No one that we'll ever meet...

Neo’s likebook account was deactivated which froze our messenger conversation (which he has not been contributing to). This was done once before for a month or few, preceded by his instructing me to use email for communication. This occasion came without any instructions and my email inquiry has not been answered so far. I’m okay with all of this, though I certainly wonder what he’s going through.

Perhaps I am among those he wants space from. Perhaps it is mainly me. Or perhaps he’ll turn up again soon. I understand he’s going through a particularly tough time while he’s attempting to break an addiction and company is largely undesired.

I don’t need to know unless he chooses to tell me.

Academically I’m forced to interpret his behaviour as troubling but it’s not my job to interfere uninvited. Regardless what many conflicting perspectives he cycles through with regards to our friendship and all the problems he perceives (imagines in my opinion), my perspective has reached some stability. From my point of view I remain his friend and remain available regardless what he’s thinking at any given time and whether he’s currently reachable or not.

I accept his limitations. I know not to count on him when I feel the need to talk to a friend who understands me. Sometimes he might be available. Other times I will either find someone else who will have to do - or else go without. So be it.

Academically I recognize that there is a somewhat tragic waste of opportunity happening but oh well. Who knows what the future may bring.

I’m not really sure how much of my relaxed attitude is a result of wisdom and presence as opposed to simply reaching a point of emotional exhaustion and simply losing the stamina to keep on caring so ardently. Either way the peace feels very real. I will continue to care about him and to trust that he will keep himself alive long enough that I will hear from him again.

Coming home from a family nephew babysitting gig Friday night, I took a route home which happens to run - not on the same street - but within sight of - the most recent known home of my former best friend of sixteen years, once known here as Porn King (rather inappropriately). Several times a year I happen to pass this way and always tend to look and spot familiar vehicles in the driveway.

On this occasion there were no such vehicles - or any at all. There was a dumpster in the driveway and a sign on the lawn. Overcome by curiosity I took a brief detour and read the sign and can pretty confidently deduce that they have moved.

I think about the various reasons that people move.

Some of those explanations would make me wonder about certain change of life events and make me wonder if he might be in need of a friend these days. He has always kept friendships to a minimum. He was once extremely special to me. For my part, that fondness will never go away, though for him - he lost interest in me. I can imagine many reasons why, and the truth probably lies somewhere in between them all. I was a much different person then, and not with robust integrity at times.

I just pray he always knows he’s always welcome to look me up. There are no problems. No worries. It’s all cool. And it would always be wonderful to see him again. It’s been years.

Yesterday I went to the hospital with Sick Boy and The Healer to visit with The Liaison who has been battling cancer and who is fairly clearly not winning.

I was struck by the haunted look in his eyes as he frequently stared right into mine. Now and then he summoned the energy to receive what we were saying and to hoarsely, briefly, respond.

I wonder is he contemplating the end. Is he wondering about our own agenda. Is he wondering, do we know something he doesn’t?

I am now finally learning that he may not really have any local friends beyond us writers. And if our casual relationship is thus elevated in his experience?

Am I fucking up yet again with regards to the terminally ill - if that is what he is - and my capacity to be useful? I am such a drastic underachiever in this arena.

This was one of the first songs I ever wrote. It is partly an ode to dear Mr. Harrison. It is on youtube in a rudimentary form.

A Thousand Loves

So fragile, so weak

The heart's a miracle in every beat

In every house on every street

In every corner the cancers creep

If you go to George and ask

He'll tell you everything must pass

Our days are few and each one fleet

A thousand loves are ours to seek

Yet no one that we'll ever meet

May we claim our own somehow to keep

If you go to George and ask

He'll tell you everything must pass

If you go to George and ask

He'll say there's no damn way to last

Mmmmm... herby winey goodness

It's that time of the year again. The Niagara-On-The-Lake Wine and Herb Festival. Or - as I declare this year's unnofficial theme - the I Came for a Swallow Tour '08 *


That's Professor Plonk on the right. And on the left, a brand new friend. I guess we'll call her Doctor Swallows for now. She's working on her masters degree in the field of swallowing. It's true. They actually have schools that teach such a skill. Shocking, isn't it?


[Editor's note: It's a perfectly legitimate medical field.]




This is Buddy, Patio warden at Palatine Hills Estate Winery.

Captain Vino is growing impatient. He wants to see this world-class swallowing action we've been hearing about.

Every wineglass should be so big.

Bike rack? No idea what's going on here. Either I clicked by mistake or someone snatched my shigital camera when I wasn't looking...

Hmm. More accidental clickage.

Buddy again. Pretty sure this shot was intentional.

That would be my hand presumeably. Look at that lifeline eh? I'm gonna live to be six hundred years old at least.

Konzelmann Estate Winery.

Red Moose. A Zweigelt. We hear it pairs well with all-dressed potato chips.

Doc finally exhibits her spectacular swallowing skills.

Thought I was kidding about the chips, didn't you?





On the left, Froot Loops cereal. On the right, I forget. Had to be either a Riesling or Gewurztraminer since both are sources of a rare fragrance called linalool, along with Handi-Wipe towellettes and - yeah - Froot Loops. Something that's nice to know when you're trying to manufacture unusual unpretentious pairings and a special experience to tittilate unsophisticated newbies. I like to think we were playing along more than getting sucked in.

The cashier's counter. Okay, maybe we got a little sucked in.

See you next week for part two!

*Special thanks to Porn King for coming up with the theme material.

"I came for a swallow and I'm not leaving 'til I get a swallow!" - Bugs Bunny

Things FWG sucks at

The director of our modestly populated department volunteered our services in supplying the breakfast munchie-pastries for this Friday's monthly company town-hall meeting. 'No problemo,' thinks I. I was once in the habit of baking muffins - a different variety every week. I almost worked my way through an entire muffin recipe book. Surely I won't have lost the touch.

Thursday night is a write-off with Strat-o-matic playoffs so Wednesday after work I rush home, pack my lacrosse equipment bag in preparation for our inaugural practice/exhibition game this night, then dive into the kitchen to get the mandatory baking done. I pilfer Steve-o's flour, snatch up the recipe book and search for a variety that I just might have all the ingredients for.

Alas, this is all for nought as I discover I have no muffin pans. They must have went with the ex-darling upon the split.

No worries. There's a couple 8" x 8" baking pans present - the perfect pans for the production of pre-packaged porn bread. Oops. I mean corn bread.

[editor's note: We apologize for the preceding alliteration surprise-attack.]

The corn-bread mix is highly prepared. All I need do is add milk, an egg and blend. Laughable. Fool proof.

No. 1: Baking

Fool proof indeed. By the time rising smoke trails and burnt corners dictate withdrawal from the oven the beast has risen roughly half a centimetre.

[editor's note: one-quarter inch]

Dense and crispy though my accidental pancake may be, it endures a fair bit of nibbling over the next day and a half. The remainder (shown here) was thrown in the trash.



With no time to attempt an alternate product I grabbed the lacrosse bag and made for the home of Porn King, dear friend and regular lacrosse teammate. From there we rode in his giant red Ram to the arena. Not having conversed in some time, I regaled him with the tale of my drivers exam - until I spied something of an alarming nature and broke from the story:

"That's a red light, dude."

No reaction.

"Dude! Red light!"

"Huh? Oh."

"Um. You know you were supposed to stop back there, eh?"

"Sorry. I was listening to your story."

"I told you, red light."

"I know. I thought it was part of your story."

"Oh. Fair enough. So anyways..."

We made it to the arena without further incident and made acquaintance with the rest of this year's team. Somehow all of the league's premier troublemakers, goons and sociopaths were all drafted to the same team. What this says about Porn King and I, I dare not ponder.

Turns out our goalie (goalies draft and manage the teams in this league) was absent from the draft proceedings and the league convenor covered for him, taking no care to avoid said troublemakers, goons and sociopaths.

The silver lining is this: Such traits are generally common among the most skilled players of the lacrosse world and as such we have a very talented team which bodes well if we can stay out of the penalty box. Somehow we did on this night and we won our exhibition game handily. I had to skip a couple shifts while busy hyperventilating or nursing cramps but otherwise I played a decent game. This doesn't fit the theme - things I suck at, I realize. Sorry. Here. Let me compensate:

No. 2: Gardening

My spider plant - which very strangely has yet to inspire Steve-o to sing 'Spider plant, spider plant, friendly neighborhood spider plant...' has apparently suffered enough neglect that it has sprouted a thick flowery appendage that is reaching far through the air toward another potted plant that sits much closer to the window.



Now some say that great success can be born only from repeated failure. With that in mind I just may have inadvertently created a new breed of highly intelligent spider plant. It seems to be demonstrating astounding awareness of its environment and is deliberately attempting to re-pot itself in the pot of a specific neighbor. I've checked the beast for the presence of eyeballs and found none.

Thursday. The strat-o-matic playoffs begin. I'm matched up against Crazy Pat's Heyden Hawks for a quarter-final-round seven-game series.

No. 3: Strat-o-matic playoff coaching

I was fortunate enough to inherit a decent team upon joining this league eight years ago. Add some fortuitous trades and draft selections and I've enjoyed a fairly solid winning record overall. But in the playoffs I've entered seven series, being the favored team 6 of 7 times (with home-ice advantage) and won only two of them. Including the previous short-lived league I was in, I've ascended to the championship finals four times, been favored three of four times and lost all four times. Clearly it's my place in life to never win a cup.

After enjoying four wins and a tie in seven matches against the Hawks this year - I find myself - after 3 games in the playoff series - down three games to zero. Par for the course. Clearly this is not my forte.

I'm hoping all the luck I'm robbed of here will compensate when it comes time to try to get a novel published. That would be sweet. That would be worth it. Thank gawd there's no playoffs in the writing industry.

For the record, more things I suck at:

4. Obeying the speed limit
5. Walking upright
6. All areas of the romantic realm
7. Eating wisely
8. Basketball
9. Watching TV - usually end up hurling something at it within the first 15 minutes.
10. Music - couldn't play an instrument to save my life.

So there.

The list is far from complete by the way.

FWG

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!
FBT/SW/LBJ/TB : 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.
SW/TB : FIFTEEN!
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.
SW/FBT : SCHNIED HER IN THE EYE!!
PK : Oh! Who was that?
NB/FWG/FBT/TB : Oh!
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?
NB/FBT/FWG/TB/LBJ : HEY PAW!!
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?
FBT : POSSIBLE BREAKANINGAWAY!!
FWG : I'll have a gold Coke off the floor.
SW : All that Love junk in that trunk?
FBT : LEFT WING IF IT'S A THREE...! STURM! STURMATAZOA!!
FWG : Oh Sturmy!
SW : I'm gonna get you - get you drunk
FBT : THREE FOUR SEVEN NINE ELEVEN!
SW : Get you love-drunk on my humps!
FBT : THREE FOUR SEVEN NINE ELEVEN!
SW : My humps. My lovely lady lumps…
FBT : SIX!! AAAAGGHHHH! BLEEEEEGGGGHHHH!! UNBELIEVABLE!!
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.

FWG

Me and my new boat

For years I teased my buddy, Porn King about his yellow pick up truck, referring to it as the banana boat.

Ahem.

Now that this very same truck is mine and I'll be paying for it for the next three years - I'm hoping that PK will be a gentleman and not return the compliments.

The truck is up on a hoist right now, hood open, in the bay of the Canadian Tire Service Centre at Mavis and Britannia supposedly receiving its mandatory safety inspection. A service that runs $97 minimum here by the way. Most terribly and unfortunately Brian of Orangeville - the one mechanic I can trust - is unable to do the job today and I'm unable to wait. I'm at the wrong end of the ten-day window in which to get the vehicle safetied, insured and registered with the gov'ment so they can tax me half to death.

I chose Canadian Tire for the job despite my long-standing policy restricting these bozos to the installing of tires and no other service whatsoever.

"Don't you touch those brakes!" I barked at a stunned young Canadian Tire employee, years ago, having just purchased new tires from them and witnessing the youth remove my wheels with a sledge hammer before I went running into the bay to accost him. "I have a real mechanic who does that! Just change the tires and don't touch anything else!"

I've been long aware of their incompetence but on this occasion I believe the safety check is a mere formality and my hope is that they're not savvy enough to effectively scam me for unneeded work - to which every other mechanic in the world is drooling over the opportunity.

I'm not sure if the hoist itself is performing the inspection or if one of the "certified technicians" is actually sneaking over to peak at the truck on each occasion I'm looking a different direction.

Okay - I just sauntered over to the window for a closer look and I see that while no one is within a stone's throw of the vehicle at this moment - one of the tires has been removed and is lying on the floor. So - progress.

I'm really hopped up right now. Positively jittery - which is very unlike me. I'm not a high nervous-energy kind of guy normally. Let me tell you how I got this way this morning.

Earlier I'd surrendered my keys to a man at the counter named, according to his name tag, Orsi and then replied to his inquiry regarding the truck's specific whereabouts within the parking lot with, "It's yellow for goodness sake. They'll see it."

I then had to force myself to chuckle after he responded, "But what if they're colour blind?" at which he and his shadow - an older employee with apparently nothing better to do than follow Orsi around - both collapsed in a fit of laughter.

I then crossed the parking lot and patronized a Krispy Kreme shop for the first time ever, ordering a large coffee. While there I sampled three of their legendary donuts - each a different variety. Why not eh? When in Rome...

Ee-freaking-gads! Those things are more sugary than sugar! What can they be made of? Not sugar apparently. Because sugar is precisely as sugary as sugar and these things are clearly more so. Maybe they've discovered a means to super-concentrate the sugar or something. I don't know but I'll tell you this. My long held belief that sugar-induced hyperactivity in children is a myth propagated by coffee-addicted Canadian parents who live in denial of the spazmatazzing effects of caffeine - is beginning to waver. Cause I got some kind of perma-piss-shivers right now, I tell you. And the coffee was decaffeinated, for crying out loud.

Perhaps this environment here in the Canadian Tire waiting room is contributing to it. There's one crap-load of stimuli in here. There's a TV playing - no sound thank goodness 'cause there are three other sources. Music is piped in - between constant paging messages. Plus there's some kind of lunacy-inducing ad machine in here that features a 36-pocket grid of business cards and a video screen complete with audio that's playing constant commercials of some sort. I've never heard of such a bombastic contraption before but I imagine it'd be great to have in the event of a nuclear attack. You'd just take one gander at this thing, consider its commentary on the state of our society and immediately welcome the annihilation of said society.

There's one other machine in here, by the way. A simple Coke machine. And it's blessedly docile. Just a tiny digital display that scrolls this little message:

...ICE COLd COCA COLA...

God bless the Coca Cola Company I say! With their down-to-earth tradition and their lower-case D's and their scrumptious Fruitopia flavors! Pip pip! I have the urge to go give the Coke machine a big steamy hug and a sloppy kiss before I go tramping down the aisles of the store beating myself on the head and screeching like a monkey.

Wisely, I resist these urges.

Instead I tow the line. Is it 'tow' or 'toe' the line? I dunno. What would Rocky Burnette say? I sit politely, slightly a-trembling, waiting to hear my name on the damned paging system and gazing at the vast collection of certificates on the wall.

Wow! There is just a plethora of qualification and expertise here. Two - count 'em two - licensed mechanics here! Bravo. Hopefully at least one of them is not currently on vacation. There's a long row of certificates of achievement from the Snap-On Diagnostics company. Boy oh boy. If I received a certificate every time I achieved a snap-on - let me tell you...

There are six certificates boasting Gold Medal Customer Service awards. Oops! Upon closer examination there are only three distinct award winners. There are two copies of each. Oh well.

And of course there's a collection of certificates alluding to institutions of obscure renown. For instance - the last time I bought tires for the Grand Marquis they were installed by a fellow accredited as a certified propane cylinder filler from the Cylinder Refilling Institute. You think I'm joking, don't you? I assure you, dear blogger, I sadly am not. Apparently you must buy more expensive tires if you want the privilege of the services of a bona fide Canadian Tire School o' Tire Changin' graduate.

Someone is on the paging system now, stumbling and stuttering over a name that's difficult to pronounce. I suddenly realize it's mine. Whoopee. Time to get mugged for cool hundred bucks and geet on outta here.

Back in the customer service area no one seems to be expecting me. I see that Orsi is going over a long itemized list with another staff member and I feel sorry for whatever customer they're about to soak. Orsi looks up at me for just a brief moment. Then he does it again and again. Jesus Christ - this better not have anything to do with the banana boat. Orsi's glances at me seem to carry a slight element of fear - as if he's sizing up my capacity for violence. I outweigh him considerably in fact. I narrow my eyes and nod very slowly - almost imperceptibly. 'Your personal safety is in dire jeopardy little Orsi man,' I try to project to him.

He finishes with his crony and nods me over to his station where we meet. The older fellow - his shadow - is also present.

"Here's what you need to pass safety," he says. "It'll be thirteen hundred dollars or so."

"Oh," I say - in my deepest voice which smacks of Lurch from the Addams Family. "Really."

Orsi nods.

"Is that after tax?"

"No. Tax is extra."

Lovely. How on Earth will I pay for all this? Perhaps I should kill Orsi and sell his wife and kids as slaves. That should be good for a grand and a half, eh?

"Can we go over the list, please?" I expect him to spin the sheet sideways so that we can both read it but no. He starts reading it to me. I try to follow along on the sheet but that's impossible. It's upside down and the writing is messy. Plus he's adding in his own dissertations and he's reading the items out of order. I get the impression it's all brake work and tires. He finally winds down.

"Can I have a look at this now?" I ask, taking the sheet and turning it.

Two tires, a ball joint and an abundance of brake parts.

"Someone will have to look at the truck with me and point out these problems."

He gathers up the technician and we three hit the bay. The technician shows me a tire.

"See - there's slashes in the wall there. Very deep, see?"

Yes, I see. You want to empty your pockets there, hot shot? Let's see if you got a knife in there.

"And see the tread? Uneven wear. It's too low on the inside."

"Okay." Plausible I suppose.

"See the brake pads? Looks like original parts. Look at the separation."

"Separation?"

"The pad material has separated from the metal."

"Oh." I fiddle with it. He seems to be right.

"The rotors are scored."

I run my finger along it. It's a tad wavy. "Can they be turned?"

"Nope." He's already making his way to the rear tire.

You little pip squeak. Why, I oughta -

"Drums are bent. See? I had a hell of a time getting them off." He's holding a drum up to me. I give it a feel. It's imperfect. He puts it down and pulls a small knife from his pocket.

The knife! Remain calm, Watson. Let the man speak. Let him trip himself up and utter his own inadvertent confession! It's elementary my dear!

"It's too wet in here," he says, gesturing toward the brake shoe arrangement. He pokes the knife into areas on either side of the brake cylinder - between the doo-dads and the widgets. The knife drips red liquid. Blood or brake fluid - who knows?

You beast.

"See?"

"I see. Is it not supposed to do that?"

"No! It's not supposed to leak!" A hint of mockery.

"But would it leak if you weren't stabbing it?" I ask. "Because when I'm driving the truck - there won't be anyone back here stabbing my brakes, so-"

"It's not supposed to do that."

Fine then. You bitch.

"There's no time to get all this done today," says Orsi, stepping between us. "But we can get started and you can pick up the truck tomorrow."

"No good," I say. "I have appointments in Orangeville this afternoon - with my bank and my insurance company."

Orsi and I return to the service counter. En route I look to the wall for the photo of the inspecting technician I've just met and I find it - on a document that boasts his qualifications as a certified emissions control technician. Perfect. Just perfect. How lengthy was that training endeavor, I wonder?

"Okay Billy - here's how you turn the machine on. And here's how you turn it off. Same method, you'll notice, but you push the switch the opposite direction. Here's where you read the numbers. Here's where you write the numbers down. And here's how you attach the hose to the tailpipe. Don't attach the hose to ANYTHING else, okay? No funny business! This is serious stuff. We make a lot of money from this shit. Now print your name on this certificate. You passed. Very good. You'll go far, kid. NEXT!"

"So what's the total after tax?" I ask.

"Well - it's twelve-sixty-nine plus fourteen per cent."

"I'm not good with math." I say loudly. I'm becoming aggressive. If there's one thing I've learned it's this: Don't be soft spoken when someone wants your money. It's like jumping into a shark tank with a bloody nose. You'll put that merchant into a feeding frenzy. Orsi gets busy with his calculator. "Wait a minute! Fourteen per cent?"

"Yeah. PST plus GST."

"Oh, that's right. Harper dropped the GST by a per cent, didn't he?"

"Yep."

"What a sweetheart."

Orsi reads me the total. "Fourteen-forty-five. That's after discount."

"What discount?"

"Brake sale. Today's the last day. Twenty per cent off brake parts."

"My lucky day."

Shadow man says something to Orsi that I don't catch.

"Oh - there's a discount on the labor too - just the brake labor." He recalculates and gives me a new total. It's considerably lower.

"That's a lot better," I say. "That's after tax?"

"No."

"So what is it with tax?"

He gazes at the page a moment. "I can round it down to 1200."

"After tax?"

"No."

I'm starting to see why Orsi is not a Gold Medal Customer Service Award recipient.

"Is the tax optional or must I pay it?" He frowns. He's not eager to respond to this. "Because if the tax is mandatory then I'm very keen to know how much it is." He reaches for his calculator. "Never mind," I say, then whisper, "Ten per cent is one-twenty plus - plus - four per cent is - forty-eight? That's One-sixty-eight?" Orsi nods. "So - thirteen-sixty-eight."

"Plus a few extras. Just small extras."

"Such as?"

"You know - cleaner."

Cleaner? What the f-? My truck requires cleaner to pass safety inspection? Is there unsafe dirt somewhere on this truck? Has PK been holding out on me?

"I've never paid for cleaner before," I state. Orsi just shrugs. He's growing bored of me, I think.

"I need to use your phone," I say. "I need to ask the seller if he's willing to split this bill with me." I already know what Orsi's answer will be. And I'm looking forward to it. I've already planned my response. And sure enough:

"Well - if it's local that's okay."

I barely let him finish before snapping at him. "No! It's long-distance! It's Burlington. And it's a pittance compared to the fourteen hundred bucks you're taking me for!"

Orsi's smiley shadow man promptly whips out his cell phone and thrusts it toward me. I turn to him. We trade smiles. I nod respectfully and take the phone away from the counter and call up PK at his workplace.

"Buddy, I'm sorry to bother you at work. I'm in a pickle here. I'm at the garage. They want fourteen hundred to safety the truck. Brakes all around and two tires. They showed me everything. It looks legitimate as far as I can tell. But I never expected this kind of expense."

"Okay," says PK. "Is there some way you can cover the bill until I get the cheque from your bank? Can you put it on your Visa or something? I can pay you back."

"You can pay me back?"

"Yeah."

"Buddy. I'm only calling to ask if you'll split it with me - down the middle."

"It's up to you. I'm willing to pay the whole thing."

"Well, you're a good man Charlie Brown, but I bought it as-is. If you're willing to give me half - that's all I want."

"Whatever you say."

"That's what I say. You can pay me whenever. Seven hundred."

"Okay."

"Okay. Thanks buddy. Bye now."

"Bye."

Is he a good man or what? I tell you - I got the greatest friends in the whole damned world. Got the monopoly on them. I'm the luckiest guy on the planet.

Back at the counter I return the phone to Shadow Man.

"Okay," I say to Orsi, "Let's do it. He's gonna pay half. Is that a nice guy or what? How 'bout that eh? There's still some nice guys left in the world!"

Orsi just glares at me. He's reading hostility into my happy comments. He thinks I'm insinuating that he is not a nice guy but really - I meant nothing by it.

Really.

I swear!

FWG

Moving Can Be Fun

Moving can be fun when you're getting screwed without a kiss

So - the new roommate Steve-o is a pretty shrewd operator. He books a truck online from one of those big interNATIONAL CAR AND TRUCK RENTAL places which I shall leave respectfully unnamed (ahem). Not only does he piggyback on the corporate account of the company we work for but he redeems some coupon or special offer. The result is a double-discount and a final price of $60 for a 24-hour rental. Insurance included. 50KM are free. We'll need about a 100KM. Ultimately a very tidy little $80 deal. A bargoon and a half. And the depot is right around the corner from the apartment to boot. Bravo. According to the web site a live person will call back within one business day to re-confirm the arrangement.

Mr. Live Person calls back the next morning. "Sorry sir. We have no trucks available for you."

"Oh?" says Steve. "How come the web site says you do? I have a confirmation number."

"Oh - the computer wasn't up to date."

Translation: We don't want to rent you a truck for $60 when we can get $120 from another - less shrewd - customer. Sorry about your luck, loser.

Steve-o considers the evidence, goes back online and re-books a truck - same deal - but from another depot not quite so close to us. The internet transaction is successful. He immediately picks up the phone and calls the depot location directly.

Rental Girl answers, reviews the booking and announces that all is in order.

"Yes sir. Your truck is booked! It will be here waiting for you!" Bravo. We're back in business.

The next morning Steve-o gets a mysterious phone call from Mr. Slick at the new depot location. "Sorry sir. We have no trucks available for you!"

And we're back out of business.

"But I think you do," says Steve-o, "Because we've already been given confirmation. I talked to Rental Girl yesterday."

"That's not possible," says Mr. Slick. "We don't operate that way. We don't call back until the next day."

Translation: We also don't wish to rent you a truck for $60 when we can get $120 from another - less shrewd - customer. Sorry about your luck, loser.

"Ah - but I do operate that way." Says Steve-o. "That's why I called your location right away and accepted confirmation from Rental Girl."

"No no. That's not possible," says Mr. Slick. "We don't have any girls working at this location!"

Translation: I've already diddled with the computer and un-confirmed your confirmation so that we can get $120 from another - less shrewd - customer. Sorry about your luck, loser.

"Excuse me," says Steve-o. "It was a guy with a very feminine voice, then. And he already confirmed that you had a truck available and it was assigned to me."

"Well - um - somebody else - a customer that booked prior to you - he called back and needed an additional truck. So there."

"That's not my problem. That's his problem. I booked it first. We have a contract both written and verbal. You're obliged to honor it. Get a truck delivered from another location if you have to."

"Oh - we don't do that here. All our depots are independent."

"Well that's awfully strange," says Steve-o, "Because my friend works for your company. And his job is delivering vehicles from one depot to another! I guess you didn't know about that. But now you do. Go get me a truck. I expect to hear from you by the end of the day. If not - I'll be contacting your head office and inflicting a litany of rage upon them. Goodbye."

End of day. No call from Mr. Slick.

Steve-o calls back the next morning. Rental Girl #2 answers the phone. Apparently they've been on a recent girl-hiring binge behind Mr. Slick's back.

"Mr. Slick please."

"I'm sorry. Mr. Slick is out of the office at the moment," says the girl - or the eunuch - whatever the case may be.

"I presume he's out looking for my truck then. Be sure to inform Mr. Slick that he must contact me by noon or else I shall be settling this affair with your head office and I assure you that encounter shall be far from pleasant. Goodbye."

Noon. No call from Mr. Slick.

Steve-o does some settling with the head office and true to his word, it is far from pleasant.

Mr. Slick comes out of hiding. “We have a truck for you sir. But you won’t get it from 9AM Saturday to 9AM Sunday. You’ll get it from 3PM Saturday to 3PM Sunday. That’s the best we can do.”

Translation: You fucked with me and now I’m fucking with you, you belligerant little snot-nosed prick.

We’re back in business. Little does he know - the new time zone will work for us just fine. I call up my friend, Porn King and apologize for the change in plans. ‘Can you help me tomorrow evening instead of tomorrow morning?’, I ask him. He says he can. He’s a good guy. The best. He doesn’t even watch porn as far as I know.

I call up the bro and leave a message. I know he's golfing on Saturday and he offered to help out on Sunday if applicable.

"Dude, we're gonna be doing some unloading on Sunday after all. Meet us at the apartment whenever you're able. Thanks!"

I call up Maritime Kevin, our buddy from the office.

"Dude, I know you have to baby-sit Saturday during the day but we're gonna be doing some unloading Saturday evening starting at 7 or so. You mentioned you'd be free after 6."

"Yeah," says Maritime Kevin. "Sounds good."

"Thanks!" I say.

"I'll let you know," he says.

Huh? Wha? He'll let me know? I thought he just said it sounded good? What the heck's up with young people these days? You can't get any kind of commitment out of them. There's no honor. There's no such thing as solid plans for them. Everything's contingent on a last-minute analysis of all offers on the table.

"Youth these days - they're all hormones and cell phones," said Candy Man once. He comes out with some dandy quotes now and then but this is one of my favorites. He's an Englishman with a thick accent and about 35 years experience in the chocolate business. He's also a historian by hobby and my favorite fish-and-chips dining companion.

I think he's on to something there. Cell phones have eliminated the necessity of advance planning.

"Frank! It's Bill! What up!"

"On my way to Paul's party. Sounds like the place to be tonight."

"Not so, dude. Paul cancelled out. Changed his plans. Got a better offer."

"Shit. Now what?"

"Obviously - Peter's party. I'm on my way. See you there."

"No way. That gig's off. Peter got a better offer."

"Shit. That leaves the bar."

"See you at the bar." Click.

I think that bars invented cell phones in order to get more business. Think about it. Cell phones combined with the absence of integrity have created a permanent uncertainty within the world of youth culture in which bars are the only constant - the last resort. Voila! Another conspiracy revealed.


Moving can be fun when you're sitting around on your ass

Saturday. 3 PM. Pick-up time.

Steve-o and I have our asses parked in two of the dozen or so chairs that fill half of the Rental office. In hindsight I should have been suspicious that half of their real estate is devoted to a waiting room.

The two customers at the counter have been there for the hour that we’ve been present. How long they were here before that - who knows. There’s some kind of quiet dispute going on. The counter agent - the only employee on site - trades a few quiet brief words with the customers between 15 minute sessions of uninterupted keyboard clacking. I start to wonder if this man is actually writing a novel while on the job. I look around for employment applications but see none.

Finally we’re up to bat. It takes another half hour to settle the transaction and get the keys in our hot little hands. Counter Agent informs us that the truck is due back by 9 o’clock this evening.

“But we were told 3PM tomorrow!” we cry.

“No sir. We rent this particular size truck on a shift basis.”

“Fine,” we say. “Be that way.” We suspect that Mr. Slick is behind this.

Now we have to get all the unloading done tonight. And there will only be four of us to do the job. Actually six if you include Proffesor Plonk and Captain Vino but they’re getting up there in years and have not the sturdiest of backs. I don’t want them participating in the heavy stuff.

We take the truck and fly. The Streetsville apartment is on the way to the Hamilton storage unit so we stop to pick up a stack of old blankets to protect the furniture with.



Moving can be fun you meet a couple of hillbillies visiting the city

I park the truck strategically in the parking lot so that it’s only blocking 2 vehicles. We exit and rush up the exterior stairs to the great shared balcony and enter our apartment. I gather the blankets and a roll of tape while Steve-o grabs a case of bottled water. We hear a car honking repeatedly below us. Over and over and over again.

Christ! What timing! We only parked 60 seconds ago!

Steve runs out to the balcony to get a look at the action. Incredibly - the occupants of both cars are wanting to leave!

The folks in the red S.U.V. have gone off the deep end for losing 30 seconds of their life and are not prepared to lose another 30. They drive over the parking stones and into the next parking lot in order to escape. They fuck up the bottom of the truck’s body en route. Scrape it up real good. Steve-o has a good howl over that. The two men waiting to leave in the other car are out of the vehicle, standing beside it.

As I pass Steve-o, my arms loaded with blankets and the truck keys, he says:

“Hey! Do this!” He begins speaking in a debilitated voice - imitating one who is entirely deaf. “Thanks for honking so much! I’m hard of hearing!”

I don’t act on this advice. I just descend the stairs and head for the truck. The motorists have words for me.

“Hey - you’ve just started a war you know!”

“Really,” I reply, clearly disinterested.

“Some guy just drove over a cliff to get away!”

A cliff, he says. I kid you not. It was just a stupid parking stone.

Ignoring him, I thrust the stack of blankets into the back of the truck.

“You moving out?” asks the other guy, another real bright spark obviously.

“No,” I mutter. “I’m running a shipment of guns.” ‘…to service all the wars I’ve started, you stupid pea-brained cow-fuckers,’ I add under my breath. I hop in the truck and move it aside. The hillbillies take off. Steve-o appears in the passenger seat with the case of H2O and we split - Hamilton bound.

I call Porn King on the cell phone to change the plans on him yet again. I tell him to meet us around 5:30 at the storage unit. To the best of my knowledge Vino and Plonk are already aiming for those specifics. Just to be sure, I give Vino’s cell phone a jingle.

‘Hi you’ve reached Captain Vino’s voice mail on the crappy Fido network. My crappy Fido phone is probably sitting right beside me refusing to ring. If you leave me a message maybe I’ll get it in a day or three.’

I leave a brief message. “Don’t come until 5:30,” I say. Immediately upon hanging up I get a voice mail notification. We were trading messages simultaneously. He and Plonk are already waiting for us at the storage unit building. Now they’ll go for coffee and return to meet us there.

Steve-o’s cell phone rings. He talks. Trades some laughs. Hangs up.

“Was that Maritime Kevin?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Is he coming tonight?”

“No. He has to baby-sit tonight too.”

“FUCKER!!” I cry. “Remind me to dust his cubicle with anthrax!”

“Okay, but save some for the truck. We want to fill the vents with it before we return it tonight.”

Upon arrival at “The Hold” storage facility we find Plonk and Vino have returned and are waiting for us.

“You’ve got a key, right?” asks Vino - very seriously. Too seriously. I suspect he’s setting me up for some gag.

“To the unit,” I say. “Not the building.”

“So how do you get into the building?”

“Through the main office. I sign in, show ID. They let me in.”

“But there’s no one in the office. They left. The ‘Open’ sign is turned off.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

He isn’t. They’re closed for the night. We’re fucked.


Moving can be fun when you’ve got great friends

Too make a long story short -- things improved from that point on. I got a hold of Porn King who had almost arrived when I warned him to turn around. Incredibly he was not put out and was more than happy to come back Sunday morning to help out. This guy is the bomb, I tell you. You gotta love him.

We left the truck in their parking lot in order to avoid extra mileage expense. Plonk and Vino drove us home to Streetsville and together we dined at the local Pickle Barrel - purveyors of decent food and wine, big servings, water-walls and light-emanating floors. It felt just a little bit Star-Trekkish. Ten thumbs up for the California Spring Rolls. Mm-mm good!

Vino and PK helped us load up in the morning. PK and the bro helped us unload.

We got the truck back to the depot at about ten-after-three Sunday afternoon.

Miraculously Counter Agent was easily swayed and we escaped with only an $80 bill! We traded very cool glances and a half smirk on the way out.

All’s well that ends well…

FWG

Blinded by the Light

On the drive to work this morning the song Blinded by the Light came on the radio - the Manfred Mann version, not Springsteen. It was a bitter-sweet moment for me.

This song holds a unique place in my psyche.

It's the only song of which I stand at the threshold, peering in, wanting to love the song as I should, with all it's resonance and soaring melodies and vibrant lyrics. But alas, I can not love it though I dearly want to.

Wrapped up like a douche

How in all hell can you love a song with the line wrapped up like a douche in it?

Honestly, what was Springsteen thinking?

Wrapped up like a douche?

a DOUCHE?

It torments me still, as it has for decades.

I once lamented this to a dear friend who is very knowledgeable on the subject of music. Perhaps he would have an answer to my plight.

Not so. He confessed to having the very same problem himself with that song though, surprisingly, not due to the douche word. No. It was the phrase anal curly-whirlies that bothered him.

I looked at him like he had three heads (he has but one of course - a well-proportioned one of which I am jealous).

"Yes. Anal curlie whirlies," he repeated.

Anal curly-whirlies? That's disgusting, I thought. How could I have missed that? Then I thought about it some more.

"No," I said to him. "It's not anal curly-whirlies, you dumbass. It's IN HIS curly whirlie! As in ...little Urly Burly came by IN HIS CURLY WHIRLIE and asked me if I needed a ride..."

So now there is yet another line in the song I cannot bear to hear. Friends are good to turn to in times of trouble but sometimes they can just make things worse. I'm sure his heart was in the right place.

I know I'm not alone in this. I once heard a radio commercial where they tackled this very phenomenon. The announcer said with disdain, as if all of us douche-hearers were tiresome and partly insane, that the lyrics were - something - I don't remember exactly, but the critical word was DEUCE, not DOUCHE.

Of course I don't believe that crap for a moment. It all sounds very conspiratorial and I wonder was that spot funded by a government agency and not really a brewery?

Wrapped up like a DEUCE?

Is that possible? How might a 'deuce' be wrapped up?

If anyone can explain how wrapped up like a 'deuce' makes any sense at all, please please let me know. Or if you have any other perspective on this - Please. My sanity may depend on it. Thank you.

FWG