far?
The Ice Cream trucks!!!
Mr. Softee! Mr. Soft Serve! Dippity-Doo! Dairy King!
No matter where I am in the house, I can hear one of those delightful gentlemen rolling down my street with their merry tune dancing on the air, floating me out of my seat and onto a sea of fancy! Parkdale's finest hour!
Riverdale, on the other hand, only had the Knife Sharpener come to visit. Hearing the tinny clang of "The Blade Runner"s bell doesn't excite the imagination in the same way visions of slush puppies and twist cones do.
Of course, I never had to fight crack whores and degenerates for a place in line by the knife sharpening truck.
The Ice Cream trucks!!!
Mr. Softee! Mr. Soft Serve! Dippity-Doo! Dairy King!
No matter where I am in the house, I can hear one of those delightful gentlemen rolling down my street with their merry tune dancing on the air, floating me out of my seat and onto a sea of fancy! Parkdale's finest hour!
Riverdale, on the other hand, only had the Knife Sharpener come to visit. Hearing the tinny clang of "The Blade Runner"s bell doesn't excite the imagination in the same way visions of slush puppies and twist cones do.
Of course, I never had to fight crack whores and degenerates for a place in line by the knife sharpening truck.
Reclining Hostility
There was this old bastard sitting on his walker at the end of my driveway this evening when I returned home. He looked like he was getting ready to auction off my SmartCar Dilton's spot to the next eager CNE visitor looking for cheap parking--dirty Capitalist!
He was most certainly from "Leisure World" down the block, as only residents from the said "retirement retreat" have eyes that are perfectly void of ambition.
I stopped the Smart, blinker engaged, and waited for him to haul his ass off his walker seat and shuffle to a more convenient bit of acreage. He didn't budge.
I gave a light toot of the horn in place of screaming, "Get. The fuck. Outtamyway!"
All that did was get him to focus his thousand yard stare at the impending doom idling before him, and heave a sigh--there were no other signs of life.
I wound my window down:
B- "Hey pal! Ya mind scootin' over a bit? You've picked a hell of a place to take a break."
A- "Scoot yourself!"
B- " . . . " (blink) "Come on, give me a break, buddy."
A- "You give me a break!"
B- "I will, if you insist. My car doesn't look big or mean, and it doesn't have 4 Wheel Drive; but its driver hasn't any conscience and will keep trying until he runs you over."
A- "Show some fucking respect for the elderly!"
B- "If you don't fucking move, I'll be paying my respects to the dead! Now scram!"
He wobbled to his feet, muttering cuss words the whole time under his breath, and shuffled out of the way about as slowly as molasses in winter. I rolled up my drive and parked with no further exchange.
Now I was all riled up, and fit to hunt bears with a stick. Of all the damn days to bump into a born-again slack-jawed teenager, and I run into one just minutes before I attempt to assemble my new barb-que. Shit.
He was most certainly from "Leisure World" down the block, as only residents from the said "retirement retreat" have eyes that are perfectly void of ambition.
I stopped the Smart, blinker engaged, and waited for him to haul his ass off his walker seat and shuffle to a more convenient bit of acreage. He didn't budge.
I gave a light toot of the horn in place of screaming, "Get. The fuck. Outtamyway!"
All that did was get him to focus his thousand yard stare at the impending doom idling before him, and heave a sigh--there were no other signs of life.
I wound my window down:
B- "Hey pal! Ya mind scootin' over a bit? You've picked a hell of a place to take a break."
A- "Scoot yourself!"
B- " . . . " (blink) "Come on, give me a break, buddy."
A- "You give me a break!"
B- "I will, if you insist. My car doesn't look big or mean, and it doesn't have 4 Wheel Drive; but its driver hasn't any conscience and will keep trying until he runs you over."
A- "Show some fucking respect for the elderly!"
B- "If you don't fucking move, I'll be paying my respects to the dead! Now scram!"
He wobbled to his feet, muttering cuss words the whole time under his breath, and shuffled out of the way about as slowly as molasses in winter. I rolled up my drive and parked with no further exchange.
Now I was all riled up, and fit to hunt bears with a stick. Of all the damn days to bump into a born-again slack-jawed teenager, and I run into one just minutes before I attempt to assemble my new barb-que. Shit.
Le Mew. Le Purr.
There is a skunk in Parkdale.
Likely more than one, but I've only had the pleasure of meeting the one who lives under our neighbours porch. Perfectly symmetrical white lines down his back, with a fluffy coat coloured stealthy black--the envy of his peers, no doubt.
I think he looks like a "Kevin".
And "Kevin" let's one rip every three nights RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW. What he's spraying, I don't know; all I know is that he sure likes to cut the cheese. And I'd sure rather he didn't.
Likely more than one, but I've only had the pleasure of meeting the one who lives under our neighbours porch. Perfectly symmetrical white lines down his back, with a fluffy coat coloured stealthy black--the envy of his peers, no doubt.
I think he looks like a "Kevin".
And "Kevin" let's one rip every three nights RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW. What he's spraying, I don't know; all I know is that he sure likes to cut the cheese. And I'd sure rather he didn't.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
All creatures wet and wonderful. . .
. . .Parkdale has them all!
This evening, while my parents were visiting the 'Big Smoke' direct from the small town I grew up in, during a fine meal I prepared which we enjoyed on the porch, two different residents of "Leisure World" passed by.
They had both pissed their pants.
As Huggies Diapers once highlighted through demonstration: boys wet mostly in the front; while girls wet mostly in the back.
Now, sure HE could have dropped a soda in his lap; and SHE could have sat in the splashing pond near Queen St. . . but I highly fucking doubt it.
This evening, while my parents were visiting the 'Big Smoke' direct from the small town I grew up in, during a fine meal I prepared which we enjoyed on the porch, two different residents of "Leisure World" passed by.
They had both pissed their pants.
As Huggies Diapers once highlighted through demonstration: boys wet mostly in the front; while girls wet mostly in the back.
Now, sure HE could have dropped a soda in his lap; and SHE could have sat in the splashing pond near Queen St. . . but I highly fucking doubt it.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
True crime is nothing like 'Ocean's 11'.
The other night, while lording over some bottles of Steam Whistle like a despot, a great idea came to me.
I won't describe the great idea--it was to involve a theft of something relatively innocuous--but I will describe my plan. It involved a ladder which I likely shouldn't have been thinking about climbing, considering how many wow-ee pops I'd had to inspire me in the first place; nevertheless, my loving E turned me loose on an unsuspecting Parkdale, and I was ready for some Pink Panthering.
This 'recipe for disastrous hijinx' had but two ingredients: the first being myself; the second being a ladder.
I had myself.
Earlier in the week I had noticed a ladder in my neighbour's back yard--PERFECT!
I now possessed all the ingredients necessary. . .or did I?
Dressed in black, not by design, I shuffled into the neighbour's backyard, grabbed the ladder, and proceeded to walk away nonchalantly. My 'just out for a stroll in Parkdale under the cover of night' demeanour (an activity which, in truth, doesn't exist--EVERYONE 'strolling' in Parkdale at night is "working") lasted only until I ran out of arm's length; then the ladder, which refused to follow, and my hands (which refused to let go) worked in tandem to bring me flat on my back.
What. The. Fuck.
Being a bit on the 'tight' side, I stood, gave the ladder a scowl, and then grabbed it and gave another pull.
Still nothing.
Pull pull pull.
Nothing nothing nothing.
I couldn't budge the damn thing, and the whole time I'm thinking, "This puny ladder's got nothin' on me!".
That's when I heard, "Hello?", followed by a bunch of whispering.
Hearing someone's voice call to me brought about the gravity of my situation: I was dressed in black in someone's backyard wrestling with a ladder. It likely didn't look too good.
I kicked into acting mode, looked towards the sky and around the yard like I was confused or dumbstruck, then zig-zagged back down the driveway.
Two minutes later I was safely in my house watching ALL the neighbours search their 'estate' with flashlights and rakes.
Two days later, while my lovely E was having a visit with her bridesmaids from the 'burbs' (who already think we'll die a grisly death at the hands of some deranged crack whore) when our upstairs neighbour stopped to tell the ladies:
G- "Now E, I don't want you to worry, but two nights ago the next door neighbours had a PROWLER. He was trying to get a ladder to do God knows what, and one of them scared him away."
E's bridesmaids eyes are larger than saucers by now.
E- (in rehearsed horror)"Oh my!"
G- "Now, don't worry, THE POLICE WERE CALLED, and everything should be okay. Just maybe keep your windows closed."
E- "Okay. I will."
Cue the bridesmaids losing their shit, only to be comforted by E stating under her breath, "B was the prowler."
Do they make greeting cards they say something to the effect, "Sorry I was prowling around your yard last night. . ."?
I won't describe the great idea--it was to involve a theft of something relatively innocuous--but I will describe my plan. It involved a ladder which I likely shouldn't have been thinking about climbing, considering how many wow-ee pops I'd had to inspire me in the first place; nevertheless, my loving E turned me loose on an unsuspecting Parkdale, and I was ready for some Pink Panthering.
This 'recipe for disastrous hijinx' had but two ingredients: the first being myself; the second being a ladder.
I had myself.
Earlier in the week I had noticed a ladder in my neighbour's back yard--PERFECT!
I now possessed all the ingredients necessary. . .or did I?
Dressed in black, not by design, I shuffled into the neighbour's backyard, grabbed the ladder, and proceeded to walk away nonchalantly. My 'just out for a stroll in Parkdale under the cover of night' demeanour (an activity which, in truth, doesn't exist--EVERYONE 'strolling' in Parkdale at night is "working") lasted only until I ran out of arm's length; then the ladder, which refused to follow, and my hands (which refused to let go) worked in tandem to bring me flat on my back.
What. The. Fuck.
Being a bit on the 'tight' side, I stood, gave the ladder a scowl, and then grabbed it and gave another pull.
Still nothing.
Pull pull pull.
Nothing nothing nothing.
I couldn't budge the damn thing, and the whole time I'm thinking, "This puny ladder's got nothin' on me!".
That's when I heard, "Hello?", followed by a bunch of whispering.
Hearing someone's voice call to me brought about the gravity of my situation: I was dressed in black in someone's backyard wrestling with a ladder. It likely didn't look too good.
I kicked into acting mode, looked towards the sky and around the yard like I was confused or dumbstruck, then zig-zagged back down the driveway.
Two minutes later I was safely in my house watching ALL the neighbours search their 'estate' with flashlights and rakes.
Two days later, while my lovely E was having a visit with her bridesmaids from the 'burbs' (who already think we'll die a grisly death at the hands of some deranged crack whore) when our upstairs neighbour stopped to tell the ladies:
G- "Now E, I don't want you to worry, but two nights ago the next door neighbours had a PROWLER. He was trying to get a ladder to do God knows what, and one of them scared him away."
E's bridesmaids eyes are larger than saucers by now.
E- (in rehearsed horror)"Oh my!"
G- "Now, don't worry, THE POLICE WERE CALLED, and everything should be okay. Just maybe keep your windows closed."
E- "Okay. I will."
Cue the bridesmaids losing their shit, only to be comforted by E stating under her breath, "B was the prowler."
Do they make greeting cards they say something to the effect, "Sorry I was prowling around your yard last night. . ."?
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Polar Bear Camoflauge
It's official.
I've just finished moving into my new home in Parkdale, and already the accolades have started piling up.
Through an empirical evaluation of Spencer Ave, I have determined that I, B, am shirtless more often than any other crack whore or dementia-addled old fart on the street. The second and third floor residents have encountered me SHIRTLESS on average once a day since the start of the month. In that time they have seen me do the following things shirtless:
drink a beer;
use a circular saw;
take out the garbage;
dump waste illegally;
relax on my porch in a large round chair.
In short, I've settled into Parkdale living just fine. I'm showing some promising signs of assimilating with the riff-raff long before the chilly season, when shirts must be wore rather than tied around the waist.
How did I become such a skid?
I've just finished moving into my new home in Parkdale, and already the accolades have started piling up.
Through an empirical evaluation of Spencer Ave, I have determined that I, B, am shirtless more often than any other crack whore or dementia-addled old fart on the street. The second and third floor residents have encountered me SHIRTLESS on average once a day since the start of the month. In that time they have seen me do the following things shirtless:
drink a beer;
use a circular saw;
take out the garbage;
dump waste illegally;
relax on my porch in a large round chair.
In short, I've settled into Parkdale living just fine. I'm showing some promising signs of assimilating with the riff-raff long before the chilly season, when shirts must be wore rather than tied around the waist.
How did I become such a skid?
Thursday, July 28, 2005
The Proof is in the Tampon.
E encountered the total nutbar whom I paid some finger service to a few days back, and he was in full roar this time.
Days ago, when A had floated past me dressed as a bargain basement Casper and told me "Now I'm the white man," I had been disappointed. Was that all he had to say?
Some flames, I supposed, burn bright--but only for a short while.
I was wrong.
This flame is still burning.
Dressed once again in his 'white man' disguise, A screamed at my beloved E, "The white women are liars! They have white blood in their veins--WHITE BLOOD IS WHAT THE WHITE DEVIL HAS--and when they menstruate, they bleed white!! All white women are liars!!"
I was surprised that E was so forthcoming with this tale, as A had made some pretty damning statements about white women (of which she counts herself a lifetime member)--it inevitably led to some tears on my part, and some difficult questions she answered, in my opinion, far too quickly.
Questions such as:
B- "Are you a liar!?!"
B- "Do you menstruate white!?!"
B- "Are you a devil or demon!?!"
Tough, difficult questions to ask your true love. Questions I hope you never have to ask your fiancees. Tough.
And the tricky part about asking a lying white-blood-bleeding She-Devil questions to which you want answers is: You never know if you're getting the truth.
Anyway--that's between Me and E.
While this deranged man was on his screed, another half-way house philosopher weighed in on the issue, adding helpfully (and showing surprising proof that Affirmative Action is well becoming a part of our social fabric) that:
C- ". . . hey, hey, hey! Whites aren't the only liars! Blacks, Asians, Koreans, Brown People--they all lie too! Not just the whites!"
A made absolutely no indication whether he heard C's protests--cries for equity on this damn ball of mud--and continued his harangue at the expense of white women everywhere.
Myself? From one white man, to another aspiring white man: I wouldn't have been able to stomach seeing him affiliate my good white complexion and fine Y chromosome with such extremist opinions and behaviour. We white men have made painstaking efforts over the last few months to bring a fuzzy exterior to our blunt diplomacy, deceit, and tyrannical power-mongering that it does not one bit of good having one of our own breaking step and behaving like some sort of 'sexual jihadist'. It's bad for our new "Brand Image": White Men--Not the same dudes that wouldn't let your grandma vote, or your mom abort you, or your brown-faced country do their own thing!"
Days ago, when A had floated past me dressed as a bargain basement Casper and told me "Now I'm the white man," I had been disappointed. Was that all he had to say?
Some flames, I supposed, burn bright--but only for a short while.
I was wrong.
This flame is still burning.
Dressed once again in his 'white man' disguise, A screamed at my beloved E, "The white women are liars! They have white blood in their veins--WHITE BLOOD IS WHAT THE WHITE DEVIL HAS--and when they menstruate, they bleed white!! All white women are liars!!"
I was surprised that E was so forthcoming with this tale, as A had made some pretty damning statements about white women (of which she counts herself a lifetime member)--it inevitably led to some tears on my part, and some difficult questions she answered, in my opinion, far too quickly.
Questions such as:
B- "Are you a liar!?!"
B- "Do you menstruate white!?!"
B- "Are you a devil or demon!?!"
Tough, difficult questions to ask your true love. Questions I hope you never have to ask your fiancees. Tough.
And the tricky part about asking a lying white-blood-bleeding She-Devil questions to which you want answers is: You never know if you're getting the truth.
Anyway--that's between Me and E.
While this deranged man was on his screed, another half-way house philosopher weighed in on the issue, adding helpfully (and showing surprising proof that Affirmative Action is well becoming a part of our social fabric) that:
C- ". . . hey, hey, hey! Whites aren't the only liars! Blacks, Asians, Koreans, Brown People--they all lie too! Not just the whites!"
A made absolutely no indication whether he heard C's protests--cries for equity on this damn ball of mud--and continued his harangue at the expense of white women everywhere.
Myself? From one white man, to another aspiring white man: I wouldn't have been able to stomach seeing him affiliate my good white complexion and fine Y chromosome with such extremist opinions and behaviour. We white men have made painstaking efforts over the last few months to bring a fuzzy exterior to our blunt diplomacy, deceit, and tyrannical power-mongering that it does not one bit of good having one of our own breaking step and behaving like some sort of 'sexual jihadist'. It's bad for our new "Brand Image": White Men--Not the same dudes that wouldn't let your grandma vote, or your mom abort you, or your brown-faced country do their own thing!"
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