"My parents never have company!" Carrie exclaims. She still can't get over the invitation - which I accepted of course.
The old folks and the tot arrive back at the homestead well ahead of Carrie and I. As we exit the car I'm reminded that I've never made it as far as their front door.
"Um - will the dogs be okay with me coming in to the house?" I ask.
"I dunno," says Carrie.
'You don't know!' I say to myself, exasperated. 'How does one not know such a thing about their own dog?' But then I realize. It's true. They honestly never have company. And being so far out in the boonies they don't get any door-to-door salesmen or charity boosters or purveyors of religious enlightenment. This is truly a momentous occasion. Monumental even! I'm struck by the honor.
We weave between the various standing-water traps, remaining out of leash-range of big dog #1 and we make it to the front door. The little dog - named Zorro I find out - is very friendly. Very very friendly. Not leg-humping friendly but almost. He’s a skinny little short-haired thing, significantly larger than a (oh shit - how do I spell this?) Chihouhou - but I’m told he’s a cross between that and a terrier. He looks to me like some kind of Toy Fox Terrier or Toy Manchester Terrier. He’s all ribs and tail and nervous energy.
The door opens on to the kitchen where the five of us gather - six if you include the pooch. Only then does Zorro notice that someone new is present and he wiggles and trembles and hind-legs it to reach up my leg to say hello.
“Hello pooch-dog!” I say and I grab his little noggin and ruffle him up a bit.
The kitchen is big with a high ceiling and a rooming-house feel. There’s a kitchen table of almost Waltons proportions standing in the beams of no less than six chandeliers. There are pot lights over the counters as well. This is a bright kitchen. You could film a sit-com TV-show in this kitchen - and someone probably should. Something in the spirit of The Ozbournes perhaps.
There are three full-sized fridges in here, all running. I shudder at the thought of their hydro bill. They have a massive collection of tins. You know - cookie tins and the like. They’re displayed on shelves and above cupboards everywhere you look.
We take seats around the great solid wooden table. Vanian joins us too with her little toy models of dragons and griffons and such and a few little tubs of paint with which to paint said models. I’m wondering if this toy is age-appropriate or not but dismiss the concern. What do I know about three-year-olds, after all?
The little pooch takes a seat very close to me in a small fuzzy chair that was probably Vanian’s until recently. She’s only barely outgrown it. I look down at Zorro. He’s a cute sight. I like dogs very much. He looks up and notices me and throws a tizzy. The chair falls onto it’s back as he jumps up and strikes my knee with his little paws. He seems to want up on my lap where I’m keen to have him but my somewhat cultured manners put the ix-nay on that idea. He settles for running about in circles while I right the little chair.
Nancy has previously answered my questions concerning the late Ed Wildman, the much-loved writing instructor whos kind words and deeds still inspire the veterans of our writing group. For the article to appear in the group’s web site I still need to interview Gaetan and Carrie so I start with Gaetan. Nancy meanwhile bustles around, never leaving earshot and she feeds Gaetan most of his answers. I then interview Carrie and she’s a little more assertive. She manages to get some of her own perspectives across.
I see that Vanian has tired of the dragon model and is now studiously painting the kitchen table green. I loudly ask her if she’s allowed to do that. Grandpa turns to her, now enlightened.
“Don’t do that!” he barks. She returns to painting the little model.
We all sit down to do some writing. Carrie throws out a prompt.
“That was the most difficult thing I’ve ever…”
We write. Vanian wants to take part so she’s given a small notebook and a pencil. While the adults ‘follow the pen’ the little girl draws swirls and whirls and scribbles.
Ten minutes. Time’s up. Vanian goes first and recites her ‘story’. I can’t understand a single word. I assume she does - that she’s not just making random sounds - but I never really know. Sometimes mom or grandma offers a translation but not this time. She comes to the end of her dissertation - or pauses at least. We immediately respond with exhuberant applause.
Flushed with success and the overwhelming approval, Vanian decides she hasn't had enough. She launches into a spontaneous epilogue made entirely of words the English language never dreamed of. I notice she now has smears of green paint on her otherwise pink jacket. She receives another hearty round of applause and this spawns a further curtain call at which time grandma sternly remarks that this will be the last chapter. Eventually the adults get their turn to read.
At the intermission I head for the powder room. I discover that the main floor bathroom is actually a full bathroom, remodeled to include a shower stall in an annex once appropriated from a former hallway.
The result is a room full of interesting nooks and crannies - each of which plays host to some of the most spectacular cobwebs I've ever seen. If it weren't for the seven - yes, seven - lighting fixtures in the little room, I would have sworn I was in the lair of Shelob - spider queen from the borderlands of Tolkien's Mordor.
Nevertheless I did my business quickly and left, thoughts of man-eating arachnids hastening my step.
Back in the comfort and safety of the kitchen, I say to my hosts, "You sure have a lot of lights in here."
"That's because Gaetan's afraid of the dark," states Nancy.
'But not of spiders,' I think to myself.
"I am not!" barks Gaetan.
"It's okay," I say. "All writers are afraid of the dark. We have too vivid an imagination." I then try to change the subject. "I like your house. It has a lot of character. It feels like the home of creative people."
"Well you know," says Nancy, reading my mind. "Sometimes you have a choice. You can either do housework or you can write."
"So write!" I say
"Exactly," she says.
"We always wash the kitchen floor, though," says Nancy later, as I stand to leave, having thanked them for their hospitality.
"Yes, I see that," I reply, eyeing the bright white tiles. My eyes follow them toward my feet where I discover, to my mild amusement that I am standing smack in the middle of a puddle of liquid that is a distinct tint of yellow. I'm not alarmed. My shoes are on.
"Oh my," Nancy exclaims. "That was Zorro."
I stand very still, unsure of the protocols of social etiquette prescribed for such an occasion.
"That was Zorro," she says again, as if to assure me. As if worried I might be suspecting some other member of the family.
Luckily I'm only two giant steps from the door so upon Nancy's prompting I slip out without tracking too much piddle around. I thank them for the good time - which it certainly was. These are fine folk. A little eccentric but fine indeed.
FWG
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Limbs - of trees and of little girls
On the subject of the "several lengths of two-inch diameter tree branches" in the trunk of my car:
This is future fireplace kindling but also a souvenir from a recent commuter incident. Making a left hand turn out of our lane-way is a hair-raising endeavor. The road is a country road, tar and chip, and bears a 70 KPH posted limit (interpreted as 90 KPH by the wise and by the insiders who realize that all Ontario limits are set 20 KPH lower than the speed said road is designed for assuming fair weather). The road features many short but steep hills. One of which peaks just to the south of the laneway, making a right-hand turn - heading north - a cake-walk but making a left-hand turn - to go south (where all the rest of civilization lies thus this is the turn of choice) 1riddled with peril. You're blind to any possible southbound traffic. My solution of choice is to make the turn when the northbound lane is entirely clear and to turn into that lane (the oncoming lane). By watching the rear-view mirror one can observe any applicable southbound traffic and safely merge into the proper lane. Now and then someone indeed flies over the hill and is probably mildly alarmed to discover me in the oncoming lane moving the same direction as they but slower. However I'm confident that for their sake this is preferable to coming flying over the hill and discovering they and their little Honda getting munched up my tailpipe. Call me crazy.
The drawback to this maneuver, I discovered recently is that with all the watching out for head-on traffic and the activity in the mirror one can miss obstacles such as debris. And on this occasion I somehow did not see a large section of tree in the centre of the road.
As I was eyeing the mirror for possible bombardiers and drifting into the right-hand lane I missed sight of the barrier until the last second - too late to avoid it. With a marvelous crunch-snap-crunch I barreled over and through it. Beyond it I slowed and pulled over, concerned by the residual 'dragging' noises below me. I discovered that the smaller branches had been snapped off but the core branch was stuck beneath the car. One end was jammed between something and another something somewhere near the rear axle at roughly the centre-point between the wheels. The other end emerged from under the front passenger door and terminated immediately behind the right front tire.
I grasped the sucker and pulled and pulled again. It was wedged good. I didn't want to pull too hard at the risk of damaging the something and the other something it was apparently wedged between. I needed to get the Grand Marquis up on a hoist to get a look at it. And no - I didn't even consider jacking it up and crawling under for a look. I'm considerably overweight. My best jacking and crawling days are well behind me (Oh dear - what an awkward sentence). I thought of my mechanic in Orangeville. He's got the hoist and he's a man of character and principle and not a scum-sucking fiend like every other mechanic on this sad Earth. That he has avoided corruption this long is spectacular considering he is clearly in his seventies - at least.
The problem is - I dared not drive around pushing the end of this spear along the road. If I were to hit a defect in the road the wrong way I would surely knock the something or the other something into next week.
So I found some twine in my trunk and tied it to the forward end of the branch. I then tied the rope to the passenger side mirror, lifting the branch safely off the ground. I made my way to Brian's shop.
On the way I stopped at a red light and suffered numerous stares from passers by. My branch, car and I probably looked like a scene from the Red Green show. Come to think of it I was wearing a beard and almost surely a plaid shirt. Had I used some duct tape and worn my old man hat I'd probably have been asked for autographs.
Brian shook his head as he gazed down at my branch.
"In 50 years I've never seen anything like this," he said.
They put it up on the hoist and the entire staff gathered around.
"Rich, you gotta come and see this," said Charlie, Brian's right-hand man. "It's a one in a million shot."
I looked. The branch had been driven through a square-shaped gap - a tunnel - through the frame. Why the gap is there I don't know. To say it was a tight fit is a vast understatement. Four sides of the branch where shaved of bark where it emerged on the back side of the frame. They used a mallet to pound it back out again. Then they cut it into 2' lengths so I could take it home for firewood.
Regarding the matter: "the subject of wounded children being no laughing matter in many houses":
Here's how I learned of this phenomena. I was at a party - probably a Christmas party - at the home of dear friends. I was in the basement at the bar having drinks with an old pal that I rarely see anymore except at such parties at this particular home.
I was drunk as is the tradition at this event - at least for myself and the host and one or two others. A crowd of much older people were in the same room discussing things of a sweet and precious nature. Included in this crowd was one of the perpetual drunks - the worst in fact - known for becoming delirious while he sits in a vegetative state and while pissing in his pants and on the couch. I kid you not. His wife was speaking.
"Oh!" she gasped, "I knitted a sweater for [so-and-so. Some little girl. I don't recall the name] and would you believe what I did? Oh, heavens to Betsy. I got the arms mixed up! I put the left arm on the right side and the right arm on the left! Can you imagine? Oh, Buh-jesus!"
"Well you know," I said loudly, all heads turning towards my pal and me - at the bar, "If she ever were to have an unfortunate accident where both her arms were severed, you could ask the doctors to re-attach them on the opposite sides and then your sweater would fit." Now - in hindsight - in a sober state - I realize that this is not particularly funny. Rather blase as far as good comedy goes. The woman, the wife of the couch-pisser, thought even less of my comment.
"That's my granddaughter you're talking about!" she blurted. I sensed an accusatory tone in her voice.
"Well in that case," I said, trying to make amends, "You'll be glad to know that nothing of the sort could possibly happen now. I'm no prophet, you see. For her arms to be severed after I'd made such a prediction would be far too much a coincidence. Couldn't happen. I've saved her. You should thank me."
"I think not!" barked Mrs. Couch-pisser and she and her cronies turned their backs to us.
"Remember the old days?" I said to my pal. "When everyone at these parties was our age and these parties were fun?"
"I do," said my old pal with a nod.
"What happened? Where did those people go?"
"They stopped coming I guess. Because of all the old people and the parties not being fun anymore."
"Oh," I said. I lifted my glass. "Here's to the old days."
"To the old days."
We drank.
FWG
This is future fireplace kindling but also a souvenir from a recent commuter incident. Making a left hand turn out of our lane-way is a hair-raising endeavor. The road is a country road, tar and chip, and bears a 70 KPH posted limit (interpreted as 90 KPH by the wise and by the insiders who realize that all Ontario limits are set 20 KPH lower than the speed said road is designed for assuming fair weather). The road features many short but steep hills. One of which peaks just to the south of the laneway, making a right-hand turn - heading north - a cake-walk but making a left-hand turn - to go south (where all the rest of civilization lies thus this is the turn of choice) 1riddled with peril. You're blind to any possible southbound traffic. My solution of choice is to make the turn when the northbound lane is entirely clear and to turn into that lane (the oncoming lane). By watching the rear-view mirror one can observe any applicable southbound traffic and safely merge into the proper lane. Now and then someone indeed flies over the hill and is probably mildly alarmed to discover me in the oncoming lane moving the same direction as they but slower. However I'm confident that for their sake this is preferable to coming flying over the hill and discovering they and their little Honda getting munched up my tailpipe. Call me crazy.
The drawback to this maneuver, I discovered recently is that with all the watching out for head-on traffic and the activity in the mirror one can miss obstacles such as debris. And on this occasion I somehow did not see a large section of tree in the centre of the road.
As I was eyeing the mirror for possible bombardiers and drifting into the right-hand lane I missed sight of the barrier until the last second - too late to avoid it. With a marvelous crunch-snap-crunch I barreled over and through it. Beyond it I slowed and pulled over, concerned by the residual 'dragging' noises below me. I discovered that the smaller branches had been snapped off but the core branch was stuck beneath the car. One end was jammed between something and another something somewhere near the rear axle at roughly the centre-point between the wheels. The other end emerged from under the front passenger door and terminated immediately behind the right front tire.
I grasped the sucker and pulled and pulled again. It was wedged good. I didn't want to pull too hard at the risk of damaging the something and the other something it was apparently wedged between. I needed to get the Grand Marquis up on a hoist to get a look at it. And no - I didn't even consider jacking it up and crawling under for a look. I'm considerably overweight. My best jacking and crawling days are well behind me (Oh dear - what an awkward sentence). I thought of my mechanic in Orangeville. He's got the hoist and he's a man of character and principle and not a scum-sucking fiend like every other mechanic on this sad Earth. That he has avoided corruption this long is spectacular considering he is clearly in his seventies - at least.
The problem is - I dared not drive around pushing the end of this spear along the road. If I were to hit a defect in the road the wrong way I would surely knock the something or the other something into next week.
So I found some twine in my trunk and tied it to the forward end of the branch. I then tied the rope to the passenger side mirror, lifting the branch safely off the ground. I made my way to Brian's shop.
On the way I stopped at a red light and suffered numerous stares from passers by. My branch, car and I probably looked like a scene from the Red Green show. Come to think of it I was wearing a beard and almost surely a plaid shirt. Had I used some duct tape and worn my old man hat I'd probably have been asked for autographs.
Brian shook his head as he gazed down at my branch.
"In 50 years I've never seen anything like this," he said.
They put it up on the hoist and the entire staff gathered around.
"Rich, you gotta come and see this," said Charlie, Brian's right-hand man. "It's a one in a million shot."
I looked. The branch had been driven through a square-shaped gap - a tunnel - through the frame. Why the gap is there I don't know. To say it was a tight fit is a vast understatement. Four sides of the branch where shaved of bark where it emerged on the back side of the frame. They used a mallet to pound it back out again. Then they cut it into 2' lengths so I could take it home for firewood.
Regarding the matter: "the subject of wounded children being no laughing matter in many houses":
Here's how I learned of this phenomena. I was at a party - probably a Christmas party - at the home of dear friends. I was in the basement at the bar having drinks with an old pal that I rarely see anymore except at such parties at this particular home.
I was drunk as is the tradition at this event - at least for myself and the host and one or two others. A crowd of much older people were in the same room discussing things of a sweet and precious nature. Included in this crowd was one of the perpetual drunks - the worst in fact - known for becoming delirious while he sits in a vegetative state and while pissing in his pants and on the couch. I kid you not. His wife was speaking.
"Oh!" she gasped, "I knitted a sweater for [so-and-so. Some little girl. I don't recall the name] and would you believe what I did? Oh, heavens to Betsy. I got the arms mixed up! I put the left arm on the right side and the right arm on the left! Can you imagine? Oh, Buh-jesus!"
"Well you know," I said loudly, all heads turning towards my pal and me - at the bar, "If she ever were to have an unfortunate accident where both her arms were severed, you could ask the doctors to re-attach them on the opposite sides and then your sweater would fit." Now - in hindsight - in a sober state - I realize that this is not particularly funny. Rather blase as far as good comedy goes. The woman, the wife of the couch-pisser, thought even less of my comment.
"That's my granddaughter you're talking about!" she blurted. I sensed an accusatory tone in her voice.
"Well in that case," I said, trying to make amends, "You'll be glad to know that nothing of the sort could possibly happen now. I'm no prophet, you see. For her arms to be severed after I'd made such a prediction would be far too much a coincidence. Couldn't happen. I've saved her. You should thank me."
"I think not!" barked Mrs. Couch-pisser and she and her cronies turned their backs to us.
"Remember the old days?" I said to my pal. "When everyone at these parties was our age and these parties were fun?"
"I do," said my old pal with a nod.
"What happened? Where did those people go?"
"They stopped coming I guess. Because of all the old people and the parties not being fun anymore."
"Oh," I said. I lifted my glass. "Here's to the old days."
"To the old days."
We drank.
FWG
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
My Day with the Dumases - Part 2: East Sides
So Carrie turns in the passenger seat and peers into my back seat and frowns. In my back seat there is a box of paperback books, a 17" computer monitor, a spare winter coat, a Coca-Cola duffel bag, both of my brief cases and an old-man hat (which I wear on those days when I'm in no mood for signaling lane changes or submitting to any other driver's right-of-way). Also back there are a sun-bleached box of kleenex, a small cooler, a frisbee (a gift for my dog - a Doberman who is now far too old to chase one but still well-equipped to fully eat and digest one in a few quick bites), a few cans of Full Throttle heart-exploding energy drink (for emergencies only) and a couple empty pizza boxes. Oh and spare dress pants and two good shirts arranged on a single coat hanger behind my head. The only thing not in my back seat is a kitchen sink or space enough for someone to sit.
Thinking of her mother, Carrie says, "I hope there's lots of room in your trunk." I think for a moment. There's a camping bed, 20-to-30 litres worth of oil jugs (mostly empty), a variety of jugs of other automotive fluids, my lacrosse bag and lacrosse sticks, several spare pairs of shoes, several lengths of two-inch diameter tree branches (don't ask), spare tire, jack, emergency road kit and a couple plastic bags full of nerds, tied rabbit-ear style. Nerds - as in styrofoam packing giblets - not computer helpcentre staff.
I avoid the question.
"We'll put your mother in the trunk?" I ask, incredulous.
"No!" Carrie breaks out in giggles. She's a big time giggler. It doesn't take much to get her going.
"I think we'd still hear her from there." This breaks her up entirely. It takes forever for her to express that we'll have to empty the back seat of some of my junk to clear room for mom.
At East Side Marios - forthwith to be referred to as East Sides we land a nice big table for six. I take a short-side seat and Carrie sits near me - at my end of a long side. We look at her art and I'm impressed. There's some minute [my-noot] detail going on demonstrating a level of patience I could never achieve. I'm even more impressed to find that many of the works are engravings. She has etched the drawings on clear plastic sheets in which ink is pressed into the channels and then transferred to moist paper.
"Are you surprised with my art?"
"No. But I'm impressed." She looks perhaps disappointed.
"Most people are surprised when they see my art."
"Why? Should I have assumed you were less talented than this? I made no assumptions about your level of talent. How would I have known whether you're a hack or the next Picasso or somewhere in between? But like I said, I'm impressed. I like it. Let's get it all on the web site."
I have a beer and Carrie has pop. I order some breaded calamari with an arriabata sauce. I've been right into the calamari lately and surprisingly - East Sides serves the best of all I've sampled. The worst - hands down - is Kelsey's. No surprise there. Kelsey's has truly sucked the big one for quite a few years now. A real shame. They were once quite competent. I normally avoid Kelsey's like the plague but we recently needed to waste 30 minutes before a theatre opened for the movie we'd bought tickets for and Kelsey's was right there in the same parking lot. We zipped in for a quick appetizer or dessert. I ordered the calamari. Not only was it gross and rubbery but there was a tremendous globule of it stuck together and when I tried to operate on it - to separate the various conjoined entities I was subjected to a scene right out of Alien - you know - where the robot guy gives birth to the baby space critter. The breading suddenly broke apart and a bunch of squid-like tentacles came flopping and squirming out at me. 'Jesus Christ!' I yelped, pushing away from the table in alarm. 'Who the hell's eating who here?' I couldn't touch it after that. Seriously. I can be a bit of a sissy now and then.
So Nancy and Gaetan arrive with little Vanian in tow. She's approaching her 4th birthday but doesn't look 4. She's very small with gorgeous red hair and green eyes and tiny button nose. She comes to me making speech-like noises that I loosely interpret as "Hi Rich". Carrie and her dad go outside to smoke cigarrettes.
Nancy wastes no time in beginning monologue #1 while Vanian kicks off her shoes and plays solo musical chairs with the 4 empty seats. At one point she is happily bouncing around on the chair opposite mine - the other 'head' of the table and suddenly her eyes go wide as she realizes her little ass has lost it's familiarity with the seat below and very suddenly those wide little eyes, along with the rest of her, plunge out of sight below the table. I believe the official term for this maneuver is ass-over-teakettle. It's wildly comical but I dare not laugh. The subject of wounded children is no laughing matter in many houses and I wish not to offend.
Grandma, however has no such concerns and splits a gut over it. The little gremlin appears again and is okay.
Upon the smokers' return Vanian takes the seat beside me - opposite her mom. All through the dinner and Nancy's monologue - which needn't have been numbered, by the way as there was only one, it turned out and boy, was it a dandy - the gremlin would kick her feet and make plenty of contact with my knees, making me glad she'd taken her shoes off. She receives a menu. I'm not sure why. She can't read. But she makes good use of it, bulldozing drinks around the table with it. I am particularly susceptible as I have quite the collection - a tall glass of water, a small wine carafe and a wine glass to shepherd around the table in response to all her tactics.
Between defense maneuverings I look at my own menu, having already decided on the Cheese Capalletti. I'm really looking forward to it because I haven't had it in a while and because I know it's a very good strategic move. It is tasty, of small size and inexpensive. This is all good because it qualifies for participation in the all-you-can eat Caesar salad and fresh bread program which is what East Sides is all about.
I need to check the menu though, before ordering as it is a new menu style and you never know if there might be changes to the repertoire. Alas, I plainly see the Asparagus Capalletti but not its predecessor - the simpler Cheese version. I voice my disappointment. Carrie points out that the Cheese version is in fact on the menu. She points to it. It's in a different section altogether.
Now - call me crazy. But if I ran a restaurant I'm quite sure I would put all the capalletti versions in the same section of the menu. Seeing as they are precisely the same thing but for one or two ingredients. But that's just me. What do I know? I place my highly strategic order and Carrie one-ups me with her mastery of the all-you-can eat Caesar salad and fresh bread program. She orders a plateful of pasta and leaves it be when it arrives. She samples some of my capalletti and goes wild on the salad and bread. The bread mostly. We went through eight or nine loaves between the six of us. Then she arranges to have her pasta, largely untouched, boxed to go. She's clever. No doubt. I take notes of course.
Twice Gaetan belches so loud the entire contingent of diners and staff can surely hear. Each time I look around, stunned, wondering if I'm on Candid Camera or not. Somehow we make it through dinner in one piece.
"Are you coming over for a visit?" asks Nancy, all casual like. Carrie is plainly shocked. Her eyes bug out of her head on springs - just like old cartoon characters did in old cartoons.
To be continued...
FWG
Thinking of her mother, Carrie says, "I hope there's lots of room in your trunk." I think for a moment. There's a camping bed, 20-to-30 litres worth of oil jugs (mostly empty), a variety of jugs of other automotive fluids, my lacrosse bag and lacrosse sticks, several spare pairs of shoes, several lengths of two-inch diameter tree branches (don't ask), spare tire, jack, emergency road kit and a couple plastic bags full of nerds, tied rabbit-ear style. Nerds - as in styrofoam packing giblets - not computer helpcentre staff.
I avoid the question.
"We'll put your mother in the trunk?" I ask, incredulous.
"No!" Carrie breaks out in giggles. She's a big time giggler. It doesn't take much to get her going.
"I think we'd still hear her from there." This breaks her up entirely. It takes forever for her to express that we'll have to empty the back seat of some of my junk to clear room for mom.
At East Side Marios - forthwith to be referred to as East Sides we land a nice big table for six. I take a short-side seat and Carrie sits near me - at my end of a long side. We look at her art and I'm impressed. There's some minute [my-noot] detail going on demonstrating a level of patience I could never achieve. I'm even more impressed to find that many of the works are engravings. She has etched the drawings on clear plastic sheets in which ink is pressed into the channels and then transferred to moist paper.
"Are you surprised with my art?"
"No. But I'm impressed." She looks perhaps disappointed.
"Most people are surprised when they see my art."
"Why? Should I have assumed you were less talented than this? I made no assumptions about your level of talent. How would I have known whether you're a hack or the next Picasso or somewhere in between? But like I said, I'm impressed. I like it. Let's get it all on the web site."
I have a beer and Carrie has pop. I order some breaded calamari with an arriabata sauce. I've been right into the calamari lately and surprisingly - East Sides serves the best of all I've sampled. The worst - hands down - is Kelsey's. No surprise there. Kelsey's has truly sucked the big one for quite a few years now. A real shame. They were once quite competent. I normally avoid Kelsey's like the plague but we recently needed to waste 30 minutes before a theatre opened for the movie we'd bought tickets for and Kelsey's was right there in the same parking lot. We zipped in for a quick appetizer or dessert. I ordered the calamari. Not only was it gross and rubbery but there was a tremendous globule of it stuck together and when I tried to operate on it - to separate the various conjoined entities I was subjected to a scene right out of Alien - you know - where the robot guy gives birth to the baby space critter. The breading suddenly broke apart and a bunch of squid-like tentacles came flopping and squirming out at me. 'Jesus Christ!' I yelped, pushing away from the table in alarm. 'Who the hell's eating who here?' I couldn't touch it after that. Seriously. I can be a bit of a sissy now and then.
So Nancy and Gaetan arrive with little Vanian in tow. She's approaching her 4th birthday but doesn't look 4. She's very small with gorgeous red hair and green eyes and tiny button nose. She comes to me making speech-like noises that I loosely interpret as "Hi Rich". Carrie and her dad go outside to smoke cigarrettes.
Nancy wastes no time in beginning monologue #1 while Vanian kicks off her shoes and plays solo musical chairs with the 4 empty seats. At one point she is happily bouncing around on the chair opposite mine - the other 'head' of the table and suddenly her eyes go wide as she realizes her little ass has lost it's familiarity with the seat below and very suddenly those wide little eyes, along with the rest of her, plunge out of sight below the table. I believe the official term for this maneuver is ass-over-teakettle. It's wildly comical but I dare not laugh. The subject of wounded children is no laughing matter in many houses and I wish not to offend.
Grandma, however has no such concerns and splits a gut over it. The little gremlin appears again and is okay.
Upon the smokers' return Vanian takes the seat beside me - opposite her mom. All through the dinner and Nancy's monologue - which needn't have been numbered, by the way as there was only one, it turned out and boy, was it a dandy - the gremlin would kick her feet and make plenty of contact with my knees, making me glad she'd taken her shoes off. She receives a menu. I'm not sure why. She can't read. But she makes good use of it, bulldozing drinks around the table with it. I am particularly susceptible as I have quite the collection - a tall glass of water, a small wine carafe and a wine glass to shepherd around the table in response to all her tactics.
Between defense maneuverings I look at my own menu, having already decided on the Cheese Capalletti. I'm really looking forward to it because I haven't had it in a while and because I know it's a very good strategic move. It is tasty, of small size and inexpensive. This is all good because it qualifies for participation in the all-you-can eat Caesar salad and fresh bread program which is what East Sides is all about.
I need to check the menu though, before ordering as it is a new menu style and you never know if there might be changes to the repertoire. Alas, I plainly see the Asparagus Capalletti but not its predecessor - the simpler Cheese version. I voice my disappointment. Carrie points out that the Cheese version is in fact on the menu. She points to it. It's in a different section altogether.
Now - call me crazy. But if I ran a restaurant I'm quite sure I would put all the capalletti versions in the same section of the menu. Seeing as they are precisely the same thing but for one or two ingredients. But that's just me. What do I know? I place my highly strategic order and Carrie one-ups me with her mastery of the all-you-can eat Caesar salad and fresh bread program. She orders a plateful of pasta and leaves it be when it arrives. She samples some of my capalletti and goes wild on the salad and bread. The bread mostly. We went through eight or nine loaves between the six of us. Then she arranges to have her pasta, largely untouched, boxed to go. She's clever. No doubt. I take notes of course.
Twice Gaetan belches so loud the entire contingent of diners and staff can surely hear. Each time I look around, stunned, wondering if I'm on Candid Camera or not. Somehow we make it through dinner in one piece.
"Are you coming over for a visit?" asks Nancy, all casual like. Carrie is plainly shocked. Her eyes bug out of her head on springs - just like old cartoon characters did in old cartoons.
To be continued...
FWG
Monday, May 08, 2006
What in all the hells is going on here?
Um.
Hello?
As I've been spending very little time at the office of late and possess very antiquated internet resources at home -- I've taken to sending my blog entries by email ever-so-precisely according to the instructions provided by Ye Olde Blogging Co.
Hmm.
Where are they? What in all the 667 and a half hells is going on around here?
Where is my bloggs! - cries FWG.
"I don't know," replies FWG. "I don't sees them anywhere!"
"Maybe they've been re-routed to the pentagon," says FWG
"Maybe there's been an explosion at Ye Olde Blogging Co headquarters," says FWG
"Or maybe we're just losing our little marbles," replies FWG.
"Could be, Rabbit. Could be."
WHERE ARE MY DAMN BLOG ENTRIES? YOU BASTARDS!
Hello?
As I've been spending very little time at the office of late and possess very antiquated internet resources at home -- I've taken to sending my blog entries by email ever-so-precisely according to the instructions provided by Ye Olde Blogging Co.
Hmm.
Where are they? What in all the 667 and a half hells is going on around here?
Where is my bloggs! - cries FWG.
"I don't know," replies FWG. "I don't sees them anywhere!"
"Maybe they've been re-routed to the pentagon," says FWG
"Maybe there's been an explosion at Ye Olde Blogging Co headquarters," says FWG
"Or maybe we're just losing our little marbles," replies FWG.
"Could be, Rabbit. Could be."
WHERE ARE MY DAMN BLOG ENTRIES? YOU BASTARDS!
My Day with the Dumases
Dumases? Dumasses? Dumai? Just what is the proper plural form of the word 'Dumas'?
I once asked the patriarch of the family - Gaetan - for the correct pronunciation of their family name.
"Dumb Ass!" he barked in response. He's very much a 'barker'. I like him. Besides barking he's a sculptor, poet, writer and electrician. His wife Nancy is a scream. She's psychic and an interpreter of dreams and of astrology. She's very spiritual in her own individual non-religious way - a quality I respect.
She calls herself an introvert but she's the most extroverted introvert I've ever met. In fact she's more extroverted than any extrovert I've met if you know what I mean. But as I hate labels I insist that people at least be allowed themselves to choose their own label however they please. So if she says introvert - so be it.
Basically she rarely ever stops talking but to her credit - when she does take a rare break she really listens and remembers everything you have to say. And that's a marvelous quality. I know a slightly less extroverted extrovert who hasn't absorbed a single damn thing I've said to him in 19 years.
So I hear the same stories over and over again but that's okay. I like it. I'm trying to memorize them all so that one day I can recite them right along with her as she's doing the telling. That'll be some good fun.
I like Nancy very much. She's the informal leader of our writing group of which her husband and her daughter Carrie are also members.
So I'm driving along the country road and I see the collapsed barn that marks my destination. It amounts to a stone foundation of four foot height. It's not an uncommon sight in rural Ontario but I have somewhat of a fascination with them. It's the closest thing we have to archeological landmarks in Canada. Our native Indians were all about teepees and wigwams. They never built anything cool for us to find. No 'Chitchanitzas' or the like. I feel a bit gypped over this but of course I don't complain to the few native Americans I know. I'm a little hung up on the whole ancestral guilt thing. So I tread lightly around my native acquaintances. It's hard to know what to say sometimes.
All these barn wrecks really move me in the sense I find them symbolic of the slow and painful death of family farming in this country. I know a few independent farmers and I feel bad about it 'cause they're loveable folk but I realize that the demise is inevitable. That they're bound to extinction no matter how many protests they hold. No matter how much traffic they hamper. No matter how many people they make late for their appointments.
Good grief - what a tangent or two! My apologies. So I pull into the dirt laneway, pass between some trees and park. Now I can see their house - a large two-story 200-year-old brick affair that is starting to show its age. I can also see a two-story wooden free-standing tree-house type structure with an exterior stairway and a balcony. A playhouse that has turned storage shed with the daughters all now in their 20's and 30's.
There is also a wood pile and many miscellaneous junk items lying around - some of a curiosity or even decorative value. Some are possibly farm implements and one or more are possibly antique. There's a big cover to a cistern and three automobiles - all small and grey and perfectly roadworthy.
There's a large wooden rabbit cage on the secluded front lawn. Near it are some seemingly abandoned toys, the odd Tim Hortons coffee cup, rims rolled up of course, and curiously there are about eight large miscellaneous items - unrelated at a glance but that all adhere to a theme. Each is roughly bucket, bowl or tray shaped and flooded with standing water.
Chained to a side door is big dog #1. Chained to the front door is little dog. Neither the rabbit or the little dog require numbering as there are not more than one rabbit or little dog in the family. There are two big dogs, two cats and a multitude of fishes who also need not be numbered as they are fully interchangeable. They're all flat, wet and very poor conversationalists. Actually they might all be named Eric for all I know. I never bothered to ask. Okay, 'nuff said about the fishes.
Carrie suddenly appears half way between the front door and my car. It always happens that way. I never see her as I approach their property and never see her actually emerge from the house. She always just appears like an apparition somewhere in the wider regions of my peripheral vision. I've nicknamed her Spooky which she doesn't mind too much - being a writer of horror among other things.
I'm glad to see her though. I've only once had to go to the door to alert her to my presence and it was a failed experiment that I wish not to ever attempt again. Reason - I never know if big dog #2 is lurking around somewhere ready to come bounding over to me and start going into a schizophrenic tizzy that stems from some combination of two attitudes. One - that he's happy to see me because I'm such a swell guy and his buddy - and two - that he's happy to see me because I look downright delicious and he's quite ready to sink his teeth in and find out for sure.
So Carrie embarks and we back out the laneway and head for the restaurant - East Side Marios. One of our favorites. Her mom and dad and her small daughter Vanian will be joining us but we're taking a head start so that I can look over a portfolio of her selected artwork and poetry to explore the specifics of her pending participation in the writing group's web site.
"My mom's almost out of gas," says Carrie. "So we might have to go back and pick her up. She might call us." She holds up mom's cell phone.
I no longer have a cell phone. I misplaced it a couple weeks ago, discovered I didn't miss it and low-and-behold a Rogers Customer Service Stalker - whoops! Dear me. My Freudian slip is showing. A Customer Service Rep called me just to say hello - a courtesy call - they call it. Not a goddamn thing courteous about it of course but you know them phone pirates. It's all double-speak with them. My 2-year sentence - whoops! I mean contract - expired recently so she just called to see how I'm doing and if there's anything I need and - I confidently assume - to try to get me to upgrade my phone and start another dandy new sentence - BLAH! - contract! But I surprised her by saying I'd like to cancel my account please. This swung her right into salvage mode of course. She punched the big red panic button and her computer screen switched to the special offer menu.
"May I ask why you wish to cancel your account?" She's thinking I've been flirting with a competitor 'Two timing bastard,' she's thinking. She's ready to play ball. Ready to tease and tantalize me with special offers.
"I've discovered that a cell phone doesn't enrich my life," I said. "I was happier before I had one. I find I'm wasting an awful lot of money on something that just annoys me." She immediately gave in and offered to put me through to the cancellation department or some damn thing. I'm sure these are the people with the special key that allows them access to the Most Very Special Of All The Special Offers menu screen. But I was growing bored with this game and promised to call back later instead.
Oh dear. This post is getting terribly long. Let's pick it up tomorrow, shall we?
To be continued...
FWG
I once asked the patriarch of the family - Gaetan - for the correct pronunciation of their family name.
"Dumb Ass!" he barked in response. He's very much a 'barker'. I like him. Besides barking he's a sculptor, poet, writer and electrician. His wife Nancy is a scream. She's psychic and an interpreter of dreams and of astrology. She's very spiritual in her own individual non-religious way - a quality I respect.
She calls herself an introvert but she's the most extroverted introvert I've ever met. In fact she's more extroverted than any extrovert I've met if you know what I mean. But as I hate labels I insist that people at least be allowed themselves to choose their own label however they please. So if she says introvert - so be it.
Basically she rarely ever stops talking but to her credit - when she does take a rare break she really listens and remembers everything you have to say. And that's a marvelous quality. I know a slightly less extroverted extrovert who hasn't absorbed a single damn thing I've said to him in 19 years.
So I hear the same stories over and over again but that's okay. I like it. I'm trying to memorize them all so that one day I can recite them right along with her as she's doing the telling. That'll be some good fun.
I like Nancy very much. She's the informal leader of our writing group of which her husband and her daughter Carrie are also members.
So I'm driving along the country road and I see the collapsed barn that marks my destination. It amounts to a stone foundation of four foot height. It's not an uncommon sight in rural Ontario but I have somewhat of a fascination with them. It's the closest thing we have to archeological landmarks in Canada. Our native Indians were all about teepees and wigwams. They never built anything cool for us to find. No 'Chitchanitzas' or the like. I feel a bit gypped over this but of course I don't complain to the few native Americans I know. I'm a little hung up on the whole ancestral guilt thing. So I tread lightly around my native acquaintances. It's hard to know what to say sometimes.
All these barn wrecks really move me in the sense I find them symbolic of the slow and painful death of family farming in this country. I know a few independent farmers and I feel bad about it 'cause they're loveable folk but I realize that the demise is inevitable. That they're bound to extinction no matter how many protests they hold. No matter how much traffic they hamper. No matter how many people they make late for their appointments.
Good grief - what a tangent or two! My apologies. So I pull into the dirt laneway, pass between some trees and park. Now I can see their house - a large two-story 200-year-old brick affair that is starting to show its age. I can also see a two-story wooden free-standing tree-house type structure with an exterior stairway and a balcony. A playhouse that has turned storage shed with the daughters all now in their 20's and 30's.
There is also a wood pile and many miscellaneous junk items lying around - some of a curiosity or even decorative value. Some are possibly farm implements and one or more are possibly antique. There's a big cover to a cistern and three automobiles - all small and grey and perfectly roadworthy.
There's a large wooden rabbit cage on the secluded front lawn. Near it are some seemingly abandoned toys, the odd Tim Hortons coffee cup, rims rolled up of course, and curiously there are about eight large miscellaneous items - unrelated at a glance but that all adhere to a theme. Each is roughly bucket, bowl or tray shaped and flooded with standing water.
Chained to a side door is big dog #1. Chained to the front door is little dog. Neither the rabbit or the little dog require numbering as there are not more than one rabbit or little dog in the family. There are two big dogs, two cats and a multitude of fishes who also need not be numbered as they are fully interchangeable. They're all flat, wet and very poor conversationalists. Actually they might all be named Eric for all I know. I never bothered to ask. Okay, 'nuff said about the fishes.
Carrie suddenly appears half way between the front door and my car. It always happens that way. I never see her as I approach their property and never see her actually emerge from the house. She always just appears like an apparition somewhere in the wider regions of my peripheral vision. I've nicknamed her Spooky which she doesn't mind too much - being a writer of horror among other things.
I'm glad to see her though. I've only once had to go to the door to alert her to my presence and it was a failed experiment that I wish not to ever attempt again. Reason - I never know if big dog #2 is lurking around somewhere ready to come bounding over to me and start going into a schizophrenic tizzy that stems from some combination of two attitudes. One - that he's happy to see me because I'm such a swell guy and his buddy - and two - that he's happy to see me because I look downright delicious and he's quite ready to sink his teeth in and find out for sure.
So Carrie embarks and we back out the laneway and head for the restaurant - East Side Marios. One of our favorites. Her mom and dad and her small daughter Vanian will be joining us but we're taking a head start so that I can look over a portfolio of her selected artwork and poetry to explore the specifics of her pending participation in the writing group's web site.
"My mom's almost out of gas," says Carrie. "So we might have to go back and pick her up. She might call us." She holds up mom's cell phone.
I no longer have a cell phone. I misplaced it a couple weeks ago, discovered I didn't miss it and low-and-behold a Rogers Customer Service Stalker - whoops! Dear me. My Freudian slip is showing. A Customer Service Rep called me just to say hello - a courtesy call - they call it. Not a goddamn thing courteous about it of course but you know them phone pirates. It's all double-speak with them. My 2-year sentence - whoops! I mean contract - expired recently so she just called to see how I'm doing and if there's anything I need and - I confidently assume - to try to get me to upgrade my phone and start another dandy new sentence - BLAH! - contract! But I surprised her by saying I'd like to cancel my account please. This swung her right into salvage mode of course. She punched the big red panic button and her computer screen switched to the special offer menu.
"May I ask why you wish to cancel your account?" She's thinking I've been flirting with a competitor 'Two timing bastard,' she's thinking. She's ready to play ball. Ready to tease and tantalize me with special offers.
"I've discovered that a cell phone doesn't enrich my life," I said. "I was happier before I had one. I find I'm wasting an awful lot of money on something that just annoys me." She immediately gave in and offered to put me through to the cancellation department or some damn thing. I'm sure these are the people with the special key that allows them access to the Most Very Special Of All The Special Offers menu screen. But I was growing bored with this game and promised to call back later instead.
Oh dear. This post is getting terribly long. Let's pick it up tomorrow, shall we?
To be continued...
FWG
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Me and 'The Firm' - we're radioactive
Hey.
Long time - no see.
Hopefully this message makes it to the blog. I'm attempting to send it by email. I'm on vacation from work - where I publish the entries - on account of my home computer being older than god and not compatible with these newfangled blogger web sites. At home all I can really do online is visit really antiquated sites like the Piffelburg's family web site featuring the Fluffy the Cat picture gallery. I like the one where she lies on her side and lifts one leg way up into the air. Like some kind of feline ballerina.
Bell Sympatico can't even provide email for me any more - not that any of their customer service staff could ever possibly figure that out. It was left for me to decipher after endless phone calls that had everyone in the department running around like keystone cops, bumping into one another and falling down. Exact same experience I had when looking for telephone support and again when looking for Bell Expressvu satelite support and also when looking for web hosting support. The resolution every time after hours of mind-numbingly useless consultation has been to give up and suffer. One ingenious internet support person literally had no idea there was such a thing as a password associated with internet accounts. Brilliant. Not only had the jackass been given little or no training but he must not have even had an internet account of his own at home. I can imagine the job interview.
"Sir, your name is Harold Bing. Is that right?"
"Unnnynnyyya"
"Do you know what internet means?"
"Unnn."
"Do you have an internet account at home?"
"Ugh."
Okay. You're hired. Here's your desk. This is a phone. A nice man will come and show you how to use the phone. At the end of your shift the nice man will show you to the door and make sure you get on the bus okay. Oh, and here's some kleenex. Try not to get too much drool on the phone.
How Bell Canada has so efficiently cornered the market on the world's dullest minds is a wonder.
So anyways...
I do apologize for the unexpected hiatus. It was terribly rude of me. Things are looney crazy in my life right now. I was very ill and out of commission for a while and now I'm in the process of moving. I took possession of this very cool apartment in downtown Streetsville yesterday - me and some guy named Steve - and I'm smack dab in the middle of a painting/moving experience from the lowest plane of hell. I have stuff at the folks' place still to pack. So far I've moved in one set of shelves, one aquarium stand (for which I have no aquarium), One chest of drawers - sans two of the drawers - perhaps they'll go today. Oh - and one wok, one stereo, all my CD's and about ten boxes of books. Good start, eh? I still have the bed and desk to move (today) and a score of minor nick-nackery and another 30 or 40 boxes of books. Then there's all my real furniture to be moved out of my 300-square-foot storage locker including two dining room suites and 17 metric tonnes of crap which I have no use for. The remnents of years of unchecked ratcatching.
With the help of friends I've painted two coats of lodge brown on the living room walls and - okay. Did I just say "ratcatching"? What on earth am I talking about? What in all the 739 hells am I talking about? Ratcatching is not the word. I can't even think of the word. I've lost it. Really. It must be the radiation poisoning. I'm radioactive you see. I'm certain of it. My snot is florescent yellow. I wouldn't kid you about something like that. I'm pretty much over the illness. The only symptom - and this is new for me - is that I must blow my nose regularly or else I get a terrible post-nasal drip going on and then I have to cough it all up. Terribly sorry for the imagery but this is important. The strange thing is there is no sensation that things are accumulating up there. I feel no sinus discomfort whatsoever. No sniffling. No congestion. But I must remember to honk regularly or else I pay with the dreaded drip. Strange. And with the honking comes a load of 'goop' literally the colour of a yellow highlighter marker. I swear it's true. My snot glows in the dark. Fascinating.
So - two coats of Lodge Brown in the living room plus I've sponged on a layer of Truffle Oil - just on the one wall. It's about 18' wide and 9' high, this wall. It took me all bloody evening to do it and I'm not sure whether I hate it or not. I'd never sponged before and frankly I don't know what the f--- I was thinking. Mind you there's a third layer to follow. "Dapper Tan" or something ridiculous. Anyways I'm in a terrible funk over this. I've decided to let the painting project lie for a bit and reconsider the plan. Perhaps we need to change tack. I'll concentrate on the moving for a while.
Captain Vino, if you're reading this, do consider dropping by for a visit some time soon! Could really use your advice on this whole decorating project. I know you have a flair for that sort of thing!
FWG
Long time - no see.
Hopefully this message makes it to the blog. I'm attempting to send it by email. I'm on vacation from work - where I publish the entries - on account of my home computer being older than god and not compatible with these newfangled blogger web sites. At home all I can really do online is visit really antiquated sites like the Piffelburg's family web site featuring the Fluffy the Cat picture gallery. I like the one where she lies on her side and lifts one leg way up into the air. Like some kind of feline ballerina.
Bell Sympatico can't even provide email for me any more - not that any of their customer service staff could ever possibly figure that out. It was left for me to decipher after endless phone calls that had everyone in the department running around like keystone cops, bumping into one another and falling down. Exact same experience I had when looking for telephone support and again when looking for Bell Expressvu satelite support and also when looking for web hosting support. The resolution every time after hours of mind-numbingly useless consultation has been to give up and suffer. One ingenious internet support person literally had no idea there was such a thing as a password associated with internet accounts. Brilliant. Not only had the jackass been given little or no training but he must not have even had an internet account of his own at home. I can imagine the job interview.
"Sir, your name is Harold Bing. Is that right?"
"Unnnynnyyya"
"Do you know what internet means?"
"Unnn."
"Do you have an internet account at home?"
"Ugh."
Okay. You're hired. Here's your desk. This is a phone. A nice man will come and show you how to use the phone. At the end of your shift the nice man will show you to the door and make sure you get on the bus okay. Oh, and here's some kleenex. Try not to get too much drool on the phone.
How Bell Canada has so efficiently cornered the market on the world's dullest minds is a wonder.
So anyways...
I do apologize for the unexpected hiatus. It was terribly rude of me. Things are looney crazy in my life right now. I was very ill and out of commission for a while and now I'm in the process of moving. I took possession of this very cool apartment in downtown Streetsville yesterday - me and some guy named Steve - and I'm smack dab in the middle of a painting/moving experience from the lowest plane of hell. I have stuff at the folks' place still to pack. So far I've moved in one set of shelves, one aquarium stand (for which I have no aquarium), One chest of drawers - sans two of the drawers - perhaps they'll go today. Oh - and one wok, one stereo, all my CD's and about ten boxes of books. Good start, eh? I still have the bed and desk to move (today) and a score of minor nick-nackery and another 30 or 40 boxes of books. Then there's all my real furniture to be moved out of my 300-square-foot storage locker including two dining room suites and 17 metric tonnes of crap which I have no use for. The remnents of years of unchecked ratcatching.
With the help of friends I've painted two coats of lodge brown on the living room walls and - okay. Did I just say "ratcatching"? What on earth am I talking about? What in all the 739 hells am I talking about? Ratcatching is not the word. I can't even think of the word. I've lost it. Really. It must be the radiation poisoning. I'm radioactive you see. I'm certain of it. My snot is florescent yellow. I wouldn't kid you about something like that. I'm pretty much over the illness. The only symptom - and this is new for me - is that I must blow my nose regularly or else I get a terrible post-nasal drip going on and then I have to cough it all up. Terribly sorry for the imagery but this is important. The strange thing is there is no sensation that things are accumulating up there. I feel no sinus discomfort whatsoever. No sniffling. No congestion. But I must remember to honk regularly or else I pay with the dreaded drip. Strange. And with the honking comes a load of 'goop' literally the colour of a yellow highlighter marker. I swear it's true. My snot glows in the dark. Fascinating.
So - two coats of Lodge Brown in the living room plus I've sponged on a layer of Truffle Oil - just on the one wall. It's about 18' wide and 9' high, this wall. It took me all bloody evening to do it and I'm not sure whether I hate it or not. I'd never sponged before and frankly I don't know what the f--- I was thinking. Mind you there's a third layer to follow. "Dapper Tan" or something ridiculous. Anyways I'm in a terrible funk over this. I've decided to let the painting project lie for a bit and reconsider the plan. Perhaps we need to change tack. I'll concentrate on the moving for a while.
Captain Vino, if you're reading this, do consider dropping by for a visit some time soon! Could really use your advice on this whole decorating project. I know you have a flair for that sort of thing!
FWG
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Hail to the Chiefs
A little poem I wrote. Because of it's political nature I'm not sure I want to post it on my Writing Group's web site. So I'm giving it life here instead:
Hail to the Chiefs
I asked Mister President what he had to say
About sending that plane the Enola Gay
To kill all those women and children that day
He just sneered and laughed my question away
It was the Nazis who first did business that way!
The blame lies not with me but they!
I saved a million boys' lives that day.
One million American soldiers! Hurray!
Do such lies really keep your conscience at bay?
We condemned those Nazis but now you say
That they were only trailblazers paving the way
Making your A-bombs A-okay?
Well now that that's clear, what will you say
On the terrible deadly reckoning day
When a thermonuclear fireworks display
Sets flight 'cross the ocean America's way?
Do you think if you plead and if you pray
You can somehow wish those missiles away?
What goes around comes around, they always say
It's not God who will deliver your judgement day
For a harbour you blew two cities away
For two towers you made two countries pay
What runaway pride, what moral decay
Has bent your judgement so badly astray?
Has left your own citizens so sadly betrayed?
You make more and more enemies every day
For your sins, which generation will pay?
Your grandchildren, your children or we here today?
Important notice to all CIA and CSIS agents:
This author is not a terrorist nor is he even "anti-American". He's just some guy who's not afraid to state the obvious and who thinks twice about taking any more vacations in New York City. So don't go getting your knickers in a knot for goodness sake.
Oh and please don't stop me from crossing the border! The only place I ever go anymore is Buffalo and that's just to watch the hockey games - and honestly - would any terrorist in his right mind be plotting to bomb Buffalo? Such an act might be construed as a favor!
Hail to the Chiefs
I asked Mister President what he had to say
About sending that plane the Enola Gay
To kill all those women and children that day
He just sneered and laughed my question away
It was the Nazis who first did business that way!
The blame lies not with me but they!
I saved a million boys' lives that day.
One million American soldiers! Hurray!
Do such lies really keep your conscience at bay?
We condemned those Nazis but now you say
That they were only trailblazers paving the way
Making your A-bombs A-okay?
Well now that that's clear, what will you say
On the terrible deadly reckoning day
When a thermonuclear fireworks display
Sets flight 'cross the ocean America's way?
Do you think if you plead and if you pray
You can somehow wish those missiles away?
What goes around comes around, they always say
It's not God who will deliver your judgement day
For a harbour you blew two cities away
For two towers you made two countries pay
What runaway pride, what moral decay
Has bent your judgement so badly astray?
Has left your own citizens so sadly betrayed?
You make more and more enemies every day
For your sins, which generation will pay?
Your grandchildren, your children or we here today?
Important notice to all CIA and CSIS agents:
This author is not a terrorist nor is he even "anti-American". He's just some guy who's not afraid to state the obvious and who thinks twice about taking any more vacations in New York City. So don't go getting your knickers in a knot for goodness sake.
Oh and please don't stop me from crossing the border! The only place I ever go anymore is Buffalo and that's just to watch the hockey games - and honestly - would any terrorist in his right mind be plotting to bomb Buffalo? Such an act might be construed as a favor!
Monday, April 17, 2006
Poetry Exercise #2
This poetry exercise is even more restrictive than the last. We were each given a handful of random words. In my case - a great many of them were paint sample chips (they have colourful titles printed on them, you see).
We had to paste them onto a page in some order that formed a poem. We could only add simple words such as and, she, the, at, with etc.
I found the ordeal bizarre and amusing! This is what I came up with:
The countess laughed and winked
She smiled at the eager violet lipped fairies
In their pink diamonds and petrie plum ribbons
Everyone felt alive
Ravenous they ate sweet corn and aged mint
With the painted storks and the gazelles until dusk
Now in the middle of the night they awakened
With the tides of the seven seas
Alert and babbling with full blown rapture
They ecstatically conjured up sunlit topazes
And amassed them, sealing them
In hot pink barrels!
FWG
We had to paste them onto a page in some order that formed a poem. We could only add simple words such as and, she, the, at, with etc.
I found the ordeal bizarre and amusing! This is what I came up with:
The countess laughed and winked
She smiled at the eager violet lipped fairies
In their pink diamonds and petrie plum ribbons
Everyone felt alive
Ravenous they ate sweet corn and aged mint
With the painted storks and the gazelles until dusk
Now in the middle of the night they awakened
With the tides of the seven seas
Alert and babbling with full blown rapture
They ecstatically conjured up sunlit topazes
And amassed them, sealing them
In hot pink barrels!
FWG
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Poetry Exercise
This is far from my best poetry, I assure you! It's a writing practice exercise we did at our last meeting. I was given a word list and had a few minutes to turn it into a poem.
My words:
gentle
rhythm
serendipity
svelte
suede
scrumptious
food
sturdy
athlete
raspberries
poet
saucer
garden
silly
commerce
joke
whole
My poem:
The ship swayed with a gentle rhythm
As it had all week
The motley crue of passengers had learned to sway with it
Had learned to love it
A gentle serendipity
The young svelte woman in the suede cape
Sat upon the fore deck
Facing the aft
Watching the creases left behind them in the water
A short-lived trail marking their course
Like bread crumbs left behind
Only to become scrumptious food
For squirrels and chipmunks
And owlbears and kender dwarves and garden gnomes
She watched the sturdy helmsman
As his fingers played upon the great wheel
He watched her too
They gazed at one another across the abyss
Between the two decks fore and aft
Between and below them the young athlete ran circles and figure-eights
Between and around the masts
Sometimes stumbling from the pitch of the craft
Finally he lurched to the rail and craned his neck
And hurled his breakfast of cakes and strawberries into the sea
Below her in the main salon
The poets gathered at the great wooden table
And with teacups and saucers scattered about
They crafted their poetry
Beautiful verses of gardens and princesses
And silly poems like this one
Built from crazy word lists!
And in the captain's cabin
The baron and the merchant
Sipped the captain's whiskey
And they spoke of politics and commerce
They joked about the other passengers
And how the whole lot of them
Could be cast over the board
And never be missed
FWG
My words:
gentle
rhythm
serendipity
svelte
suede
scrumptious
food
sturdy
athlete
raspberries
poet
saucer
garden
silly
commerce
joke
whole
My poem:
The ship swayed with a gentle rhythm
As it had all week
The motley crue of passengers had learned to sway with it
Had learned to love it
A gentle serendipity
The young svelte woman in the suede cape
Sat upon the fore deck
Facing the aft
Watching the creases left behind them in the water
A short-lived trail marking their course
Like bread crumbs left behind
Only to become scrumptious food
For squirrels and chipmunks
And owlbears and kender dwarves and garden gnomes
She watched the sturdy helmsman
As his fingers played upon the great wheel
He watched her too
They gazed at one another across the abyss
Between the two decks fore and aft
Between and below them the young athlete ran circles and figure-eights
Between and around the masts
Sometimes stumbling from the pitch of the craft
Finally he lurched to the rail and craned his neck
And hurled his breakfast of cakes and strawberries into the sea
Below her in the main salon
The poets gathered at the great wooden table
And with teacups and saucers scattered about
They crafted their poetry
Beautiful verses of gardens and princesses
And silly poems like this one
Built from crazy word lists!
And in the captain's cabin
The baron and the merchant
Sipped the captain's whiskey
And they spoke of politics and commerce
They joked about the other passengers
And how the whole lot of them
Could be cast over the board
And never be missed
FWG
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
God bless the tartar
I had lunch today at my favorite restaurant. No, that's not true -- my favorite Etobicoke/Mississauga lunch venue. McNies Fish & Chips at Burnhamthorpe and Martin Grove. Actually - to be precise - they're now my former favorite Etobicoke/Mississauga lunch venue.
Something terrible has happened. Something unspeakably vile.
When the meal was done I calmly voiced my displeasure to a small contingent of waitresses. They were very sympathetic. They explained that they had a 'new boss'. And he had made some new decisions.
Teary-eyed, I made my way back to the office and promptly mailed this letter:
Jacob Tewtou
Mosaic Sales Solutions
2700 Matheson Blvd E., W-tower, 2-floor
Mississauga, ON L4W 4V9
Attention Manager
McNies Fish & Chips
315 Burnhamthorpe Road
Etobicoke, ON M9B 2A2
Dear “New Boss”,
It seems you and I have narrowly avoided becoming familiar acquaintances. I’ve been coming to McNies weekly for a long time (missing a week now and then, true, but coming twice the same week just as frequently).
I was there today. I ordered the usual. Two and a Few haddock, tea and two tartar sauces. But oh! The good waitress stopped me there and pointed guiltily at the brazen styrofoam cup sitting there on the table among the condiment gallery - only slightly apart from the others - looking defiant and with a brash sense of entitlement with all those slick and sickly looking packages sticking out of it like snakes from the head of Medusa!
Phony tartar sauce. Ugh!
I swallowed my shock! Choked back the horror. Calmly suppressed the gag reflex. Positive thinking. Perhaps I’d like it. Perhaps it would be - swell.
Au contraire mon ami! No like! Bad bad!
A tartar sauce must taste like mayonnaise and relish! There are no other options. This jaundiced cream-of-deceit did not taste like mayonnaise and relish. No. It tasted more like molasses and Pine Sol! Like worn rubber and monkey sweat! like stale cake and diaper sprinkles! Salt and dandelions! Piss and apples! Sugar and bleach! I noticed each packet holds about 10 cc’s. I pray that is merely a disturbing coincidence.
I’m in despair. I formed an immediate plan, you know. To locate the makers of this blarney imposter - this faux tartar. And to blow up their headquarters! But alas, I’m a pacifist. So my only recourse is this letter.
Respond to me when your noble home-made tartar sauce is rightfully enthroned again. When this vile paste has been banished. Respond to me then and not before. Don’t try to tempt me with flimsy excuses and tawdry coupons. I’m not some cheap hussy, you know. Stop the insanity! Lose the packages. Make your own tartar sauce. Make it.
If you make it, I will come.
If not, this is my sad farewell.
Sadly, farewell,
Jacob Tewtou
I hope to receive a response. I hope they know how to play ball. I shall keep you informed.
FWG
Something terrible has happened. Something unspeakably vile.
When the meal was done I calmly voiced my displeasure to a small contingent of waitresses. They were very sympathetic. They explained that they had a 'new boss'. And he had made some new decisions.
Teary-eyed, I made my way back to the office and promptly mailed this letter:
Jacob Tewtou
Mosaic Sales Solutions
2700 Matheson Blvd E., W-tower, 2-floor
Mississauga, ON L4W 4V9
Attention Manager
McNies Fish & Chips
315 Burnhamthorpe Road
Etobicoke, ON M9B 2A2
Dear “New Boss”,
It seems you and I have narrowly avoided becoming familiar acquaintances. I’ve been coming to McNies weekly for a long time (missing a week now and then, true, but coming twice the same week just as frequently).
I was there today. I ordered the usual. Two and a Few haddock, tea and two tartar sauces. But oh! The good waitress stopped me there and pointed guiltily at the brazen styrofoam cup sitting there on the table among the condiment gallery - only slightly apart from the others - looking defiant and with a brash sense of entitlement with all those slick and sickly looking packages sticking out of it like snakes from the head of Medusa!
Phony tartar sauce. Ugh!
I swallowed my shock! Choked back the horror. Calmly suppressed the gag reflex. Positive thinking. Perhaps I’d like it. Perhaps it would be - swell.
Au contraire mon ami! No like! Bad bad!
A tartar sauce must taste like mayonnaise and relish! There are no other options. This jaundiced cream-of-deceit did not taste like mayonnaise and relish. No. It tasted more like molasses and Pine Sol! Like worn rubber and monkey sweat! like stale cake and diaper sprinkles! Salt and dandelions! Piss and apples! Sugar and bleach! I noticed each packet holds about 10 cc’s. I pray that is merely a disturbing coincidence.
I’m in despair. I formed an immediate plan, you know. To locate the makers of this blarney imposter - this faux tartar. And to blow up their headquarters! But alas, I’m a pacifist. So my only recourse is this letter.
Respond to me when your noble home-made tartar sauce is rightfully enthroned again. When this vile paste has been banished. Respond to me then and not before. Don’t try to tempt me with flimsy excuses and tawdry coupons. I’m not some cheap hussy, you know. Stop the insanity! Lose the packages. Make your own tartar sauce. Make it.
If you make it, I will come.
If not, this is my sad farewell.
Sadly, farewell,
Jacob Tewtou
I hope to receive a response. I hope they know how to play ball. I shall keep you informed.
FWG
Monday, April 10, 2006
Beware the wild buffalo!
So I was down in St. Catharines last night and my buddy wanted to stop at Wendy’s for dinner. I hadn’t been in quite a long time. I saw that the menu had changed a bit. The old chicken nuggets - once marginalized by the new chicken strips have now made a come-back I see.
They’re now called “New crispy chicken nuggets.” I saw there are new sauces as well. I ordered the born again nuggets and a new sauce called Wild buffalo sauce.
“Whooh!” my buddy exclaimed. “I tried that stuff once. Hot going in -- and hot going out!”
“I’ll take a regular barbecue sauce with that too please,” I then instructed the counter-boy. He was happy to comply. The little counter-boys are very agreeable at this particular location. They’d probably empty the till into a sack for you if you asked nicely.
Well ee-gads! The wild buffalo sauce was indeed on the wild side. Quite the kick. Tasted like Buffalo style chicken wings (go figure). Problem is that chicken nuggets are far too bland to stand up to this sauce. You taste the sauce and nothing else. The compliment factor is right out of the equation.
Actually - that’s not the problem. The problem is… This stuff tore me apart. I mean - tore me to pieces. On the way home from St. Catharines to Caledon I stopped at every Tim Hortons on the way - to use the bathrooms. For those who aren’t familiar with Ontario geography or the obscene prevalence of Tim Hortons donut shops - that is a whole lot o’ stops. And of course I had to buy a bunch of small crappy decafs along the way because I’m terribly self-conscious about using restaurant bathrooms without demonstrating I’m a customer.
Insane I tell you. I’m still a little woozy. Probably the dehydration.
Tim Hortons - by the way - is American owned. I just like to remind people that because it’s such an irritating goddamned Canadian icon. I’m not nationalistic about this. I support free trade. It’s just the irony of it. Probably half of middle class Canadian families spend 4 figures a year on the world’s shittiest donuts and coffee - the coffee mostly - and they’re of course paying for the name on the store. The products are dirt cheap to make which I suppose is why they taste like dirt in the first place.
Tim Hortons advertises all these sweet little drippy Canadian iconic vignettes on TV as if to say Tim Hortons = Canada. Plain and simple. I think I’m the only sonofabitch not buying into it.
Oh my god! I just realized! Tim Hortons and Wendy’s are the same company! Now I get it. The whole wild buffalo thing is a conspiracy! A cross-branding initiative!
“Come to Wendy’s for the wild buffalos. Go to Tim Hortons for the toilets!”
Bastards. And it’s probably all designed to get me. Me! The last hold-out from a kinder gentler civilization where coffee tasted good and a donut filled your whole hand. Gosh. This is exciting. I feel like the hero from Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 or George Orwell’s 1984.
Wow. I’m on the lam.
FWG
They’re now called “New crispy chicken nuggets.” I saw there are new sauces as well. I ordered the born again nuggets and a new sauce called Wild buffalo sauce.
“Whooh!” my buddy exclaimed. “I tried that stuff once. Hot going in -- and hot going out!”
“I’ll take a regular barbecue sauce with that too please,” I then instructed the counter-boy. He was happy to comply. The little counter-boys are very agreeable at this particular location. They’d probably empty the till into a sack for you if you asked nicely.
Well ee-gads! The wild buffalo sauce was indeed on the wild side. Quite the kick. Tasted like Buffalo style chicken wings (go figure). Problem is that chicken nuggets are far too bland to stand up to this sauce. You taste the sauce and nothing else. The compliment factor is right out of the equation.
Actually - that’s not the problem. The problem is… This stuff tore me apart. I mean - tore me to pieces. On the way home from St. Catharines to Caledon I stopped at every Tim Hortons on the way - to use the bathrooms. For those who aren’t familiar with Ontario geography or the obscene prevalence of Tim Hortons donut shops - that is a whole lot o’ stops. And of course I had to buy a bunch of small crappy decafs along the way because I’m terribly self-conscious about using restaurant bathrooms without demonstrating I’m a customer.
Insane I tell you. I’m still a little woozy. Probably the dehydration.
Tim Hortons - by the way - is American owned. I just like to remind people that because it’s such an irritating goddamned Canadian icon. I’m not nationalistic about this. I support free trade. It’s just the irony of it. Probably half of middle class Canadian families spend 4 figures a year on the world’s shittiest donuts and coffee - the coffee mostly - and they’re of course paying for the name on the store. The products are dirt cheap to make which I suppose is why they taste like dirt in the first place.
Tim Hortons advertises all these sweet little drippy Canadian iconic vignettes on TV as if to say Tim Hortons = Canada. Plain and simple. I think I’m the only sonofabitch not buying into it.
Oh my god! I just realized! Tim Hortons and Wendy’s are the same company! Now I get it. The whole wild buffalo thing is a conspiracy! A cross-branding initiative!
“Come to Wendy’s for the wild buffalos. Go to Tim Hortons for the toilets!”
Bastards. And it’s probably all designed to get me. Me! The last hold-out from a kinder gentler civilization where coffee tasted good and a donut filled your whole hand. Gosh. This is exciting. I feel like the hero from Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 or George Orwell’s 1984.
Wow. I’m on the lam.
FWG
Thursday, April 06, 2006
The evils of poker
Okay. I’m on my way to work this morning and the CBC radio show The Current is all about the societal implications of the Texas Hold’em poker craze.
After work the CBC goes back on of course and the Here and Now show is featuring – the societal implications of Texas Hold’em poker.
I listen for a while and when I can bear it no longer I switch to a music channel and sing happily along to Elton John’s version of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds and other popular favorites...
Then the news comes on and somehow – slow news day I guess – they get to talking about the societal implications of Texas Hold’em poker.
This poker craze is all so insidious, you see.
They’re glorifying gambling! Making it out to be a sport! Getting kids hooked on it so that they will blow all their tuition money on on-line poker and ruin their lives!
Vile bastards.
Whatever.
There’s nothing wrong with poker. I’m not into it especially but a lotta people are. And why shouldn’t they? It’s a fun game with intriguing dynamics. And if folks want to play for money they have every right to. It makes for more excitement. We’re a wealthy recreation-intense society. Poker suits us to a T.
Poker is just an activity. It’s not a drug. It doesn’t seduce people into becoming stupid about it. People – some people - get stupid about it. It is the initial getting stupid about it phase that precedes the so-called addiction stage.
The first time you bet money that you can not afford to lose – that’s stupid. You know damn well that in poker – as with any form of gambling – there are more losers than winners (and if you don’t understand that then the stupid factor came into play long before you even heard of Texas Hold’em).
The problem ain't TV or gambling or poker, honey. The problem is stupidity. And that’s been around since the garden and the apple – and will keep proliferating in this nanny society of ours. Because we’re all so busy trying to protect stupid people from themselves – and graciously excusing everybody – and I mean everybody – from taking responsibility for their own actions. Societal phenomena get the blame for everything. Personal accountability is the target of the biggest witch-hunt in all history, my friends. It scares me more and more every day. Beam me up, Scotty.
Is this a shock – me speaking this way? A self-proclaimed socialist? My socialist agenda is based on finance, not intelligence. It stems from the inherent flaws in capitalism that would turn every democracy into a land of a few elite billionaires treading over endless heaps of dead and dying peasants – if not for the moderating effects of taxation and social programs. Moderating effects – far from full compensation for the perversions we’ve allowed to the monetary system – Okay. Just stop me now. We’re not ready to get into this!
Let’s just cut to the chase. How’s this for theory?
Stupid man starts betting money he knows damn well he shouldn’t. This becomes a habit and then an addiction (if you go out for that sort of thing) and he spirals out of control, loses all his money and winds up living in a cardboard box in a back alley.
Perfect. Mr. Stupid will not father a litter of stupid kids in his cardboard box – and thus – less stupid people in the world
It’s called natural selection, people and it ain’t cruel. It’s natural!
Cheers!
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