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.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
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!"
Monday, July 25, 2005
Obey the mullet.
This morning the humidity finally got to be too much. . . for a mullet on Broadview Ave.
Piloting my Smart car, Dilton, down Broadview often provides for some early morning diversions, and today was no different. While on my usual southbound commute, I was paced by a man riding a bicycle who wouldn't seem out of place in a Glass Tiger tribute band. His lovely dirty blond locks feathered like a mane around his baby-soft face.
But what made him special, was his dedication to The Mullet Way of Life.
At each traffic light (and just my luck, we hit them all this morning) he would put a foot down, pull out a pink plastic brush from the back pocket of his Levis (impossibly tight for riding a bike), and brush with vigor. The kind of brushing that requires two hands: one for the brush; and one cupped around the brush to form a protective barrier. He brushed like a symphony conductor--his brush, the baton. Each subtle twist and jerk of the brush served to direct the dirty blond chorus towards its climax; every long stroke adding tremolo to his mullet.
Once the light turned green, our Mustang would shake his mane and gallop to the next set of lights. Each red, he would conduct his grooming, or mating, ritual--the message lies in the eye of the beholder.
We parted ways outside "Jilly's", the finest strip club that Queen St. East has ever produced. As I rolled away, he brushed with an intensity that I have certainly never seen looking back at me in the mirror.
The end result? It was like he had brushed erection into his hair--ELECTRIC erection--and all manner of X chromosome, fair or ill-favoured, would succumb to his overture.
His symphony:
Virtuoso Del Sesso
It will surely be divided into 5 Movements:
Movement 1--Eye Contact.
Movement 2--Kissing with Tongue.
Movement 3--Up the Shirt.
Movement 4--Down the Skirt.
Movement 5--Sink the Pink
Now that's a conductor I would love to be First Chair under.
Piloting my Smart car, Dilton, down Broadview often provides for some early morning diversions, and today was no different. While on my usual southbound commute, I was paced by a man riding a bicycle who wouldn't seem out of place in a Glass Tiger tribute band. His lovely dirty blond locks feathered like a mane around his baby-soft face.
But what made him special, was his dedication to The Mullet Way of Life.
At each traffic light (and just my luck, we hit them all this morning) he would put a foot down, pull out a pink plastic brush from the back pocket of his Levis (impossibly tight for riding a bike), and brush with vigor. The kind of brushing that requires two hands: one for the brush; and one cupped around the brush to form a protective barrier. He brushed like a symphony conductor--his brush, the baton. Each subtle twist and jerk of the brush served to direct the dirty blond chorus towards its climax; every long stroke adding tremolo to his mullet.
Once the light turned green, our Mustang would shake his mane and gallop to the next set of lights. Each red, he would conduct his grooming, or mating, ritual--the message lies in the eye of the beholder.
We parted ways outside "Jilly's", the finest strip club that Queen St. East has ever produced. As I rolled away, he brushed with an intensity that I have certainly never seen looking back at me in the mirror.
The end result? It was like he had brushed erection into his hair--ELECTRIC erection--and all manner of X chromosome, fair or ill-favoured, would succumb to his overture.
His symphony:
Virtuoso Del Sesso
It will surely be divided into 5 Movements:
Movement 1--Eye Contact.
Movement 2--Kissing with Tongue.
Movement 3--Up the Shirt.
Movement 4--Down the Skirt.
Movement 5--Sink the Pink
Now that's a conductor I would love to be First Chair under.
It's Grrrrrrrrr-eat!
My fiancee, E, recently answered the phone and was treated to the following exchange.
E- "Good afternoon, __________!"
A- "Is C______ there?"
E- "No, I'm sorry, she's not!"
A- "Don't you fucking lie to me, bitch! Don't you fucking get me angry! I'm a tiger. . .a T-I-I-I-GER! Look at my stripes. They're long stripes. And wide."
E- "A. You're not supposed to speak to me like this--you know that. If you don't speak to me respectfully, I'll hang up."
A- "FUCK YOU!. . . .watch my stripes. . . ."(click)
It should be said that she works at a job where conversations like this are par for the course due to the clientele she keeps.
I wish I could pull off saying a line like "Watch my stripes!" instead of "Good-bye!".
"Good-bye!" seems so plain next to "Watch my stripes!"
Check my spots, bitches!
E- "Good afternoon, __________!"
A- "Is C______ there?"
E- "No, I'm sorry, she's not!"
A- "Don't you fucking lie to me, bitch! Don't you fucking get me angry! I'm a tiger. . .a T-I-I-I-GER! Look at my stripes. They're long stripes. And wide."
E- "A. You're not supposed to speak to me like this--you know that. If you don't speak to me respectfully, I'll hang up."
A- "FUCK YOU!. . . .watch my stripes. . . ."(click)
It should be said that she works at a job where conversations like this are par for the course due to the clientele she keeps.
I wish I could pull off saying a line like "Watch my stripes!" instead of "Good-bye!".
"Good-bye!" seems so plain next to "Watch my stripes!"
Check my spots, bitches!
Racial Profile a Little Sloppy.
If, in conversation with someone, you venture into the red hot topic of racial politics in Canada, and the person you're speaking to says something like:
A- ". . .yeah, well in Parkdale racial politics is boring!"
You can repeat this story to them.
A week or so ago, while walking the streets of my new neighbourhood (Parkdale), I nearly bumped into someone completely covered in white bedsheets and winter jackets. Over his head was a pillowcase with eyes, nose, and a mouth cut out of it. Judging from the zig-zagging of his stroll, the eyeholes either weren't working, or he wasn't using them. He looked like a Goodwill box with legs. Or a very drunk Casper the Ghost.
If I'm to believe the colour of the mystery man's hands, he was black. This is important when trying to understand the political weight of his sole comment to me as he 'floated' by.
C- "Now I'm the white man."
(pause)
B- "You certainly are."
If, by white man, he defines the parameters of Caucasians to include "drunk by 10am" and "crazy as a shithouse rat" then yes, he was whiter than Pat Buchanan; however, his definition of Caucasians would directly conflict with my definition of 'Citizens of Waupaca, Wisconsin'.
My definition is colourblind, and applies equally to both the blacks and whites of Waupaca, WI.
Had he been wearing a NASCAR hat on his pillowcased head while desperately clutching a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, I may have believed him.
'From A to B' is, and always has been, a safe harbour for Affirmative Action as it applies to the observation of crazies from all creed, colour, and nationality. Hence my motto, 'Crazy is as crazy does!', amended from the outdated and somewhat less AA compliant motto of my forefathers, 'Crazy is as crazy looks!'.
A- ". . .yeah, well in Parkdale racial politics is boring!"
You can repeat this story to them.
A week or so ago, while walking the streets of my new neighbourhood (Parkdale), I nearly bumped into someone completely covered in white bedsheets and winter jackets. Over his head was a pillowcase with eyes, nose, and a mouth cut out of it. Judging from the zig-zagging of his stroll, the eyeholes either weren't working, or he wasn't using them. He looked like a Goodwill box with legs. Or a very drunk Casper the Ghost.
If I'm to believe the colour of the mystery man's hands, he was black. This is important when trying to understand the political weight of his sole comment to me as he 'floated' by.
C- "Now I'm the white man."
(pause)
B- "You certainly are."
If, by white man, he defines the parameters of Caucasians to include "drunk by 10am" and "crazy as a shithouse rat" then yes, he was whiter than Pat Buchanan; however, his definition of Caucasians would directly conflict with my definition of 'Citizens of Waupaca, Wisconsin'.
My definition is colourblind, and applies equally to both the blacks and whites of Waupaca, WI.
Had he been wearing a NASCAR hat on his pillowcased head while desperately clutching a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, I may have believed him.
'From A to B' is, and always has been, a safe harbour for Affirmative Action as it applies to the observation of crazies from all creed, colour, and nationality. Hence my motto, 'Crazy is as crazy does!', amended from the outdated and somewhat less AA compliant motto of my forefathers, 'Crazy is as crazy looks!'.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Plumbing's Greatest Punchline.
Recently we took a school bus to the Mandarin buffet in Etobicoke.
A place of such regal beauty that even the carpet bears the familiar pink M of The Mandarin.
A place were no expense has been spared in the quest for a faithfully-constructed North American brand of "Far East" so familiar to us all.
A place were the endless bounty of deep-fried popcorn shrimp is always fresh, sizzling away in it's chaffing dish net.
Heaven.
Of this trip to heaven, I have but one story to tell, and it's about the washroom. This should surprise none of my regular readers.
Making my way to the loo, I found that I was treading in the wake of two young fellows--brothers--about 4 and 8 respectively. There was some confusion, on their part, as to which of the two doors they should enter. The doors were clearly marked with pictures: a samurai for the boys; a Mikado consort of sorts for the girls. The make-up on these icons was surely what was causing the confusion; both characters were wearing angry red lipstick.
They chose wisely.
I followed them into the washroom; but before I was fully in, I heard gales of laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Rounding the corner, I saw the two fellows pointing at the prince-sized urinal (hung on the wall closer to the floor than the kingly urinals to ensure all waste would make it to Lake Ontario, rather than the floor) doubled-over with laughter. The gasping kind of laughter that happens about five minutes into a real hazer.
These two kids couldn't believe their eyes! Apparently they'd never seen a pint-sized urinal before; judging by their reaction, it was better than anything Pauly Shore has done.
I began to get concerned that: 1) someone would walk in on me with two howling young boys and wonder--oh, I don't know what--and haul me off to 22 Division; 2) that they would begin pissing their pants, and never truly enjoy the accommodating urinal.
Finally, about mid-visit for me, one retreated (as if to catch his breath) to a stall; the other, still snickering, decided that it was time to piss into the waiting mouth of the Smurf-esque urinal. This is when things started to get a bit more 'real' for me: the kid in the stall began peppering his snickers with awful-sounding grunts of stress. He would snicker snicker, then hold his breath and grunt. I sounded like a cross between "A Baby Story" on Life, and the canned audience on "Family Matters". This made me and his brother start to laugh; the difference between our enjoyment was, I laughed and did not piss on my own feet. The more the one brother got on like a pig in heat, the harder we two laughed, the wetter the other brother's shoes became. Which made me laugh harder; which made the kid in the stall laugh harder.
Things were getting way out of hand. I had to leave.
Just as I washing up, the grunting from the stall fell silent. For the first time since entering the Mandarin Men's Room, you could hear a fortune cookie crack. Then, a massive splosh broke the silence. All three of us completely lost it.
I was still laughing by the time I made it back to my table, and for the first time in a long time, I was at a loss as to how to begin explaining the cause.
A place of such regal beauty that even the carpet bears the familiar pink M of The Mandarin.
A place were no expense has been spared in the quest for a faithfully-constructed North American brand of "Far East" so familiar to us all.
A place were the endless bounty of deep-fried popcorn shrimp is always fresh, sizzling away in it's chaffing dish net.
Heaven.
Of this trip to heaven, I have but one story to tell, and it's about the washroom. This should surprise none of my regular readers.
Making my way to the loo, I found that I was treading in the wake of two young fellows--brothers--about 4 and 8 respectively. There was some confusion, on their part, as to which of the two doors they should enter. The doors were clearly marked with pictures: a samurai for the boys; a Mikado consort of sorts for the girls. The make-up on these icons was surely what was causing the confusion; both characters were wearing angry red lipstick.
They chose wisely.
I followed them into the washroom; but before I was fully in, I heard gales of laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Rounding the corner, I saw the two fellows pointing at the prince-sized urinal (hung on the wall closer to the floor than the kingly urinals to ensure all waste would make it to Lake Ontario, rather than the floor) doubled-over with laughter. The gasping kind of laughter that happens about five minutes into a real hazer.
These two kids couldn't believe their eyes! Apparently they'd never seen a pint-sized urinal before; judging by their reaction, it was better than anything Pauly Shore has done.
I began to get concerned that: 1) someone would walk in on me with two howling young boys and wonder--oh, I don't know what--and haul me off to 22 Division; 2) that they would begin pissing their pants, and never truly enjoy the accommodating urinal.
Finally, about mid-visit for me, one retreated (as if to catch his breath) to a stall; the other, still snickering, decided that it was time to piss into the waiting mouth of the Smurf-esque urinal. This is when things started to get a bit more 'real' for me: the kid in the stall began peppering his snickers with awful-sounding grunts of stress. He would snicker snicker, then hold his breath and grunt. I sounded like a cross between "A Baby Story" on Life, and the canned audience on "Family Matters". This made me and his brother start to laugh; the difference between our enjoyment was, I laughed and did not piss on my own feet. The more the one brother got on like a pig in heat, the harder we two laughed, the wetter the other brother's shoes became. Which made me laugh harder; which made the kid in the stall laugh harder.
Things were getting way out of hand. I had to leave.
Just as I washing up, the grunting from the stall fell silent. For the first time since entering the Mandarin Men's Room, you could hear a fortune cookie crack. Then, a massive splosh broke the silence. All three of us completely lost it.
I was still laughing by the time I made it back to my table, and for the first time in a long time, I was at a loss as to how to begin explaining the cause.
Charlie don't play trombone!
It was a cool and breezy afternoon, and E and I were walking on Queen St. W.--the oft-conjested strip of buskers and panhandlers--when we encountered a performer I had never seen before.
From far away, it was clear that he was a man playing a saxophone while wearing a Chinese rice-picking hat. As we got closer, it became clear that he was in his ninja pajamas. We heard music.
Music that made us want to jump and prance.
Music that made us want to rock the dance.
He was playing "Pass The Dutchie" on his saxophone--how very exciting! I nearly had a full-on orgasm when we got close enough to recognise that the pauses in his rendition of the "Musical Youth" classic were to accommodate a burning cigarette he held in his right hand (making it a little harder to pass to his left-hand side, if he should so desire).
Since "The Gong Show" went off the air, public demand for performers of his ilk just isn't there.
When we passed, I believe he began to sing the opening "This generation rules the nation. . ." part in Chinese; rarely have I been happier walking down Queen St.
From far away, it was clear that he was a man playing a saxophone while wearing a Chinese rice-picking hat. As we got closer, it became clear that he was in his ninja pajamas. We heard music.
Music that made us want to jump and prance.
Music that made us want to rock the dance.
He was playing "Pass The Dutchie" on his saxophone--how very exciting! I nearly had a full-on orgasm when we got close enough to recognise that the pauses in his rendition of the "Musical Youth" classic were to accommodate a burning cigarette he held in his right hand (making it a little harder to pass to his left-hand side, if he should so desire).
Since "The Gong Show" went off the air, public demand for performers of his ilk just isn't there.
When we passed, I believe he began to sing the opening "This generation rules the nation. . ." part in Chinese; rarely have I been happier walking down Queen St.
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