Tuesday, February 27, 2007

More Steve-o than you can shake a stick at

Saw the awesome Rings of June last night at the cavernous Horseshoe Tavern, site of such musical dabblers as The Police and Rolling Stones…

It was the first time I heard them with a kick-ass sound system behind them. ‘Wow!’ is all I can say.

Doctor Lock is the gregarious bass player and he requested another Steve-o entry. After that fine performance – it’s the least I can do. Here you go, Doc.

Hello Bill. How are you? Oh, you’ve got some kind of anal leakage? Some clear substance? Oh really?

Just a fool to believe
She is thinking of Steve
She’s like my sack

These eggs are made for dippin’
But that’s not what they’ll do
One of these days these eggs
Are gonna have a freakin’ cow.

Last week on Prison Break,
My nut-sack is on fire.

Zoiks Scoob! Far out!

I love my pastitsies
I’m singing like Melissa Ethridge
‘Cause she’s so ditzy

What am I doing with the vacuum cleaner? Well, I thought I’d sit on my folding chair outside your bedroom door and shoot turds out of it. Maybe you can catch them with your lacrosse batons… What…? Lacrosse sticks? Oh. I thought they were called batons.

The end is near! The end is near!
We must make cinnamon buns!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Wait ‘til she gets a load of my purple-headed yogurt slinger!

Sturdy Danny Magee climbed his fifty-ninth tree sayin’ I work as fast as I can. Then he saw those… Two scoops of raisins in them Kellogg’s Raisin Bran.

The preceding opinions are not necessarily shared by FWG

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Birth and death

Today's my brother's birthday. My real brother, Marc. The one on my Mom's side. The one I grew up with. The one to whom I was first introduced when I was Nine and he kicked my hand from within Mom's great belly. I've yet to be introduced to Wade but hope remains.

I gave Marc a card that read, 'Happy Birthday! I couldn't ask for a better brother!' and inside, 'Well, I could but I think Mom's too old now!'

Yep. Slammed two out of three immediate family members with one card. That's some productivity right there.

I missed my writing group meeting today. I was running quite late and decided to skip it and show up for the birthday celebration early instead.

I was late because I'd spent the morning on the phone with the ex, who had called in tears.

"I just got off the phone with Mrs. Murdoch in New Brunswick."

New Brunswick... Murdoch...

"John's mom." I said, and my heart fell. I sensed immediately what perfectly shitty news was coming.

"John's dead."

We met him in a bar about five years ago. I didn't think he was old enough to be there. He was very talkative, engaging.

"Do you go to school?" I asked. "Do you work? What do you do?"

"I'm a false profit," he said. I was intrigued immediately. He truly believed that God communicated with him through storms, tornadoes being the clearest medium. But no one ever believed him. He fancied himself a storm-chaser though he had no means to do such a thing. No assets or real income except for the dubious sorts and occasionally a government assistance cheque on the rare occasions he could be convinced to stay at any one address long enough. He survived mainly on street shelters and the kindness of a few relative strangers that he considered his friends.

He doodled tornadoes anywhere he found a pen. He'd tell you all about weather patterns and he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. But then he'd talk about God and the inevitable fate of mankind and he'd start repeating himself and asking if you had any Percocet lying around or any cocaine. He could be difficult to deal with. As a houseguest he became intolerable after a few days. Then he'd disappear for another six months or so. He needed institutional help. The shortfalls in his brain were not very severe I don't think. A chemical imbalance perhaps.

He recently turned 25 while living on the streets in Toronto. Not a great living arrangement this time of year. He was sitting under a tree, say his homeless associates. He had a seizure. The paramedics came too late.

Few will remember John. His one good friend, back in New Brunswick, died tragically young also.

His mom hopes to raise enough money to fly to Toronto so she can put some flowers under the tree where her only child passed away.

Goodbye John. I'm sorry we failed you.

Saturday, February 24, 2007

Jesus Appears!

Oh dear.

Oh dear oh dear.

How am I gonna explain this? Flumadiddle will be so disappointed with me but it can't be denied. The face of Jesus has appeared here today. And at the dining room table of all places. And to His credit, he didn't play favorites. He appeared neither in Steve-o's plate or mine but in the extra plate - where the ruined over-poached eggs and leftover salmon were tossed.

Here's a picture. It's hard to make out His visage immediately but trust me - it's in there.

If thou truly have faith - you shall see your savior:

Friday, February 23, 2007

Dish Frog

Meet the Dish Frog. He's an orange wide-mouth frog with a big yellow tongue. Despite his modest stature he garners a fair amount of attention being orange and yellow in an otherwise somber environment. Rockin' Roddie gave him up for adoption along with a couple fine bottles of vino back at the Grotto of Cool house-swarming bash and Steve-o and I have since grown fond of him. So have many of our guests. But some, sadly, have not. And unbeknownst to them we pay careful attention to their reaction to Dish Frog.

You see, he is one of two Grotto of Cool guardians. While Cardboard Regis haunts the shadowy places - the closets; the shower; the other side of a closed door, Dish Frog rules the kitchen. And from his countertop perch he stares into souls with his black beady eyes.

Those who like Dish Frog are forever welcome at the Grotto and may move about freely within. But those who poo-poo Dish-Frog... Shall never be fully trusted here. They shall always be scrutinized.


Thursday, February 22, 2007

Sylvie Ruel Update

Well they did it again. Those little freaks at Reliance Home Comfort - they're crazy as shit-house rats I tell you. And as promised, I'm sending their latest offering back with a 'Final Notice' message scrawled on it. Although I'm having second thoughts about giving up just yet. If this doesn't work I may in fact try a couple more strategies.

I'll save Mark Cohen's solution for last - that of writing 'deceased' on the envelope. First - I think I'll try this if necessary:

Return to sender. Anthrax powder enclosed.

I'm thinking that might get someone's attention. I wonder if I might get into some hot water, though? That's not considered a post 9-11 faux-pas is it? I don't really want to get security certified by CCIS and disappear for three years over this. A brief prison stint might be a lark though. As long as they feed me and let me write all day. Think of the fun new experiences I could blog about. Shower-rape for instance. Laundry duty, mushy dinners of mysterious origin, digging tunnels behind Rita Hayworth posters, shower-rape. Oops. Did I say that one already?

There's still the hope of actually finding Sylvie Ruel. I'm sure she could put an end to all this with a simple phone call. While attempts so far to locate her via internet have failed I did notice that googling "Sylvie Ruel" brings up this blog as the number-one link! So if she has a single narcissistic bone in her body and happens to google herself (hee-hee! I love that phrase!) - she may just find her way here.

If you're reading this, Sylvie - please. Make the call.


Monday, February 19, 2007

Still more Steve-o quotes o' the day

Hey, you want a man-sock?

Yeah, the day that happens is the day my nut-sack falls to the ground like a baby.

[Editor's note: I swear these quotes are accurate. I know they don't often make sense but usually he just starts talking without knowing where he's going with it and sometimes paints himself into a corner.]

She's so wrinkly like a prune. If my nut-sack had arms and legs it would look just like her.

Here comes the fish again
Falling on my head like the scalloped potatoes
They're looking pretty bad. I think I'll throw them out.
And the fish can just stay here
'Cause the fish can just STAY HERE!

It's got to be an oriental driver. It has to be. You can tell by that big oversized rear-view mirror. Those mirrors aren't standard you know. I think it's a hereditary thing. All the Asians. There's a giant-mirror seed in them when they're born and when they're sixteen it comes out their leg and then they put it on their car.

Is that my phone? Yeah, it is. I got a - phone call dear Liza, dear Liza a pho- Hello?

You know how first-dates are. We mostly just talked about anal butt plugs.

I am Grandma Gummie Balls. I am in Ikea commercial. Get two Swedish meatballs for 67 cents - with a side order of sphincterola.

When I was just a little boy
I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?
Here’s what she said to me.
Que sera sera
You’ll grow a comb moustache
And build an empire of hate and greed
And kill many Jews
Que sera sera…

I’m gonna brush my teeth. I’ve probably got cheese breath.
Cheese breath cheese breath cheese breath!
Cheese breath cheese breath cheese breath!

I wonder if cows have cheese breath?

Neither FWG or the good people at blogger.com endorse any opinions expressed in the preceding article.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Dumpling Festival

Driving along the highway about 5 in the evening I heard a terrible rumbling noise and thought - my goodness - what's wrong with the truck? Then I realized it was just my stomach and I hadn't eaten anything all day.

Right about then I passed a giant Mandarin restaurant looming at the side of the highway. In my emaciated state I was in no condition to fight its considerable gravitational pull and found myself exiting at the next interchange and eventually getting sucked through a maze of local streets and into the parking lot of the Mandarin - the behemoth king of bastardized Chinese food buffets.

Inside the lobby I was stunned at the hoard of people sitting and standing around. There had to be a hundred customers waiting.

"Two hours." I heard the team of greeters, each suited in red marching-band outfits, tell the folks in front of me. Heartbroken, I was about to walk out and go find another establishment when one of the band leaders asked, "How many?"

"One," I said.

"Oh, Come. We have tabew fo one!"

Wow! She led me down the wide passage toward the great buffetorium. Here I was jumping a two-hour queue! I presume they were fans of the FWG-bedroom candles hence the rock-star treatment. She pointed out the various neighborhoods within the beffetorium - the salad, dessert etc., and the path to the bathrooms and then led me into one of the four main dining rooms to a cosy table for two.

Considering the scope of my appetite and the modest size of the plates I forecasted a four-course event that would eventually play out as follows:

glazed salmon
shrimp and pea what-not
fresh shrimp w/ seafood sauce
oysters in the shell w/ black bean sauce

fried rice
Kung Foo pork (or something like that)
deep fried chicken in lemon sauce AND sweet'n'sour sauce
saucy ribs
egg roll w/ plum sauce

Chinese noodles
Teriyake meatballs
spicy sweet chicken
dumpling selection

waffles with vanilla sauce and maple syrup
creme brulet

In the middle of round 3 I watched a small kid - maybe three feet high - carry in his plate all by himself. I know it was his first plate because I'd just watched his family arrive and be seated moments earlier. This was his meal:

one tiny piece of broccoli
one small orange thing - a piece of carrot presumably
five STACKS of cookies.

STACKS! The King's ransom of cookies. The motherlode. I had to chuckle aloud. I loved this kid at once. This is a kid who knows what he wants. No messing around. I presume the tidbits of vegetation were intended to satisfy some condition negotiated with the parents. 'Way to stick it to the man,' I thought.

Unfortunately he was soon making another round and this time returned with a bowl containing 5 chicken balls under a heap of red goop. I'm not sure if that's any healthier than a mountain of cookies but clearly 'the man' had won out in the end.

That's when I broke tradition and decided to make my fourth round a dessert round - in honor of the fallen cookie hero.


Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Exposing a secret society

I've really done it this time.

I suppose my life is in terrible danger now, having hereby exposed to the world the dark goings-on of the highly secret organization - the SHL - of which, I'm loathe to confess, I'm a member - but only of eight years or so. This has been going on for more than sixteen years.

There's actually no official rules guarding confidentiality. There's no blood-oath swearing 'What is said in the SHL stays in the SHL' but what goes on here is so shamefully outside the boundaries of normal Judaio-Christian new-world behavior that such a pact surely exists unwritten and unspoken.

So if I dissappear suddenly, you'll know why.

The cast, in alphabetical order, followed by the community they represent (very little has been done to protect their true identities):

AT: Angry Tom (who is hardly the angriest among us) - Pawtucket [PAW]
CP: Crazy Pat (who is probably the least crazy among us) - Heyden [HEY]
FBT: Fuzzy Butt Tubby (who is actually the slimmest among us) - Roanoke [ROA]
FWG: Yours truly (who is actually the tubbiest) - Ybor City [YBO]
LBJ: Little Baby Joel (who is actually the most mature among us) - Kamloops [KAM]
NB: Neiley-Bob (who is ipso-facto neiley-bobbish being the genuine origin of the entity) - Kingston [KIN]
PK: Porn King (who in fact does not watch porn) - Winfield [WIN]
SW: Skeeter Willis (who is not particularly skeeterish) - Port Credit [PTC]
TB: The Bastard (who is actually most certainly a bastard) - Nipissing [NPG]

What follows is a perfectly true-to-life audio representation of a typical five minutes in the life of the SHL - the 'Strat-o-matic Hockey League'. The actual physical goings on shall be left to your imagination. Words in italics are sang, not spoken. Brace yourself…

PK : Face-off!
FBT : In my end - WHOO!!
PK : I'm a plus-one.
FBT : We's even, weezie.

CP : Left wing, intimidation right D. Kaberle.
AT : Kobberslob… Boof!
CP : Fuck.
AT : Opponent defense eleven.
CP : Cocksucker. Two minutes to Souray.
FBT : I'm souray… so souray…
AT : Go to the box and feel shame.

NB : Outside, Arnott.
FWG : Is too!
NB : He'll pass.
FWG : Against five.
NB : Damn. He'll pass.
FWG : Six. Loose puck… Outside shot home left wing.
NB : Lemieux.
FWG : Pepe Lemieux.
NB : He'll super douper pass.
FWG : Geek.

SW : Oppenent defense six.
TB : Inside 'i' opp.
SW : Seven… No! Niedermayer inside.
TB : Oh I wish I was Niedermayer weiner… Goal one to sixteen!
SW : Oh!
TB : Seventeen! NO!
SW : Ping ping!

FBT : In the town where I was born…
AT : Drake with it.
FBT : Lived a ma-a-an who sailed to sea…
CP : Hate the Drake.
FBT : And he told us of his life…
AT : Love the Drake!
FBT : In the la-a-and of submarines…
FBT/SW/FWG/NB/TB : We all live in a yellow submarine! Yellow submarine! Yellow submarine! We all…
PK : Shut up, people.

TB : Guys, we need a rule clarification.
PK : Shut up, Dave.
NB : Rules!

PK : Murray outside.
FBT : Oh Murray!
PK : He'll pass… Palffy inside!
FBT : Palfally Alfally!
PK : Goal one to two!
FBT : No way.
PK : Scores!
FBT : Unbelievable.

FWG : Chara bringing it in.
NB : Cootchie cootchie coo!
FWG : Why do you people always say that?
NB : Zsa Zsa Gabor.
FWG : What does that mean?
TB : You don't know who Zsa Zsa Gabor is!
PK : Shut up, Dave.

SW : Hedge-duck bringing it in…
TB : Quack quack.
SW : Passing A! Inside Nasloon, 'I' opp.
TB : No tickie, no booey!
SW : Nasloon...! Goalie rating…! Oh!
TB : Save and a face-off… possible injury.
SW : Visitor left D plus one. Oh, Hedican.
TB : Brent Head-again. How many games?
SW : Sixty-two… Uh-oh. Fourteen times five.
TB : Fifty… Seventy. He's gone!
SW : Oh man!
TB : Sucker.
PK : Shut up, Dave.
TB : Body part!
SW : Head.
TB : Hey Joel, has Head-again had 'head' before?
All : [falling-down laughter]
LBJ : Hang on. Checking…
LBJ : ... Head-again has not had head before.
All : [more falling-down laughter]

FWG : Possible Breakaway.
NB : Left D.
FWG : Schneider-weiner. He's my breakaway man.
FBT : He's my breakaway man!
FWG : He's my breakaway man!
FBT : He wears breakaway pants!

FBT : Iginla bringing it in. Gettin' Iggy with it… Defense five!
PK : Right wing intimidation centre!
FBT : Shtevie Shullivan!
PK : Knuble one to four!
FBT : You say Kanooble, I say Kanobble…
PK : Takes away...! He's okay!
FBT : Unbelievable!

AT : Possible breakaway
CP : Left wing if it's a three. Jason Blake. The real Blake.
AT : It's a Blake-away!
CP : [grunt] Save… Right D. Klesla.
AT : Klesla girls!

NB : Kariya bringing it in
FWG : Polkareeya!
NB : Lose to opponent.
FWG : Handzoodles bringing it in… Inside any, 'I' opp.
NB : Three, nine, nine, six.
FWG : Six.
NB : No! Lecavalier.
FWG : Lick-a-liver...! Save, rebound!
NB : Any offense, also injury! Can't be Lick-a-liver!
FWG : Sami Kapanen
NB : Oh shammy.
FWG : Save left wing. Dammit.
NB : Ready...? Visitor left D, remainder of period.
FWG : Crap. Schneider-weiner.
NB : Body part.
FWG : Eye. Schneider in the eye.
PK : I schnied her in the eye once.
PK : Oh! Who was that?
SW : Alright, was that Tom or Dave?
AT : It was the dog
LBJ : It was NOT Kurgan.
CP : It was Tom.
PK : Gross, dude.

AT : Mark Wreck-eye bringing it in.
CP : Outside only, Bates.
AT : Master Bates, outside!
PK : What? Never mind what I do in my spare time!
AT : Two! Goal one to four!
CP : [grunt]
AT : Scores!
CP : No fucking way. You sonofabitch.
SW : What's the HEY-PAW score?
AT : Two-one
FWG : Two-one? That's not a score Tom. That's just a pair of numbers,
AT : That's the score!
FWG : It's not a score unless you assign each number to a team.
TB : Yeah Tom. What's wrong with you? No wonder you couldn't hack it as an accountant!
PK : Shut up, Dave.
FWG : AGGHHHH! Stop touching me, dog! Get out from under the table!
LBJ : The dog's over here!
FWG : Alright, who's the wise guy? Robb! Stop touching me!
PK : Tee-he-he-he-hee
NB : Ahh! Hee-hee-hee. That tickles!

PK : Nieuwendyk inside!
FBT : Newandickies!!
PK/FBT : Save, rebound!
PK : Centre if it's a-
PK/FBT : Sundin!!
FBT : Sundin, you'd better take care if I find you been sneakin round my back stair…
PK : Here. Blow on this for good luck!
FWG : No way. I'm not falling for that again!
PK : Come on Mats, you sexy little bitch!
PK/FBT : OH!! Save, rebound!
FBT : Defensive centre! Marleau! Whatcha gonna do with all that Marleau!
SW : I'm gonna make you - make you work!
FBT : Marleau bringing it in!
LBJ : Anyone need a refreshing beverage?
SW : Whatcha gonna do with all that junk?
FWG : I'll have a gold Coke off the floor.
SW : All that Love junk in that trunk?
FWG : Oh Sturmy!
SW : I'm gonna get you - get you drunk
SW : Get you love-drunk on my humps!
SW : My humps. My lovely lady lumps…
LBJ : Hey! No throwing garbage!
SW : Check it out…
FBT : It's not garbage! It's a perfectly good missile!
PK : Excuse me. I need to go grope someone.

Okay. Stop it right there (that's a subtle homage to Howie Meeker by the way). I think you get the idea. I think the lid is sufficiently blown off.

And now I must go into hiding.


Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Wow! I must be famous!

I popped into the Dollar N' Value store today at the corner of Eglinton and Mavis, generously overlooked their improper use of the apostrophe and stocked up on scented candles. Here's just some of the varieties they offered:

FWG's Bedroom
Mixed Berry
Unspecific Pinkiness...

Whoa! What's that? FWG's bedroom, you say? That's right! How famous must I be that scientists have broken into my home without my being aware and determined the chemical equation to precisely mimic the scent of my bedroom and sold the formula to manufacturers of dollar store candles! Is that not the pinnacle of fame?

I presume it's to avoid paying me royalties that they don't actually label these candles "FWG's Bedroom". But some sixth sense told me to buy them and I did. Eight of them. And after burning two of them for a couple hours this evening I suddenly realized that I could detect no change of scent in the room! So I gave the one candle a few good sniffs and was amazed to discover that the scent precisely imitated the scent already present in the room. Shocked and disbelieving I sniffed the second candle - determined to prove my first observation wrong. I had to get very very close to it before finally detecting a new scent - that of singed nasal hair. But singed nasal hair as a candle variety is even stranger than FWG's Bedroom - plus my nose was so outrageously hot that I couldn't trust that it was properly functioning at that point so I had to dismiss the second observation.

Anyways - if you want to sample the FWG's Bedroom scented candles you can go to any Dollar N' Value. Just look for the coppery/burnt orange/rust sort of shade and a label that reads: Variety: CAFLVE.

I'm not sure if caflve is Islamic for FWG's Bedroom or if I'm reading it wrong. I'm actually only sure of the C and the E because the 'AFLV' is printed in brown letters right across the brand logo that very very strangely consists of a sea of random curved lines that are the exact same brown colour and same thickness as the letters - which, I confess, might just as likely be 'QWZF' for all I know. Is CQWZFE a typical candle variety? Is there any typical scent that starts with C and ends with E?

Anyways I'm very concerned over how I'll handle my new star status. It'll be quite the lifestyle change. I assume celebrity trinket hawkers will be all over the place now - going through my garbage etcetera. Hey - maybe I can get one of them to take away the rogue pubic hair that is matted to the shower wall about 7 feet up and end the stalemate between Steve-o and I over who must perform this task.

How on earth do they get up that high, anyway?


Snow Pegasi

On the subject of tobogganing bears and the quest for evidence that animals seek recreation and amusement I have two more pieces to submit.

1. I was once at the thoroughbred races when a horse dumped his rider at the gate. He then ran the race anyway, alone. He finished last mind you, and he didn't seem to understand where the finish line was, but it gave me a good sense that race horses like to race. I'm glad for that. I can't bear to visit Marineland places - whale shows, I mean or the primate areas of zoos. I too strongly sense cruel captivity there but I'm comfortable at the races which is great because I quite enjoy betting on the 'ponies'. Though frankly, I suck at it.

2. Yesterday I drove from my home to Burlington and any time I head that way (which is often - I have many friends and associates in Burlington, Hamilton and St Catharines) I avoid the usual route through the highway system. I go West through the countryside and then South into Burlington and beyond if applicable. This way I save no time but I avoid the madness of traffic jams and cancer fumes and motorists unwittingly revealing their true narcissistic natures in presumed anonymity (motoring is the great window to the soul my friends!).

Instead I get serenity and a modest dose of nature. A couple one-lane bridges. That sort of thing. Yesterday I approached a farm where two horses inhabited a road-side coral. One stood with regal posture, mane flitting in the breeze. The other was down, squirming in the snow on his back, legs kicking. As I passed by he scrambled to his feet and his head turned briefly my way. I smiled. It seemed like he'd been caught doing something silly and he hoped I hadn't noticed. You may accuse me of unwarranted personification but I like to think he was making a snow-angel. Well - more of a - snow Pegasus.


True Love?

True love. What does that mean exactly? Does such a thing even exist?

In a society where every person and every corporation is constantly managing perception is anything true?

And what is love besides a word spoken too often and so often to dress lust in drag as something pure and spiritual?

Last night my friend left me in his living room while he went to put his six-month-old baby to bed for the night.

Stupidly, without thinking, I turned the baby monitor speaker volume up to maximum. Of course I had no right to invade his privacy like that.

I heard him softly whisper, "Good night baby. I love you."

There are moments when something strikes you that is so real it at once fills you up inside and you could cry from the weight of it.

I say those moments can be trusted.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Do not follow this link!

I can't believe I'm posting this.

I once bit in to a Jamaican meat patty that had gone bad. Horribly bad. Rancid. This put me off Jamaican meat patties for at least a year. I'm back on them now. As for You-Tube, I may be off of that for a decade or more after watching this video, almost assuredly the worst video ever conceived.

This video will one day be submitted as evidence by the counsel for the defense in an inter-galactic courtroom following the unauthorized demolition of planet Earth. And the defendents will walk.

Extreme warning! Unless you are a trained professional conducting vital research into the study of worst videos ever made, DO NOT click this link. God help you if you do.

Poopie List

Now if you'll excuse me I must go shower for a couple hours.

Friday, February 09, 2007

Form 3499B: Notice of Vacationment

Here I sit broken hearted.
At the library. I done been carded.

Okay folks - I'm under too much pressure to come up with anything interesting to say.

Our internet at home is not working and god knows how long it will take for Steve-o-Designated-I.T.-Guy and the delightful folks at Ye Olde Cheap As Dirt Internet Company to get their heads together and get this crap sorted out. It took these two parties something like two months (no exaggeration, I swear) to get the account up and running in the first place so I'm not holding my breath.

On top of this I'm on vacation from workee until the 19th of February or something like that (whatever Monday falls closest to that number) so the only computers at my disposal are at this freaking library where the internet terminals advertise 30-minute sessions but then you log on and discover immediately that there are 16 minutes remaining (hmmm...) and then you discover that they have the world's slowest connection here and it takes 12 minutes just to load the first internet page.

So the whole arrangement here is just entirely asinine.

uh-oh. Running out of time.

Cutting to the chase -- I have no idea how much I'll be around for the next 9 or 10 days. So forgive me if I happen to disappear. Oh dear. I'm under a minute on the countdown clockeroo. Quick! Hit the Publish button! Hit the Publ-

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

More fun with mail

There are quite a few former Grotto of Cool residents (including - if my crazy Christian lady neighbor is to be trusted - one practitioner of the Wickan faith and one grandmaster daddy-o of the Masons) whos mail we receive regularly. Reliance company's penchant for Sylvie Ruel is just the tip of the iceberg.

However, this piece of mail was received yesterday and I have a sneaky suspicion that Mr. Orc-Wizard is not a former resident. Frankly I suspect I've been had.

Mr. Fantasy Dragonia Orc-Wizard. Very funny. Har har.

While Steve-o is certainly the prime suspect I would advise Captain Vino to come forth with an alibi should he have one.


Friday, February 02, 2007

Seeking Sylvie Ruel

Oh Sylvie. Where ARE you?

Okay – you don’t know me but I live in your former apartment. And I get all your mail now. Your companions at Reliance Home Comfort must be terribly worried about you. They send you correspondence incessantly despite my repeated advice that you are gone. Are you coming back one day? They seem convinced you are. I shall leave a candle burning in the window.

Poor Sylvie. I hope she’s not the victim of foul play. She must have left here (or been taken) awfully suddenly to have missed notifying all her associates of an address change. I get much of her mail but much especially from Reliance-Home-Comfort-A-division-of-Ontario-Hydro-Energy. This is either the ninth or tenth piece I shall return to them. I think next time I shall mark this upon the envelope:

*** FINAL NOTICE! *** The addressee no longer resides at this address! You are more likely to reach her – at any other address than this one! If you fail to heed this final notice the matter will be referred to our Department of Last Resort, meaning that all further mailings will not be returned to you but will be used as wiping material and flushed.

Do you think they’ll get the message?

Me neither.

Thursday, February 01, 2007

The constellation Iguanus

I went to bed early last night. The effects of which, left me wide awake at 5 AM. As I lay there in the almost total darkness I took note of the array of colorful pinpoints of light inhabiting the far wall of my bedroom and it occurred to me that such sight - a sign-of-the-times - would be unheard of in almost any bedroom of any other earthly culture past or - for a large part - present.

It occurred to me that I should perhaps give a name to my own personal constellation and it only took a moment to envision a material shape out of the array. Quite clearly my constellation is an iguana.

Below is a rough ‘home electronics’ diagram of the view of the South and West walls of my bedroom – from the perspective of the head of my bed.

So take heart. If pollution eventually renders the sky – and stars – masked from view, our descendants can turn to new constellations – ones built of bright colors and ones so close they can reach out and touch them. Isn’t that comforting?

My questions to you are:

- Do you have a personal constellation?
- What shape is it?
- Have you named it?
- Is this the lamest blog entry ever conceived?
- Do you fear FWG has finally teetered off the deep end?