I live across the street from a house which is covered in the most unlikely graffiti of any house that I have ever seen. I swear that I'm not exaggerating.
To start, even before you consider the prose, the fantastic colours catch your eye.
Then, you notice the stuffed animals stapled mercilessly by their ears to the soffet.
Lastly, the messages:
"Our police are doing a great job!",
"I had a Labatt Blue and Molson Canadian at Wayne Gretzky's and took a cab home!",
and finally,
"Kids killed by drunk drivers can't hug Pandas!"
No, they certainly can't.
They also can't:
. . .play croquet with 'The Beatles'! (for more than one reason)
. . .sit on a pole for the Guinness record!
. . .explore the Scenic Caves near Collingwood!
. . .go through a period of loving Weird Al Yankovic!
Rich lives, full of potential, cut short by someone who should have just taken a cab.
Think about it.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Friday, February 25, 2005
There's no business, like snow business!
On Eastern Ave between Broadview and Carlaw Marky-Mark is shooting a film.
The film takes place during Christmastime, one gathers, as production crews have hung lights and ornaments all along the street. Last Friday it was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas as I drove to work--except that there was no snow on the ground!
I could hear the producers screaming on the line from Hollywood:
"God Damn Canada! The one thing you would think it was good for is snow, and now, in the middle of winter, there isn't one God damned flake to be seen! Jesus H. Christ, find me some fucking snow!"
So on my way home, production crews were blowing snow, chipping ice, and laying down long rolls of white cotton batton to make Eastern Ave in Toronto, Canada look like a snow-covered street in Brooklyn. Which, incidently, had its own snow.
Sunday evening it snows like there's a sequel to "The Day After Tomorrow" being shot.
Monday morning, a discouraged production crew begins melting snow to match footage they had already shot when snow was hard to come by.
"God damned Canada! I wish to God that damned Chinook would make up its God damned mind!"
The film takes place during Christmastime, one gathers, as production crews have hung lights and ornaments all along the street. Last Friday it was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas as I drove to work--except that there was no snow on the ground!
I could hear the producers screaming on the line from Hollywood:
"God Damn Canada! The one thing you would think it was good for is snow, and now, in the middle of winter, there isn't one God damned flake to be seen! Jesus H. Christ, find me some fucking snow!"
So on my way home, production crews were blowing snow, chipping ice, and laying down long rolls of white cotton batton to make Eastern Ave in Toronto, Canada look like a snow-covered street in Brooklyn. Which, incidently, had its own snow.
Sunday evening it snows like there's a sequel to "The Day After Tomorrow" being shot.
Monday morning, a discouraged production crew begins melting snow to match footage they had already shot when snow was hard to come by.
"God damned Canada! I wish to God that damned Chinook would make up its God damned mind!"
Gentleman's Paradise by the Dashboard Lights
I've given many, many people a quick Q&A period on my dazzling Smart car.
How fast? How much? etc. etc. etc.
I always invite people to sit in it; and occasionally, I'll give them a ride around the parking lot.
It brings me joy to bring joy to the lives of others.
I could be more selective about where and when (and with whom) I bestow my particular brand of philanthropy, as I learned outside Jilly's Gentleman's Revue at Queen and Broadview.
Perhaps the time of day, or the dark, moonless night, or the reputation of the neighbourhood should have put me on alert; but no! When a fella, obviously drunk, knocked on my window as I warmed up the Smart in a Green P lot across from Jilly's, my first instinct was to chat.
When he asked me if he could sit in the car beside me, "because it's so cool looking!", I should have said that I needed to get going--that if I didn't show up at my house in 5 minutes, my wife (a cop) would get her gun and come looking for me.
Instead, I said "Absolutely!".
Not just "yes"; but "absolutely".
This is when, on The Flintstones, The Great Gazoo appears over Fred's shoulder and says, "What on Prehistoric Earth are you doing, Dumb-Dumb?!"
I have no Great Gazoo to assist me in my daily choices.
When "Brian" climbed in beside me, left hand shoved deep into his coat pocket, my inner voice found only these two words: Oh snap.
I positioned my hand near to the driver's door handle, knowing in my heart I came from a long line of "flighters"--men who didn't know how to fight, and weren't interested in taking any first-hand pointers.
As it happens, B2 was very well-versed in our lovely little brewery, and spoke with enthusiasm about the brand and the biz in general.
I began to feel so comfortable that I moved my hand slightly away from the door handle, and was just taking back my Oh snap! when he asked me if I'd like to smoke some crack with him.
My hand went back up in flight position.
Rescuing me from B2's persistent crack advances was a lonely friend, Barry (B3), who B2 had abandoned in Jilly's Perv's Row. I gave them both bottle openers for their praise of Steam Whistle; in return, they swore to buy some of our pilsner once safely back inside the Club.
After my new friends staggered away, I checked to see if B2 had wet my passenger seat.
It left me, the Great Philanthropist, wondering whether or not I'd share my last rock of crack with some random beer salesman I had just met.
My generous streak and love of my fellow man, I figure, stops at sharing crack.
How fast? How much? etc. etc. etc.
I always invite people to sit in it; and occasionally, I'll give them a ride around the parking lot.
It brings me joy to bring joy to the lives of others.
I could be more selective about where and when (and with whom) I bestow my particular brand of philanthropy, as I learned outside Jilly's Gentleman's Revue at Queen and Broadview.
Perhaps the time of day, or the dark, moonless night, or the reputation of the neighbourhood should have put me on alert; but no! When a fella, obviously drunk, knocked on my window as I warmed up the Smart in a Green P lot across from Jilly's, my first instinct was to chat.
When he asked me if he could sit in the car beside me, "because it's so cool looking!", I should have said that I needed to get going--that if I didn't show up at my house in 5 minutes, my wife (a cop) would get her gun and come looking for me.
Instead, I said "Absolutely!".
Not just "yes"; but "absolutely".
This is when, on The Flintstones, The Great Gazoo appears over Fred's shoulder and says, "What on Prehistoric Earth are you doing, Dumb-Dumb?!"
I have no Great Gazoo to assist me in my daily choices.
When "Brian" climbed in beside me, left hand shoved deep into his coat pocket, my inner voice found only these two words: Oh snap.
I positioned my hand near to the driver's door handle, knowing in my heart I came from a long line of "flighters"--men who didn't know how to fight, and weren't interested in taking any first-hand pointers.
As it happens, B2 was very well-versed in our lovely little brewery, and spoke with enthusiasm about the brand and the biz in general.
I began to feel so comfortable that I moved my hand slightly away from the door handle, and was just taking back my Oh snap! when he asked me if I'd like to smoke some crack with him.
My hand went back up in flight position.
Rescuing me from B2's persistent crack advances was a lonely friend, Barry (B3), who B2 had abandoned in Jilly's Perv's Row. I gave them both bottle openers for their praise of Steam Whistle; in return, they swore to buy some of our pilsner once safely back inside the Club.
After my new friends staggered away, I checked to see if B2 had wet my passenger seat.
It left me, the Great Philanthropist, wondering whether or not I'd share my last rock of crack with some random beer salesman I had just met.
My generous streak and love of my fellow man, I figure, stops at sharing crack.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Sunni Triangle on my Face
My poor little Smart gets me a lot of attention.
It's kind of awkward.
At stop lights people stare and grin and wave at me, which is fine for the first 10 seconds; the remaining 20 seconds crawl by. What was once an exciting, new relationship full of hope and promise soon develops the all-too-familiar signs of wear-and-tear. Honeymoon period over, smiles get strained, waving hands get limp with fatigue, we find out that we have nothing in common, and lastly, we begin to avoid each other. A phone call? Tune the radio? Read an inane billboard? Do anything but spend time with each other.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.
It has become so common for people to stare at me in my car (or perhaps more accurately, just my car) that I've finally stopped feeling like I've done something wrong.
Which is precisely when I began doing things that could be considered 'wrong'.
I got too comfortable.
I stopped noticing people noticing me, and went back to all the filthy habits people have while driving in their car
Singing along with the radio. Conducting symphonies with twinkles of my fingertips. Picking my teeth. Picking my . . .
. . .danger, Will Robinson. Danger.
Late one night, after dropping off my fiancee, I indulged in a quiet little bit of nose maintenance, wherein I removed something that I shouldn't have, and my nose began to bleed.
Disgusting, I nose; and now, quite urgent.
Tipping my head back, I looked for something to dam the crimson tide. A Kleenex Rick Schroeder, to borrow from the movie of the self-same name; or a little paper Dutchman.
Nothing.
I could feel the blood sticking its big toe into my moustache, and knew that something must be done, and quickly.
I did what I had to do, and stuck my finger back in my nose.
I stopped at a red light.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a vehicle come to rest beside me. I could feel eyes first on my car, then on me. In the silence of the night, above the rattle of the Smart's V3 diesel engine, gales of laughter mingled with the cold winter air.
My finger hung fast.
For the next 20 seconds my relationship with the passengers in car next to me would mirror Canadian/American relations. I showed either incredible pluck, or vain stupidity, and continued to press my finger into my nose; they would look on with disbelief, humour, and quiet superiority.
And I would pretend that no blood was shed, and that nothing was wrong, and everything was perfectly normal.
It's kind of awkward.
At stop lights people stare and grin and wave at me, which is fine for the first 10 seconds; the remaining 20 seconds crawl by. What was once an exciting, new relationship full of hope and promise soon develops the all-too-familiar signs of wear-and-tear. Honeymoon period over, smiles get strained, waving hands get limp with fatigue, we find out that we have nothing in common, and lastly, we begin to avoid each other. A phone call? Tune the radio? Read an inane billboard? Do anything but spend time with each other.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.
It has become so common for people to stare at me in my car (or perhaps more accurately, just my car) that I've finally stopped feeling like I've done something wrong.
Which is precisely when I began doing things that could be considered 'wrong'.
I got too comfortable.
I stopped noticing people noticing me, and went back to all the filthy habits people have while driving in their car
Singing along with the radio. Conducting symphonies with twinkles of my fingertips. Picking my teeth. Picking my . . .
. . .danger, Will Robinson. Danger.
Late one night, after dropping off my fiancee, I indulged in a quiet little bit of nose maintenance, wherein I removed something that I shouldn't have, and my nose began to bleed.
Disgusting, I nose; and now, quite urgent.
Tipping my head back, I looked for something to dam the crimson tide. A Kleenex Rick Schroeder, to borrow from the movie of the self-same name; or a little paper Dutchman.
Nothing.
I could feel the blood sticking its big toe into my moustache, and knew that something must be done, and quickly.
I did what I had to do, and stuck my finger back in my nose.
I stopped at a red light.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a vehicle come to rest beside me. I could feel eyes first on my car, then on me. In the silence of the night, above the rattle of the Smart's V3 diesel engine, gales of laughter mingled with the cold winter air.
My finger hung fast.
For the next 20 seconds my relationship with the passengers in car next to me would mirror Canadian/American relations. I showed either incredible pluck, or vain stupidity, and continued to press my finger into my nose; they would look on with disbelief, humour, and quiet superiority.
And I would pretend that no blood was shed, and that nothing was wrong, and everything was perfectly normal.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Shitzunds and Poomans and Bears, Oh My!
An alarming trend has emerged from my statistics page: it seems I have become the foremost source of Shitzu-related questions on Google.
From "how to get my shitzu to eat" searches, to "shitzu + daschund cross" to "shitz dogs" to the very word I thought that I had made up, "shitzund"--yes, I've got it all here, folks!
The traffic seems to be generated by an entry called "Eat Shitz and Die" of August 23 of 2004. Something about that entry has garnered a lot of interest. I have to say that it by no means provides useful information regarding the shitzu breed of dogs--but I'm reluctant to scorn these people, as they make up a large part of my readership. What a dilemma!
My answer is to write, even just briefly, about a breed of dog that I hope others are searching for: a Poodle and Doberman cross I like to refer to as the "Pooman". The "Pooman" came up in a conversation I had with my fiance about entertaining dog-crosses I would make given the time, skill, and island laboratory of Dr. Moreau. Indeed, at the time my musing about a Pooman made me laugh so hard I nearly didn't say it all. Which, I maintain, would have been a great loss to the overall comic history I have laboured hard to build in her mind.
So, Shitzund and Pooman fans the world over: come to me!
Come to me and be profoundly disappointed!
I also rate very high with those who seek "nude chicks"--but I want to discourage that element from visiting too often. The last thing I want is a freakin' Sausage Fest here.
From "how to get my shitzu to eat" searches, to "shitzu + daschund cross" to "shitz dogs" to the very word I thought that I had made up, "shitzund"--yes, I've got it all here, folks!
The traffic seems to be generated by an entry called "Eat Shitz and Die" of August 23 of 2004. Something about that entry has garnered a lot of interest. I have to say that it by no means provides useful information regarding the shitzu breed of dogs--but I'm reluctant to scorn these people, as they make up a large part of my readership. What a dilemma!
My answer is to write, even just briefly, about a breed of dog that I hope others are searching for: a Poodle and Doberman cross I like to refer to as the "Pooman". The "Pooman" came up in a conversation I had with my fiance about entertaining dog-crosses I would make given the time, skill, and island laboratory of Dr. Moreau. Indeed, at the time my musing about a Pooman made me laugh so hard I nearly didn't say it all. Which, I maintain, would have been a great loss to the overall comic history I have laboured hard to build in her mind.
So, Shitzund and Pooman fans the world over: come to me!
Come to me and be profoundly disappointed!
I also rate very high with those who seek "nude chicks"--but I want to discourage that element from visiting too often. The last thing I want is a freakin' Sausage Fest here.
Hospital Hijinx!
I recently had some uncomfortable business with my testicles which led me to St. Michael's Hospital Emergency.
Waiting in the triage area, one gets an appreciation for the trials those who work in emergency rooms around the nation face every day.
To my left, a guy who's foot was sore, and he wanted everyone to know about it. It was unclear whether his sore foot or his loud behaviour were directly related to, or a result of, the amount of mouthwash he had drank for breakfast.
To my right, an old salt whose smile looked like bubble gum with a few shards of glass stuck in it, and who, when asked, reported:
"My gums are shit and my teeth are falling out."
When told that St. Mike's has no dental surgeon, his reply was:
". . .and I have leprosy."
The look of panic which overtook a wheelchair-bound grandmother sitting on the other side of this leper was classic. Up until that moment she had been looking as miserable and vacant as possible--a pantomime to effect quick admittance--hoping, as we all did, that if you look pathetic enough the triage nurse will take pity on you and save you the hours-long wait in queue for a doctor. Upon hearing that leprosy was in her midst, she became saucer-eyed and tried to roll away. Not being a regular user of wheelchair's, while also trying to be discreet and not offend the leper's feelings, she failed to realise that the wheelchair brakes were engaged. She was getting nowhere, but it wasn't for lack of trying.
And lastly, across from me was someone's poor demented father who had taken a spill during his morning walk. The someone in question was clearly too busy to be dealing with dear old dad; dear old dad's hand, it should be noted, was the size of a small Nerf football. I couldn't help but stare--it was the HUGEST hand I have ever seen--and he kept flapping it in an irresistible way. He was tantalizing me to look; he was dangling bait to catch people with poor manners.
I had to bite.
Needless to say, my emergency room experience turned out to be both very interesting and very pleasant. I received excellent service, and would recommend it to anyone looking for something to do on a Friday night when they've broken something as a result of drinking. Or who have shooting pain in their balls.
Waiting in the triage area, one gets an appreciation for the trials those who work in emergency rooms around the nation face every day.
To my left, a guy who's foot was sore, and he wanted everyone to know about it. It was unclear whether his sore foot or his loud behaviour were directly related to, or a result of, the amount of mouthwash he had drank for breakfast.
To my right, an old salt whose smile looked like bubble gum with a few shards of glass stuck in it, and who, when asked, reported:
"My gums are shit and my teeth are falling out."
When told that St. Mike's has no dental surgeon, his reply was:
". . .and I have leprosy."
The look of panic which overtook a wheelchair-bound grandmother sitting on the other side of this leper was classic. Up until that moment she had been looking as miserable and vacant as possible--a pantomime to effect quick admittance--hoping, as we all did, that if you look pathetic enough the triage nurse will take pity on you and save you the hours-long wait in queue for a doctor. Upon hearing that leprosy was in her midst, she became saucer-eyed and tried to roll away. Not being a regular user of wheelchair's, while also trying to be discreet and not offend the leper's feelings, she failed to realise that the wheelchair brakes were engaged. She was getting nowhere, but it wasn't for lack of trying.
And lastly, across from me was someone's poor demented father who had taken a spill during his morning walk. The someone in question was clearly too busy to be dealing with dear old dad; dear old dad's hand, it should be noted, was the size of a small Nerf football. I couldn't help but stare--it was the HUGEST hand I have ever seen--and he kept flapping it in an irresistible way. He was tantalizing me to look; he was dangling bait to catch people with poor manners.
I had to bite.
Needless to say, my emergency room experience turned out to be both very interesting and very pleasant. I received excellent service, and would recommend it to anyone looking for something to do on a Friday night when they've broken something as a result of drinking. Or who have shooting pain in their balls.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Oh, how the Smart have fallen!
My Smart--the apple of my eye!--the cream in my coffee!--the head on my beer!--the hole from my donut!
My poor little Smart got real sick, and the only people I have to blame are the filthy French.
While traveling late one night from A to B (A being beautiful Old Chinatown; B being character-filled Parkdale), my lovely fiancee by my side, the Smart's dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree and lost all special braking control.
To many, this might have been cause for alarm; having piloted the Heart of Darkness (my '69 Fairlane Ranchero), where braking control could never be taken for granted, this was just par for the course.
Over the course of 11 days, my Smart's diagnosis from the Service Department at Downtown Mercedes-Benz went from "minor" to "critical failure"--the Old Yeller type of critical failure--and a "minor seal problem" led to "total wiring overhaul".
As the Smart was birthed in France, I say "J'accuse!". Thanks in part to what I suspect was an unscheduled croissant and wine break while the Foreman was away, my Smart got a bellyache that led to some pretty major replacements.
I'm surprised, as the French have a long history of working very well with the Germans.
My poor little Smart got real sick, and the only people I have to blame are the filthy French.
While traveling late one night from A to B (A being beautiful Old Chinatown; B being character-filled Parkdale), my lovely fiancee by my side, the Smart's dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree and lost all special braking control.
To many, this might have been cause for alarm; having piloted the Heart of Darkness (my '69 Fairlane Ranchero), where braking control could never be taken for granted, this was just par for the course.
Over the course of 11 days, my Smart's diagnosis from the Service Department at Downtown Mercedes-Benz went from "minor" to "critical failure"--the Old Yeller type of critical failure--and a "minor seal problem" led to "total wiring overhaul".
As the Smart was birthed in France, I say "J'accuse!". Thanks in part to what I suspect was an unscheduled croissant and wine break while the Foreman was away, my Smart got a bellyache that led to some pretty major replacements.
I'm surprised, as the French have a long history of working very well with the Germans.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Twenty-Four Hour Salt!
My brother, who chose to move from the Don Jail escape corridor to very nearly into the tennis courts of Mimico Jail, has a new threat to his home. . .and this time it has nothing to do with raccoons eating his beloved goldfish.
To his rear a new industrial development which would see cement production, and the advertised promise of road salt to be available around the clock to serve a sodium-hungry public better, threaten the sanctity of his hot tub and barbecue oasis.
This has an obvious impact on my freeloading lifestyle.
http://www.newtoronto.ca
His wife is very handy with a computer; the neighbours have turned out to be very organised, and very pissed off. The last information meeting, my brother reported, saw screaming and yelling unlike anything the 8 city officials present have ever seen. City counselor Mark Grimes took the raspberries and waved middle fingers during December's Santa Claus parade through New Toronto as a 'call to arms', and has since worked closely with the Citizens of New Toronto to stay cancer-free!
Check it out.
Looking for a hot date with Municipal politics? Join them.
To his rear a new industrial development which would see cement production, and the advertised promise of road salt to be available around the clock to serve a sodium-hungry public better, threaten the sanctity of his hot tub and barbecue oasis.
This has an obvious impact on my freeloading lifestyle.
http://www.newtoronto.ca
His wife is very handy with a computer; the neighbours have turned out to be very organised, and very pissed off. The last information meeting, my brother reported, saw screaming and yelling unlike anything the 8 city officials present have ever seen. City counselor Mark Grimes took the raspberries and waved middle fingers during December's Santa Claus parade through New Toronto as a 'call to arms', and has since worked closely with the Citizens of New Toronto to stay cancer-free!
Check it out.
Looking for a hot date with Municipal politics? Join them.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Right makes Right.
I was cruisin' with my finest beeatch the other afternoon in Bam-Bam (The Smart), and while we were stopped at the lights on Front at Church, this ratty mini-van beside us, and one carlength ahead, pops his vehicle in reverse and backs up even with us.
Down goes our window, as we're used to the celebrity our Smart attracts, and get ready to answer any questions they may have about safety, or speed, or roominess--the usual.
A- "Is that a Benz?"
B- "Yes it is!"
A- (to the back seat)"See! Fuck you! I told you that it was Benz!"
Clearly he and his kids had disagreed about the lineage of The Smart.
Without any gratitude, the mini-van rolled forward one car length and waited for the green.
The driver did have what appeared to be a modestly smug, self-righteous look on his face. Though objects in mirror could be smugger than they appear.
Down goes our window, as we're used to the celebrity our Smart attracts, and get ready to answer any questions they may have about safety, or speed, or roominess--the usual.
A- "Is that a Benz?"
B- "Yes it is!"
A- (to the back seat)"See! Fuck you! I told you that it was Benz!"
Clearly he and his kids had disagreed about the lineage of The Smart.
Without any gratitude, the mini-van rolled forward one car length and waited for the green.
The driver did have what appeared to be a modestly smug, self-righteous look on his face. Though objects in mirror could be smugger than they appear.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Worst. TB. Ever.
One of my dearest old chums and I decided to do some Christmas shopping together.
I was early, rummaging around the documentary DVDs at Sunrise, when my cell phone rang. It was him. He was late. His College Streetcar was not moving.
What was going on?
He didn't know; the streetcar in front of him was standing still as well.
Was there an accident?
Didn't seem to be.
I waited.
Forty-five minutes later, he turns up with this big grin, bursting at the seams to tell me just what had taken so long.
Apparently, just after we spoke, everyone from Streetcar 1 filed off and piled on to his streetcar (#2). They were followed by a public health worker dolled out in some protective clothing and a face mask.
A- "Alright. Who was on the first streetcar there, raise your hands."
A general show of hands.
A- "Alright. And who was on this streetcar, raise your hands."
Another general show of hands.
A- "Okay. Anyone who wants to be tested, follow me."
His cavalier attitude did not go very well with his protective clothing.
People began to ask, quite loudly, just what the hell they might be tested for.
A- "Now, now, now--I can't tell you anything but that people on the first streetcar may have been exposed to a communicable disease. If you want a test, come with me. Going once. Going twice." (a casual look around) "Gone!"
And just like Kaiser Soseh, the public health worker was gone.
His ominous message connected with a few people, who began to file off the streetcar, and on to the Toronto Health Winnebago for their tests.
After a few minutes, Streetcar 1 patients began to climb back on to Streetcar 2, as Streetcar 1 was being thoroughly examined by several members of the public health squad. My buddy noticed someone he knew, and wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened.
C- "What the hell was going on in your streetcar?"
D- "There was this homeless dude at the back, and he was coughing and coughing, in mean, hacking all over the place. Then he finally gets enough breath to say, 'This is the worst TB I've ever had!!'"
Lovely. What a perfect statement.
My life experience only allows me to make such sweeping condemnations as:
This is the worst hamburger I've ever had!
or
This is the worst Pauly Shore movie my roommate owns!
or
This is the worst wurst at Kitchener-Waterloo's Oktoberfest EVER!
Nothing there, aside from the Pauly Shore movies, would strike a chord of fear in anyone. Not like the qualitative statement our dear, under-the-weather homeless gent is able to make regarding his "TB".
Apparently, after the subjective assessment of his own condition, a worried fellow-communter ran up to the driver, reported that someone at the back had TB, which set off a chain-reaction. Driver to control: TB present.
Control to Public Health: TB present. Public Health to Control: TB is bad. Control to Driver: TB is bad. Driver to himself: coffee break!
The cherry on top of all this hub-bub is that, in the stampede from Streetcar 1 to Streetcar 2, the suspected TB case buggered off! This is the best time to get the hell out of Dodge!
It is nice to see how much fellow Torontonians care about each other.
If I ever come down with some dangerous infection, I hope that my fellow citizens allow me to run off to a corner and die in peace. I also hope that my eulogy takes a page from the Public Health's crowd control manual:
He may have led a noble life, and could be fondly remembered by his friends and family. Going once. Going twice. . .
I was early, rummaging around the documentary DVDs at Sunrise, when my cell phone rang. It was him. He was late. His College Streetcar was not moving.
What was going on?
He didn't know; the streetcar in front of him was standing still as well.
Was there an accident?
Didn't seem to be.
I waited.
Forty-five minutes later, he turns up with this big grin, bursting at the seams to tell me just what had taken so long.
Apparently, just after we spoke, everyone from Streetcar 1 filed off and piled on to his streetcar (#2). They were followed by a public health worker dolled out in some protective clothing and a face mask.
A- "Alright. Who was on the first streetcar there, raise your hands."
A general show of hands.
A- "Alright. And who was on this streetcar, raise your hands."
Another general show of hands.
A- "Okay. Anyone who wants to be tested, follow me."
His cavalier attitude did not go very well with his protective clothing.
People began to ask, quite loudly, just what the hell they might be tested for.
A- "Now, now, now--I can't tell you anything but that people on the first streetcar may have been exposed to a communicable disease. If you want a test, come with me. Going once. Going twice." (a casual look around) "Gone!"
And just like Kaiser Soseh, the public health worker was gone.
His ominous message connected with a few people, who began to file off the streetcar, and on to the Toronto Health Winnebago for their tests.
After a few minutes, Streetcar 1 patients began to climb back on to Streetcar 2, as Streetcar 1 was being thoroughly examined by several members of the public health squad. My buddy noticed someone he knew, and wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened.
C- "What the hell was going on in your streetcar?"
D- "There was this homeless dude at the back, and he was coughing and coughing, in mean, hacking all over the place. Then he finally gets enough breath to say, 'This is the worst TB I've ever had!!'"
Lovely. What a perfect statement.
My life experience only allows me to make such sweeping condemnations as:
This is the worst hamburger I've ever had!
or
This is the worst Pauly Shore movie my roommate owns!
or
This is the worst wurst at Kitchener-Waterloo's Oktoberfest EVER!
Nothing there, aside from the Pauly Shore movies, would strike a chord of fear in anyone. Not like the qualitative statement our dear, under-the-weather homeless gent is able to make regarding his "TB".
Apparently, after the subjective assessment of his own condition, a worried fellow-communter ran up to the driver, reported that someone at the back had TB, which set off a chain-reaction. Driver to control: TB present.
Control to Public Health: TB present. Public Health to Control: TB is bad. Control to Driver: TB is bad. Driver to himself: coffee break!
The cherry on top of all this hub-bub is that, in the stampede from Streetcar 1 to Streetcar 2, the suspected TB case buggered off! This is the best time to get the hell out of Dodge!
It is nice to see how much fellow Torontonians care about each other.
If I ever come down with some dangerous infection, I hope that my fellow citizens allow me to run off to a corner and die in peace. I also hope that my eulogy takes a page from the Public Health's crowd control manual:
He may have led a noble life, and could be fondly remembered by his friends and family. Going once. Going twice. . .
Saturday, December 18, 2004
One tough BITCH.
I had a ward named Ali.
She was a loving and intelligent Jack Russell terrier that loved, as the package had forewarned me, "Love my Liver Bits" from a pet boutique on the Danforth.
Sadly, I had to surrender her to the Toronto Humane Society because life as my dog, though luxurious in treats, is want for adequate together time.
Heartbreaking.
But before we went our separate ways, Ali, my fiance, and I had an exchange with an old woman who no doubt drown her children in the bath basin; in their stead, she now rolls a Pekinese with a goiter around in a child's pram, while a much perkier version of the same races about leashless.
The goiter dog is pathetic. It's goiter rivals the dog's snout in length, and it's owner's demeanor in awfulness. Funnily enough, the dog is the same colour as iodine. The Pekinese on the loose is entirely useless, ripe with an eager curiosity Ali, on this particular night, attempted to cure her of.
Ali was attacked by a Pit Bull during her time on the street, which has left an indelible mark on her. She loathes other dogs (apart from my parent's toy poodle, a dandy named Kelsey, whom she adores--though he could never love her back, for his heart belongs to a lifelike monkey puppet he enjoys sinful entry with in our laundry room in Lucan). You can imagine where I'm going with a story who's principle players are a dog that hates other dogs, a dog which is not on a leash, and an old lady you already know me to hate.
So Ali is biting this freewheelin' Pekinese on the face, and my fiance is telling the old hag "My dog is not friendly!" (no kidding) Ali is literally, as Erika describes it, chopping on the Pekinese's face; the Pekinese is pulling one of those, "Sorry? Come again? Jeez, that hurts!". The old lady shows surprising pluck, and says "Your dog is a bitch!"
To which I exclaim:
B- "Excuse me? Did you just call my dog a name?"
A- "Well, she's a female, isn't she?"
B- "Oh! Come! On! We're not swearing behind mom's back right now! A female dog's a "bitch", a "bastard" is the son of an unwed mother, and "fuck" is seal in French; but trust me: rarely do I use them in their intended context! You called her a name! That's ridiculous!! That's pathetic!"
She began to walk away, muttering to herself, sickly dog before her, wounded dog behind.
B- "Come on now! Shame! On! You! How old are you--calling a dog names!! You should be ashamed of yourself! Shame! Shame! I hope everyone in the neighbourhood heard how shameful you behaved! Calling a poor, defenseless dog names!"
E- "It's illegal to have your dog off of a leash! (to Ali) Good for you! You bit that dog very well! Good girl!"
I continued to question the old lady's nobility, language skills, and general character loudly until my lungs were empty. It felt so good to feel so right! I mean, who calls someone else's pet a name simply out of malice?
I don't go over to my brother and sister-in-law's house and say, "You stupid fucking goldfish. Swimming in your own piss like a bunch of fucking idiots!" I don't.
And if I did, and I was caught maligning the fish for no reason, I certainly wouldn't say, "What? They're not 'Ryukin Goldfish'? I thought they were."
She was a loving and intelligent Jack Russell terrier that loved, as the package had forewarned me, "Love my Liver Bits" from a pet boutique on the Danforth.
Sadly, I had to surrender her to the Toronto Humane Society because life as my dog, though luxurious in treats, is want for adequate together time.
Heartbreaking.
But before we went our separate ways, Ali, my fiance, and I had an exchange with an old woman who no doubt drown her children in the bath basin; in their stead, she now rolls a Pekinese with a goiter around in a child's pram, while a much perkier version of the same races about leashless.
The goiter dog is pathetic. It's goiter rivals the dog's snout in length, and it's owner's demeanor in awfulness. Funnily enough, the dog is the same colour as iodine. The Pekinese on the loose is entirely useless, ripe with an eager curiosity Ali, on this particular night, attempted to cure her of.
Ali was attacked by a Pit Bull during her time on the street, which has left an indelible mark on her. She loathes other dogs (apart from my parent's toy poodle, a dandy named Kelsey, whom she adores--though he could never love her back, for his heart belongs to a lifelike monkey puppet he enjoys sinful entry with in our laundry room in Lucan). You can imagine where I'm going with a story who's principle players are a dog that hates other dogs, a dog which is not on a leash, and an old lady you already know me to hate.
So Ali is biting this freewheelin' Pekinese on the face, and my fiance is telling the old hag "My dog is not friendly!" (no kidding) Ali is literally, as Erika describes it, chopping on the Pekinese's face; the Pekinese is pulling one of those, "Sorry? Come again? Jeez, that hurts!". The old lady shows surprising pluck, and says "Your dog is a bitch!"
To which I exclaim:
B- "Excuse me? Did you just call my dog a name?"
A- "Well, she's a female, isn't she?"
B- "Oh! Come! On! We're not swearing behind mom's back right now! A female dog's a "bitch", a "bastard" is the son of an unwed mother, and "fuck" is seal in French; but trust me: rarely do I use them in their intended context! You called her a name! That's ridiculous!! That's pathetic!"
She began to walk away, muttering to herself, sickly dog before her, wounded dog behind.
B- "Come on now! Shame! On! You! How old are you--calling a dog names!! You should be ashamed of yourself! Shame! Shame! I hope everyone in the neighbourhood heard how shameful you behaved! Calling a poor, defenseless dog names!"
E- "It's illegal to have your dog off of a leash! (to Ali) Good for you! You bit that dog very well! Good girl!"
I continued to question the old lady's nobility, language skills, and general character loudly until my lungs were empty. It felt so good to feel so right! I mean, who calls someone else's pet a name simply out of malice?
I don't go over to my brother and sister-in-law's house and say, "You stupid fucking goldfish. Swimming in your own piss like a bunch of fucking idiots!" I don't.
And if I did, and I was caught maligning the fish for no reason, I certainly wouldn't say, "What? They're not 'Ryukin Goldfish'? I thought they were."
Out Smart-ed!
I am now part of the elite "Smart Nation".
I may travel safely at highway speeds, can fit two fifty litre kegs and two twelve pack suitcases of Steam Whistle Pilsner in the rear area, and love to drive it.
I feel extremely safe cocooned amidst four airbags and an F-1 racing-type tubular steel body.
Having said that, I will no doubt say it again and again and again over the course of my relationship with Bam-Bam, my beloved Smart Cabriolet.
I will, however, caution folks who are skeptical of Bam-Bam's ability to protect me (either by way of his several special braking systems and tubular steel, or by rolling over those who mock and defy us like a turbo-charged dwarf elephant). The last man who defamed Bam-Bam designed his own moronic fate.
Near the Summerhill LCBO Bam-Bam and I were placidly waiting for the light to change. A voice from above us spat ill-informed remark after ill-informed remark until I finally had to put the roof down, look way up, and answer his malevolent stupidity with a firm rebuke.
A- (calling from the seat of his large flatbed towtruck)"I wouldn't want to get in an accident with that!! No sir!"
B- "Do you know what safety systems I have to protect me?"
A- "I hope it's a coffin, because you're going to need it if you get hit in that."
B- "Have you ever seen race cars get in accidents? You know that little steel cage that the drivers step out of and wave to the crowd? That's basically what this car is."
A- "I still wouldn't want to get in an accident with that. I need to be nice and high; that's where I'm safe."
It was at this point the light turned green, and I began to roll away. I was just going to call back something to the effect that he would likely never get into an accident driving a Smart, seeing as he would likely never drive a Smart, therefore removing most of the risk of getting into an accident with one. . .when he got in an accident.
Seeing me move made him assume that he could move, which he did--right into the back of the car in front of him. Being so high off the road, I suppose he didn't see the four door sedan his huge towtruck kissed gently.
I didn't have time to chime out "I wouldn't want to get in an accident because I wasn't paying attention, Monkey-Fucker!", which was too bad. It just goes to show that, in a city like Toronto, poetic justice is always stalking you, waiting to punctuate your each and every move with a humbling irony. I love it!
Where I'm from, humbling irony was only ever presented for the amusement of lowing cattle in an ajacent field, making it much easier for one's character to weather.
This man's great misfortune is that he may tow his mistake back to his place of work for his co-workers to enjoy (all at his expense). Talk about hoisting one's own petard! Indeed!
I may travel safely at highway speeds, can fit two fifty litre kegs and two twelve pack suitcases of Steam Whistle Pilsner in the rear area, and love to drive it.
I feel extremely safe cocooned amidst four airbags and an F-1 racing-type tubular steel body.
Having said that, I will no doubt say it again and again and again over the course of my relationship with Bam-Bam, my beloved Smart Cabriolet.
I will, however, caution folks who are skeptical of Bam-Bam's ability to protect me (either by way of his several special braking systems and tubular steel, or by rolling over those who mock and defy us like a turbo-charged dwarf elephant). The last man who defamed Bam-Bam designed his own moronic fate.
Near the Summerhill LCBO Bam-Bam and I were placidly waiting for the light to change. A voice from above us spat ill-informed remark after ill-informed remark until I finally had to put the roof down, look way up, and answer his malevolent stupidity with a firm rebuke.
A- (calling from the seat of his large flatbed towtruck)"I wouldn't want to get in an accident with that!! No sir!"
B- "Do you know what safety systems I have to protect me?"
A- "I hope it's a coffin, because you're going to need it if you get hit in that."
B- "Have you ever seen race cars get in accidents? You know that little steel cage that the drivers step out of and wave to the crowd? That's basically what this car is."
A- "I still wouldn't want to get in an accident with that. I need to be nice and high; that's where I'm safe."
It was at this point the light turned green, and I began to roll away. I was just going to call back something to the effect that he would likely never get into an accident driving a Smart, seeing as he would likely never drive a Smart, therefore removing most of the risk of getting into an accident with one. . .when he got in an accident.
Seeing me move made him assume that he could move, which he did--right into the back of the car in front of him. Being so high off the road, I suppose he didn't see the four door sedan his huge towtruck kissed gently.
I didn't have time to chime out "I wouldn't want to get in an accident because I wasn't paying attention, Monkey-Fucker!", which was too bad. It just goes to show that, in a city like Toronto, poetic justice is always stalking you, waiting to punctuate your each and every move with a humbling irony. I love it!
Where I'm from, humbling irony was only ever presented for the amusement of lowing cattle in an ajacent field, making it much easier for one's character to weather.
This man's great misfortune is that he may tow his mistake back to his place of work for his co-workers to enjoy (all at his expense). Talk about hoisting one's own petard! Indeed!
Mr. Blackwell's 'Learning Annex' Graduate
I recently was confronted in an Port Credit LCBO by a woman who sported eyes which looked like two pissholes made in the snow by someone with a bladder infection. I was sampling of our fine Pilsner, decked out to the nines in one of my favorite Western shirts: black, with red desert roses across the shoulders, and fine pearlette dome buttons.
Her eyes were not the only giveaways that she was completely deranged. Her dog, for example, was a very petite mutt, yet she carried a poop scoop the size of a Javex jug. It made me wish for the dog to shit in order to satisfy a morbid curiosity welling up inside. To justify the size of the scoop, the mutt would clearly have to pass a turd the size and shape of a pop can. To do this, it would surely dislocate its hips.
She also, very early in our relationship, told me that:
A- "Honey, that shirt is not workin' for you! It's not! You look like some fuckin' Mar-bor-low Man, or somthin'! Take it off and throw (snap fingers) it (snap fingers) out (snap fingers)!!"
B- "Gosh. I really, really like it, though."
A- "Then you got no taste!"
Then she bolted away, sample in tow, only to single out some poor thirty-something suburbanite in line at the cash and say:
A- "Murray!! You fucking cocksucker! You're dead when we get outside! No one fucks with me like that!!"
The man later made an appeal to leave by the rear door, which fell on deaf ears. Obviously only he had taken the threat seriously. It may have been that she pointed at him with a poop scoop that made the rest of us doubt her conviction.
As she left, clutching a can of Maxiumum Ice, she showed me a pen and said:
A- "Par-lee-ment of Canada! This was Paul Martin's pen, and he gave it to me!"
Again, she lacked credibility in my eyes.
More clever than I thought, she went home (I'm only guessing) and changed clothing. Her new fashion choice far-and-away outdid her earlier drabs--a brilliant red dress of polyester, with a plunging neckline which began at her shoulders and ended, mercifully, just prior to her vagina. She had accessorised with a fat red stretchy belt. It wasn't very becoming; but that's coming from a man who himself has been accused of lacking in fashion sense.
Her strategy was to pretend that we were meeting for the first time. To say 'strategy' is giving her the benefit of guile, which could be flattering this specimen. She very well may have been meeting me for the first time, again.
I gave her a sample, and this time, whether it was the result of the red dress I don't know, she was the absolute picture of feminine grace. Save for the dress.
She left again, this time armed with a can of Yankee Jim.
Who would have thunk that a Port Credit Friday night would have so much character?
Her eyes were not the only giveaways that she was completely deranged. Her dog, for example, was a very petite mutt, yet she carried a poop scoop the size of a Javex jug. It made me wish for the dog to shit in order to satisfy a morbid curiosity welling up inside. To justify the size of the scoop, the mutt would clearly have to pass a turd the size and shape of a pop can. To do this, it would surely dislocate its hips.
She also, very early in our relationship, told me that:
A- "Honey, that shirt is not workin' for you! It's not! You look like some fuckin' Mar-bor-low Man, or somthin'! Take it off and throw (snap fingers) it (snap fingers) out (snap fingers)!!"
B- "Gosh. I really, really like it, though."
A- "Then you got no taste!"
Then she bolted away, sample in tow, only to single out some poor thirty-something suburbanite in line at the cash and say:
A- "Murray!! You fucking cocksucker! You're dead when we get outside! No one fucks with me like that!!"
The man later made an appeal to leave by the rear door, which fell on deaf ears. Obviously only he had taken the threat seriously. It may have been that she pointed at him with a poop scoop that made the rest of us doubt her conviction.
As she left, clutching a can of Maxiumum Ice, she showed me a pen and said:
A- "Par-lee-ment of Canada! This was Paul Martin's pen, and he gave it to me!"
Again, she lacked credibility in my eyes.
More clever than I thought, she went home (I'm only guessing) and changed clothing. Her new fashion choice far-and-away outdid her earlier drabs--a brilliant red dress of polyester, with a plunging neckline which began at her shoulders and ended, mercifully, just prior to her vagina. She had accessorised with a fat red stretchy belt. It wasn't very becoming; but that's coming from a man who himself has been accused of lacking in fashion sense.
Her strategy was to pretend that we were meeting for the first time. To say 'strategy' is giving her the benefit of guile, which could be flattering this specimen. She very well may have been meeting me for the first time, again.
I gave her a sample, and this time, whether it was the result of the red dress I don't know, she was the absolute picture of feminine grace. Save for the dress.
She left again, this time armed with a can of Yankee Jim.
Who would have thunk that a Port Credit Friday night would have so much character?
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
In Canada, it's called 'Sparkling White'.
My hometown is many things.
The place where my family has lived for nearly two centuries.
The home of Canada's oldest Shell Gasoline Station.
Rich farmland.
But mostly, it's home to Canada's Bloodiest Massacre.
Yes, The Black Donnellys, so oft referred to as Canadians Tragic Roustabouts, is second most popular reaction to my response "I'm from Lucan"; the first is a blank stare.
The fact that hundreds of people own "Tales of the Donnelly Feud", written and performed by
Earl Heywood "Canada's Number One Singing Cowboy!" (I shorten his title to "Number One Singing Cousin"), or have caught wind of Lucan since A&E christened the village as "the second most haunted place in North America", do little to expand what is a rather cursory recognition of my birthplace and its rich history.
Finally, I met someone to whom the mention of "Lucan" sparked a synapse deep within the recesses of his mind.
A- "Lucan? North of London?"
B- "You got it, Pontiac."
A- "'The Shillelagh'?"
B- "Yep. It used to be on the north end. . ."
A- "That's the first place I ever saw a stripper in a champagne glass!"
And so it went. He recalled the evening in vivid detail, as if retracing his snow-packed footsteps from the evening. Footsteps which led him to a motel room conjoined to the back of The Shillelagh for a 'roll'.
Lucan, for him, was a special, mythical place. Just like it is to me. But for different reasons.
I, to date, have no place where a stripper has performed in a champagne glass for my mind's eye to drift mistily back to. Lucan no longer affords such bourgeois luxuries to the areas lustful Irishmen; so sadly the first generation of Goddard men in quite a while must make their memories elsewhere.
Township of Biddulph Lucan Council, this be a baton I fling from my failing hand to you.
The place where my family has lived for nearly two centuries.
The home of Canada's oldest Shell Gasoline Station.
Rich farmland.
But mostly, it's home to Canada's Bloodiest Massacre.
Yes, The Black Donnellys, so oft referred to as Canadians Tragic Roustabouts, is second most popular reaction to my response "I'm from Lucan"; the first is a blank stare.
The fact that hundreds of people own "Tales of the Donnelly Feud", written and performed by
Earl Heywood "Canada's Number One Singing Cowboy!" (I shorten his title to "Number One Singing Cousin"), or have caught wind of Lucan since A&E christened the village as "the second most haunted place in North America", do little to expand what is a rather cursory recognition of my birthplace and its rich history.
Finally, I met someone to whom the mention of "Lucan" sparked a synapse deep within the recesses of his mind.
A- "Lucan? North of London?"
B- "You got it, Pontiac."
A- "'The Shillelagh'?"
B- "Yep. It used to be on the north end. . ."
A- "That's the first place I ever saw a stripper in a champagne glass!"
And so it went. He recalled the evening in vivid detail, as if retracing his snow-packed footsteps from the evening. Footsteps which led him to a motel room conjoined to the back of The Shillelagh for a 'roll'.
Lucan, for him, was a special, mythical place. Just like it is to me. But for different reasons.
I, to date, have no place where a stripper has performed in a champagne glass for my mind's eye to drift mistily back to. Lucan no longer affords such bourgeois luxuries to the areas lustful Irishmen; so sadly the first generation of Goddard men in quite a while must make their memories elsewhere.
Township of Biddulph Lucan Council, this be a baton I fling from my failing hand to you.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Sleep when you're dead; Pray that death comes quickly.
I went to the film "The Notebook" a few evenings back with my fiance because, well, I suppose we both just needed a good cry.
A word to the wise: get a good night's sleep beforehand. Because I saw the movie with someone that didn't, and boy did they ever have a bad case of the yawns.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Seated safely in the VIP theatre at the Varsity Cinemas, I was impressed at how many women had joined my fiance and I to see the touching story of lost love.
I mean, I couldn't believe that I was the only guy!
I thought that any film Gene Shalit called ". . .as beautiful and rare a love story as ever caressed the heart" would be something men flocked to. Beat a path to. Stepped over their mothers to see.
Apparently I was wrong.
But not as wrong as Jeffery Lyons of WNBC, who cautioned ". . .bring your Kleenex!"
That bastard should have gone on to say, ". . .bring your Kleenex. . . to stuff in your ears, and a pillow to smother your loved one. Then, if you have any strength and willpower left, smother yourself."
Ten minutes into "The Notebook", and two elderly couples turn up on the darkened aisle, late. They hadn't missed anything.
As if their intrusion wasn't bad enough (to be frank, it was nice to have something to divert my attention from the movie) they began to discuss, in outdoor voices, their wish for some nice young people to "volunteer" their seats. To my knowledge, the etiquette of public transit does not apply to movies in progress. Others must have been of the same opinion, as the status quo established before the movie began was maintained, forcing my elders to seek out the only remaining seats--those oh-so-desirable ones at the front of the theatre.
Couple A shared, in very loud exchanges: the plot; clarifications of certain romantic intrigues on which the success or failure of the plot depended; and whether or not TV's Maverick was the actor reading the much-ballyhooed Notebook.
Couple B had a more interesting, passive/aggressive relationship. Husband B, every ten minutes, yawned like a cartoon bear awakening from hibernation.
Actually, strike that--this description of Wookies at StarWars.com is more in line with what I observed:
"(Wookies) tempers, however, are short; when angered, Wookiees can fly into a berserker rage and will not stop until the object of their distemper is sufficiently destroyed. "
(http://www.starwars.com/databank/species/wookiee/)
He yowled like a Wookie being exploited by The Empire; the object of his "distemper" foolishly played on, unawares of the "Berserker" in aisle 1.
Wife B, each time, gave him a withering look. He did not respond to the powers of the Dark Side. Soon she began to yawn loudly right after he did--even anger cannot override the human reflex to yawn after seeing someone else yawn.
In the arch of the Holy Trilogy, this appeared to be "The Return of the Shuteye".
I envied his restful state.
And so the story unfolded, and women wept openly around me while I sat silently, dreaming of my own "Return"--"Alien vs. Predator" is still in the theatre, and it's my turn to pick the next movie.
You see, my fiance and I have a relationship, as far as going to the cinema is concerned, not unlike the one which exists between the Alien and the Predator: Who ever wins. . .we lose.
I figure, over the years, my horror movies will more than adequately cover the innumerable "greatest love story of our time" car wrecks that I am conscripted to see; while she fails to see the value in catching "Friday the 13th: Part 3 in 3-D" before it is lost due to the gross negligence of the Academy's film restoration efforts.
A word to the wise: get a good night's sleep beforehand. Because I saw the movie with someone that didn't, and boy did they ever have a bad case of the yawns.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Seated safely in the VIP theatre at the Varsity Cinemas, I was impressed at how many women had joined my fiance and I to see the touching story of lost love.
I mean, I couldn't believe that I was the only guy!
I thought that any film Gene Shalit called ". . .as beautiful and rare a love story as ever caressed the heart" would be something men flocked to. Beat a path to. Stepped over their mothers to see.
Apparently I was wrong.
But not as wrong as Jeffery Lyons of WNBC, who cautioned ". . .bring your Kleenex!"
That bastard should have gone on to say, ". . .bring your Kleenex. . . to stuff in your ears, and a pillow to smother your loved one. Then, if you have any strength and willpower left, smother yourself."
Ten minutes into "The Notebook", and two elderly couples turn up on the darkened aisle, late. They hadn't missed anything.
As if their intrusion wasn't bad enough (to be frank, it was nice to have something to divert my attention from the movie) they began to discuss, in outdoor voices, their wish for some nice young people to "volunteer" their seats. To my knowledge, the etiquette of public transit does not apply to movies in progress. Others must have been of the same opinion, as the status quo established before the movie began was maintained, forcing my elders to seek out the only remaining seats--those oh-so-desirable ones at the front of the theatre.
Couple A shared, in very loud exchanges: the plot; clarifications of certain romantic intrigues on which the success or failure of the plot depended; and whether or not TV's Maverick was the actor reading the much-ballyhooed Notebook.
Couple B had a more interesting, passive/aggressive relationship. Husband B, every ten minutes, yawned like a cartoon bear awakening from hibernation.
Actually, strike that--this description of Wookies at StarWars.com is more in line with what I observed:
"(Wookies) tempers, however, are short; when angered, Wookiees can fly into a berserker rage and will not stop until the object of their distemper is sufficiently destroyed. "
(http://www.starwars.com/databank/species/wookiee/)
He yowled like a Wookie being exploited by The Empire; the object of his "distemper" foolishly played on, unawares of the "Berserker" in aisle 1.
Wife B, each time, gave him a withering look. He did not respond to the powers of the Dark Side. Soon she began to yawn loudly right after he did--even anger cannot override the human reflex to yawn after seeing someone else yawn.
In the arch of the Holy Trilogy, this appeared to be "The Return of the Shuteye".
I envied his restful state.
And so the story unfolded, and women wept openly around me while I sat silently, dreaming of my own "Return"--"Alien vs. Predator" is still in the theatre, and it's my turn to pick the next movie.
You see, my fiance and I have a relationship, as far as going to the cinema is concerned, not unlike the one which exists between the Alien and the Predator: Who ever wins. . .we lose.
I figure, over the years, my horror movies will more than adequately cover the innumerable "greatest love story of our time" car wrecks that I am conscripted to see; while she fails to see the value in catching "Friday the 13th: Part 3 in 3-D" before it is lost due to the gross negligence of the Academy's film restoration efforts.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Fodors Toronto:"Blue Balls on a Budget"
I must have a trusting face.
Or an intelligent face.
It could be that I have a lonley face.
At any rate, my face was the most inviting one down at Pier 6 this afternoon when a wayward American traveller, perhaps a little stoned, approached me in his tie-dyed shirt to ask:
A- "Buddy! Buddy! Where's the ferry to the nude beach?"
B- "One block east of here, at the York Quay."
A- "Thanks! Buddy, is there a lot of nude chicks out there?"
B- "Not really."
A- "I heard that there was nude chicks with big guns out there, on the nude beach."
B- "Uh. . .Sometimes there might be. I think, uh, generally it's just dudes on that beach."
A- ". . .dudes?"
B- "Yeah."
A- "Should I go?"
B- "Uh. . .I. . .uh. . .I don't know. I don't think that there will be many 'chicks with big guns' out there today. It's kinda cold."
A- "I just got today to burn. Should I go?"
B- ". . .uh. . .I don't think that it's what you're looking for."
A- "No? (pause) You're sure that there's no chicks out there? Just dudes?"
B- "I think that if it's chicks you want, you should go down Yonge St. to the peelers."
A- "Is that expensive? I heard that the ferry to the beach on the island is only, like, six bucks, and I'm kinda short on dough right now."
B- "Ah-ha. Well. I'd save your six bucks and look at the moon from the docks here."
I left him wondering what course of action to take.
But I couldn't help feeling like I wasn't much help to my fellow man in his moment of need.
Or an intelligent face.
It could be that I have a lonley face.
At any rate, my face was the most inviting one down at Pier 6 this afternoon when a wayward American traveller, perhaps a little stoned, approached me in his tie-dyed shirt to ask:
A- "Buddy! Buddy! Where's the ferry to the nude beach?"
B- "One block east of here, at the York Quay."
A- "Thanks! Buddy, is there a lot of nude chicks out there?"
B- "Not really."
A- "I heard that there was nude chicks with big guns out there, on the nude beach."
B- "Uh. . .Sometimes there might be. I think, uh, generally it's just dudes on that beach."
A- ". . .dudes?"
B- "Yeah."
A- "Should I go?"
B- "Uh. . .I. . .uh. . .I don't know. I don't think that there will be many 'chicks with big guns' out there today. It's kinda cold."
A- "I just got today to burn. Should I go?"
B- ". . .uh. . .I don't think that it's what you're looking for."
A- "No? (pause) You're sure that there's no chicks out there? Just dudes?"
B- "I think that if it's chicks you want, you should go down Yonge St. to the peelers."
A- "Is that expensive? I heard that the ferry to the beach on the island is only, like, six bucks, and I'm kinda short on dough right now."
B- "Ah-ha. Well. I'd save your six bucks and look at the moon from the docks here."
I left him wondering what course of action to take.
But I couldn't help feeling like I wasn't much help to my fellow man in his moment of need.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Lead by example.
Unlike rain on your wedding day, or a black fly in your Chardonnay, I did notice something whiz past me on the Danforth two nights back that was ironic.
And it wasn't ten thousand spoons when all I needed was a knife.
Helming the Heart of Darkness in the dense traffic that floats down the Danforth can be relaxing--you know, take in the sights and sounds of Little Greektown while sipping an espresso, letting the 'Best of Guns and Roses' on the compact disc player entertain pedestrians and stir rabid jealously in those that wish they were me.
This particular night would have been nicer had a guy driving a Ford Focus covered in decals asking: Have A Traffic Ticket? Speeding Ticket? Don't Want To Lose Points? WE CAN HELP!! not blasted past me, driving down the centre of the avenue (which is to say, at the risk of putting too fine a point on it, directly down the solid line safely bisecting eastbound traffic from westbound traffic) and weaved between oncoming and outgoing traffic until he disappeared into the horizon of twinkling red brake lights.
I suppose, if one was to believe the claims made on his automobile, he was immune to conventional traffic laws--he was, dare I say it, in a class which is . . . Above the Law. A class where there is only one other student: Steven Segal.
And it wasn't ten thousand spoons when all I needed was a knife.
Helming the Heart of Darkness in the dense traffic that floats down the Danforth can be relaxing--you know, take in the sights and sounds of Little Greektown while sipping an espresso, letting the 'Best of Guns and Roses' on the compact disc player entertain pedestrians and stir rabid jealously in those that wish they were me.
This particular night would have been nicer had a guy driving a Ford Focus covered in decals asking: Have A Traffic Ticket? Speeding Ticket? Don't Want To Lose Points? WE CAN HELP!! not blasted past me, driving down the centre of the avenue (which is to say, at the risk of putting too fine a point on it, directly down the solid line safely bisecting eastbound traffic from westbound traffic) and weaved between oncoming and outgoing traffic until he disappeared into the horizon of twinkling red brake lights.
I suppose, if one was to believe the claims made on his automobile, he was immune to conventional traffic laws--he was, dare I say it, in a class which is . . . Above the Law. A class where there is only one other student: Steven Segal.
Monday, August 23, 2004
I'm with Dummer!
It is good to get out of the city every now and then.
Having grown up in the country, far far far from the city, I was used to people, places, and things being a bit backwards and silly. I mean, we didn't know how stupid, unsophisticated, and occasionally, inadvertently, funny we were, because the people from the city never came and pointed it out to us.
Like my Korean boss putting "Scoop Ice Ream" up on the sign because he was missing the 'C' and thought people would get the point anyway. You know, get the gist of it.
I have lived in the city for one year and eleven months TO THE DAY today, and while driving through the Kawartha Lakes region last week I saw a sign on the roadside indicating which way to drive if one wanted to reach the office of "The Dummer News".
There is a town named Dummer.
They have a paper which they called "The Dummer News".
I wonder if there is a Dummer Elementary School? Or a Dummer Library? Or a Dummer Town Council which decides on Dummer Bylaws?
I laughed for ten kilometers.
Having grown up in the country, far far far from the city, I was used to people, places, and things being a bit backwards and silly. I mean, we didn't know how stupid, unsophisticated, and occasionally, inadvertently, funny we were, because the people from the city never came and pointed it out to us.
Like my Korean boss putting "Scoop Ice Ream" up on the sign because he was missing the 'C' and thought people would get the point anyway. You know, get the gist of it.
I have lived in the city for one year and eleven months TO THE DAY today, and while driving through the Kawartha Lakes region last week I saw a sign on the roadside indicating which way to drive if one wanted to reach the office of "The Dummer News".
There is a town named Dummer.
They have a paper which they called "The Dummer News".
I wonder if there is a Dummer Elementary School? Or a Dummer Library? Or a Dummer Town Council which decides on Dummer Bylaws?
I laughed for ten kilometers.
Eat Shitz and Die!
Recently, while plying my brand of Pilsner in a local LCBO, an elderly woman came in with her trusted friend and companion, a Shitzund (a Shitzu and a Daschund crossed--a Shitz-wiener if you will) dolled-up in the 11th Century French Rococo style.
A woman with her dog is not in itself an extraordinary sight in Toronto, a city where people love to take their dogs everywhere; even the way she was striking her four-legged friend with her foot was not, unfortunately, an uncommon spectacle. It was the ridiculous abuse she was hurling at the confused, yet well-ribboned, bitch that drew my eye. Abuse hurled in German!
Knowing that wiener Dogs were stoned in the streets of London during World War I and World War II due to their Germanic heritage, I thought it unpatriotic for this German septuagenarian to be assaulting a mongrel of Aryan lineage. The only thing I could think of, was that she was trying to kick the Shitz out of the dog.
As she passed, I remarked:
B- "What a beautiful dog! She's a Shitzu and Daschund cross, isn't she?"
A- "Yes. She's beautiful and I wish she would die."
B- "I see."
The maligned pooch looked up at me from beneath her ridiculous, north-pointing ponytail, her little cross-eyes conveying a certain tired sadness in her soul that only the meek possess. I felt for her and wondered if the Germans would ever change their wicked ways.
I dreampt that a bulldog with a big stick took it to the Kaiser later that night, and felt a bit better.
A woman with her dog is not in itself an extraordinary sight in Toronto, a city where people love to take their dogs everywhere; even the way she was striking her four-legged friend with her foot was not, unfortunately, an uncommon spectacle. It was the ridiculous abuse she was hurling at the confused, yet well-ribboned, bitch that drew my eye. Abuse hurled in German!
Knowing that wiener Dogs were stoned in the streets of London during World War I and World War II due to their Germanic heritage, I thought it unpatriotic for this German septuagenarian to be assaulting a mongrel of Aryan lineage. The only thing I could think of, was that she was trying to kick the Shitz out of the dog.
As she passed, I remarked:
B- "What a beautiful dog! She's a Shitzu and Daschund cross, isn't she?"
A- "Yes. She's beautiful and I wish she would die."
B- "I see."
The maligned pooch looked up at me from beneath her ridiculous, north-pointing ponytail, her little cross-eyes conveying a certain tired sadness in her soul that only the meek possess. I felt for her and wondered if the Germans would ever change their wicked ways.
I dreampt that a bulldog with a big stick took it to the Kaiser later that night, and felt a bit better.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Nancy Drew and the Missing Poo
My fiance works in a hospital's emergency room.
The night shift.
There is never a dull moment.
Like the time a girlfriend ran her boyfriend through with a samurai sword, then benevolently drove him to the hospital.
Or the time she was nearly done registering a quiet, intense man, before noticing that he was being admitted for "Homicidal thoughts".
I like to pick her up from work whenever I'm not too busying partying or having a good time, because one never knows the type of person lurking about outside the hospital, considering that all the responsible crazies and invalids are safely registered inside.
On a recent visit I overheard, 'eavesdropped on' more like, two homecare workers that had brought their elderly homecare patient in due to "concern". It seems she was pale, cold to the touch, and wouldn't poo.
But more importantly, as younger of the two pointed out:
A- "If she dies, I'd rather these doctors have to explain it."
Yes. Nothing kills the good times quicker than having to explain a body. Especially a body full of poo.
The older homecare worker comforted the younger with a sexy little tale from 'back in the day'.
C- "I was working at a nursing home, and some of those men were absolutely wicked. If they offered me a chocolate I never took it, because one time I did and the old bugger grabbed me by my uniform and tore it right off of me!"
A- "NO!"
C- "Yes! He was a sex maniac! He was sex crazy! I tried not to go too close to any of those men again."
I can't imagine there are many bed-ridden septuagenarian sex maniacs out there; if she didn't exaggerate, and really turned his head as she said, she must be an extraordinary woman! A virtual Viagra on heels!
I stole a peek.
She was not.
Then I began to wonder how effectively one can care for another over a six foot void. If you threw too many air balls, a patient could go without medication for a week.
The night shift.
There is never a dull moment.
Like the time a girlfriend ran her boyfriend through with a samurai sword, then benevolently drove him to the hospital.
Or the time she was nearly done registering a quiet, intense man, before noticing that he was being admitted for "Homicidal thoughts".
I like to pick her up from work whenever I'm not too busying partying or having a good time, because one never knows the type of person lurking about outside the hospital, considering that all the responsible crazies and invalids are safely registered inside.
On a recent visit I overheard, 'eavesdropped on' more like, two homecare workers that had brought their elderly homecare patient in due to "concern". It seems she was pale, cold to the touch, and wouldn't poo.
But more importantly, as younger of the two pointed out:
A- "If she dies, I'd rather these doctors have to explain it."
Yes. Nothing kills the good times quicker than having to explain a body. Especially a body full of poo.
The older homecare worker comforted the younger with a sexy little tale from 'back in the day'.
C- "I was working at a nursing home, and some of those men were absolutely wicked. If they offered me a chocolate I never took it, because one time I did and the old bugger grabbed me by my uniform and tore it right off of me!"
A- "NO!"
C- "Yes! He was a sex maniac! He was sex crazy! I tried not to go too close to any of those men again."
I can't imagine there are many bed-ridden septuagenarian sex maniacs out there; if she didn't exaggerate, and really turned his head as she said, she must be an extraordinary woman! A virtual Viagra on heels!
I stole a peek.
She was not.
Then I began to wonder how effectively one can care for another over a six foot void. If you threw too many air balls, a patient could go without medication for a week.
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