OH my GOrD he's Writing a blog pOsT

Yes he is, ladies and gentlemen. He's hunting and pecking away at his little keyboard and pecking the wrong key twice in every five pecks and drumming on the backspace key more than anything else.

And now, ladies and gentlemen he's marched it all the way back to "hitting" and changed it to "drumming on" because, Holy Noodles Batman, he's a writer don't you know!

And he's living the dream. He stayed up ALL NIGHT because he knew there was no use trying to sleep. He did some championship level laundry in the early dawn gloom. OH YES boys and girls, the early dawn gloom! What a wordsmith. Unrivalled I tell you.

He crashed mightily come morning, awoke after an hour and a half, PROMPTLY FORGOT he slept an hour and a half and would later tell a filthy scheming evil lie about not even sleeping a second.

Oh and what's this? He's speaking in the third-person perspective now! Wait. Check the records. Check the.... the.... thing. Whaddaya call it? What the court reporter... transcript?? Let's say transcript. Okay, never mind. Turns out he's been speaking in the third person since the very beginning.

Now where was I? I mean, He.

So after a good bout of confusion where I almost cancelled the Big Outing I actually got together with The Ponderer. She picked me up; me freshly showered, Santa-nian beard trimmed way back, newish clothes, teeth brushed etcetera, in shoes even... And we hit the Dollarama for bread, some chili, some noodles... what Caramilk bars? Who said anything about Caramilk bars? Some crackers what will make my lonely cheese happy...

We went to Tim's for coffee, tea, hot chocolate and bagel-muffin food and talked about dead and dying people but in a good way and was reminded how much I love life and love my friends to pieces. The Ponderer of course and even the ones once close who I don't see anymore. Even the ones who I loved so dearly with all my heart, such that every day was either blissful or aching. I wonder sometimes if they read this blog even though they've had enough of me in person. Well, if you're reading... I still love you with all my heart, as I have every single day, even the days when you were sadly mistaken, and thought that I didn't.

Peace y'all.

I need a plastic bag or else comped for a pair of socks, please.

The socks were new after all..

Sick Boy and I were having a little write-in at one of sixty-something Scooterville Tim Horton’s locations; one recently renovated and, at this time, barely attended. I vanished from the table - briefly I expected - in order to drop off a couple wee kids at the pool.

I did so, and then discovered that the T.P. dispenser was ill equipped to dispense anything. It was as vacant as a North American politician’s heart or brain.

So I sat there, waiting for someone else to come in so that I could ask them to fetch help from the staff.

And I sat there.

I flushed… and sat there some more.

And some more.

Apparently males do not use bathrooms in this neck of the woods.

And I sat there… wondering how long before Sick Boy became concerned enough to maybe check on me or something.

And finally the lights turned off, presumably due to motion sensor inactivity.

And I sat there in the pitch dark…

And sat there.

Finally, in the dark, I kicked off a shoe…

Later I would have to find it in the dark.

Later still, I approached the young cashier at the counter and said: “You’re out of toilet paper AND soap in the men’s room.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“And therefore I need a plastic bag or else comped for a pair of socks, please.”

Deer in headlights.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I therefore need a plastic bag in which to transport home a wet pair of socks OR ELSE I need compensation for throwing them away.”

“Um. Oh.”

“They were brand new socks,” I said, nodding, wide-eyed, as if to say, yes, you understand correctly.

“Let me talk to my manager.”

“By all means. And can I get a large hot chocolate please?”

Maybe I’ll get the drink free, I thought. I didn’t.

It’s actually a nice bag but I don’t think I’ll re-use it.

The Hunt: conclusion

The Hunt: Part Two


“I shall now recite the accusations!” Cried Counsellor Timothy Hormone. “Accusation number one, as charged by Mrs. Amy Cruller!”

Mrs. Cruller gasped. “I didn’t know they were going to use my name!” she hissed in her husband’s ear. “I thought this all was anonymous!”

“Upon entering the cottage of Wendy McFwig she discovered the floor was spoiled by the presence of several pieces of straw!”

The crowd of villagers gasped.

“How does that make me a witch?” said Wendy.

“Silence, Accused!” roared Judge Horntoad. “You shall remain quiet until I invite you defend yourself against these allegations!”

“Yes sir,” said Wendy.

“Carry on, counsellor.”

He did so: “Stated Mrs. Cruller: Wendy explained the presence of debris by saying, I used my flying broom!” The villagers gasped again. “I presume I need not explain that only a witch might own a flying broom!” Wendy laughed, then opened her mouth to speak but immediately caught the judge’s glare and closed her mouth again. “Accusation number two!” cried Counsellor Hormone. “As charged by young Mr. Timbit McGuff!” All eyes turned to the youngster. “When delivering the morning newspaper to the cottage of Wendy McFwig, he did hear her inside the cottage, speaking in tongues!”

The crowd gasped anew. Wendy just smiled and shook her head. She looked into the crowd and met the eyes of a tall black man who met her gaze and shook his head ruefully.

“And sometimes her voice went really deep!” said young McGuff. “Like a – a demon or something!” The villagers grumbled at this.

“Accusation number three!” Counsellor Hormone continued. “As charged by Mrs. Mathilda Latte: When Mathilda offered Ms. McFwig a tub of homemade soup to take home with her, she brandished her magic wand and made it vanish into thin air!”

The crowd gasped and grumbled and hissed and shook their heads angrily. “Burn her!” someone cried out.

“Quiet, you!” ordered judge Horntoad. “We must practice diligence and burn her after establishing her guilt! Be patient! Now… Constable George McMacken. You were the arresting officer?”

“Yes, your honor,” said George, stepping forward.

“Did the accused come willingly or did she resist?”

“Oh, she tried to talk me out of it. And she tried to trick my deputies and I into eating her witch’s brew!” The crowd gasped.

“Oh please!” cried Wendy, stifling a laugh.

“This is your last warning McFwig!” cried the judge. “One more unscheduled outburst and we shall proceed immediately to the burning! Now… Constable, have you any further observations to add?”
“I’m afraid so, your honor. For one, her cottage door was unlocked when I arrived. I was able to open it unhindered, and after dark, no less!”

“Well, that is compelling!” said the judge. “What mortal woman would not fear the dark!”

“Only a mistress of darkness!” said McMacken. “Um… in my experience.”

“Indeed,” said Horntoad. “Will that be all then?”

“No, there is one other thing.”

“Go on then.”

“She freely confessed to me that she had put eye of newt in the brew.”

“Eye of newt!” cried several villagers. “Burn her! Burn her!” cried others.

“Quiet now!” said Horntoad. He shook his head.  “Ms. McFwig, as you can see, the evidence against you is overwhelming. Will you confess your witchy ways at once and volunteer to cleanse your soul at the stake of holy fire? It is getting late after all and tomorrow is festival day; a big day for us. We all would like to be up early! Please be considerate!”

“Is this my opportunity to defend myself?”

“If you insist.”

“Well I also would like to be up early tomorrow morning and not lying about in a pile of ashes, so yes, I do insist!”

Horntoad sighed. “Very well then.  To the charge of owning a flying broom, how do you respond?”

“I own no such thing. Amy misunderstood me.”

“Mrs. Cruller,” said the judge. “Did you witness the flying broom personally?”

“I beg your pardon!” shouted Mrs. Cruller.

“Did you see the flying broom for yourself!” Mr. Cruller shouted in her ear.

“Well, no, but she said…”

“I said fraying broom!” said Wendy. “Fraying. Not flying. My old straw broom has been fraying, hence the loose bits of straw on the floor. She misunderstood me.”

“Mrs, Cruller?” said the judge. “Is that possible? That you misunderstood Ms. McFwig?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Amy Cruller.

“I said, is it possible that you misunder-“

“I’m sorry!” shouted Mrs. Cruller. “Can you speak up? My hearing aid is on the fritz!”

Judge Horntoad rolled his eyes. “Mr. Cruller, how long has your wife’s hearing aid been on the fritz?”

“Oh – ah – a couple weeks now.”

“Since prior to her visit with Mrs. McFwig?”

“Yes sir.”

“Right. It seems we must dismiss accusation number one. Now… as for accusation number two, Ms. McFwig, that you were overheard speaking in tongues: what say you for yourself?”

“I would appreciate some clarification from young Mr. McGuff, please.”

“What is there to clarify?” said Horntoad.

“With regards to my voice going deep, I would like to know how deep. For instance, was it as deep as the voice of Mr. Ouagadoudou there, for instance?” Eyes turned to the tall black man whose head stood above the crowd. He was known to have the deepest voice in the village.

“What do you say to that, Timbit McGuff!” said the judge.

“I’m not sure!”

“Mr Ouagadoudou, will you please say something for us?”

The big man stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Um… testing!” he said in a very deep voice. “One two three testing! Boom chugga lugga! Elvis has left the building!”

“Thank you,” said the judge. “Well, Timbit?”

“Yeah, I suppose it was about as deep as that. But just some of the time. Sometimes it sounded just like her own voice.”

“You suppose?”

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Mr Quagadoudou, will you say a few more words so we may be clear?”

“Well,” said Mr. O, “I think I should say what I’ve been up to these last few weeks. That is – I’ve been spending my mornings at Ms. McFwig’s cottage. She’s been teaching me how to cook and I – Well I’ve been teaching her how to speak Swahili. My native language.”

“Oh really?” said Horntoad.

“Yes sir.”

“Will you say a few words in this uh - Sawheelies language for us please?”

“Very well,” said Mr. O. And here he rattled off a string of sounds which sounded very strange indeed and not one villager could understand a word of it. In fact, what he’d said was, Lord but you’re a bunch of precious little pale-faced idiots! Anyone tries to light Wendy here on fire, I’ll knock you the hell into next week! But no one had a clue as to these sentiments.

“Ms. McFwig,” said the judge. “Is this your allegation? That you have been speaking Waheelies with Mr. O?”

“That is the truth of it, your honor.”

“So you say. Now what about this matter of the witch’s brew which constable McMacken caught you stirring?”

“Why it’s the festival soup of course! I’ve been making it every year! Everyone in the village has drank of it!”

“And every year you’ve poisoned us with newt eyes, have you!”

“Of course not. It was George who made the eye of newt joke and so I went along with it. At least I thought he was joking. I had no idea this all was coming down. I’ve never been anything but a friend to every one of you! Witchcraft indeed! This is preposterous! Go search my cottage if you wish. You won’t find any flying brooms or newt eyes or magic wands!”

“Then what say you to the door being unlocked!”

“I say there is no need to lock my door! Who among you should I fear! Every year on this night my neighbors drop by to taste a sample of the soup and tell me that it needs a little sugar or a little salt or just a pinch more sage! It’s tradition! I leave the door open for them!”

“Then what do you say about the vanishing trick!”

“What vanishing trick?”

“You cast a spell on Mathilda Latte’s soup and made it vanish!”

“I did no such thing! I took it home and ate it. It was delicious!”

“Mrs. Latte,” said the judge. “Did you see Ms. McFwig dispatch your chowder into thin air? Did you? With your very own eyes? Speak the truth!”

“I did not, your honour! But she told me herself the next day! She said she made it disappear!”

“I said it disappeared as a clever way of saying that I ate it all. Are we done with this farce yet? I’d like to get back and finish with the festival soup in time to get some sleep!”

“If we burn her, what will we do for soup tomorrow at festival?” said a man in the crowd.

“That is of no consideration to this proceeding,” said the judge.

“It’s already taken care of!” announced Mr. Latte. “Mathilda’s been making soup for two days now! We’ve got it covered!”

“Hush!” hissed Mathilda, punching her husband on the arm.

“Ouch!” he moaned.

“What!” said Wendy.

“But Mathilda,” said judge Horntoad.  “How did you anticipate such a need? This trial was not planned!”

“It’s not fair!” cried Mathilda. “Every year it’s Oh Wendy! Your festival soup is so yummy! Oh you make the best soup! It gives me tingles! Well I’ll have you know that I make excellent soup! Why don’t I ever get a turn!”

“Is this how all of this started!” said Wendy. “Did Mathilda cast the first accusation! Mathilda, I would have happily turned over the festival soup reins to you! All you had to do was ask! You didn’t need to have me burned alive!”

The crowd erupted in chatter. Angry eyes were cast at Mathilda Latte. Other angry eyes were cast at Wendy McFwig.

“Quiet everyone!” shouted the judge.

“Quiet everyone!” aped Constable McMacken.

The crowd did settle and eyes turned to Judge Horntoad. “Ladies and gentlemen: the time has come to vote on the fate of Wendy McFwig. You’ve heard the accusations. You’ve heard the explanations. I must counsel you: This charge of witchcraft no longer appears very convincing. I am tempted to abort the trial and send everyone home.”

Villagers looked down at their gas cans and matches and lighters and torches and suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable.

“But...” said old Mr. Muffin. People looked his way. “What would we do next? We’ve never had a trial that didn’t end with a burning.”

“We would go home and rest and gather again for festival tomorrow!” said Horntoad.

“But won’t Wendy be there?”

“Of course. She’s the official festival souper!”

“Won’t that be kind of awkward? We just tried to have her killed! She’s not likely to forget about this!”

“He’s right!” cried Mrs. Eggbagel. “I don’t look forward to running into Wendy about town anymore! There will always be this elephant in the room!”

“We should just burn her,” someone muttered quietly.

“Yes, burn her!” spoke another. “It’s better for everyone that way!”

“She’s probably a witch anyway,” said Mr. Finegrind.

“We need not worry about ever running into Wendy again!” said Mr Ouagadoudou in his deep resonant voice which cut through the crowd like thunder. All eyes turned his way. “Wendy and I were speaking just this morning and she told me her plans.” Wendy looked at him curiously. She recalled no revelation of any plans. He met her eyes briefly. “She was going to make an announcement at festival tomorrow but under the circumstances I think you all should hear it now.” He looked around and saw that he had garnered everyone’s attention. “She was going to announce tomorrow that she is planning to leave the village and travel far away, never planning to return. She’s planning to leave the day after tomorrow, and with a heavy heart, for she loves you all muchly and mourns that she will never see you all again. And she was planning to make a recommendation that Mathilda Latte be considered for new official festival souper.”

Mathilda’s hand went to her mouth as she flushed.

“She said that Mathilda makes the best soup in the village – ah – leaving her own soup out of the equation that is.”

“Is this all true?” said Judge Horntoad to Wendy McFwig.

“Um. Yes, it is so. In fact Mr Ouagadoudou has volunteered to do all my packing for me.”

< ---------- {0} ---------- >

As Wendy McFwig rode along the bumpy trail, the reins of a two-horse team in her hands, a covered wagon full of belongings at her back, she thought in amazement of all that had transpired. What struck her the most was her own reaction. She could not summon an ounce of anger toward the people who had conspired to have her burned alive. She could only feel a detached fascination at this witnessing of the darkness of the human mind; that such a secret pleasure; such a yearning to see evil in others; for the excitement of scandal, that it eclipsed all the love she had shown them.  As much as her friends and neighbors professed goodness, and publicly regarded and awarded nobility, deep inside it was evil that excited them; evil they wished to imagine; evil they wished to seek and expose. And all it took was one coward to plant a seed.

Fascinating.

The preceding story was essentially true.

However:  the names, genders, locale and pretty much every detail, have been tweaked or altered just enough to protect the identities of one innocent anonymous security guard, and a gang of bona fide cretins whose cretinship they likely came by honestly and innocently enough, given the soul-crushing malaise inflicted upon them by the corporation they are slave to; a corporation whose product has evolved into the soylent green of coffee and donuts; a corporation who exists in a dimension where only money is visible to the naked eye and for whom humanity is an obstacle. I shall leave them respectfully unnamed!

The Hunt

The following is based on a true story!

Wendy hummed a happy tune as she deftly sliced up parsnips. Chop chop chop! She raised and tipped the cutting board and scraped the chucks into the great simmering pot of stew which monopolized the entire stove. Then she pulled another basket up onto the wooden table and took up a stiff brush and began scouring the next lot free of soil. A firm knock sounded at the cottage door.

“Hello!” she cried.

“Constable McMacken here!”

“Come on in, George!”

The door creaked open, revealing a man in tall hat standing in the shadow of night. He removed the hat and stepped forward; presenting his lined, clean-shaven face to the bask of candle light. “Good evening, Wendy,” he said in a deep gravelly voice.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “Here! Try the soup.” She handed him a wooden spoon. “Be honest now! It’s not too late to tinker with it!”

George McMacken frowned uncomfortably. “Oh, uh. I’m really not hungry currently.”

Wendy laughed. “You needn’t finish an entire bowl, constable! Just have a sip. Tell me if it needs more salt or what not!”

“Or more eye of newt!”

Wendy laughed. “Okay then! Or more eye of newt!”

“So you confess!” McMacken blurted. His face hard.

Wendy blanked. Her hand which held the spoon dropped to her side. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You confess to – to – eye of neutering!”

“Are you quite mad, George? I was joking. As you also were, I sincerely hope.”

“Wendy, I’m sorry but – well, there is no easy way to say this. Accusations have been brought forth against you. It is my duty to take you into custody.”

“Wha-! Surely this is some fine jest! You can’t be serious!”

“Oh but I am. Put down the spoon please. And any other implements you might have on your person.”

“This is madness! Implements? Whatever-“

“Like a – your wand or what not.”

“Wand? Oh this has gone too far. Really George.”

“Do you declare yourself free of devices? And charms?”

“I declare I’ll not go along with this farce a moment longer!”

“You will submit to the will of the law! You have been accused!”

“Of what? By whom?”

“Of witchcraft! By villagers. Several in fact.”

“That’s preposterous. I’m fast friends with everyone in the village.”

“Friends or not, no sorcery shall stand in this fair village of Horton! You’ll come with me now. You’ll cooperate or I shall have to use force!  Come at once. You’ll receive a fair trial.” He pushed the cottage door wide open and outside she spied another pair of men standing by a carriage.

“Merrick?” she said. “John?”

“Good evening Ma’am!” said John.

“Come in from of the cold!” she said. “Have a foresampling of tomorrow’s festival soup!”

“Why thank you!” said Merrick, stepping forward.

“There will be no foresampling!” cried the constable, “nor any other trickery!”

Merrick halted. Wendy rolled her eyes.

< ---------- {0} ---------- >

Wendy found herself standing in the centre of the wide circle of villagers. Behind her stood a pyre of straw and from the centre rose a thick wooden pole. Many of the villagers held such cheerful recreational items as ropes, gas cans, torches, matches and lighters. One young fellow had a long tweezery metal sparker device which made a gentle grinding noise and emitted sparks. Perhaps the author will look up the proper name for this device and edit this stupid paragraph. Or maybe not. The fellow wore a dark grin and a sparkle in his eye as he squeezed the device repeatedly, causing tiny sparks to dance.

To be concluded tomorrow…

The Coffee Monster

I remember when homosexuality was considered a mental illness by the psychiatric community. Then it was dropped from the roster and a short time later they recognized homophobia as the problem. They literally turned on themselves. Not surprising. The psychiatric community has never entirely had their shit together. And how could they?

The one thing the human brain finds most intolerable to contemplate is the human brain. What’s going on there? Well for one thing we have this whole consciousness thing messing everything up. Consciousness most clearly does not understand itself. We suffer constant illusions that consciousness is responsible for everything we do and it doesn’t take much effort (much courage though, perhaps) to detect the falseness of this feeling. Human feelings are almost always misleading, if not always. When we try to be mindful we discover that the very vast majority of what we do is without any conscious participation at all. Furthermore, close self-observation reveals constant evidence that the thoughts that we’re aware of do not actually seem to have much control at all over the things we do or the choices we make.

The psych community has very little explanations for all this, and how can they? The neuroscience community is still working largely with theories regarding the brain, rather than fact.

What the psych community does seem to be good at though, is making observations and grouping together generalizations about things and labeling everything with their labels so that they can talk among themselves and write reports and give professional advice that is all full of these labels and thus they sound like they know something. Then when it comes to using the knowledge they are presumed to have due to all these label references, to actually solve problems, the solutions become very vague: psychiatric counselling. Which tends to go on forever without problems actually being solved and while much money changes hands all the while.

Looking at the history of changes to psychiatric dogma is disappointing. Rather than leading trends in any way, they simply follow them. The psych community suffers from the cultural superstitions of the day just like all the masses of ordinary people.

Of course, when you’re smack in the middle of any given culture, one doesn’t realize how much superstition you’re prey to, because everyone around you is also crippled by an evolutionary-infantile consciousness and supports the same illusions.

Currently we are still riddled with sexual superstition. It’s absolutely ubiquitous. I can think of only one person I know – so far at least – who I can talk about sex with, in a completely logical way, while the other 9000 or so people I’ve met – are entirely hopeless as far as I can tell. I probably could have said two people if I’d met Kinsey.

The psych community is right in there with the masses. And because of all the superstition they’re in bed with, they can’t do the research they would need in order to become enlightened. Because the research itself would be deemed sinful – or whatever any given person would say to describe the product of their hang-ups and confusion.

One day, I’m sure, all sexual predilections will be discovered to be vastly more common than previously assumed, within the realm of normal, and free of the mental illness label.

Enter the pedophile. Or more specifically – the sex offender.

What do we do with them?

For now, it doesn’t really matter whether we classify sexual attraction to children as a mental illness or not. Because sexual interaction across generations is problematic either way. As long as kids are at risk of psychological suffering – whether from perceived victimization or perceived perversity on their own part, and whether the causality stems from the incident or from the social stigma and a child’s own lack of mental constitution, sexual interaction between generations is obviously – within this culture – a very bad idea.

So the courts have to deal with child sex offenders and this is really tough, because with nowhere else to turn, they put their trust in the psych community and then receive the flawed information and flawed recommendations from a not-very-scientific science that doesn’t like to admit how much they don’t know.

Because we choose to call pedophilia a disease, or at least think of it in those kind of terms, we’re stuck with the perception that prison cannot cure them, but we can’t jail them forever, so what the heck do we do?

Between probation, parole, Long-Term Observation orders and other court-ordered restrictions including the lifetime 161 order which bans prior sex offenders from playgrounds and similar places permanently, we keep a real close eye on them and hope for the best.

So let’s take a person like Howie.

Howie is a slow child. He has obvious learning disabilities. And if I may penetrate the illusion of childhood innocence for a moment, Howie is constantly victimized. He is mocked and bullied every day by his peers because he is slow. But Howie understands the wicked underbelly of childhood. There are no police for children. There is no one to protect a child from another ill-minded child, or gang of them. Life rarely ever works that way.

Howie simultaneously worships and despises his tormentors. He knows so very well their superiority and their cruelty. He wants to be them, and he wants to kill them. He reluctantly admires their physicality. His childish fantasies about their bodies mingle with his fantasies of strangling them.

For reasons that we don’t understand and that the psych community doesn’t understand despite a myriad of labels that they will assign to all of these ideas, Howie grows up without losing these fantasies. The scars of his powerlessness never heal.

Growing up, he loves horses. Hardly surprising given their gentleness, which Howie has sorely lacked, and also given the horse’s masculine body structure. Their extraordinary popularity with pubescent girls invites fairly obvious theories of psycho-sexual origin.

Howie also loves demolition derbies. Something about the power granted by the automobile and the aggression and destruction appeals to the boy who had been so defenseless and afraid to lash out against his aggressors except in fantasy.

He grows up with his slower-than-average mind and the scars remain and the fantasies remain, as do his penchants for horses and cars. And then one day he finds himself in the company of a boy child who reminds him of all the boy children who haunted him through his formative years. But Howie is big now; a young adult. He has nothing to fear from this boy. He treats the boy with gentleness, experimenting with that which he was deprived. And then he experiments with the violence. He wraps a towel around the boy’s neck and squeezes until the terrified boy loses consciousness. Then he experiments further. He removes the boy’s clothes to see his body, and takes pictures so that he may relive this experience later in his imagination.

The experience is satisfying to Howie. He knows it’s wrong. He wants not to do it again but he can’t always control his impulses and it happens again. A habit has been formed.

Howie is captured by police. He’s tried, convicted, serves time and is eventually released under close observation. He appears to cooperate with all his conditions, restrictions and treatments. But he never loses the desires. With no skills for making friends and no capacity for generating the normal rewards that people take satisfaction in, he spends the great bulk of his adult life offending, doing time, breaching conditions, flirting with re-offences and doing more time.

He is in his early 60’s when he finally makes it through a sentence and a long probation without breaching conditions in any way. He has earned just a little bit of freedom. He is restricted by the lifetime 161 order and by a two-year 810 supervisory order which further limits his mobility but at least he can leave his bedroom at the group home once in a while without bringing down the wrath of his former probation officer or of his acting-therapist; a man named Digger.

The psychologist, Rosie, severely limited by that lack of understanding availed in her field, doesn’t know what to do about Howie and so doesn’t really do anything with him. She simply declares that Howie has an incurable sexual pathology and there is no question as to whether he might re-offend again, but that it is only a matter of when.

First surprising flaw in the system: As a court-appointed psychologist (the 810 orders Howie to be amenable to treatment by this specific professional), she suffers no limitations on how the treatment is carried out or even by whom. So she declines to treat him at all for his crippling anxiety or communication problems, and instead farms him out to her husband Digger; a man without medical qualifications of any imagining who is instructed to interrogate Howie at weekly sessions in order to scare him into confessing whatever he has been up to.

So the taxpayer foots the bill for treatment which constitutes an absent psychologist’s half-wit husband grilling the so-called patient and ritually calling him a liar and acerbating Howie’s anxiety and communication problems and scaring him into spending more time in his bedroom where there’s little else to do but fantasize about the sexual victimization of little boys and staring out his window at the neighborhood children and those walking to or from school several times a day.

Second surprising flaw in the system: These supervisory orders are shockingly ambiguous. Lawyers normally write in an almost baffling legalese in order to effectively facilitate law by being profoundly specific, a communication style which the masses are not accustomed to. But these orders are clearly designed with the opposite intent. The language is dull and attempts at interpretation can go wildly different ways. Multiple offenders with the same orders can engage in the same activity and some will be interpreted by police, judges and/or therapists (genuine or otherwise) as perfectly lawful while others will be jailed for interpreted breaches.

The boon of this system is that judges, lawyers, police and the psyche community can, in the absence of reliable intelligence concerning pedophilia as a guide, just trust their feelings and collude under the umbrella of ambiguity to interpret documents inconsistently in order to put those behind bars whom they feel they want to.

Likely this system has saved some children from victimization, as well as jailed some former offenders needlessly and for no legitimate reason.

A volunteer group works with Howie. Statistically, one in seven child sex offenders re-offends. Among those who receive aid from the volunteer group, only one in fifty re-offend.

Enter Randle.

Randle is a new volunteer who is introduced to Howie and like other volunteers before him, is disarmed by Howie’s capacity for openness. This elderly man is branded a liar on a weekly basis, yet when away from his current oppressor, has a child-like way of opening up in an unguarded fashion; a very likable quality observed less and less in this 21^st century megalo-materialist society.

Randle is a little different. He knows how much feelings can’t be trusted, like in the rare brief moments when he thinks of Howie as a monster. He knows how illusory consciousness is; how infantile and unreliable this exciting brand-new development in evolution is. He knows a few things about the psych community and about the criminal justice community and due to his job in corrections he knows a lot of sex offenders.

He knows that people are worth more than their deeds. He knows that the past is the past and people are capable of great change. He has experienced great change himself (in completely different forms). He knows that Howie needs to experience other rewards than the perceived rewards that bringing fantasy to fruition might bring. He knows that Howie needs to replace bad habits with useful, rewarding habits and that this cannot be done, hiding in his little institutional bedroom.

Howie is acutely aware of his own age. He is utterly convinced that any mistake at all, a re-offence or just a breach, will result in him going back to prison for the rest of his life. Howie, for the first time in his long grueling life, has a friend that he can trust. That is one reward that is making a difference. And the things that Howie and Randle do together manifest more rewards. After horses and race cars, Howie loves dogs and he loves coffee. And he likes solving word-search puzzles. The other kinds of puzzles are too difficult.

With Randle he gets out of his bedroom often. They go to Tim Hortons and drink a lot of coffee. Sometimes Randle has work to get done on his laptop so Howie solves his puzzles. Randle always keeps a few books of them on hand. Sometimes a kid will come in and sit near them and so Randle and Howie leave and sit in the car instead. They visit with the dogs who belong to Randle’s friend. Howie loves them and they love him. They stick to him like glue and Howie enjoys fussing with them all day while Randle does his work nearby.

They take drives in the country. They get ice cream at the dairy during school hours. They go down by the lift bridge, but away from parks, and watch the big laker liners come in. One time a family with kids is in the area and so they leave, and decide just to come during school hours.

They take the dogs to an off-leash area during school hours; not that kids go to off-leash areas anyway. Kids are not permitted unaccompanied by adults, and families with dogs have little need for off-leash zones with their inherent risks. Parents don’t want their kids exposed to those same risks that bring about the restrictions.

They go swimming at the adult swim during school hours, doubly isolated from any chance of glimpsing a child whatsoever.

They go to antique stores and occasionally to restaurants and always Randle is on the lookout for kids. It’s strange though, this constant vigilance. What does it achieve? It has never been Howie’s habit to abduct a child; only to molest one who was trusted to his care. The idea that he will sneak off with a child under Howie’s nose is purely preposterous.

Ah, but triggers. The psych community has found a word that makes for a great label. Pedophiles are like loaded guns. They must be kept away from triggers. They must not find themselves looking at kids.

Of course there’s a huge inconsistency here, isn’t there?

Howie’s been placed in a group home third-floor bedroom with a window overlooking a street where plenty of kids live and play.

His interrogator, Digger, the half-wit husband, rents a modest office space across the street from a school and schedules Howie to arrive just when hoards of kids are walking to and from the school on their lunch break.

Driving down the street to go for coffee there are kids on the sidewalks. In fact there are probably 100,000 kids living in the same city where Howie lives and there is simply no way to avoid them. And of course, kids pop in and out of coffee shops with consistent regularity.

So how this trigger-avoidance deal is intended to work is quite the mystery. Former rapists of adult women are not expected to go through life without glimpsing women. Maybe no one really gets it. Maybe it’s just a matter of the creep factor. Maybe we just trust the little feeling that says – we don’t want pedophiles in the same places as kids would have fun in. Because that’s just creepy. We want to see our kids having fun in the illusory absence of pedophiles. And we don’t want sex offenders to glean any of the magic that the rest of us can, watching kids just be kids. We’ll take that away from them just for the hell of it – because they’re monsters and we should never stop finding ways to make them suffer.

Of course Randle thinks about how Howie suffered all through his childhood and what tragedies stemmed from all that. Randle does not suspect that suffering makes the world a safer place.  

But Digger needs to earn a living off the tax-payers, or at least help his wife to do so. So he must posture himself as being useful. He must be perceived to be accomplishing something. And sounding the alarm for transgressions or imaginary transgressions is the only thing he knows how to do or else has the mandate to do, so he must keep interpreting transgressions, one way or the other. So he sounds the alarm about the off-leash area where kids never go and he sounds the alarm about the swimming pool where kids never go during adult swim time while they are in school. And he sounds the alarm because Randle and Howie played mini-golf on a quiet evening and came within sight of a single child who was in no danger of any kind and who was not the relevant age/gender combination to trigger Howie in the slightest.

So Digger is motivated by money (who can blame him?) and Detective Dan is motivated by having too much work to do (who can blame him?) and doesn’t want to have to go check out more locations than he has to, and so together, under their cozy umbrella of ambiguity, they scare Howie away from the places he wants to go; mostly places where children are never present. And sometimes they outright cheat and say, “You can’t go there!” and leave Howie to think they’re respecting the law instead of their personal interests.

And so things that Howie is allowed to do, in order to generate healthy rewards, according to the charter of rights and freedoms, with a reasonable interpretation of his court orders, are in effect forbidden him on a whim. Of course, he could go if he chose to and as his rights allow, and he could not be put in jail, but then he would piss off the wrong people. Digger and Detective Dan have the option to apply to the court for a renewal of the 810 order upon its expiry in another year; something Howie prays won’t happen if he is deemed “good.”

Randle would far prefer that the 810 order become permanent, but interpreted with intelligence, wisdom and logic.

Randle is very concerned that Howie is going to spend what’s left of his life waiting for freedom that will never come, and remain in a fragile place with regards to community safety, instead of making real progress.

Randle is concerned that the system seems flawed, corrupted and based on junk psychology and should be challenged. Randle also knows that staying quiet about it could eventually make his volunteer work very easy and simple, when Tim Hortons becomes the only place at all that Howie is allowed to go, not because Tim Hortons is a child-free place. No. Because Tim Hortons is a soulless pit of an institution where no magic will ever happen; certainly no kid magic.

Every cup tells a story.

Obi Wan, You're my only hope!

I'm straddling residences for a couple weeks while Pan vacations leaving two psychotic Dobermanns in my care. Juggling core possessions gets tricky. Got separated from my coffee pot (oh and my toothpaste too. Don't get too close). Thus I stopped at the Evil Tim Horton's Empire on the way to my Sunday night security gig at the Big Empty Warehouse for to buy me some drive thru coffees.

I dodge an array of extraneous curbs and roll up to the Squawk Box.

Storm Trouperette: Welcome to Tim Hortons... [evil empire]... How may I help you?

Moi: Hi, I'd like a large coffee with double cream please, and another large coffee with double cream and two sweeteners please.

Storm Trouperette: Sorry, double cream in the second one as well?

Moi: Yes please and two sweetener.

Storm Trouperette: Anything else?

Moi: No thanks.

Storm Trouperette: That'll be three fifty-nine. Please have your money ready at the window!

Puzzled, I mosey forward to the window of doom, lowering my own drivers door window as I go. The window of doom slides open as I dig out my wallet.

Storm Trouperette: Three fifty-nine.

Moi, cheerfully and polite: You know, it's kind of hard to fiddle with money while driving a car at the same time.

I pull out a fiver and surrender it.

Storm Trouperette: Well, most people have their money ready before they get to the window!

Unsaid but implied was this: LOOK HERE, YOU LITTLE INSIGNIFICANT BITCH PEON CANADIAN! I WORK FOR TIM FUCKING HORTONS! I AM THE AUTHORITY HERE! YOU WILL HAVE YOUR FUCKING MONEY READY WHEN I TELL YOU TO OR I WILL PERSONALLY CALL LORD VADER AT OUR NEW YORK OFFICE AND HE WILL ASPHYXIATE YOUR SORRY ASS WITHOUT EVEN LEAVING HIS DESK! AND THEN HE'LL BLOW THE PLANET OF YOUR CHOICE TO SMITHER-FUCKING-REENS!

[Editor's Note: She didn't say any of that.]

I know! But it was implied! It was in her eyes! Her dull
soulless Imperial eyes!

[Editor's Note: Whatever.]

So what am I supposed to do? I don't order the same thing at Tim Hortons regularly. I don't have their prices memorized and I'm not a human calculator. I usually pay with coins which must be wrestled from my front pocket.

I don't want to get Tatoonie all blowed up. Am I supposed to order and then remain at the squawk box getting my coins together while the driver behind me pulls his hair out or do I fish my money out while coasting forward and probably driving into the car in front of me or veering into a wall?

Or should I make the window lady wait for five to ten seconds while I put my coins together with the auto safely in park and risk having her dine on my cranium as punishment for making her wait?

I'm at a loss. What is the appropriate pop culture/matrix thing to do? Please help.

.

"Hurry up! Where's your money!"

These are the people in my neighborhood

Saturday morning. Early. Tim Hortons is the first stop on the garage sale tour. We then hit the sales, me with coffee in one hand, bagel in the other.

Every other person who sees me says, "Ooh. Coffee! Got one for me?" And all those who don't, say instead, "Ooh! Bagel! Where's mine?"

Oh how I must laugh and laugh and laugh at all this crazy Canadian Tim Horton humour. It's how Canadians spend most of their days. Either buying Tim Horton products or making these jokes.

Strangely I fall out of the mood by about the fourth garage sale. Still I have found no books.

"Ooh! Coffee!" says vendor man number four. "Where's mine?"

"Sorry," I say, dryly. "This was their last one."

"Well give me the coffee and I'll give you great deals!"

"You have no deals for me," I say. "You don't have what I want."

"What are you looking for?"

"Books."

He laughs out loud. "Do I look like the kind of guy who reads books?"

"No, you don't," I say flatly, looking at him as I would a bug on my dinner.

"I had a stack of Maxims," he says as I turn and walk away. He cries, "That's reading material!"


Later I'm babysitting little Stella the dog while Cap'n Vino and Professor Plonk go wine hunting with Tasty Scortez (formerly known as Doc Swallows). Stella needs to pee. I need a coffee but these bastards have no coffee cream in the house. We head out for a walk.

"Hi there!" says Three-Doors-Down-Lady. Stella heaves on the leash. She will apparently die if she does not immediately leap into the arms of the neighbor.

"Do you know this dog?" I ask.

"Do I know this dog!" she cries. "Hahahahahaha!"

"Hi Stella!" she says as they finally embrace. They then have a rather one-sided conversation about the dog biscuits on hand and Stella's health and the explanation as to why Stella will not be receiving a biscuit on this day.

"Oh!" says Three-Doors-Down-Lady, finally looking up at me. "You must be [Professor Plonk's] brother!"

"No. Just a friend."

"I thought you were Plonk at first. You look so similar. You have the same hair."

As my hair is fine and blond and Plonk's is thick and black - I see exactly what she means. And of course, I have a beard and Plonk does not so of course - the resemblance must be startling to those without a very clever eye.

"Do you know if there's a variety store within walking distance?"

"Closest one is Jug Milk. It's that way," she says and points. "What do you need?"

"Cream for coffee."

"Oh, I've got cream. I'll give you some."

"No, that's okay. I want to buy my own. It tastes better when you pay for it."

"Hang on," she says and disappears inside the house. Stella is freaking out trying to figure out where the damn biscuits are.

She returns with a big plastic dairy jug and hands it to me. It's almost entirely empty. And it appears not to be cream but milk.

"Oh wait," she says and takes it back. "It's not clean." She disappears again and returns with the jug which is now somewhat watery and less milky. "There you go," she says, handing me the jug back. "They'll give you a quarter for it."

'Ooh,' I'm thinking. 'I hope it's a shiny one.' I guess she just hates anyone leaving her place empty handed - be they human or canine. Or else she thinks I'm a street person. Come to think of it, I hadn't time to shower yet today.

"So the Jug Milk - it's within walking distance, is it?"

"No," she says, "Not really."

I thank her and tell her it was nice meeting her and say goodbye. I drop the jug in the bed of the truck, enter the house and lock the door. I decide I can do without the coffee. I've been woken up sufficiently.

Next time I'll tell you about the dentist and the bus driver and the chick with the purple face.

Ask FWG, not Jeeves - edition six

Once again - My answers to recent Google queries that led new readers here:

1. ex-employee canadian tire
There are many to choose from. Bill Smith Jr, for instance, dismissed when caught embezzling thousands in Canadian Tire Money; Serge Laurent who resigned and went on to breed and train boneless chickens for NASA; and Jo-Jo P. Nelson who died on the job upon operating a Mastercraft Wiener Roaster and Marble Polisher improperly. These are just three out of thousands.

2. Who sang--Tempted by the fruit..
No. Sorry. They didn’t. They sang Can’t Explain, Pinball Wizard and My Generation but they never sang Tempted By The Fruit. No way, Jose.

3. tim hortons "every cup tells a story"
That's correct. They do. But first you have to drink all the coffee out of it (plug your nose to make this more bearable). Then hold the empty cup over your ear and listen for the story. Oh – almost forgot. You have to be psychotic, schizophrenic and delusional for this to work. And being a Tim Hortons customer – you quite likely are.

4. where to get a chili dog in Mississauga
Easy. My place. But only on Superbowl Sunday.

5. blinded by the light writer
Yeah, that Light Writer’s a bitch. He’ll zap your eyes out with his laser beans.

6. bags octopus
Nobody bags octopi like Cooter And Sons Octopus Baggers. For all your seafood bagging needs. Our Mini Squid Pockets make great stocking stuffers. Mention this ad for 10% discount.

7. wild buffalo sauce
Mmmm… A seasonal favorite:
21 lbs ground horse
6 cups pine oil
36 cups sugar
3 cups salt
15 oz hickory extract
12 lbs onions, minced
1 eye of newt or 2 eyes baby newt
Boil, stir. Serve with 1 herd chilled buffalo heads. Feeds 200.

8. extreme rubber fantasy hospital
Ah, yes. One of my favorite daytime soaps. In this week’s episodes, Ryan and Candace filed for divorce, Mrs. Carbuncle was diagnosed with uvula cancer, Kevin James learned that his favorite prostitute is actually his presumed-dead cousin and Mary-Anne’s left ear turned into a ball peen hammer. There you go. You’re caught up.

9. peter pan fucks wendy
No. No he doesn’t. Not ever. Does your mom know what you do with your computer? You really need more supervision, you little freak.

10. ottawa office slut fantasy
Wow. The perverts are finally coming out of the woodwork. Well, this is a bit too involved to share here but I can tell you it ends with Prime Minister Harper receiving a uranium enema from a 98-year-old prostitute while being asphyxiated.

11. tinkerbell and peter pan fucking
You can’t be serious. How is that even possible? No. No wait. Never mind. I don’t want to know. Just get the hell out of here.

12. Hooked on Peter Pan
Yeah. You’re not the only one, apparently.

13. john chalupka
Hi John. Long time, no see!

14. flickr crossdressers that suck on each other
Ah, thank you. A nice wholesome perversion. What a refreshing change.

15. Scott Regher
Hi Scott! Long time, no see!

16. apple annie's plains review burlington
Again, space here is limited. But here’s the speed review:
Pancakes: big ‘n fluffy.
Eggs: unfertilized.
Bacon: slippery.
Coffee: Eventually, if you’re lucky. Grounds at no extra charge.
Pubic hair: One per menu.

17. car battery to testicles car
Whatever this means – go right ahead. I’m sure it can’t go wrong.

18. famous Steve-o quotes
No problem. Coming right up…

The information provided above is correct to the best of the author’s knowledge at the time of this release. The author bears no responsibility, financial or otherwise, for any manifestations of the use or misuse of the above counsel, including but not limited to: financial loss; weight loss, weight gain, squeaky shoe, varicose veins, light bruising, delayed puberty, shopaholism, agoraphobia, nymphomania, PMS, societal delusion, flatulence, sudden blindness, China syndrome or laryngitis.

Image ungraciously ripped from www.laboutiquedelpowerpoint.com

Letter to Tim Hortons

I'm mailing the following letter today:

Steve Endrich
247 Queen St S #7
Streetsville, ON L5M 1L7


Tim Hortons Head Office
Corporate Affairs Dept
874 Sinclair Road
Oakville, ON L6K 2Y1


Dear Sir or Madam:

As an infrequent TV viewer I'm somewhat familiar with your line of TV commercials bearing the slogan 'Every cup tells a story'. I especially like the one where the immigrant reveals to his son the 40-year-old secret that he has covertly followed his hockey pursuits by displaying a portion of his son's team photo while they’re sitting in the stands at grandson Tommy's hockey game.

"You play wight ring," he says.

Excellent! Very touching.

I would like to share with you another story of one of your cups that you may not be aware of. It too is very touching, you'll surely agree.

'Brian' and 'Debbie' became acquainted on a telephone chat line and then met in person - for the first time - at one of your restaurants. Brian bought Debbie a double-double. She blew him in your parking lot. Years later they are still together, married and living in the Thunder Bay area.

I assure you this is a true story. I think this would make an excellent commercial that would really resonate with TV viewers.

If you would like to pursue this project I am available to share more details or for any other consultation. I do not require financial compensation.


Sincerely,
Steve Endrich


I'll let you know if I get a reply.

FWG

FWG's not-so-excellent all-night adventure

1:00 AM

Spent the evening with an illicit sweetheart. Lingered longer than I should have and just made it home to discover the back door locked. Steve-o knows I’m temporarily without keys but my Jets won today while his Bills did not. I presume this is what motivates him to lock me out and to ignore my repeated calls to both the home phone and his cell. I continue to leave messages on both voice mails until I run out of quarters.

Bastard.


2:00 AM

I’m sitting at a table in Tim Hortons - one of those one-size-fits-all tables where the chairs have no legs. Just a big arm that stretches out from under the seat, runs toward the wall, arcs ninety degrees and attaches to the single table leg that is cemented to the floor. I’m not sure why I feel inclined to describe these stupid chairs to you. Sincere apologies if you didn’t get anything out of that.

Hang on. Bear with me a moment longer:

Every table-and-chairs combination is a single integrated unit - and every section of wall in this place - both interior and exterior - fits a tidy even number of these dining units perfectly. No fractions. No wasted space. This entire dining area - a shared Tim Hortons/Wendy’s affair is geometrically perfect. Ruthlessly efficient.

No customer’s chair will ever interact with another’s. No Canadian of European stock will ever have to offer an apologetic word to any Cantonese Canadian here. No Canadian Hindu will ever have to offer a forgiving smile to any native Canadian. Not here.

No manager or franchisee will ever have to consider rearranging tables to accommodate a rise or fall in business volume - or to clear space for any jukebox or gumball machine or any community bulletin board. He has no such worries. The corporate bulldozer takes care of all that. When market conditions finally migrate beyond the approved parameters they’ll just raze the joint and start all over. Here or elsewhere.

There are shiny metal napkin dispensers - one at every dining unit and each is placed and oriented the same way with the napkins exiting north and south. Military precision.

I’m the only patron in the place right now but I half expect a horde of Borg to arrive any moment now. One hundred and twenty eight of them or however many will exactly fill the place. We’ll all sit here with our tubes and whirly-gigs protruding from our heads and consume our toasted chicken combos or our soylent green combos while resting on our table-and-chair combos. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

So why does it persist - this feeling that Tim Hortons is the perfect microcosm of all that is hideously and grotesquely wrong with our society?

Okay, so what am I doing here?

It’s the first place I came upon that had a bathroom and that was open for business. Actually - no. It’s the third place I came upon but the first two places were also Tim Hortonzes. It took that long before choosing my bladder over my principals. For the record - my TH boycott lasted 78 days. I shall promptly begin another and pray this one is permanent!

I confess I broke down and bought a coffee and donut. Well, it’s more of a donette. A bit smallish. Rather tasty, I must concede, but smallish.


3:00 AM

I have a headache.

I’m on the road again looking for a place that sells Advil. I’m wandering rather aimlessly along these empty roads - lining up a left-hand turn for instance, before spotting a median in the way and making the world’s widest right-hand turn instead. This is how you drive when you’re not really sure where you’re going and you’re in no hurry to get there. When you’re just wasting time until the sun comes up and your roommate wakes up and unlocks the door and steps out heading for work until you jump out from the bushes and kill him.

There’s a police cruiser behind me. He’s definitely following me, believing me drunk and I don’t blame him. But suddenly he pulls away, makes a U-ey and peals away. Suddenly had bigger fish to fry, I guess. Probably an eleven-oh-four or a ten-fifty.

I have no keys, by the way, because a co-worker and I went out for lunch on Friday. She drove. As I was packing my brief case around six, about to leave the office, the phone rang and it was my lunch mate.

“I just got home and discovered your keys are sitting here in my car! You’re not gonna make me come all the way back from Burlington are you!”

I searched my trouser pocket. The spare truck key was there as it should be. I have a terrible habit of locking keys in the car - hence the spare-in-pocket habit.

“Sokay,” I said. “I’ll be alright until Monday.”

“Oh, great! But here - I’ll give you my cell number just in case there’s any problem - but no after-hours calls!”

The quest for Advil takes me to the 7-11 store. This is my second 7-11 stop tonight. The first followed the clandestine rendezvous. Having eaten only twice all weekend (a late fish-and-chip lunch on Saturday and on Sunday - a pair of scrumptious salami sandwiches on sesame-seed bagels) I was fair emaciated upon entry and crushed to learn that they were fresh out of the delightful slimy burritos that I’m so fond of.

So now - despite the four taquitos I had instead and the two donuts since - I’m all ready to jump all over the first burrito I find here. That’s right. Just like the TH boycott going south tonight, so goes the de-tubberization project. Well, actually that one hasn’t yet began. The first step was to find the bathroom scale among the yet-unpacked but it was never found. Missing in action. I gotta buy a new one.

But first - this outlet is also a gas station and 84-something is a nice price and I’m running low so of course I pull up and fill up. The I go to climb back in the truck but - oh. The door is locked. I reach for the pocketed spare. No dice. The spare has been promoted from second string to starter (no pun intended) and is comfortably sitting in the ignition.

Very

long

sigh.

My second major key bamboozlement in three days. Lovely.

The 7-11 clerk is very helpful and lends me their phone and the yellow pages. The book is chock-full of locksmiths promising lightening fast 24-hour emergency lock-out service. I try Apex Locksmiths featuring Fernando Lopez, master locksmith of thirty years. I get his voice mail.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “Yes. I just wanted to thank you for the fast 24-hour emergency service. That was great.” Click.

E.E.S. promises 24-7 radio dispatch service. Voice mail again.

“Um, hi. I see your ad promises 24-hour emergency service. I guess this hour isn’t one of the 24 you had in mind. Thanks anyway.”

ASAP (All Service Accredited Professionals Inc) doesn’t even have voice mail. I just get a generic message telling me to try this customer later. I don’t even get the chance to leave a message warning them that the yellow pages people spelled ASAPI wrong.

S&S Lock Service. Voice mail.

“Yeah, hi there. I notice your ad says fast 24-hour emergency service. Hmm. I guess you don’t have any fast 24-hour emergency telephone operators. Oh well.”

Adept Locksmiths. Voice mail. I’m fresh out of cynicism. I just hang up and take a few more bites of delicious burrito.

“Dude, try the towing companies instead,” says the clerk.

“Okay dude. I’ll give it a try.” Lo and behold, they too promise 24-hour rescue service. I give Seven District Towing a ringy dingy. A very snappy female voice comes on the line.

‘This customer is not available!! Try your call again later!!’

Okay - I’ll cut to the chase. Lyons Auto Body came through for me. Bless their dear little black souls.


5:00 AM

The tow truck arrives. A young fellow in yellow fleece jacket and black toque emerges. I’m envious of him. I’m in shorts and thin summer shirt. I’m shivering.

“What happened to summer?” I moan.

“I dunno, man. Look at me! I’m in my toque!” He brandishes a black wedge kind of thing and a very long red pole with various hooks and bendy parts.

“Yeah. I just assumed you were a rapper,” I say. “Cause a lot of rappers work towing jobs between gigs I hear.”

“Is that right? I hadn’t heard that.” He speaks pleasantly enough. He seems to know I’m only joking. Though - he probably doesn’t get the joke and probably shouldn't. Do rappers wear toques or is that just my own hare-brained perception?

He’s got the door wedged open a crack despite it being locked - just enough to squeeze the hooky-hooky-dad through.

“What happens if I pull on the door handle inside?” he asks.

‘A little monkey jumps out and bites your pee-pee,’ I consider replying but decline.

“Will it make the lock pop?”

I have to think about that. I haven’t had the banana boat all that long. The answer doesn’t come immediately to mind.

“I dunno,” I say. “It’s not my car.”

“It’s not? Who’s is it?”

“Beats me. I just found it here.”

He stops his fiddling and looks at me. “You’re kidding, right.”

“Yeah. I’m kidding.”

He doesn’t laugh. Oh well. Can’t win ‘em all. He manages to pull the handle. The door springs open in response to the pressure from the wedge. I cough up $65.00 and I’m on my way again.


To be continued… if you can bear it…

Booby bites, donuts denied, runaway beards, pregnant men, nice cops and the curse of the "CRDS HEADER 100/PK HH"

What a dreadful title eh? So much has happened over the last 12 hours and I couldn't come up with a common theme. Maybe you can help! Submit your title idea. I shall award a prize for the winning entry!

I know. You're skeptical. You're thinking the prize will be a big wet kiss on the lips or a year's supply of haggis or something equally unpalatable. Well - as with all things in life - you takes your chances don't you?


Booby bites

So I awaken around 8 this morning - 6 hours after slurping the last dribble from a bottle of Australian Shiraz and stumbling off to bed while my pal Spooky crashed on the couch - out like a light. She wouldn't help me with the wine. Had to do it myself. She's not allowing herself alcohol while on medication. Her doctor prescribed antibiotics - a very serious dose - after she kept passing out and crumpling to the floor in the wake of the nastiest spider bite I ever seen. Got her right on the boob. I kid you not. She first told me about it Friday morning over MSN Messenger and insisted on sending a picture of it.

'Come on! What's your email address? Don't make me have to look it up!' she typed.

'fwg@dontwannaseeyourboobs.com' I replied.

She wasn't fooled for long. She looked up my proper address and sent me a gallery of boob-bite photos. Four of them. And - like - gag me with a spoon. The damn bite looked just like a third nipple only bigger and redder with a giant pustule instead of a - uh - whatever - you know - a nipple nubbin.

Okay - have I killed your appetite yet?

"Who wants to see pictures of a spider bite on my friend's boob!" I shouted to my office companions - which prompted an immediate chorus of "No thanks!" Not one taker. Go figure.

Okay - back to the present. I get up and check on Spooky. She appears to still be asleep. I do a bit of writing. A scene from the Elvenkind novel. At 9:30 She knocks on my bedroom door, returns some bedding. I go shower. We're out on the road at ten. Writing group starts at 11. It's a 45-minute trip to Orangeville - home of the Headwaters Writers' Guild. (Is that a pretentious name or what? I wanted to call it the Lost Apostrophe Writing Group on account of the massive confusion and disagreement over the proper placement of the apostrophe in 'Writers'. Before the 'S'... After the 'S'... None at all...)

So - 10 o'clock. Curse me and my disorganization - or procrastination - whatever. Discrastinization? Now we don't have time enough to stop somewhere for breakfast. Double dang-it. We've at least got time to stop for take-out coffees and bagels at the first coffee shop along the way. We pass by Starbucks and Second Cup without a glance but that's okay 'cause I don't think they even have bagels. Then we miss Tim Hortons which is fine with me 'cause I think they're crap anyway. We get on the highway 401 and I suddenly recall that we're totally out of gas. I'm talking the last fume.


Donuts denied

We exit the highway at Hurontario Street and hit the nearby Petro Canada. There happens to be a Tim Hortons next door so we have to hit that too. Spooky actually claims to enjoy their coffee. I can't deny her it forever. She waits in the car reading the Elvenkind piece I'd just written. I run into Horny Tim's without any inclination - without the foggiest notion - that this will be my very last time ever entering one of their establishments!

I wait in a long long line. Finally - my turn.

"I'll have a large double-double and a medium decaf, both with a shot of hazelnut. And a whole-wheat bagel, toasted with cream cheese and a 20-pack of Tim-bits - just the dutchie and apple fritter kind please." She punches all this into the Timmy-Ho's super computer and two other staff, eyes glued to their respective computer monitors, spring into action. One grabs a bagel and inserts it in the THBS (Tim Hortons Bagel Slicer). The other grabs a pair of coffee cups and heads for the THHD (Tim Hortons Hazelnut Dispensary). My gal, the origami queen, slips an apparently flat and featureless slab of boxboard into her hand and whoop-whoop-whoop, with a flurry of manual deftness and nary a glance at her hands she has turned the sheet into a fully functioning double-flapped timbit tote box (THFFDFTBTB).

I whip out my debit card - to the collective gasp of 43 staff and 181 customers.

"We don't take debit!" says the origami queen, obviously shocked. She's wondering how this foreigner could have actually made it an entire 11 kilometers from Pearson International Airport without discovering the two most important things to know about Canada. 1 - that you can't take two steps without bumping into a bloody Tim Hortons - and 2 - that they only take cash.

"You've got to be kidding!" I say, slipping Mr. Debit back in his pouch and reaching for Mr. Mastercard.

"We only take cash." She says.

"That's absolutely ridiculous!" I say, clearly pissed off. "I don't have any!"

"Cancel that order!" she hollers into her headset microphone.

"I hope when cash becomes obsolete this shit-hole company goes with it!" I bark. "I'm never coming back to one of your stores again!" I turn and march away and out the door, already feeling guilty for having given her a hard time when it's surely not her fault that she works for a shit-hole company. Times are tough for some people. I'm normally not so insensitive.


Runaway beards

Now we're really running late so we get to the library's conference room at 11:10 with empty tummies and no coffee. Our mates are already seated around the big table and there's a stranger among them. He's an older man with an enormous white beard and moustache that entirely blankets his face - south of the nose, that is.

'Who the hell's this new guy?' I'm thinking. We just added two new members in the last month to make us probably the largest bloody writing group in the history of the universe - which, by the way, is no feather in our caps. Efficiency is important. Getting 5 minutes floor time per writer during a two-hour meeting is simply no good. I'm a little irked. I would later find out that no one actually invited him to join. He seems to have showed up at the library asking about us and was sent right along by whatever library worker we're gonna have to be tracking down and tying down and neatly drawing and quartering when we get a chance.

Our mates are taking turns introducing themselves and stating what kind of writing they do. I take a seat close to him and immediately it's my turn.

"Hi," I say, reaching over and shaking his hand. "I'm [FWG] and I write hard core pornography." The room erupts with laughter but none from New Guy. His eyes remain expressionless. There's no sign of a mouth anywhere on him. "I'm just kidding," I say. "I write pretty much everything but."

Eventually New Guy is asked to introduce himself. The muffled sound that emanates from behind his beard - presumably from a mouth - seems to say that his name is 'Claire' and he was a political cartoonist and now he's retired and wants to write fiction. Thus he has sought us out. Lucky us.


Pregnant men

We get down to business. We're going to start with a 10-minute prompt exercise. We explain to New Guy how the prompt activity works.

This week's leader, Anita, passes out a sheet of paper to everyone that lists 5 suggested writing topics. Item number 5 is actually just a list of a dozen-or-so words. Sometimes just the combination of two or more words can spark a creative path for a writer's pen, you see.

One of the prompts is "Believing that yourself or someone else is pregnant". Another is "I couldn't believe my eyes, looking at the reflection in the mirror".

I decide to combine these two and I write a brief story. Here it is. It's entirely true by the way.

I couldn't believe my eyes, looking at the reflection in the storefront window. I paused on the sidewalk and stared at the enormous belly, shocked to realize that it was my own, amazed to discover how far I'd let myself slide.

It hadn't escaped the notice though, of crazy Jeanette at the office - who'd long ago stopped asking me to go swimming with her.

I'd been startled when a shadow fell over my desk and I'd looked up to see Jeanette standing before me with that usual half-demented look in her eyes. She leaned toward me, bending, bringing her face scant inches from my own. My hand tightened around the stapler I'd been holding. I'd use it to protect myself if need be. She spoke very slowly, the only way she knew how.

"What are you doing about your weight problem?" she asked.

"What weight problem?" I whispered back.

"You look like you're pregnant." She stated quietly.

"But I am pregnant," I said matter-of-factly.

"Oh!" she tittered, louder now. "You're so funny!"

"There's nothing funny about it," I replied, indignant. "It's the miracle of life."


We read our little stories and finally Nancy asks New Guy if he would like to share what he wrote.

To share is not mandatory, you see - though we almost universally do. Only one time have I declined. I'd gone to a very personal place with a prompt. Still I didn't hesitate to read at first. We have an ironclad bond of trust and confidentiality within the group. I started to recite it but lost my composure and chose not to go on. Simple biochemistry I guess you'd say. It's difficult to shed tears and read at the same time - especially when your handwriting is as messy as mine is.

This happens with some regularity. We've all shared our tears together. Our writing group is as much a support group as anything.

New Guy has very little writing on his page. That's no surprise. Neither did I, my first time out.

"May I just talk instead?" asks New Guy.

"Of course," we say.

"Well - I chose this one - Write about something you feel very strongly about. I feel very strongly about the environment these days. And it really bothers me when people put out a lot of garbage bags at once. I thought I'd write a piece about people who put out too many garbage bags. But I don't think I could finish that in ten minutes. I'd like to take this and do it at home."

"Uh - sure," we say. "If you'd like to."

"So I'd like to ascertain the rules around this. Do I have to use all the words on this word list - Pristine, Feline, Formula, Grecian, Naked...?"

"No - no," we say. "These prompts are just suggestions. There's no rules at all. You can write about anything you want. The point is just to write for ten minutes - just following the pen - wherever it takes you. Some of us prefer to be given a starting point. That's all, Claire. These aren't serious assignments. We just like to get everyone's pen moving - to make sure that none of us fall out of the habit. It's easy to not write for a few days and then start to forget that we're writers. So we make sure to exercise the pen at every meeting - every seven days. It's just a safety net. That's all. Okay?"

New Guy's eyes betray no emotion and no sound escapes the white forest that is his face.

Later though, he speaks up suddenly. "What's this journal you guys are talking about?" he asks. It's very common for writers to keep daily journals, you see. I don't have a diary per se, but this blog serves as my journal. I think Nancy has misinterpreted the question. She holds up her large blue hardcover notebook.

"This is my journal," she says. "I prefer hardcover. What about you, [FWG], you like hardcover too, don't you?"

I look down at my black hardcover notebook. "Yes," I say. "That way I can write on my lap if need be - in case I find myself in a waiting room - or a prison cell."

New Guy has more questions about this blue journal concept.

"She has 200 of them," states Gaetan, Nancy's husband. "She orders them by the case every time she's getting low." I happen to know this is true. Nancy's handwriting is extremely large.

"Would you like one?" asks Nancy. "I've got lots to spare."

No voice or eye-signal comes from the bearded stranger. I for one am at a loss. The significance of the journal is in the intellectual process, not the format of the paper. I'm zoning out of the conversation.

New Guy suddenly rises to his feet and announces that he must be going. It's 12:30. Our meetings run til 1PM. This is highly unusual but perhaps he has other commitments. He slips out the door.

One of our mates begins to read a piece she has brought to share. We're all silent, listening intensely. Suddenly the door opens and she is interrupted.

"Um - yeah," comes the muffled voice of Treebeard. "Bring me one of them blue journals next week." Nancy smiles politely and promises that she will.


Nice cops

Meeting over, The Dumas family, Anita and myself go for lunch at the Nifty Nook restaurant. I get the Orangeville Grand Slam. It is 3 sausages, 3 thick slices of back bacon, 3 eggs, 3 slices of French toast, home fries and regular toast. I also drink 3 cups of coffee.

Next I take my car to Brian's - my mechanic - because there's a serious exhaust problem. I'm waking the dead - everywhere I drive. Pops meets me at the garage to drive me to the farm where I take Mom's van. I'll borrow it for a couple days. Brian can't look at my pipes 'til Monday.

On the drive home I take Mississauga road. Passing through the municipality of Huttonville - a thoroughly unremarkable place marked only by a pair of signs - one that reads Huttonville and one that reads Maximum 50 KPH Begins. As I come to the crest of the big hill I'm confronted by a fleet of police officers standing on the shoulder motioning everyone to pull over - the cars in front and behind me as well. By the strictest interpretation of their hand signals they seem to be asking us to run them over. I'm wise enough to disobey. I pull ahead of them and then pull onto the shoulder. While waiting for one of the officers to approach I'm busily doing some math.

12 points less the 4 that dropped off is 8 - plus the 3 from a couple months ago is 11. Plus 3 more today makes 14. Whew! Still one away from the magic number - 15.

An officer approaches. She's a young woman. We exchange pleasant hellos.

"Were you pointing at me?" I inquire, vainly hoping that my inclusion here is in error.

"Yes I was, sir,"

"Oh. Do you mind if I ask how fast I was going?"

She nods politely. "75."

"Okay. I see," I say sadly. I realize that's about a $150 fine and indeed 3 points.

"Did you know this is a 50-zone?"

I give her my best 'bad puppy' expression. "No. I didn't. I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry. I guess you'll want my documents." I pop the glove box. "This is my mom's car, by the way."

"I'll need to see her ownership and insurance - and your license of course."

"Her insurance or mine?" I ask, while routing through the giant stack of roadmaps and napkins that fill the glove compartment.

"Either is fine," she says. I pull my birth certificate and insurance slip from my wallet and hand them toward her. She's hesitant to take them.

"Oh! That's not my license." I make the correction.

I have the distinct feeling that I will not find mom's ownership - that it's in her purse at home. That'll be another $150 - at least. We're at $300 and counting. I'm beginning to regret not running them over.

"My goodness. I don't know where she keeps the ownership. I wish I had a cell phone. I'd call her and ask." Ironically I had a cell phone right up until today. I'd just returned it to Mom 30 minutes ago - expecting my new home phone to be installed any day now (Gawd - there's another story that I won't go into just now...)

"If you find the ownership bring it to me. I'll be in the black car," she says. A glance in the mirror reveals a trio of police cars lined up in the parking lot of the long-abandoned retail building behind me. Two cruisers of the standard sort and one black unmarked car. A Chev Impala of course. Story of my life.

Indeed - I find no ownership. I feel a headache coming on. 'Huttonville,' I'm thinking. 'Land of two signs, one hill and a fleet of blueshirts - and nary a house in sight.' Perhaps I'll have to add this to my list of proposed municipal slogans. You see my buddy, Ben Knight once told me how he likes to make up slogans for those poor towns that have none on their roadside welcome signs. An activity to occupy one's mind during long drives through rural towns, you see. Since bringing this to my attention I've felt a lot of sympathy for those places that suffer slogan neglect. I've started to come up with my own suggestions. For instance: 'Welcome to Orangeville - The town where nothing rhymes' or this one: 'Welcome to Melville - The only village in Ontario taller than it is wide. Home of the world famous Melville speed bump. Be sure to visit the Melville Speed Bump Museum'.

Okay - I shall add this: 'Welcome to Huttonville - The hill is alive with the sound of radar guns'.

Do you have any slogan ideas for neglected towns near you? Why don't you post them here? Let's do something noble with this blog. Let's start a slogan project. They don't have to be as profound and insightful as the examples above. Don't be intimidated! They can be simple. I think Ben's tend to go something like this: 'Welcome to Oshawa: Ah-choo! Gazundheit!' See? It's easy. I hope you'll participate.

Okay - so my new friend returns.

"I want you to make sure you have the ownership certificate from now on - whenever you borrow someone else's car. Okay? We need to know that it isn't stolen. We were able to check on our computer today but we can't always." I nod my head. "I've knocked your ticket down to 60. That's only 10 over the limit. It's a $40 fine and no points."

"Thank you so much. You're exceptionally kind," I praise.

"We'd like you to slow down please - and pay attention to the posted limits."

"Oh - I will. I absolutely will."

"Have a good day."


The curse of the "CRDS HEADER 100/PK HH"

So I lower the cruise control to 19 over the limit and zip on home. Oh - but first I stop at a Home Hardware store to pick up some home hardware. I need two hooks from which to hang two plants from my bedroom ceiling. Well - one real plant - a Spider plant - and one artificial plant. I like to mix and match genuine and fake plants and keep everyone guessing.

There's a row of packages hanging from one of those little metal horizontal poles with a $2.99 price sign on the end of it. Each package holds various assortments of hook devices. I find one that contains two hooks and four screws. Two options per hook. There's the regular screw or the really long kind that has a 'pop-out' thingy on the end so that once it penetrates the open space above the ceiling it spreads out, resting on top of the ceiling. Is that called a toggle bolt? I dunno. Who cares?

Two cute youngsters are working the tills. One boy and one girl. The girl offers to help me. I lay the package on the counter and reach for my wallet. It's not in my pocket. Crap. With all that Huttonville hullabaloo I left it on the passenger seat.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I forgot my wallet in the car. I'll be right back." I take two steps toward the door and then discover there's a fiver in my pocket and a looney too. Anita had given me them at the Nifty Nook after I'd paid for our brunch on debit.

I back-step to the counter. "Here we go!" I say and slap the bill on the counter. The girl just looks at me as if waiting for something. So I pick it up and hold it right in front of her so that she doesn't have to reach for it and strain herself. "Here you go," I repeat. Her eyes shift from the bill to me, back to the bill and over to her computer monitor, which sits sideways on the counter - visible to both of us. It reads:

CRDS HEADER 100/PK HH ........... 9.99
PST.............................. .80
GST.............................. .70
Total............................ 11.49


"Oh," I exclaim.

"It's 11.49," she confirms.

"Oh. Okay. Um. I'll be right back." I fetch the wallet from the car and return. There are now 2 people ahead of me in the girl's line. I wait to the side of the line unsure whether I'll be invited in ahead of them or not. I'm standing there for awhile, debit card in hand when I realize that nothing is happening except that the girl is standing there looking at me.

"Oh - am I still up to bat?"

She nods. I step up and pay my 11.49. She hands me the receipt. I pick it up and there is that mysterious line again: 'CRDS HEADER 100/PK HH'. I can't help but think that this description is inappropriate. I wonder, shouldn't it read 'SCR HOOKS 2/PK HH' or something of that ilk?

"Am I paying for the right item?" I ask. Silently she takes my receipt from me and gazes at it for a while. I see the boy coming over. He takes the receipt from her and takes my little package of hooks and compares the two.

"No, you're not," he says. "This isn't right." He holds the package in front of the girl. "Did you scan this?" he asks. The girl does not reply verbally. She stands very still and keeps her mouth closed. Perhaps a bird has landed on my shoulder and she wishes not to scare it away? I carefully shift my eyeballs left then right. I see no bird. Perhaps she is showing us her best statue imitation. I'm not sure what this means - this statue imitation thing. Neither does the boy. "Did you scan this?" he says, now pointing at the bar code printed on the package. Now he points at the scanner on the counter and then waves his finger back and forth across the bar code. "DID YOU SCAN THIS...! DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M ASKING YOU!"

"Um. I d-" She starts, then pauses. She must be terribly confused about something though her expression and posture betray no signals that she's confused. Very mysterious - this girl. I wonder if there's a not opening your mouth event at the Olympics. If there is - we gotta send her 'cause she's a guaranteed champion at not opening her mouth. She'll kick some ass. She'll bring us home some gold.

The boy rolls his eyes and punches a few keys and scans the package. Two more transactions appear on the monitor - one is a refund. The other reads 'HOOKS+SCREWS. W/TOG....... 2.99'

"We owe you an 8.05 debit refund," he says. I hand him the card and we process it. The girl is still standing there in a daze. Maybe her dog died this morning. Maybe they should send her home. Or maybe they should put her head on that counter over there with all the other vacuums.

"Sorry for the trouble," he says - handing me a stack of little receipt papers.

"Oh - that's quite alright," I say, feeling sorry for him. "Have a good day."


Well kids, that's all for now. Don't forget your town slogan ideas!

FWG