Safe homeward

Hey hey my salty little sweethearts. How goes it? I for one am feeling a little loopy perhaps from too much blogging and not enough sleeping? And by too much blogging I mean nowhere near the volume of youtubing or minecrafting but… it might be in the top five of my End Times Activity Log.

I feel like my wee articles are getting maybe a little too goofy sometimes and maybe not wee enough.

So my very smart, sensible strat-o-matically skilled, super-awesome buddy, Skeeter Willis has sent along this sexy little subject:

Slán Abhaile

Apparently you find this on signs in Ireland, as you’re leaving town for instance, where it means safe home or in other words, farewell, or else on highways where it means safe home as in drive safe; arrive alive. Either way it’s apparently pronounced “Slawn awallya.”

As a movie buff though, the phrase resonated most for me in the weepy climactic scene of the director’s cut of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. It’s quite different than the theatrical release. I am presenting it here with subtitles added in because the voice of E.T. is really hard to understand:

Fortunate

Tonight I dropped in on Skeeter Willis, the Thoughtful Educator and other fine gentlemen of the Strat-o league - now 25 years old! I enjoyed their friendly humour of course. Then on bald tires I ventured to another part of town to pop by the haunt of another fine member who couldn’t make it out tonight and who generously saved me from being eaten by the dire wolf he was wolf-sitting and also loaned me his copy of my current-fave board game Tortuga 1667 which I look forward to introducing to Aqualad and his fellow university-burdened pals next game day.

And then, to the perfect soundtrack: the haunting regal psychedelic sometimes-jazzy sounds of an old Pink Floyd collection; a sort of Dark Side of the Moon prequel at times, I made the long snowy slithery slo-mo slide home.

Neo put this together along with other new music, as he so often generously does for me. We spent the afternoon together. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t rehearse anything. I tried not to be aggressive though to his credit he was prepared for that if required. I don’t know that we solved any problems today; problems that by my accounting are illusions, but that is partly because he has been man enough to tackle them on his own as best he can.

It broke my heart actually, at times, to hear him bringing the burden of blame upon himself. I want to say that I am proud of him but of course his accomplishments are to his own credit, not mine.

He was strong and kind and more apologetic than I needed him to be. He was uninterested in hearing my own confessions. However my shortcomings are real and I wish neither of us to forget them.

A lot of honesty was traded today and was gracefully received.

And he told me that he loves me.



I am very fortunate at this time to have so much support from special people; people who carry the burden of their own problems.

Now I must gather my own faltering strength and repair some of these worst of my own failings and become properly useful to these loved ones, just as they deserve from me. I simply must. 

How doth the city sit solitary…

…that was once full of people.

I remember many occasions sitting in my Streetsville apartment looking out the big window, contemplating at great length and seeing all these structures and machinations of society: I had never felt so alone; so utterly alien. At the time I regarded this with some degree of emotional peril; not as much as you’d expect, but more than I later would. My yawning separateness was to some degree just another observation; another new important revelation in a long roster of them. It was then that I found some comfort in that opening line from the book of Leviticus and then that I began reading the Christian bible for the first time since grade school, and then that I began finding wisdom instead of nonsense; wisdom which few priests would, so far as I imagined, ever interpret much the same way I was. It was then that I began to sense that much of this “religious” material must have been borrowed from other sources and that much of it was not intended at its roots to be a tool of Christian doctrine at all.

That alien feeling persisted for a long time, varying in intensity.

I remember a long night wide awake in my attic eyrie which I rented from Long Time Companion; the friend formerly known in blog space as Peter Pan. I’m pleased to say that he has come a long way, finding some peace, and considering that when we were breaking up years prior to this rental arrangement and I’d threatened to murder him (and possibly meant it) in a fit of outrageous jealousy - I guess I’ve come a long way too.

That night I’d felt the weight of this threshold; this decision; this gateway to… what? Enlightenment? This reckoning that I’d found no one yet who was willing to take my hand and proceed with me.

It was that night when I strummed the guitar and the song The Line came out: a simple three-chord ditty in which I tried to voice this conundrum; this great step in evolution (or so it seemed to me then) and my concern that I was becoming too alien from everyone around me and that I was losing the capacity to relate and thus to communicate and thus the potential to teach or to guide.

I did not want my learning; these immensely powerful and useful understandings to benefit me alone!

What I don’t remember is any conscious decision; any intention to back away from that threshold, but indeed that is what I did; not ready to give up on others; and not feeling any confidence that I’d ever be able to reach anyone again if I took this step and launched too far into another realm.

I remember being surprised to so easily embrace a reverse-pretentiousness, how easy it was for me to “play dumb” in a way, to reveal no insights in day to day circumstances where I was wise in relevant terms but wise enough, also, to know that what I had to say would not be understood or not be embraced and so I remained quiet and nodded like some very simple man. I was surprised how easily I could keep my ego in check.

I remember feeling lonely at times because I had no one I could be completely myself with. I literally had no secrets. This is a huge statement to make. I doubt it can rarely ever be honestly said. I had no secrets but yet I had to keep quiet about some things, not for shame (I could admit any flaw or fault I was aware of) but for other people’s comfort. I had no energy or any mandate to challenge everyone’s illusions all day every day.

When I met Neo and observed what astounding mental freedoms he possessed, I knew he was very special and that I had to make myself available to him. And with the brainstorming of excellent associate JazzLion, I began writing a novel in which I tried to plant all my most important and relevant understandings, with the thought that if he read it (along with others if it got published) and was of the kind of mind I had been crediting him with, then as an adult he might unearth that book and look me up. I did not indulge in any romantic notions about such an encounter but in essence I could imagine him saying, “Dude! Remember me? I understand what you’re saying here! And I thought we should talk I don’t imagine you’ve been expecting many people to get it…”

Instead Neo took such an immediate interest in me that we became associates when grade school graduation should have otherwise separated us.

In hindsight, maybe that was all for the worse. Another regret? Should I have finished the damn book instead, and put it in his hands and said goodbye?

One of the joys in our association; call it friendship; call it mentorship, whatever, was that I had someone I could be one hundred per cent myself with. I regarded him as completely trustworthy. Not trustworthy in that I could trust him with my secrets (because I felt I had none) but trustworthy in that I trusted him to be able to handle the truth; to be able to handle the things I had to say.

For the first time in quite a while I had someone I did not feel alien with.

This is the crux of my broken-heartedness.

Imagine being a human but growing up on some far away planet where everyone is wildly different than you and finally you meet another human; the only other human on the planet, and you just feel so at home finally, and your friendship blossoms and then after eight years he just says, yeah I can’t do this anymore bye. 

Sometimes these days I think surely we’ll get back together again. Surely he’ll come to his senses.

But sitting here, trying to be a little present; a little wakeful, I think: How carefully have I monitored this alien issue over the last eight years?

Am I sure that no one else is capable of letting me be me, without me having to be concerned about scaring them off?

I know that the Ponderer and Skeeter Willis are frequent readers of this blog (god knows why; it is so scattered and indulgent) and I must ask with honesty; not to flatter, are they not willing and capable?

I wonder too, about Dog Whisperer and Earth Writer and Aqua Lad. I barely knew them eight years ago. Have we not developed an almost familial bond?

On that note what about my mother and my brother?

Surely JazzLion and Renaissance Kid and Global Citizen; though they live rather out of the way to varying degrees, so to rely on them regularly would be difficult.

And the Earnest Chef too. And The Healer. Thinking about them now, are they not slam dunks? Have I not already felt free with them and just not done the accounting?

Perhaps even the Thoughtful Educator. Haven’t all these relationships broadened and solidified over these years? Have I failed to give some special people fair credit?

And then there’s Dr. Lock of course. I’m surprised as I think about this now - how many friends I am able to consider in this regard

Perhaps I need to sample the waters; open up to more people the same way I did to Neo and see how it goes; if they are comfortable or not.

It would help, I’m sure, if I could be my gentler self with them. Which would happen naturally I’m sure if I could bring myself to be more present; more mindful. I might not be ready though. Let me cradle myself in the writing for now.

With regards to that evolution, I suppose this is another regret: When Neo asked, But why wouldn’t you want to embrace enlightenment if you could? Why ever choose otherwise? For some reason I gave him a cryptic answer that was more about my remaining addictions; my susceptibility to identity, instead of a straight answer. God knows why. It just happened.

I should have told Neo the more simple and sincere perspective: that I was waiting until he was ready to go there with me.

Giving

It may have largely to do with the recent reading of an extremely inspirational book (more on that later) that I have become so appropriately “generous” of late; generous in a very personal sense. It might be better to say accepting or tolerant. Perhaps even detached or unencumbered, or simply present.

Specifically I have found myself dismissing concerns around the dynamics of close relationships. The various ways, for instance, that some friends, through no conscious intention of their own, cast a force upon me which tries to draw me back into my old ways, or into the more socially normal behaviors which seem to pose a threat to me. Or the ways that they underestimate me so that they can perceive needs I do not have, so as to satisfy their loving nature by tending to them. (Do I do that too, to some?) Other things: Grandpa Munster’s poor choices and consequences. The apparent disrespect of bread-and-butter friends forced to think me pretentious in order to deny their own suffering. (How much of that is in my head?)

All these apparent little hurdles, suddenly they are nothing! I have read passages which sound like my own voice, reminding me of lessons I once learned and like magic I am experiencing greater freedom. These little hurdles do not matter! I need not plan my way around them. I am full of love and strength. Everywhere I look my associates are suddenly more beautiful and harmless.

Generous may not be the best word for this; this mentally letting them be who they are, whatever they are, however I perceive them. But I like that word right now. I like it because generosity has been returned to me these last few days but tenfold. My old car bit the dust in spectacular fashion; the suspension crumpling beneath me. My friends were quick to offer counsel and rides. The Ponderer actually loaned me her car in order to get to work for two nights. Dog Whisperer offered the same. Peter Pan offered me a $1500 loan to help buy a new car. I accepted $1200. The purchase emptied my bank account. The new car has a battery problem which I believe will be worked out. Friends all over have come to my rescue. The Ponderer and Healer have fed me dinners this weekend. All these gifts have arrived without my asking. Mom, too, has offered money which I have declined. 

As I said to Dog Whisperer earlier, “I am blessed.” May I have the opportunity soon, to give as generously as I have received!

I have committed to myself to repay the loan swiftly. Unfortunately this will probably mean further delays to seeing Skeeter Willis or Renaissance Kid and that I will not visit Neo down at his new home where he goes to school, as soon as was planned. (He’s grown up so frightfully fast.) I want us to just have fun for a day, without the sobriety of sustained serious conversation that has long been our mode; to perhaps hit book stores, music stores, antique stores… to explore… make a short film perhaps…! and definitely go over his latest brilliant music album production and provide feedback. I want to give him a wok and show him some great cooking options that I think he’ll enjoy and which are easy, healthy and efficient. I do worry about his nutrition.  

I’m willing to bet that without the pressure to maximize efficient conversation over dinner or coffee, that we might actually make more useful connections naturally, while just doing what we enjoy. What I would really like, I think, is simply for us to laugh together as we once did.

Yes the universe seems to have done me wrong; monkeyed terribly with my car and then, with my bank account emptied and me thinking it owed me some good luck at least until next payday, it monkeyed with my new car! But it also showed me how much love there is around me and reminds me how much I have to give.

Not precisely the 15 minutes of fame I might have hoped for!

By the time he reached the end of his mile long walk Saturday morning, Rich Landriault wasn't sure he was going to make it.

It wasn't just that his feet hurt. Every muscle in his body ached.

"Everything hurts," the Hamilton man said, moments after finishing his tour around the Pen Centre shopping mall as part of the Walk a Mile in Her Shoes event to support the Gillian's Place Women's Shelter. "That was so much more difficult than I expected. It's like a workout."

Landriault came to St. Catharines to join the team of walkers put together by Tory Gillespie of Thorold to raise money for the sheller.

Gillespie said he put together his group, called Judy's Gentlemen, for Walk a Mile in Her Shoes because his mother-in-law had been a victim of domestic abuse, and supporting the shelter was a way to show solidarity with her.

Judy's Gentlemen, along with a host of other teams and individual men who donned high heels to march around the mall, raised more than $86,000 for the shelter.

Community development manager for Gillian's Place, Nicole Regehr said the funds will allow the shelter to keep operating. The facility is only 80% funded by government sources, leaving Gillian's Place to fundraise the remaining 20%. However, Gillian's Place is the midst of a five year funding freeze, making the Walk a Mile event, it's largest fundraising effort, all the more important.

"We have a funding freeze, but costs keep going up for everything. So this is absolutely vital. When someone comes to the shelter and hits a light switch, the lights have to come on. We have to feed 30 plus women and children every day," she said. "So we have to include this fundraised money in our budget. Without it, we couldn't operate."

The total for Saturday's event was down from last year's $125,000. But Regehr said 2013 may have been an anomaly.

"We were aiming for $120,000 but it may be that we blew the roof off it last year, and it is difficult to reproduce that every year," she said. "The $86,000 is in line with what we raised in 2012."

The 40 member team from TD Canada Trust raised the most money of any participating team, bringing in more than $30,000.

The St. Catharines Standard team was a distant second, with more than $5,000, most of which was raised by publisher Mark Cressman, who raised the most of any individual who took part.

Event emcee and radio personality Tim Denis, said the unfortunate reality was that Walk a Mile was such a necessary charity, but that the ongoing support for the event was heartening.

"Your support means a woman in crisis will have a place to turn to if she needs it," he said. "And your being here is saying to them that they are not alone."

My favorite cubist

Remember Skeeter Willis? I keep inviting people to join me at my blog who are too talented not to have their own space. Anyways, go visit my friend at Chez Skeeter. Go on now. Go. Do it.

DO IT!
.

Day 1: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.

Biodad: I know what haunts you. But there are other ways to defeat your fears. The drinking days are over. Help is available. The choice is yours; to live or die.

Neo: I believe in you. Always.

Jerry: I'm sorry I hurt you - what - 25 years ago? Whether I was right about you or wrong, it never was my place to judge you.

Doctor Lock: Thank you for coaxing the music out of me. You have changed my life profoundly

Mateo Jordache: Get that beautiful #@*%">#@*%>!* album on the damn market before I lose my marbles. I want a copy NOW!

Skeeter: I have a good hunk of respect for you. Any time you want to talk about the dark stuff; I'm there.

Jeff L: I miss your amazing energy. We must get together. Been way too long.

Rockin' Roddie: Thank you for taking a chance on me. It was an amazing time for those six years. I learned a lot about the world and about myself.

Dave: Many compliments are useless to me but you gave me a very fine one indeed. It's good to know I can be an inspiration to friends because my friends certainly inspire me.

Tati: Miss you. I will find a day to come soon. But we should do more than tell stories. You must put me to work!

RSA Animate - The Empathic Civilisation

Though, to my lasting regret, the excellent Skeeter Willis declines to leave much writing here, he has at least sent us this little jewel. There is much I would applaud here and much I would be skeptical about. I am inclined perhaps to break this down into areas and comment on them in separate posts. We'll see about that. In the mean time I would suggest that this is some good testimony as far as getting us thinking about some very critical subjects.

More later.

Duality

My volunteer schedule happened to coincide with the first day of school on September 7th.

It's odd to see how seemingly fast my young friends have changed. Faded freckles. New shoes. Longer hair. And they seemed quieter; more mature than they'd seemed as of our last meeting in June. But then, the first day of school is perhaps simply a more sombre affair than the last day of school.

I must wonder how parents perceive such observations. What is it like to have your child constantly disappear on you and re-emerge as someone else? It sounds vaguely frightening.

I stopped in Thorold on the route home to spend an evening with Skeeter Willis, kicking off the Strat-o-Matic season with a pair of one-goal losses for the Ybor City Tabaqueros. On the up-side this technically makes us the statistically most likely team to acquire Sydney Crosby in the 2011 entry draft. Always a silver lining in our world of dual perspective.

Back at the place I've never thought of as home, it's late and the man some people refer to as my dad is sitting motionless in the dark out back. He's drunk naturally and everything stinks of whatever horrifically putrid chemical concoction forms cigarettes. My presence triggers the motion-sensor spotlights.

Rather than flee to my room this night, I linger. It weighs on me that our time is almost up. Soon our colossal failure of each other shall be official. Three loads of the truck some afternoon soon and I quietly slip out of his life or lack thereof.

"Nice night," I say.

"It's cool," he says. "The way you like it." And there it is. The one and only thing he knows about me. I owe him some explanation.

I wish neither to talk nor to leave him. I step out of the light and and look up for stars. It's as good a night as you can get for it around here. No clouds. No moon. Immediately I catch a shooting star.

"Meteorite," I say.

Venus sparkles fiercely, accompanied by just a few dozen pale companions to penetrate Hammertown's hefty film of light pollution.

Eventually I give in. "I'll be right back."

I grab my cigars and a couple Guinnesses and do what one does if you can't beat 'em.

At the patio table I clip, light and pour and study the stout's hypnotic cascade. I already know that I will not be emboldened. I will not coach or lecture. I will not reveal myself and have rare truth be thought a lie. Because it's pointless. Because he's confused by things outside his little shell and he's deeply unpleasant when confused.

"I want to do things but then I don't do them," he suddenly says.

This is new.

"Like what?"

"Like stop this." He holds up his cigarette. Quit smoking, he means. "Like pulling those weeds."

The poets would say it's the devil holding you back. Or God. Same thing, I refrain from saying. Nor do I say, Your brain is managed by a floating hierarchy. The agent in charge one moment is demoted the next, in response to a laughably redundant roster of survival instincts.

"I'm losing things," I say instead. "Bit by bit. Like the capacity to perceive which are weeds and which are plants. I see green stuff fenced in the garden and green stuff coming up between the flagstones. But which are the weeds and why? Weeds are the things that evade our control?"

"Weeds are the things we don't want," he says.

Speak for yourself.

We smoke and drink and talk intermittently. I dumb myself down to avoid confusion and unpleasantness and come off sounding absurd. Just when I'm sure he can't make one more visit to the fridge without falling down he says, "Time for bed, Charlie." The little ball of fur and teeth looks up at him from his basket lounger. I stand to leave.

"Thank you," he says.

I remain motionless a long time. Finally I say, "The reason I always stay in my room; why I don't join you out here, is that I can't stand the smell of cigarette smoke. I just thought you should know that."

He brushes his fingers through the air at me. "Go to bed," he says, which means, I know that already.

"Well something's lost and something's gained in living every day."
- Judy Collins (song: Both Sides Now)

Diehard 2 - featuring Skeeter Willis‏

Welcome back. It’s been quite a while since we’ve met. I’m a few years older, but not necessarily wiser. Mr. FWG has sporadically reminded me that I owe him a follow-up blog to my premier several years ago – and he’s right, I do.

So, here I am, in my sophomore performance.

I’ve recently returned from a short getaway to New York City, aka Manhattan for you early Native Americans, and aka New Amsterdam for you early 1600’s settlers.

My family and I did the traditional touristy things and spent many hours on the top of the bus or in the back of a carriage-drawn bicycle. Money well spent, I suppose. I enjoyed the never-ending name dropping: Mr. Diehard lives here and another Mr. Famous was shot there, etc. Assuming, of course that this big-city trivia is remotely accurate. Who am I to doubt the historical accuracy from a bicycle-riding student from Bulgaria?

I found it odd that hundreds of people sit in lawn chairs in the heart of Times Square – all day long, 7 days a week. It’s quite a sight. The first time I saw it, I assumed that a street performance was about to begin – but no. It’s common place. Locals, tourists – they just sit there and watch the world go by, surrounded by all the never-ending lights of Times Square.
Apparently, all those companies advertising in Times Square are spending $600,000 PER MONTH to advertise there. Isn’t that sick? That’s over $7 million a year for EACH of those companies – and there’s dozens of them. Isn’t our society’s priorities warped? Just think how much further ahead our medical science could be if they re-directed even half of that wasteful spending to research.

I’ll step down from my soap box.

There seems to be quite a concerted effort by the tour guides to distinguish between ‘Old Money’ and ‘New Money’. Mr. Old Money owns these seven blocks and Mrs. New Money lives up there in the tower with her husband, Mr. Sony. All I know is that, old or new, they’ve all spent WAY TOO much money on real estate in New York. Most of them can’t descend their elevator and leave their building without seeing so much as a tree. Mostly concrete and asphalt for as far as the eye can see. Did you know that I have grass outside MY Thorold front door and several trees to look at - complete with their own singing birds. These millionaires would be jealous if they only knew how little I spent compared to them.

The new President is all the rage down there. Only time will tell if this change is the change that they were looking for. All I know is that several street vendors tried to sell me condoms with his likeness on them. Nothing says love like sharing the inner beauty of your significant other with the President’s likeness. I’ve heard of walking in another man’s shoes, but this is going too far.
New York was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. It’s good to be back to my small town. I was born in a small town, and I can breathe in a small town, probably die in this same small town.

[Insert John Cougar copyright infringement lawsuit here]

Thanks Rich for the invite. See you again in 3 years.

...Skeeter

Length matters

I prefer them long. Don’t you? Weekends, that is?

Saturday night – had a great chat with Doctor Lock concerning life after full-time corporate enslavement. Not that he’s retired, mind you. He just never went out for that whole full-time career thing to begin with. He had some great advice. On that note I must also credit Porn King and Matman for their kind ears and recent council on these matters and helping to keep me grounded.

The evening began at Doc Lock’s mom’s place where birthday celebrations took place amidst rather unique surroundings. The exterior of her home bears an ornate, almost spooky aura while inside it’s just plain eccentric. We have poems written on doors and running up the stairwell. We have a commercial size map of the entire New York City subway system in the hallway. The walls all bear the artwork of their owner, her late husband, and of the three sons who grew up within them. We have loaded bookshelves in every room (nothing wrong with that, I hope). A collection of handmade crowns – each fit for a king – though built of non-precious metals and stones. We have Christmas lights, a chandelier made entirely of artificial flowers (non-luminous) and a television set that has never been watched since the screen was painted over with a crude yet perfectly recognizable image of the Cleaver family – Wally, Beaver, June and Ward.

A stained-glass artwork bears one diamond-shaped tile that is perfectly the size of a soda cracker. This is obvious as this one sector contains no glass but rather – a soda cracker. This particular biscuit has occupied the spot about ten years and still looks good as new!

Oh – almost forgot. The sculpture titled Baby Jesus Bomb Factory. What does it look like? Exactly like a Baby Jesus Bomb Factory, of course. Next visit I must snap a picture of this and send it to Flumadiddle.

The birthdays in question belonged to Doc Lock and his brother, the sculptor. I made two ridiculous errors. One. I didn’t wrap Doc Lock’s gift in a railway or subway transit map, as everyone else did. Apparently I’m the last of his associates to underestimate the depth of his love of the tracks. Two – I got confused and thought it was Mamma Lock’s birthday instead of the sculptor’s. I gave her a cute little book clip. Her birth date is in November so this gift comes six months early. Or late. Take your pick. I told the sculptor he could choose any item belonging to Mom and take it home. Then we’d all be square.

Now – if you think these folks sound a bit like freaks, let me say, yes, they sort of make their own rules in life. But trust me - they’re qualified to do so.

Consider this batch of freaks I encountered later that night – like – 2:00 AM or so. I was attacked by a terminal case of the yumblies on the way home and got caught in the tractor-beam of the Death Star – I mean – the Golden Arches. MacDonald’s. Not the Death Star. Two spots away from the pick-up window all hell broke loose. Hooligans tried to extort extra product out of the management by refusing to move their car. I was imprisoned within a long line of cars for twenty-five minutes until Ronald’s boys finally called the police. Luckily I always keep a book in the truck so I was kept entertained by Zaphod Beeblebrox and Marvin the robot on their journey to the Restaurant at the End of the Universe.
Sunday. I hosted Skeeter Willis and his Port Credit Cardinals for the Strat-o-matic 2008 Benko Cup finals. I lost in the seventh game. This is the third time in four years I’ve gone to the finals the favored team and lost. I’ve decided to stop trying to win. I’m changing my name from the Ybor City Tabaqueros to the Ybor City Bridesmaids and going for the world record for championship losses. Wish me luck.

Monday. My folks invited Peter Pan up to the farm for dinner and I felt obliged to participate. Zee the Lanky Doberman also came along and had a marvelous time running all over hell’s forty-nine acres and playing tag with Pan’s gas-powered remote control truck.

During dinner, Zee, not allowed in the house, would alternate which dining room window she would stand upright and glare at us through. Finally she gave that up. Then the doorbell rang. And rang and rang and rang. We found Zee standing upright at the front door with one paw firmly on the doorbell. I kid you not.

Other than that barrel of laughs we spent all day either watching TV or talking about the dog. I survived the boredom and lived to tell about it.

So there.

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

Skeeter Willis Report: Hello!

Hello. I’m new here – and I have a problem. That’s the first step – admitting that you’ve got a problem.

My problem is that the FWG has invited me to be a guest writer - and I’m not a writer. I don’t pretend to be – nor do I have the slightest idea what to write about.

Correction - 2 problems. No skills AND no ideas.

I suppose I should be honored. Mr. Visionary thinks he sees something in me that I haven’t yet learned about myself. Who am I to question his observation? After all, he’s the writer, the professional – not me. He’s well aware of the skill set and behaviors required. I certainly don’t. So, I’m intrigued. “Me? Write? On your blog? Wow.”

I first learned about this blog after the posting of the “Real swell email survey” and I’ve been a devoted follower ever since. Partly because:

1. I find this site extremely entertaining and well written;
2. I’m nosy as hell, and
3. I like to increase the site hit-counter a few times a day to drive FWG crazy.

But back to the email survey - I was quoted a few times by the FWG – so I think to myself: “Hey! I’ve already published Internet material! This is easy! No pressure. I can do this.” So I accept his challenge – foolishly, I suppose. If you recall, I have no skills AND no ideas.

I request suggestions from my new mentor– a topic - some sort of framework to work within. Anything. And what response do I get? NOTHING. Mr. Inspiration doesn’t want to limit nor influence my creativity. He wants me to fly solo. Mr. Generous ' only suggestion, and this is hardly parameter setting, is to “just be myself”…

Crap.

I realize that I can’t be myself. I need an alias. Everyone has an alias on this site: Captain Vino, Professor Plonk, Rocking Rod, Porn King, even the origami queen…. EVERYONE. Now I need one. Where the heck do I get one of these? Do I pick a name that identifies a funny behavior of mine? A physical characteristic? A smokescreen to completely throw everyone off my scent?!? Who knows?

For those of you keeping score – There's now 3 problems: No skills, no ideas AND no alias.

Wait a minute…I DO have something…I have an online gaming alias known as “Skeeter” - Shortened from Skeeter Willis. It was a name that a friend of mine came up with back in our university days – not necessarily for me. It was a trend of nicknames that he would call anybody that he spoke to – nicknames that included: Earl, Elmo, Skeeter Willis, Buttwad, Viking Stud, and some others that I’ve forgotten. He was either too lazy to remember everyone’s actual names or he thought he was just being funny. Either way, the “Skeeter” name has always stuck in my brain – so I started using it for Internet gaming to ensure my anonymity. That works. I suppose it will work here as well.

I shall, from this point forward, be known as Skeeter!!!

One problem down, two to go.... but wait.... wait....

LOOK UP! I've written something that resembles a blog article - arguably about nothing, but an article none-the-less. Sweet.

Well, two out of three ain't bad. Let me try this again...


Hello. My name is Skeeter, and I’m a guest writer.

No problem.