Hello friends

I guess I’ve been absent a while, eh?

I’ve had plenty bloggable ideas. I was going to post a notice that it was safe to take the gun away (from his “cold dead hands”) now that old Charlton got his wish and passed on to the Happy Hunting Grounds. Maybe it’s better I didn’t. A joke couldn’t be more obvious, eh? It’s probably been done on every late-night TV show by now.

I haven’t been very motivated lately.

The day job has been more challenging with the sudden departure of an associate and the portion of his work falling back to me until someone new is hired. I’ve barely been pulling my weight with regards to the media company. Attendance with the writing group – very weak. And I haven’t updated their web site in forever. Lacrosse season is back so that’s one night a week eaten up until late August. At least it’s valuable exercise. Haven’t been going to the gym. The writing’s been sketchy. Been pushing out words but not at the rate the ideas come so that deficit still grows. I’m sleeping terribly. Strat-o-matic is the only thing I’ve kept up with and it’s surely the least important thing going on in my life. Been reading plenty and watching too many movies and doing a whole lot of thinking and dreaming. And I’ve ignored you, my excellent blog friends, though I think of many of you often.

The further I get behind the less motivated I am to do something about it. That’s always been the way with me.

It’s more than that, though. I’ve been restless and growing more so all the time. At my performance review last week I told my boss I feel like an imposter there and I don’t know how long I can continue to work there. Great career move, eh?

I’m still very happy by normal standards. Don’t for a second feel bad for me. I still enjoy much peace and sense much freedom. But I know I must make changes soon. This life formula isn’t working. Not at all. So much of what I do feels like a great waste of time. But at the same time everything I do involves good people – friends I can’t bear to pick and choose between.

I know what brings me joy. I know very well. A full time career does not. Financial security does not. Owning a truck doesn’t. This furniture, these possessions – I don’t want any of it anymore. I really don’t. I’m changing all the time. I keep evolving. Where does it end?

I want to just quit the day job and work part time and write for money – even if it’s a struggle.

I want to trade the truck for a van and travel across the country. See my relatives in BC and California. Maybe stay there.

I want to go to some piss-poor nation and do some kind of missionary work or something.

Sometimes I want to just walk out the door and leave everything behind. Live off of hand-outs in exchange for showing people the way! “Peace and love, brother! Your life is an illusion! Let me rescue you from this slavery in exchange for a hot dog and a night’s rest on your couch!” Yeah, that’s bound to work out well, eh?

Do you think I’m crazy?

Freedom! I know I got it. In my head, no question. But on the ground – on the ground - I’m not doing anything with it.

Something has to change. I can’t keep playing it safe and getting nothing done. There’s a big fat world out there and it needs some shaking up, dammit.

For Claudia Supermom:

In response to your very own 'tag':

1. Who are your much loved Bands? Favorite songs by them?

Rush. A very unusual band. Unique style. Been around since the seventies. Their songs tend not to seem even catchy the first couple times you hear them but when given a chance to grow on you they captivate in a way unlike anything else I’ve ever heard and they never ever ever get old. As a result, almost everyone falls into one of two camps; those who are deeply into them and those who’ve made no connection with them.

Neil Peart is the most incredible drummer ever – hands down. Super-human, what he can do with his bazillion-piece kit (I swear – you’d think he has 12 arms and 3 brains) but that pales against his poetic contribution. He’s a marvelous writer and his sophisticated lyrics are rare in the rock world – dissecting society and the human condition in a way that captivates male youth while promoting views that champion balance, freedom and kindness.

Incredibly positive role models that deeply affected my life emerging from adolescence and likewise that of (surely millions) across the globe. The world would be a far uglier place without them. That’s a huge statement but I know it to be true.

Fave songs: La Villa Strangiato, Spirit of Radio and every single song on the album Farewell to Kings and on all six consecutive albums from Moving Pictures through to Roll the Bones. And many more…

I also love Bruce Cockburn for much the same reasons.

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2. Do you like your job? Could you do your boss' job?

I work for a company that sells BS. I take no pride in it but it pays the bills and it’s pleasant. I like the job but don’t covet it. I like the security about as much as I like the idea of giving it up to start the next chapter of this adventure called life; which is a very nice circumstance to be in. I don’t kiss anyone’s ass.

I can’t even contemplate my boss’s job. I’m not interested in managing people. I once had a tendency to gravitate to leadership roles but never in the workplace.


3. What is the first thing you would do if you won the jackpot? (I mean after you collect your winnings.)

After collecting my share of the winnings from whomever I sold the ticket to in order to negotiate my privacy, I would pay off my debts and those of my friends and relatives, and then acquire:

a small publishing company
a modest home at a remote location of high altitude
an eight-foot telescope
a horse and carriage
a few cases of wine
twenty boxes of Cohiba Espléndidos.

Hopefully there would then be plenty remaining to give to worthy causes.


4. Most annoying thing in the newspaper?

The words. Every insipid lying one of them. Oh, and the pictures. On the up-side I like the little flecks – the recycling imperfections. They’re quite soothing.


5. Best line from a movie?

No question: “You take the red pill, you stay in wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

Film: The Wild Dogs

(2002)

Stray dogs. Small children. Prostitutes. The handicapped. The poor. The enslaved.

This film concerns the vulnerable and those who hold power over them; the men and women of privilege who choose between self-interest and mercy at every moment. Hard choices.

It’s a simple story; more or less a glimpse of things; food for thought, though not delivered with perfect objectivity. Parallels are drawn with transparent calculation.

Much of it is gently delivered with performances so real you know that there are some non-actors here, just being themselves; wonderfully comfortable in front of cameras.

It’s schizophrenic in style and method; at times as deeply resonant as a superior documentary; at times haunting and artful; and at times smacking of CBC made-for-TV; stiff and under-produced.

Overall a sincere little flick reminding there is still regard for kindness in the world. Good good stuff.

The Farm

Dropped in on my folks. They weren't home. It was a nice half-thawed day so I wrecked an old pair of running shoes tromping around in the slush taking photos.

I can't watch this without falling down laughing

And now, a word from our sponsors

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #285

Bald men driving flashy convertibles are in no way trying to compensate for their lack of hair any more than drivers of large trucks are trying to compensate for small penises.

Bald men drive convertibles because they can; not having hair that, blowing in the wind, might painfully flog their eyeballs.

Much as men with small penises can safely climb up into big trucks without an enormous endowment hampering their mobility.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Store at room temperature and out of reach of children. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom if you have eaten a meal withing the last sixty minutes or if you regularly hold conversations with the pimple on the lobe of your left ear.
.

Close Encounters of the Steve-o Kind

Recent random murmurrings of Steve-o, the roommate. His song in italics:


AH-AHHHHH-AH! Atreyu! Puff Dragon!
AH-AHHHHH-AH! Bumbafarian!

I am Lionel, King of the Thundercats!
THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER CATS!


Keep slapping Dracula. A slappy Dracula is a happy Dracula.


I'm Stockwell Day. I don't like homos or black people. Do you want to punch me in the nutsack? I'm not going to answer your question. I'm Stockwell Day. I won't tell you whether our security is adequate. I'll tell you how it's better than it was before. We have a tenth of the population they do, so we only have to do what's in the interest of our sovereignty. Are you going to punch me in the nutsack now?


Itth a shmall world after all
Itth a shmall world after all
Itth a shmall shmall world.


Steve's been waiting all day for a barbecue
Barbecue
Experience
Steve's barbecue experience
Steve
Experience
Barbecue...


Is Granny spry?


Rosemary Burps forever
She only burps after rosemary
Rosemary bur-urps forever


What's that leaking on the floor? Could it be? Oyster juice!
Oh Oyster juice
Leaking on the floor
Don't worry, it's just oyster juice. It's good for you. It's good for your health. It makes you fertile. Like Murtle.
Oh, fertile Murtle...


When you wish upon a star,
Catching moonbeams in a jar,
Doesn't matter where you are,
Out in space or here on Mars.
.

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The preceding sentiments are endorsed by Steve-o, fertile martian oysters, your strange uncle that nobody talks about and by nobody else.

Aequitas: City Sleeping

As I'm abed, the wind whip howls
Around the corners of my house,
In waning year.
The snow is packed and
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
Footsteps at my door.
I rise and call
'Who's there? Who's there?'
No one answers.
Outside, though
In whip howling wind
A man passes my door.
CRUNCH
The snow packs underfoot
Or was that something else?
The bare trees sway about
Haunting figures, but
Creaking, groaning,
Reaching out for something. What?
What what what do they want.
The warmth of summer air.
In waxing year perhaps there's hope
But not right now, in waning year.
CRUNCH CRUNCH
'What was that?' again I rise
To noise outside.
Perhaps the sound of deer?
It could not be, they don't tread here.
The city is where they dwell.
Or was that something else?
CRUNCH
It's there again.
I decide (against my better judgment)
To stay awake and have some tea.
CRUNCH
Outside they sleep
Dead, or no? It doesn't matter.
In waning year the living
Are as cold as the dead.
Or is it the other way 'round?
CRUNCH
Through the pane
Of frosty glass, I see
A figure walking, back and forth,
Though it doesn't see me.
See me? Be me. Don't try,
It hurts.
CRUNCH
Not snow this time, but something else.
-Oh no! Something else.
I wonder what it is.
I robe myself and step outside
Into whip howling wind,
To look around and have a see
At what it is disturbing me.
Over there, by the refuse bin,
A bear scrounging meal
I asked him
'Why are you about so late?
You should be asleep.'
He looked at me with tired eyes
CRUNCH
'And so should you, now go away'
So away I went,
Back abed, whilst the wind whip howls
'Round the corners of my house.

Dinner Along The Amazon

(1985) short fiction by Timothy Findley

If you like to suppose that money can’t buy happiness, you’ll find plenty of comfort here. Lots of high-society types in these stories and they’re all spun out on some dysfunction or another. Typical Findlian characters.

Those pieces here, written in first-person tense tend to contain the greater subtlety and useful insights that make Findley a writer of depth; of literature, in my opinion, rather than fiction, while those in third-person are generally lacking (not a necessary formula, by the way, or even a common one in my experience).

And then there’s this strange piece – Daybreak at Pisa – a scene from a play that is written in prose form which, granted, seemed to accomplish more than reading it in script form might have, but why describe settings in terms of stage position rather than bringing the authentic scenery to life? This either went over my head or nowhere at all.

What Mrs. Felton Knew is another radical departure. It might have been called Country Mouse Meets City Mouse - For Psychos instead. From the literary schemes referred to above we’re suddenly thrust into an Orwellian environment that is out of place in this collection in terms of content, style, scope and mood. It falls flat as a cautionary tale, devoid, it seems to me, of any link to logic or reality. It’s like he said, ‘Here’s a nasty shocking random idea! Boo!

Mind you, I could be accused of the very same crime. I sometimes bury the critical metaphor way too deep.

Otherwise, there’s enough insight into the masked confusion of modern day mentality to make this work meaningful, and enough humor, wit and charm to keep it entertaining. Skip the two pieces named above for a more efficient experience.

FWG

Image stolen from www.amazon.com. Go figure.

Freaks and misadventure - part 2: The freaks

So where do you go when you need a good dose of freakdom to balance off the misadventure?

That’s right. The No Frills at Creditview and Bristol. I’d promised myself that my last visit here would be my last ever but you know how things are. This is the end of the line. I’d passed all the kinder gentler supermarkets when I realized I was in need of some yumblies and feeling optimistic, I dared take my chances at the little grocery shop of horrors.

While I was left personally unscathed I did have to witness a thicker display of boobdom than usual at the checkout – the 1-8 items only lane, of course. The actual names of this latest collection of spazoids to enrich my existence shall be respectfully masked by random aliases.

Up to bat at the register is Mr. Oblivious who pulls about fifty items from his shopping cart. The rest of us have baskets. Roughly forty of his items are cans of dog food. Mrs. Natterchops, maybe fifth in line and one ahead of me, watches with a keen eye and cleverly deciphers that fifty far eclipses eight on the counting scale.

“Hm!” she grunts. “That sure looks like more than eight items to me!”

Mr. Oblivious appears not to take notice.

She turns to me. “Maybe he doesn’t know how to count.” Then turning back around, says more loudly, “That must be it. He must not know how to count.”

I glance at the basket of produce in her hand. Like mine it contains six or seven items. But wait. Another basket lies on the floor at her feet, containing at least eight more items it seems, bringing her count to fourteen or more. Surely fourteen also eclipses eight according to any Judeo-Christian new-world counting scheme.

But now a new character arrives. It’s Mary McReservation and she drops a pack of butter tarts into the basket at Mrs. Natterchops’ feet and walks away again. My head tips forward. I gaze without expression at the abandoned tarts.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to read!” Mrs. Natterchops barks. A couple pairs of eyeballs look her way but not those of Mr. Oblivious. He’s just daydreaming about his puppies I guess, and the International Gala Puppy Festival he’s to cater.

Mary McReservation returns with a giant breadstick in a white paper sleeve. A wise selection. She can use it to defend herself if Mrs. Natterchops audits her item count and goes for the jugular.

Finally, Mr. Oblivious, King of Canine Nutrition, moves along, followed by a couple others. Mary McReservation comes to bat with Mrs. Natterchops hanging back, ignoring the pretty red separator bars and placing her veggies at the mouth of the conveyor belt, wasting six square feet of space in front of her while my right arm stretches another inch.

Mary moves on, Natterchops is promoted and I approach. First I tackle the sea of randomly discarded baskets. I stack them all in a single tower, resisting the urge to squawk, “Maybe she doesn’t know how to stack!” I wouldn’t be heard anyway. Mrs. Natterchops is raking the young cashier over the coals.

“Why did you let that man use this lane! He had too many items! You shouldn’t have let him use this lane!”

‘Oh lady,’ I thought, ‘Just shut up and let her check out your tomatoes, will ya.’

[Editor’s note: We believe FWG is referring to actual tomatoes. Just be thankful she wasn’t purchasing melons.]

She really laid into the poor girl. “It’s your job to turn people away who have too many items!” Of all the dunderheadedness this was the one thing that offended me. Why you’d expect a cashier (never mind that she was half the age of the perpetrator), who makes a cashier’s wage, not a policeman’s wage, to take on the responsibility of policing the public is dumb enough. But thinking that as a customer, you can just walk into a commercial establishment and assume the role of owner/manager and start telling the staff what their job responsibilities are goes beyond stupid.

The cashier said nothing but looked uncomfortable. I really regret not speaking out in her defense. Instead I waited for Mrs. Natterchops to leave and said, “Just ignore my friend there. She’s on drugs.”

She didn’t seem comforted. Oh well.

Freaks and misadventure. Freaks and misadventure...

Said it before and I'll say it again. You start up a blog and your life turns to freaks and misadventure. The universe conspires to give you shit to blog about.

Monday night. I'm working late at Ye Olde Information Company. 'Til 11:30PM actually. Very rare I put in that kind of overtime and I don't resent it. They treat me pretty good there.

I'm half-starved from missing dinner. I pack up and flee through the darkened cubicle farm to the West tower exit door that leads to the 2nd-floor lobby. There, I hit the elevator down button and wait.

Ding! The down arrow above the right-hand elevator door lights up. The door opens maybe half an inch and immediately closes again. The down arrow light goes out.

Things that make you say, hmmmmmmm.

Some kind of defect. Occasionally an elevator will malfunction and require service. No problem. There are three more elevators. The one here on the left hand side and two more just like them in the East tower lobby (the towers are not precisely towers in the strictest sense as they are firmly connected on every floor.

I hit the down button again. Nothing happens. I hit the up button. Nothing happens. Now both buttons are lit up and no doors will open.

Screw this action, I say. I maneuver my briefcase and laptop case into the same hand, pull out my wallet and draw out my security access card so I can swipe the security door and go back into the dark office. I go through the lifeless West tower, into the dark abandoned East tower and exit the security door there to confront the East tower elevators. I hit the down button.

Ding! The down arrow above the right-hand elevator door lights up. The door opens maybe half an inch and immediately closes again. The down arrow light goes out.

Things that make you say, What the holy flying fuck is going on here?

I hit the button again. Nothing. I hit the up button.

Nothing.

There are no stairs here. The stairs - as with many office buildings are strictly fire escapes. The elevators play a key role in building security. My access card is programmed for second and fourth floors only - the locations of our offices. Again I fumble for my access card. I leave, retrace my steps and discover that the West tower elevators are still in stunned mode. Both buttons lit up but no doors will open. I hit one of the buttons again.

And again and again and again.

I travel back and forth between towers for a half hour. No elevators will open. And there are no live security guards in the building.

I speak a few choice words. And by speak I mean holler. And by choice I mean - unspeakably vulgar.

I search the rolodex at reception and come up with a card for Polaris - our commercial landlord. I don't see an emergency number but who knows? I also find the home number for Anne, our office manager who also happens to be a Streetsville neighbour of mine.

It's now midnight and I know that she and her sister and mother will be sleeping but I'm desperate. I can't stand the thought of sleeping in the office for the night (which I've done before on a half-dozen occasions and vowed must never happen again). I make the call and get her voicemail.

"Anne, I'm terribly sorry to call you at home so late but I'm trapped in the office. None of the elevators are working. Please call me at the office if you get this message. Extension 555. Again - I'm really sorry."

I grab my luggage and march back through the office to the West tower elevators for yet another try. If this fails I'll have to consider using the emergency exit. The shit will hit the fan. The fire department will fine us $1000 or so but what the fuck? I'm not a rat in a maze. I didn't sign up for this shit.

Both button lights are still lit. I hit them again one at a time and no luck. I turn to head back to my desk in case Anne phones. I search my pockets for my security pass. I search my wallet. No pass. I've left it by the goddam phone!

I'm now trapped in the little 2nd floor lobby.

From here I can't even access a fire escape door.

I have no cell phone.

I'm fucked.

This area is in effect a balcony - overlooking the grand lobby below. So there are no walls; no sound barriers between I and the first-floor elevators below me. So I clearly hear the ding of the elevator door on the first floor below me. And I hear the door wheeze open. I step to the railing and shout, "Hello!" It must be the cleaning staff, right?

No answer. No footsteps. Nothing.

I ponder the situation. There's no way I'm going to attempt any sort of climbing down to the first floor balcony. It's a long drop. And I still wouldn't be able to get out. You need your pass to exit the building. But at least there's a payphone in the main lobby.

For something to do I open up the box that is sitting on the floor. Inside are flimsy metal skewers, cappuccino machine cleaning fluid and thermometers. Meat thermometers. I ponder how these items might help me. Then I remember I'm not McGiver for fuck sakes. There's also a large cupboard full of courier supplies. I imagine myself building bed and pillow out of envelopes and NEXT-DAY-SERVICE stickers.

I hear the distant ding and the opening of elevator doors below again.

"Hello!"

No answer. No footsteps. Nothing.

Either they are ghouls that are toying with my brain before they come and eat it, or else the elevators have gone completely off the rails. This opening and closing below goes on again and again. Occasionally I try the buttons but still to know avail.

Finally I notice that there is indeed a fire alarm pull switch present - beside the security door. If I want, I can pull this and the door will release. Then I could enter the fire stairs from within the office. But this does not appeal. The shit would surely hit the fan in a big way.

It's one o'clock AM. I've been trapped on this balcony for an hour now.

Now I have to pee.

Do I whip it out and soil the rug or do I pull the alarm and face the music? By soiling the rug I save them the $1000 or so in fines but they'll have to spend some of it on carpet cleaning anyway. And do I really want to sleep on a stack of envelopes tonight with the smell of urine in the air?

Ding!

The up light shines over the left-hand elevator! The door begins to open. I pray that no brain-eating ghoul lurks within. And that no The-Shining Here's-Johnny sea of blood pours out. I pray that it's empty.

It's not. A man steps out. He is the man from Polaris. Anne got my message. I'm saved.