Okay, a secret:

Here in Scooterville - okay - TWO secrets. ONE: Scooterville is actually called Hamilton. The word Hamilton, as far as I know, is an Iroquois term meaning He who rides through burger drive thru on a scooter with case of beer on his lap [citation needed].

Hamilton has many sports teams calling it home. Famously, the Hamilton Tigercats of the Canadian Punting League (since 1950), Forge FC of Canadian Premier League Soccer (otherwise known as football by humanity) and the Toronto Rock of NLL lacrosse who is officially Toronto's team but they're currently playing out of a Hamilton venue for shits and googles.

Other Hamilton hockeyball highlights include the Steelhawks, Generals and Real McCoys of Ontario Sr. hockey, and the Blues, Rangers and Kilty Bees of Junior hockey (Kilty Bees literally referring to bumble bees wearing kilts. I shit you not). Add baseball's Cardinals; Soccer's Hamilton United, Hamilton City SC and Chantilly Forever FC; Rugby's Camels R.F.C. and Hornets R.F.C and Australian footballers' Wildcats.

But wait. Secret number two today is Hamilton's best-kept sports secret: The Hamilton Bengals. If you want to see some of the most talented athletes in the world while they are young, just before turning pro, for 5 to 10 bucks admission, the Bengals are the obvious choice. Every year multiple Bengals players graduate from Hamilton to affiliate Jr. A team Burlington Blaze before getting drafted to the pros. We are a hotbed of lacrosse development in this country. Hamiltonians are missing out on such a treat it's crazy.

Dear dead blog

Now that we've finally gotten rid of those pesky readers, we can talk about anything we want and it will stay a secret!

I can't think of any secrets just now but stay tuned. I'll come up with something.

This blog is officially dead

 In other words: if you're reading this, you don't exist!

This guy

Richard Ayoade of the UK, and of African Norwegian descent, has been my favourite celebrity for some time now. These are some of my fave Ayoade tidbits:

Down down I go

I pulled the folding metal chair; the only chair in the kitchen, up by the oven. I shouldn't have. And I sat on it, but I shouldn't have. And I fried my perogies in margarine. The son of god appeared with his wide eyes and told me they'd be good with sour cream. Yeah, I know but I don't have any. That's okay. They're bacon-onion perogies. No cheese. I might try them with plum sauce. The Bro appeared, checked us out, spied my meal, rubbed his big black belly.

And then the chair went; melted below me like butter. I was eased quickly to the floor.

Not good. My roomies went into action, each took an arm, helped me plant my feet. "You'll have to use all your weight for leverage," I said, "like football players do. Don't worry. I won't let you go." Few understand this. Every student should be shown football clips so they learn how to effortlessly pick people up. They tried. I got to one knee.

"You can do it," they said. I could not. And the knee was getting crushed. I'd have to go back down. The hope drained out of me. All of it.

"I can't." From nowhere the third roommate had appeared. I felt his arms go around me from behind. They all lifted and suddenly I was on my feet.

"We got you," they said. "We love you," they said. My eyes leaked as they hugged me. These men I barely know. The wide-eyed son of god and the Bro and the hairy skinny high dude.

"It's an abusive relationship," says Jerry Seinfeld with regards to humanity and we. "Just when you want to give up on them, they do one nice thing, and suck you back in."

A horrible thought: a much less horrible addendum

Turns out my supernaturally-noisy neighbours are moving out today! Well yay for me but sorry kids; no superhero crimefighting capers in your future. It's probably all for the best.

A horrible thought

Another lovely late-night listening to the stomping charging screaming wailing kiddies who live on the other side of this apartment's paper-thin walls stomp, charge, scream and wail. Making sure I drink in my fill of this joy because it'll be 1:30 AM soon; their usual bedtime. You know, it's not that I particularly wish to invade their home and slaughter their parents before their little eyes. It's just... well... it worked out pretty good for Batman. Could be doing them a favour...

Number 1 best of the best !!

You ever wonder what the very best video on the whole entire internet is? No? How about now? Are you wondering now? Well wonder no more. 'Cause here it is! But it's divided into four parts so that I don't have to pay the YouTube Long Video Surcharge thingamaroo. So it's a playlist. Enjoy. At least until the part that offends you!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tq466K4nIbQ&list=PLtY6xWGmYKvdP0h0rx2CsIguUNqcNFDvb

Game of Binge: a highly-improper haiku

Seven seasons of Game of Thrones in three weeks.

Binge-watching is such an ugly word.

I prefer to call it... searching for an episode where no one gets murdered.

An afterthought

The old-growth ecology of Algonquin Park was never protected. Our thirst for lumber changed everything. But we have saved the new ecology instead, and we love it. We find it beautiful in our eyes. The whole story though, from the glaciers which shaped the land to the portage routes shaped by human feet, is one of tension and violence as well as beauty. Thus a bold soundtrack choice for this latest video assemblage for poetry club.

Day 63

Just toddled back from the bathroom of my private little suite in the rehab ward, where...

... I had wiped up with Cascades Pro Select bathroom tissue! You hear that, people? Pro Select! The poo paper of choice for professional poopers! That's right bitches! Me and the elite poopers of the world, what are PAID for their elite pooping; we use the very same single-ply non-quilted tracing paper on our prestigious posteriors! Are you positively snot-green with envy? Yeah. I know you are.

Day 61

In a surprise move I've been suddenly transferred to a dedicated rehab ward which had been kept secret from me until now. A few things are a little different so far. Most notably is that my next door neighbour is almost certainly a dolphin.

I am hearing a distinct conversation between a man and some entity speaking in a high-pitched EHH-EHH-EHH-EHH-EHH-EHH-EHH Flipper voice.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're doubtful. You're thinking how could I possibly know who is the patient and who is the visitor. Well I'm glad you asked. Our doors meet at right-angles you see. So no dolphin visitor could have come flip-flopping past my door, into his room without me taking note of such an event. My door has been wide open since I arrived.

Case closed.