Word of the Day

Now what kind of self-proclaimed writer would I be if I didn't offer a regular feature that promises to enrich the reader's vocabulary? Of course, "Day" must be taken loosely. With my track record it may be more like word-of-the-year.

Today's word: GRANDBASTARD

Definition: I don't really know for sure. Possibly it refers to the bastard child of your legitimate offspring. Or it could be the legitimate child of your bastard offspring. Or perhaps it is just one who is a phenomenal jerk. Who knows?

Let's see it in a sentence:

"...Lord Frey, who had outlived seven wives and filled his twin castles with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and bastards and grandbastards as well."

------ George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

Great book, by the way. Many thanks to Aequitas for the recommendation.

So there you have it. Please join us for tomorrow's word of the day, freckelshnowzercat.

These are the people in my neighborhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you looking for?"

"Books."

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

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

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


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

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

"Do you know this dog?" I ask.

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

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

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

"No. Just a friend."

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

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

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

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

"Cream for coffee."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bring on the balloons and clowns and open bar

Hooray. Hooray. That was my 400th post. Is that any kind of milestone?


Took long enough, I guess.
.








(Editor's note: We have no idea who those two guys are.)

Brothers from different mothers?

Call it a rip-off or call it a homage. Either way, this is my response to the very cool Automattic and his post of the same title.


St-Louis Ram's Steven Jackson and Predator. Can you tell which pic is which? Me thinks not.

.





I rest my case.

I don't even *like* cat food

Walking home from the bank this morning, I passed an old lady who was toddling along with a full bag of groceries in each hand - and not the regular disposable stretchy plastic bags either but those big foldable reusable ones that you buy for a couple bucks.

"Good morning," I said. "May I carry one of your bags for you?"

She looked at me, horrified, and said stiffly, "No thank you."

Clearly I must look like the kind of guy who would rape an old lady and steal all her cat food.

I never imagined I would look like the kind of guy who would rape an old lady and steal all her cat food but hey, I've been wrong before. Maybe I should have shaved this morning.

"Okay," I said. "Have a good day." Then I kicked my legs back into second gear and left her in my dust.

Ten minutes later, The Baroness informs me that, "Elsie says she's sorry."

"Who's Elsie?"

"Our next door neighbor. She says she's sorry she was rude to you but she didn't recognize you until she saw you walking up our driveway."

Well the joke's on Elsie. Because I didn't recognize her either.

Steve-o: The Final Farewell

Well, I hate to say it, But my close association to Steve-o-of-Streetsville has come to an end and I can only come up with four previously undisclosed offerings. This shall be the end of the Steve-o series but take heart. Between everyone else I know, combined, I tend to hear enough peculiar things that I will continue to post along a similar vein. Unfortunately - or fortunately - there are no more Steve-o's, but we'll do the best we can in his absence.


As always - words in italics were sang, not spoken:



Falafel, you came and you bought me a turkey, on my vacation from workie.

Did you capture the chili monster and cook him?


Okay kids! It's almost bed time! Brush your teeth and get your jammies on and smoke your two packs of cigarettes!


HELLO WISCONSIN! Dee dee dee, dee dee dee, Hangin out, down the street, playin badminton, standin on my feet...



The sentiments expressed above are not shared.

Notice of Impending Return

In case anyone is still peaking in at this space now and then:

FWG has been lost in severe hermitude of late; fueled indirectly by severe poverty. As tides have shifted and various worthwhile income sources are now appearing on the horizon and the pieces of his next stage in life are finally coming together, we expect his full return and consistent presence here in Blogland very shortly.

In the meantime please enjoy some complimentary muzak:

Harbor front

The water pulses; endless waves endlessly failing;
Heartless gestures.

Far out over the bay the king-hell bridge lies sandwiched between two seas;
Water below and smog above.
It crawls with white trucks;
Like maggots on a twig.

On opposing shore, buildings rise from the tree layer which masks the concrete jungle beyond.

Steel plant smoke stacks rise from great brown piles of brownness.
They are cold and empty now
Because a dose of reality labelled pour ekonomy
Is spoiling all our golden dreams.

It’s almost spring and a dozen rusty leaves rattle in the wind,
Death-grip on the barren tree still holding.

Thrum of bicycle chains come now and then and go.
A pair of roller blades zooms and whirs
Like a fighter space jet.

Gulls shriek as if being cooked alive;
Remind of the strangled coughing spasms upstairs
Keeping me awake last night;
Leaving me sleepy.

Sudden cool wind on my nape jars me awake.
Strong breeze turns the page; I grasp it tight
So it turns the other page.
The wind does not want this poem written.

Red-leafed flag flaps and claps.

Man in lycra addresses his beeping apparatus;
Drinks water from a flask made of some material
beginning with the prefix poly;
Reminds me I could go for a cracker.

Teenage girls are making a list of everyone they know who are pregnant.

A man objects to my putting the guitar away;
Wants to hear some bluegrass.
I doubt my songs would qualify.

Pointy sailboat finally slides by
Like a needle marking tree trunk graduations.
Fifty white birds meet it head on;
Skimming the steel blue surface
In rock-steady formation.

Man and boy in matching caps arrive with rods and reels.
Junior is neither petulant or sluggish but eager to cast.
They seem fond of their circumstance
And one another.

Only straight above does the sky appear that most striking of blues;
Mankind’s favourite colour.
The shield between we and an eternal endless wasteland of hydrogen and radiation
Dotted with improbable oases which I will never see
Because the most worthwhile thing in the cosmos is we,
And we are not meant to last
And we seem not to know that we are
Or that we aren’t.

Song: Sheets of Canvas

I'm composing tunes these days. This one is full of delightful D chords. D6, Dsus2, Dsus4, etc. Also a G-add2 and a modified Gm. It would sound better, I think, if sung by a female - or, you know - anyone who can actually sing.


Sheets of Canvas

It's the space within the frame
Where visions brought to life with care
From treasures of the spectrum lay
Upon the surface layer by layer.

Azure lake and robin sky,
Ivory mountain, trees of green,
A shallow V; the trace of wings;
Whispers of freedom grace the scene.

In sheets of books the learning's only
A gathering of testimony.
In sheets of canvas the mind embraces
A gathering of eternal skies
In the spaces
Where the canvas lies.

It's the hand that gathers wind
And pulls you 'cross that azure lake
Away from cells of endless noise
And wins your solitary escape.

Alone on the water and in your mind
With trees and mountains at your side,
The evidence of senses
Cannot be denied.

In sheets of books the learning's only
A gathering of testimony.
In sheets of canvas the mind embraces
The truth that only the sailor knows
In the spaces
Where the canvas blows.

It's the shelter where you lie
Beneath the sea of heavenly lights
When flame has turned to embers
And the gazing is done for the night.

A glimpse of Earthly reality
There in the cedars and the pines.
A sense of the world's eternity
Alone on a mountainside.

In sheets of books the learning's only
A gathering of testimony.
In sheets of canvas the mind embraces
The wisdom seeded in rivers and parks
And the spaces
Where the canvas arcs.

Twenty-Five Random Things About Me

This is a crossposted Facebook tag:


I confess these are not random. they are the only twenty-five I came up with.


1. I sometimes am subtly cynical regarding common misuse of the English language (see above).


2. I realize that language belongs to the people at large and that dictionaries only report what is happening in the general public. Thus the literate elite are always held at ransom to you bastards!


3. I boughts me some socks in China Town. Twelve pairs for ten bucks. They is grey and fuzzy and I loves them.


4. I have twice had to trim a protruding nose-hair. I propose this should mark the coming of age of a man instead of the arbitrary completion of nineteen orbits of the sun. A passing star, black hole or interstellar dust cloud, if near enough, could possibly upset the earth's orbit but nose-hair growth would remain unaffected in such an event, unless of course the resulting barrage of comets pummels the earth and kills every creature with a nose.


5. I have moved to Hamilton Ontario and am looking for a Security Guard job - a cushy one with a desk and a roof over my head - so that while I'm writing eight hours a day I can collect a paycheck for doing nothing. If anyone knows of such a sucker - I mean - security company - do let me know!


6. I’m supposed to be writing eight hours a day. I don’t think this counts.


7. I’m learning to play the guitar. It’s going well and I’m writing songs now. And that counts.


8. I am writing this while sitting next to an animal that is part Terrier, Poodle and Shiatsu. He is fondly referred to as a Terri-Poo-Shit. He looks more like a rat with a perm. Sometimes I like to play with the little ragamuffin. Other times I’d like to hurl him great distances just to see if he comes back or not.


9. I tried to throw a snowball the other day and discovered I am likely no longer a competent baseball player. And possibly a girl. I took a few steps forward and stomped the evidence into slush.


10. I’m down to 282 lbs which is the lightest I’ve been in this millennium.


11. I’m bored of this exercise already.


12. My new housemates play oldies radio precisely eighteen hours a day. I might have to go back in time and kill every musician in the free world. And then perhaps Hitler if there are enough bullets.


13. Since moving to Hamilton I’ve been in the company of nothing but drunk people. If you know anyone in Hamilton who is sometimes sober please ask them to visit me and warn them that I may need a hug. To any Hamilton Facebook friends who may be reading this - please don’t be insulted. And for fuck sakes, have a coffee or something.


14. I like my new room. The ceiling is low and the walls are that artificial wood panelling that I thought could never happen to me. I pretend that it’s a cabin on a ship and that I am the captain but not Captain Stubing and not a pirate either.


15. While sitting around in my cabin pretending to be a ship captain I have been doing some sipping and I have discovered that I’m becoming rather fond of Irish whiskey and brandy too. I thus will now accept the nicknames Mister Whiskey or Mister Whiskers or even “Whiskey McButtersworth Ching Ching Magoo” or anything you can throw at me, really. I’m not afraid. But don’t be overly vulgar or I’ll have you thrown overboard.


16. I’ve spent more money and more time out of the workplace than I anticipated and I may be sticking around paying off debt a little longer than I originally anticipated. Perhaps eighteen months. India is still on the radar for 2010. Unless of course I make the Olympics. Is there an Olympic poetry team?


17. I play “Masters” lacrosse. “Masters” is a nice way of saying “old men”.


18. I have to pee.


19. I have returned from peeing.


20. I do not have a cell phone and not because of the whole brain cancer thing but because I won’t have you bitches interrupting me every time you feel like it. But I admit it will be cool being one of six remaining earthlings when the rest of you are dead. That’s right. Because brain cancer kills. It’s not like hiccups.


21. Well, maybe it is like hiccups. But it’s like a hiccup where your head falls off.


22. I’ve been in Costa Rica, Trinidad, Ybor City, a boarded-up abandoned school, the World Trade Centre, the press box at A.C.C. and possibly your pants, depending on who you are. And if you’re wondering about that time you were really drunk and passed out - yep. You can count on it.


23. I’ve truly had enough of this.


24. I like every food I can think of except cucumbers but I burn cucumber-scented candles just to live dangerously. I don’t tell upcoming dinner hosts about the cucumber problem because nobody makes a dish with cucumbers where you can’t just pull the cucumbers out. They put them in things like salad which no one likes anyway. I pull them out of the salad and hide them between the host’s couch cushions or in their toilet tank or aquarium.


25. I am a new day rising.

I may already be a winner

I try to stay away from coffee-shop coffee but when I do partake, and when they`re doing the roll-up-the-rim-to-win shenanigans I almost always win. Meanwhile my friends who spend a thousand bucks a year at Tim Hortons complain that they never win.

Of course I never claim the prizes - the free donuts or muffins or what-not. I either lose the little paper cup shards or else tip prostitutes with them.

Not this one though! This is terribly exciting. I`ve won a Brookside almond sample! How cool is that? Okay, so it`s not like an entire almond. It`s just a sample, but still - even if I just get to lick the salty almond dust off of it or something...

I can`t wait.

[Editor`s note: We`re pretty sure he`s kidding about the prostitutes.]

Dress me up and take me anywhere

So Pan and I are returning from the book barn with a reclaimed two-panel wooden door for his bedroom because a couple nights earlier he punched his current door into a thousand splintereens on account of the dog being bad and the fairly obvious assumption that it must have been the bedroom door what made the dog be bad.

And yes, the book barn also sells reclaimed building materials. It's your one-stop used-stuff place. So there.

On a whim we stop at Le Chinois for a nifty little Indian buffet lunch which I totally wear.
The first casualty is a spoonful of butter chicken which leaves a nice trail on my black shirt before hitting the floor. The next is an entire tandoori chicken leg sans one or two bites.

Finally I lose the knife. It decorates both shirt and black jeans in butter chicken sauce en route to the carpet. Pan about has a heart attack laughing. "Are you gonna pick that up?"

"Before we leave," I say. "That and the others and whatever else may fall in the mean time."

As the waiter brings the bill we are both crouching under the table salvaging stray cuisine and cutlery.

"Wow. I'm covered in food," I say as we leave.

"Yeah, and your fly's open," he says.

I check and he's right.

Oh well. At least I'm wearing underwear. Hey - I had a good time and no one (and no doors) were hurt. So there.



IN OTHER NEWS:

The move to Hamilton which has occupied roughly 130% of my time is finally complete. Soon I will have all my new arrangements and logistics settled which will absolutely entail 40 hours per week of writing time of which a portion will be dedicated to blogging regularly. I should be able to commit to five posts per week. I want to get this boat sailing.

Also hoping to renew participation from Aequitas and Skeeter Willis and get Tati (Terry Ann) on board and make this thing a more dynamic community. Looking forward to spending more time with you!