I'm Bluebeard!

Get it? I'm Bluebeard because my beard is blue! Ha ha!

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... matey...!

Okay. That was just too much fun. Let me see if I can settle down now.

There's no photoshopping there by the way. That's blue hair paint.

Want to see my pumpkins?

No, that's not a euphemism. It's a redundant question. You're going to see my pumpkins whether you want to or not. Meet Squiggy McSquigglesteen:

Goopy and Oopy:

Jack and Jacqueline:

Oh dear. Don't you just hate it when you're shooting your pumpkins and you accidently catch the neighbor playing leap frog with her recycle bins? Every goddam time I tell you.

I was planning to get seven pumpkins but Biodad was squirming as I loaded the fourth into the shopping cart.

"How many pumpkins are you getting!!"

"Enough to feed every orphan in Africa," I said but then quit after one more. Which was good because after carving five, the fun - and my back - were wearing the hell out.

How Halloween became Easter

I bought three different kinds of candy so that I could give each little gremlin one of each or else three of a peanut-free product to anyone declaring a peanut allergy. But as I sorted the candy into three separate bowls I started reading the labels and found out that among Reese's Pieces, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Oh Henry bars, there ain't a nut-free product among them. Who knew?

Here's the lucky part. Upon delivering the three bowls to the front porch where I'll be celebrating the warm weather with a good book tonight, the one bowl I dropped was the one bowl that is non-breakable! Cool beans, eh? Of course a bunch of candy then spilled off the porch and into the garden below where I had to go hunt for them. And that's how FWG invented Easter.

So... I'm Bluebeard. Charlie is a dog and Biodad is the Karate Kid. "Step-mom" Judy had to work evenings so she couldn't participate. Actually I should confess - Charlie is in fact a dog - like 24/7. He's of a canine species. He's not in costume. Sorry to have mislead you. And Biodad doesn't even know that he's Karate Kid. But he's wearing a bathrobe every moment, presumably to remind us all that he's ill, and he makes all kinds of grunts and groans with every step he takes - like some kind of weird little quiet low-key martial arts guy, so you get the idea.

I wasn't even going to participate myself (haven't in years) but I've been reading October Dreams, a marvelous anthology by the likes of dear beloved Ray Bradbury and by Peter Straub, Poppy Z. Brite, Thomas Ligotti, Micheal Marshall Smith and many, many others, and it's got me totally in the Halloween spirit. I'm saving the last four stories for tonight!

Oh - and while we're talking Halloween, whatever the heck is going on with the Google banner today?

Is that razor blades and syringes I see in that pic? Excuse me but should we really be celebrating syringes and razor blades as Halloween icons? Isn't that kind of tasteless? This is the worst Google banner I've seen since the Giant Swimming Sperm of Beijing. Crazy bastards.

Well, that's all for now. I got kids to feed and stories to read. Goodbye and happy Halloween from all of us here at Mission Control!

A barn and its secrets

In need of a 30” kick plate for a fridge – any colour, any style – I made a pit-stop just off my Streetsville-Hamilton rural express route to visit one of my favorite merchants.

It looks like a typical farm except for the vast collection of used home building materials gathered at one side of the massive three-storey barn and the two little tent-signs at the entranceway – one of which reads, Builders Bazaar.

Inside the barn lay endless rows of used doors, windows, and bathroom and kitchen fixtures. Fridges – none. Kick plates – nought.

“While I’m here, I’ll take a peak upstairs, Greg, though I’m really not in buying mode these days.”

“Go ahead, but you’ll find it messier than usual.”

That was hard to believe. Navigating the upper floor had always been a challenge.

Up in the loft things looked as usual. The extensive labyrinth of book-crammed bookshelves lay riddled with the usual hurdles. Open boxes of books and loose stacks of books and fallen stacks of books made every step a peril.

But there was one difference.

The longest straight corridor, flanked, of course, by shelves of books, was no longer capped at the end by yet another bookcase. The maze now had an exit. Darkness lay beyond. And perhaps a giant hunk of cheese?

Naturally I approached, thereby discovering that weak light from a few bare bulbs did indeed illume the features in this place beyond: More and more and more bookshelves, these ones arranged in neat rows like a library, but teeming with books in no apparent particular order. And all along one wall – boxes. Fifty or more – labeled in marker, Hard Cover, Sci-Fi, Mystery, Literature…

I spent a long time wandering here, thinking.

I love books. I love reading them, writing them, searching for them, buying them, holding them, shelving them, cataloguing them, talking about them, writing about them, looking at them.

Suddenly I had to marvel at my own newfound capacity to grab hold of the world, to slow it down, to see the paths and possibilities before me and the freedom and confidence to participate however I choose. Perhaps this is how a lot of people are. But for me, it’s new.

I went down finally and talked to Greg. The fire inspector has demanded changes be implemented to his merchandising and storage layout. His stock is non-catalogued. His online presence is weak. His ability to fill specific customer requests is sporadic. He has only so much time. He’s getting older. His only helper, his wife, is also aging and working the book loft has become too difficult given the circumstances of her health. He confessed there are another ten thousand books on the third floor. He estimates forty thousand in his collection. I suspect that’s an underestimate.

We talked about books and writers and poetry and happiness and freedom and kindness.

I told him of my giving notice to the corporate slave-master to whom I’ve been providing database services for the last six years. I told him of my shedding possessions and stepping out into the world on my own terms – looking to be useful in ways that are honest and real.

He shook my hand and wished me good fortune. I told him that I would be back.

I may be back soon. I may have found another project. Another way to be useful in a real way.

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #361

You know why your hands are always sticky after a Chinese buffet? Even when you eat everything with your fork and knife and not with your hands? Even when you're careful not to lay your utensils on your sticky plate? Know why?

It's the handles.

On the serving spoons.

You're wearing other people's stick.

Bon appetite!

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not attempt to use nuggets o' wisdom in your own home without the guidance of a trained professional. Do not allow contact with water or bright light. Do not feed them after midnight.

Secret Selves

Why I take advice from a blogger who's every second post concerns his penis, I don't know, but sometimes I do. Mr. Avitable sent me here in order to take the secret self test. The result was amusing. Have fun with it.


White Knight
Take Your Secret Self 1 Step Beyond today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Personality Test Generator.

Going 1 step beyond I would be rescuing damsels (or damsirs?) in distress, standing up as a champion for the underdog and/or righting every wrong you could possibly imagine. I am the incorruptible cop, the brave friend of little children, and the one who will constantly save your ass from your own repeated idiocies. When I die I don't need statues in my honor, just name your children and dogs after me. That would be pretty cool.

FWG's Amazing Election Day Prediction: Dumb Canadians use Dumb Political System to Elect the Candidates They Don't Want

Canada has only one federal conservative-oriented party of any significance. They're the Conservative Party which were re-built from the ashes of the Progressive Conservative Party and the Reform Party, a project headed by Mr. Stephen Harper who now leads the new Conservative Party and is considered the Prime Minister thanks to a small minority of Canadian voters who cast votes for his party (those afraid of losing their privileged share of wealth and those afraid of the darkies, and presumably some other categories of voters of whom I've never made acquaintance) and thanks to a political system supposedly democratic but which empowers its constituents to the slimmest possible degree.

I should note that I once had a significant explicit conversation with an associate of Harper, a Reform Party candidate who was most thankfully never elected and who's messages were in no way indistinguishable from that of a Nazi. Somehow I resisted the urge to slit that monster's throat and for that negligence I apologize to you all.

There are four more parties of significance and they are all liberal-oriented parties. We have the popular Liberal Party who historically dominate power in this nation due to the popular liberal-thinking essence of the country.

We have the Bloc Quebecois who only run in the large province of Quebec and do so based on a separation platform that is somehow not considered treasonous (thank goodness - I don't like seeing people put to death). The Quebec public has twice rejected separation in provincial referendums but continue to elect it's proponents to office (not necessarily inconsistent, I realize)

We have the New Democratic party who have never held power nationally (though provincially on several occasions), who have become very proficient in the opposition role, who are probably more liberal than the Liberal Party in that they traditionally propose the progressive motions only later gobbled up by the Liberals, and who are probably more green than the Green Party given the independent studies that proclaim them so.

Oh yeah - the Green Party is the final element of the liberal-oriented community. They took the NDP's platform and slapped a green label on it and now help the conservatives by stealing votes from well-meaning but dunder-headed former NDP supporters.

Here's how it all works. A typical breakdown of an anglophone Canadian electorate might go like this:

party------------------------------ popular support
conservative-oriented Conservatives 23%
liberal-oriented Liberals --------- 20%
liberal-oriented NDP's ------------ 17%
liberal-oriented Green ------------ 4%
none of the above (no vote)-------- 36%

Result: A largely unpopular conservative minister goes to parliament.

If we voted with the same commitment to fairness as the leadership elections carried out by individual parties we would rank the candidates on our ballots in order to emulate the tiered system where supporters of cast-off low-scoring candidates would be reassigned to remaining candidates until one person gathers more than half the votes. In the above sample the Liberal would probably eventually inherit the support of NDP's and greenies and emerge victorious with about 40% on the above table or two-thirds of the vote.

At the last federal election we also had a referendum to decide on a proposal to change to a mixed representation system which was basically a compromise, which would have fallen short of fair representation but was at least unarguably more fair. All my most intelligent friends considered the proposal a no-brainer and voted YES to the proposal. Others had no idea what the proposal meant and voted NO because they don't want us participating in something they don't understand. They got their wish. Congratulations.

The same kind of insanity transpired, very tragically, in the nineties when we collectively downed an improved new version of the Canadian Charter of Rights by referendum. The new version was superior and more reflective of the current social environment than the old version in every way. Everyone I talked to who had bothered to read the damn thing overwhelmingly agreed with me but alas, we were the minority.

Many homosexuals axed it because it "didn't go far enough". Many Native Canadians axed it because it "didn't go far enough". And so on and so on. And the reward given to the clever "not enough" crowd is that they threw their $10,000.00 winning lottery tickets in the garbage because they didn't get their $1,000,000.00 grand prize. Too bad, so sad for all of us.

Canadian people are rarely considered politically savvy. It's no surprise how lazy we've become. We've been largely exempt for many years from the darkest consequences of humanity's political fascination; war, revolution, terrorism. We have no respect for the politicians who eventually play the political charade well enough to graduate into positions of consequence; we perceive them as actors and bullshitters. Each election a large share of voters bear the ridiculous discomfort of having to decide whether to make our preference known as democracy supposedly is to be celebrated, or to vote strategically in order to keep out the worst of the villains, meanwhile depriving their party of choice of the public support that would otherwise be useful for their future.

Oh yeah, my prediction (if anyone is still reading this mess, which I doubt): Another artificial conservative minority. The crippling left-wing vote-splitting combined with the Bloc effect - their localized popularity but absence at large - make it inevitable.

As for our non-political savviness and the low voter turn-out -- make room for me among the ranks of disinterested. I've never seen dynamic change follow a Canadian election. I've had it with the BS. This is probably my last time voting.

(Oh and don't forget to vote NDP or you'll make baby Jesus cry!)

Hmmm... What to be thankful for...?

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving y'all. Day one of two was spent here at Mission Control (Biodad's home). Tomorrow I'll be up at the farm with my official family.

Today's deliciously awesome menu:
turkey
stuffing
gravy
cranberry sauce
spiced yams
broccoli w/ melted cheese
whole wheat rolls
pumpkin pie

And what do you suppose we were thankful for?

No! Not the pumpkin pie! That dad is alive!

Yeesh. You people are incorrigible.

No, Dad. You can't buy the Respiratory Therapist

Pleased to announce that Biodad's condition is now improving so rapidly that he may be home in a couple days. He's currently in the ward, removed from the respiratory apparatus and from various other devices which were plugged into every available natural orifice and a few new ones created by doctors. I'll leave the particular details alone. How's that?

The turning point began about ten days ago when he came out of his tortuous delirium - or rather, for the most part - and communication of a rough sort began. He was still impeded by a full-size tracheotomy and thus voiceless and some remaining drug effects still lingered in his brain.

He mouthed words we couldn't grasp. He signaled for the clip board and pencil and wrote, with terrible effort and shakiness, his muscles and thought processes both impeded, POLPE.

"People?"

He shakes his head.

"Pope?"

He shakes his head.

"Pole?"

He nods, and slowly points toward the other patient in the "semi-private" ICU ward. There is a pole between them and it bears the electronic devices which administer drugs to his roommate.
'My pole.' he silently mouths.

"Your pole? I don't think so, dude. Your pole is over there."

He shakes his head and slowly points again. 'My pole.'

"That pole is hooked into that lady. That's her pole. She needs it. It's giving her the drugs she needs. Your pole is on the other side of your bed. Over there. See?"

He shakes his head, takes up the clip board and begins the arduous task of writing, $100.00 bill.

"One hundred dollar bill? You'll give me a hundred bucks to steal that pole?" I quickly calculate that a hundred dollars is not enough to go killing a person for. I do have principles.

He shakes his head and we spend the next ten minutes or so establishing his claim that there is a hundred dollar bill on top of the pole and he wants it. I spend the following ten minutes assuring that there is no such bill on top of the pole and we should all just relax. Finally he winces and puts his hand to his forehead. He seems to realize he's been a little off the mark. We laugh and tell him it's okay.

Later he asks if he can purchase the pretty young respiratory therapist and take her home. This is no delusion. This is how we know he's his old self again.

Welcome back.

FWG is still alive

Sorry for this regrettable absence. The new and temporary circumstances of my life dictate that I reside in Hamilton while my biological father slowly recovers from a heart attack and many further complications. He's been in ICU four weeks now. My schedule is entirely dismantled and I haven't found much time for writing or blogging.

Actually I did one post recently but posted it at the CRUSHED site instead due to contractual obligation of sorts! It's poetry so I expect that few will be interested but if so it's here:

Duplicity - Part Two: Me, My Priest, My Society

Under the theory that any little old material is better than no material, I offer you, with what limited time I can eek out, a literary snapshot:

I am in the little basement office at Biodad's house, doing some remote work for Ye Olde Information Company (and a little blogging), while on the little desk, immediately beside my laptop, sits a wicker basket, oval, roughly 18" by 14" with arcing handle. In this basket lies a towel and, on top of that, a bushy-browed, scruffy little dog, part poodle, part terrier of some ilk. He's five or six, dark with white markings on legs and chin, dressed in a blue sweater (one of his faves) and is snoozing and occasionally issuing a little snort or quiet whimper.

He wouldn't let me work, constantly standing and pawing my knee and wanting in my arms until we finally discovered this solution. His name is Charlie or sometimes Chuckie McPoochdoggie or Chuckie McBoondoggle since I showed up. He hasn't seen his "daddie" in a month but he seems to enjoy my company.
And we're both getting a lot more walks than usual.

Hope to post more often - even if they're quickies.

Aequitas: Insights

Piece of Sin

The best of the rest make fools
Of themselves, and abuse themselves
With remarks of "I'm confused."
And lost and used they wait upon their shelves
Like collectables, delectable
And ripe for the choosing.
But there's something undetectable
And it's something worth losing.
A mind could find it again
But the heart cannot,
For it's a little piece of sin
Lust, avarice, and sloth.


Pretending

Demanding, standing
On grandiose delusion
Illusion, your confusion
Eludes your attitude
Of rudeness and lewdness
Too cruel and foolish
To seem like you belong
You're wrong, but strong
In devotion to your lies
Hypnotized and compromised
Realizing you despise
This guise and rise
Above, below, or
Love and sorrow
Or borrow the time
Selling the line
That you can't
Or won't, but don't
Pretend like you intend
To defend your independence
When friendless you stand,
Grand, but alone, a stone
Against a rock
And talk while walking
Cocky, locked and go
Away or stay
Whatever you say
Just say it today.


Read more poetry by Aequitas on Authspot

Steve-o: The Star Wars edition

More recent random mutterings of the roommate:


Oh Yoda, you're the ugliest thing ever.

Luke…! Luke…! Comb…! My hair…!

Man, if I had a bionic arm like that, I'd shoot laser beams out of it. I'd be like pshew! pshew! I'd have it do all kinds of neat stuff. You guys suck. George Lucas, you blow.

I'm gonna eat those bush babies. I'm gonna suck their blood.

Play like a Ninja! Play like a Ninja!

And what about Darth Vader? He was totally rebuilt. Why doesn't he have a laser penis? He should've had a laser penis.

Why does the emporer have a German accent? They make all the bad guys German in these movies.

Learn to ekthpect the unekthpected? How do you ekthpect the unekthpected?

Welcome to the Ice Chamber of Shangri-la!

That reminds me, I need to go to the liberry. I need to find my liberry card.

I hope the Ewoks win. I hate it when the Ewoks lose.

The preceding sentiments are not endorsed by FWG, Blogger.com or anyone long ago in a place far, far away.

The waiting is the hardest part

ICU West.

His nurse is expecting me. She calls to me and leads me around the corner to bed five.

He’s moving like a bug trapped on its back; not thrashing; he’s too weak for that and too sedated but he’s moving; legs kicking in slow motion; arms rising and falling. His head rolls back and forth. His eyes are very slightly open. Tubes are wired into his puffy wrists and into his mouth and down his throat. There are bandages on his legs. I have no idea why, unless they extracted something there for use in the bypass surgery. Gadgets and displays surround him in a great arc. There’s enough computing power hooked into him to launch a mission to Mars.

I wasn’t ready for this. He’d been motionless when I’d seen him previously; in essence, comatose.

“He’s very fidgety right now,” says the nurse. “I’ve just upped the dose of [whateverdrug – Trazipan or some damn thing] to try to get him to sleep. He didn’t sleep well last night.”

I wouldn’t either with a goddam pipe down my throat. “When can he come off the breathing machine?”

She explains their difficult position. It might just be the tube that’s making him so ornery but if they take it out and it turns out not to be the cause – the situation could be dangerous.

“Is this a bad time for me to visit?”

“No. It’s probably a good time. You might be able to calm him down. Try to convince him to sleep.” She moves away from us.

“Hey Dad.” I step closer and lean down. “Hey Dad.”

His legs slow. His head turns in my direction. His eyes open wider for a moment. His lips and throat are moving.

“Are you trying to talk? Don’t try to talk. You got that tube down your throat.”

“Is it driving you crazy, that tube? Listen, you need to be as calm as you can. You got to try to live with it for now, you know? They can’t take it out until you’ve been calm for a while. You need to cooperate with these guys. The nurse says it’s best if you can sleep for a while.”

“You’re lucky, you know. This is a great hospital. These doctors and nurses – they’re the best. I trust them. I think they know what’s best for you, you know? And I know Judy thinks so too.”

Three different wavy lines undulate across a monitor. One of them is his heart, I assume, beating, blessedly, again.

“I’m really glad you got this operation. I’m looking forward to – I’m looking forward to seeing you recover, and how much better your health will be after.”

“I love you, Dad. No, don’t try to talk.”

“It’s a little strange; this one-way conversation. I’m used to being more of a listener, you know?”

I’m touching his shoulder. His arm rises, whether to hold my hand or to punch a hole in the ceiling, who knows. I hold his big puffy hand.

“I’ve been talking to Judy a lot. I know we hardly ever talk, you and me, and when we do, you always say it’s great to see me and I should call more often, but you never call me. So I’ve just always thought it’s a bit of a game, you know? That you’re just trying to be kind to me; to make me feel wanted. But I’ve been talking to Judy and she says, no, it’s not like that. So I guess I had it wrong. But I want you to know that I gave Mosaic my notice. And I want to move back to Hamilton for a while. And I’d like to see you as much as you want. Every day if you want. I mean that.”

A tear runs down his cheek. Maybe it was there before. Maybe I didn’t notice until now.

I look around and search for things to say; to pass some time.

“I’m really excited about the future. My life has really changed, you know? And I think it’s gonna be the same for you. I think there are a lot of possibilities coming out of this. Healthier lives for both of us. I really look forward to talking to you about these things when you can talk again. Hopefully soon if you can just find a way to put up with all this shit; to be calm, you know? To do what the doctors ask you to.”

His eyes are fully closed now. He’s barely moving.

I tell him hockey season is coming and his beloved Montreal Canadiens are looking like a strong team. Some predict them to lead the conference.

“I don’t know if you can hear me anymore, Dad. I don’t know if you’re sleeping or not.”

“He is,” says the nurse, coming up behind me. “Thank you. You’re timing was excellent. You helped him to sleep. He needed that.”

“Thank you for everything,” I say. I tell her when I’ll be back again for another visit.

I make my way out to the big double doors and push the yellow button to open them. The intensive care unit does not smell nice. I would very much like to never smell it again.

My...

Mr. Avitable has created his own meme. Link back to him if you decide to do it yourself:

My favorite age: 29.

My best friend: Porn King. But Doc Lock, Proffesor Plonk, Cap'n Vino, Rockin' Roddie, Jiggs, Matman and the I.S. are all too wildly special to go without mention.

My celebrity crush: None. Well - Mark Wahlberg if I had to choose.

My defining characteristic: I was once known as the Cigar-n-Guinness Guy according to certain bartenders.

My most evil moment: A letter in reply to an ex's letter when I was 18. Thought I was being clever but in hindsight was just cruel. Been hoping for a chance to apologize for years now.

My favorite food: Jerk pork from Mister Jerk, DQ peanut butter cup blizzard, trout paste, steak, saucy ribs, butter chicken, Tai spring rolls, The Keg's calamari, blue cheese, maple syrup with french toast, warm fresh bread. Excuse me, I need to go purge.

My grossest injury: I don't get hurt much but I was almost struck by a stream of squirting blood when an opponent's shot drove an errant helmet screw into my lacrosse teammate's head (the goalie). He recovered okay, by the way, no more brain-damaged than he was previously.

My biggest hatred: Been a long while since I experienced hate but my deepest mistrust - I'd have to say, my own ego.

My most illegal activity: Speeding, tax evasion, defecting from the Matrix.

My need for justice: I interact with natural justice. It regulates my capacity to experience joy. I think this applies to everybody but very few claim to be aware of it.

My most knowledgeable field: Human nature.

My life's goal: Harmony.

My mother's influence: Love. Unconditional.

My nerdiest point: God, where to start... Devoted half my energy in my youth to being a dungeon master (the other half to street hockey; I was awesome at both!)

My oldest memory: Waking up early the mornings after my mom's parties and drinking the dreggs of cold coffees left behind. Thank god she couldn't afford alcohol.

My perfect date: No comment. I'm committed to keeping this blog somewhat clean.

My unanswered question: How do I get there from here? And: Why don't I just get out the door and figure it out?

My random fact: I don't know how to whistle.

My stupidest decision: "Fuck it, I can jump from here."

My favorite television show: M*A*S*H

My style of underwear: Tighty whities.

My favorite vegetable: Barley. In liquid form only.

My weakest trait: Inherently lazy.

My X-men power: I'm a walking lie detector.

My strongest yearning: The I.S.

My moment of Zen: Gazing at the moon, stars or the empty page.