Fast and Dumb

Checking in

2006-04-03T21:23:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time since I posted.

I don't know what got into me - or out of me - but I just haven't had the inclination to put anything down in a long time. There was a while there when I was putting up some kind of crazy crap every other day or so, but lately I just haven't bothered.

Maybe in the next little while, I'll add something. Get back in the groove. Get back on the horse. Whatever metaphor you want to use. But I don't know myself when that will be.

I saw a bum peeing on the street today. I wonder what it must be like to live each day without a shred of personal restraint.

Bless You

2005-09-15T16:36:00.000-04:00

I'm allergic to dust, so when I opened the file today - it was dusty - it set me off again.

*sneeze*

"Bless you!"

*sneeze*

"Bless you!"

*sneeze*

"Bless you! My goodness!"

The lady on the other side of my cubicle is one of those older busybody types. You know the kind - they always want to tell you about what their stupid kid is up to. Like, no matter who you might be talking to in your cubicle, she likes to barge in and offer her two unwanted cents to your conversation, inevitably steering the conversation towards something her son did. She has one of those interrupting, intrusive personalities, the kind I dislike most.

And she always "blesses" me when I sneeze. And since I sneeze a lot during the day, I'm getting blessed a lot.

Why? What for? Also, what do you do when you are "blessed" after you sneeze?

At first, I'd offer a grunting, "yeah, thanks," whenever it happened (to suggest to her I don't really want or need any post-sneeze blessing), but Busybody Lady never caught on. So now I just ignore her when it happens. Even someone more accomodating than me would inevitably arrive at this strategy after a while, especially when you sneeze dozens of times a day.

Seriously though, cut it out. Don't bless me anymore, it's stupid. Also, I don't like the reminder than I can be heard doing my business inside my cubicle. Pretend it didn't happen, for crissakes. What happened to discretion? This woman though, I have the feeling she'll always do it. It makes me wonder what she would do if she heard me fart in there, which also happens sometimes. Does a fart merit a blessing?

At least she doesn't say, "Gesundheit." Many people don't know this, but if you say "Gesundheit" after a sneeze, what you're saying in English is, "I'm a Nazi!"

So the next time somebody says, "Gesundheit" to you, give them the death stare and say, "I am not a Nazi, thank you very much."

I think I'll tell Busybody Lady I'm Hindu, and that her blessing offends my religion. I'm afraid to say anything though, because she might start rattling on about her son, and then I might be forced to strangle her.

Argus is Back

2005-09-15T06:22:00.000-04:00

Wow, what a month. Updates have been few because I didn't own a computer any more, a situation that was only rectified last night. I am now again capable of surfing for naked celebrities with impunity.

I don't have time for a long entry, but here is a quick social observation - you know when you're walking down the street, and a few of those skateboard kids come rolling toward you? Well, why is it that these guys are always attempting some kind of stupid stunt or trick move, but instead of pulling it off, they are constantly falling on the asses instead? I don't know if I've ever seen the successful completion of a stunt. No, they begin some silly jump or twisting manoever, the board goes hissing off into the gutter, and the slouching skate-punk gets up off the pavement and ambles off after it.

Why is there such a lack of skate-punk talent? Probably because the kinds of kids who become skate-punks are no-talent losers to start with, but gawd. I want to see a trick work for once.

Fire Update

2005-08-15T13:46:00.000-04:00

It isn't obvious from my other "disaster" posts, but the place I lived in that burned down was a townhouse. This is significant because three condos were burned up by the fire.

The fire inspector guy said that the cause of the fire was either someone's smouldering cigarette, or possibly a citronella candle. It doesn't matter either way, I guess. The place is burned up. Who cared how it was caused? Dumb as it sounds, all I wanted to do was go home, but it was impossible to do that.

Thank goodness for insurance. I should be getting reimbursed for most of my stuff, but some things, like guitars and books, are really irreplacable, memorabilia, and took years to collect. And stuff I wrote down, valueless from the perspective of money, is gone for good. I wouldn't wish this experience on anyone.

Let me tell you - it was the surprise of my life to wake up last week to discover the house on fire. One second I was dreaming (I still remember it - I was dreaming I was eating a pizza) and then the next, I had sprung from my bed, standing in the middle of the floor, because my cousin had just shouted in my room, "HOLY SHIT! THE FUCKING HOUSE IS ON FIRE!" Anything else I've experienced rates a distant second on my personal “Shocks of a Lifetime” all-time list. What else has happened to me? A speeding ticket? Nothing like this.

Thank god I had been sleeping in a pair of shorts, or else I would have suffered the indignity of escaping my burning house in front of dozens of neighbors in a set of underwear - or worse. Put it this way, the weather was very hot last week.

It's funny, even though waking up to a burning house was a total shock, I was strangely prepared for the evacuation. It's because I've always asked myself the question: If there was a fire, what would I do? I'm sure everybody has thought of questions like that at one time or another. Like, pop-quiz, hotshot: if a burglar broke in, what would you do? Or if a guy poked a gun in your face, what would you do? You know. So for a period that couldn't have lasted any longer than a minute, everything happened automatically:

I dialed 9-11:

Operator (bored to tears): 9-11 Emergency.

Me (freaking out): My house is on fire!

Operator: Please hold the line, I'm transferring you to our fire department.

Me: What?!

Fire Department: 9-11 Fire Response.

Me: My HOUSE is on FIRE!

Fire Response: What is your address, sir?

Me: (address) Ok, do you have it?

Fire Response: Yes, we have it. I'm going to ask you to stay on the line, sir.

Me: No way! I gotta go! (dropping phone to the floor, but not hanging up)

Now, I'd arrived at the question I alluded to earlier: What do I take? Keep in mind my bedroom was rapidly filling with smoke, so there was some urgency to the question. And, I'd inhaled whooping gusts of burning house that had disoriented me and left me feeling high for the rest of the day. Turns out that breathing a houseful of burning books, guitars, computers and LP's is a great way to get a buzz. Who knew? Next time you have some pals over, whip out some matches and go to town.

So - I was standing in front of my desk, and that made the first thing to grab obvious to me - my watch, a $500 Bulova. Next, on my bookshelf above it, my copy of Catcher in the Rye - I'd left about $800 stuffed between the pages (rent money, from my cousin - I'm not some kind of money-hoarding lunatic or anything). I waved my hand around on the shelf, desperate to snatch another book I had up there with money in it, but it was so smoky by now I couldn't see anything at all, never mind the book - and plus, that high feeling I just told you about started to feel a lot like drowning. I had to forget about the second book.

One more thing to get.

I sent an instantaneous prayer, dropped to my knees under the smoke, and looked under the bed. Hiding in the corner was my cat, Pepper. She mewled piteously. I grabbed her leg and dragged her out, which caused her pity-inducing mewling to ramp up into full-bore bitching.

"Let's go!" I told Pepper.

I staggered out of the bedroom, suddenly unable to breathe without coughing. I remember that it was like wintertime, sort of - only when I breathed out, I could see my breath was black instead of white. I made my way to the stairs, and there I found some guy, a total stranger, charging up by threes.

"Hey!" his eyes bugged. "Come on, man!" He grabbed my arm - my money arm - and yanked on me, which caused us both to fall down the staircase. I discovered the credit-card sized patches of erased skin later on. We landed at the bottom, in front of the door, and that's when I found my feet again and ran outside into the light.

Dozens of people were staring at the spectacle of the burning houses, and I could hear moaning sirens approaching, probably needing no direction to the fire, thanks to the billowing mushroom cloud drifting off into the sky.

This was 8:50, last Sunday morning. Sunny, and not humid at all.

Other than the burning house, it looked like it was going to be a nice day.

Family Emergency Update

2005-08-12T11:43:00.000-04:00

Hi guys, sorry about the radio silence.

I've had a very busy week dealing with a fire - most of my stuff was burned in a house fire, including good stuff I wanted to add it to the blog. This is particularly irksome because I wanted to get rolling on a book. I had a lot of work completed, and now it's gone. This is partially why the blog content was suffering recently, because I was dedicating my creative efforts elsewhere.

So - unfortunately, it's going to be a few weeks before I can add a fun blog of any substance to read.

Talk soon,

Argus

Family Emergency

2005-08-07T20:07:00.000-04:00

Argus is having a personal emergency right now - family troubles and possible deaths. I will update as is possible.

On Vacation

2005-07-29T07:54:00.000-04:00

I'll be back in a few days. Not sure how many though.

The Return of Superman

2005-07-18T19:39:00.000-04:00

In the pantheon of comic-book superheroes, there is one hero who stands alone at the top. He came first, in the desperate days of the Great Depression to inspire millions of people with the idea that one man could save the world. He was unquestionably good. He had almost matchless power, and by contrast, the classic poetic fatal flaw. The symbol he wore on his chest became one of the world’s most recognizable icons, right after the Olympic Rings and the Christian cross. He became the standard by which all those who followed were judged.

Superman.

Over the years, he has been portrayed in comic books, novels, plays, television shows, and movies, with varying success, strengthening his image in the minds of his fans.

So – as a guy who once rode his bicycle around with a “Superman” cape flapping from my shoulders, imagine my joy in learning that a new Hollywood production, “Superman Returns” will be released in the summer of 2006. The 1977 John Williams soundtrack began to strum through my mind as I started rooting around on the internet for information about the movie. I had reason to be optimistic; beginning with X-Men in 1999 and then perfected by the Spiderman franchise, the comic book movie has become a spectacle worth anticipating. And Superman, the greatest hero of the genre…surely it would be better than all the predecessors. A movie would be filmed befitting a character of his stature, with all the respect and reverence he deserves.

And that’s when I saw this:

Oh, my GOD!!

Was this a joke? It can’t be – but no. These pictures are found on the movie’s homepage to promote the film. This “Superman” is nothing like I imagined. So much of Superman is what he looks like, and this is frankly the stupidest costume I’ve ever seen. Hastily, I forwarded the pics to my friends, and these were their responses:

“HAHAHAHA! I literally laughed out loud. Is this for real? He looks retarded!”

“I feel like I was just kicked in the nuts. This can’t be the costume – is it?”

It looks that way. Where to begin? This costume is wrong from the top to bottom:

1.) The cape. The color is all wrong. It’s brown! It’s the shade of dried-up chocolate milk, and it’s too short. The real Superman has a longer cape, more majestic, nearly ankle-length. Also – it’s tucked into his shirt collar! Who came up with that stupid idea? Nice work, fag - that successfully showcases how narrow this actor’s shoulders are (whoever the hell he is, he looks like a wannabe Calvin Klein model). The real Superman has a cape like this:

"Talk to the hand. The SUPER hand. "

See how it sweeps over his shoulders? It’s like the cowl of a king. The new, stupider cape looks like how I used to wear my baby blanket, stuffed into my t-shirt when I was running around the backyard.

2.) The collar – it’s almost a turtleneck! How the hell is he supposed to hide that under his shirt? The blue neckline would be visible to anyone. See the straight-across Reeve neckline above for reference. Incidentally, this also permits a more favourable positioning of the cape attachment.

3.) The famous “S” shield – it’s way too small, and the raised-relief style is retarded.

4.) What’s with the hip-hugger jockeys? What are they, Underoos? Look at him standing there, it’s like he wants his bum-buddies in the steam-bath to check out his package. Should this movie be called “Ace & Gary”?

"Look at the size of my cock! You
know you want to!"

5.) The boots. They are too low on the calves, and the split in the front of them makes me think of the boots that Rocket Robin Hood used to wear on the 5:30 a.m. Saturday cartoons. Wrong!

Whatever limp-wrist designed this costume, I want them fucking fired! This "effort" is an outrage, an abomination! Back to the drawing board, there’s still time. It’s due out in 2006, shooting has probably only begun - so there’s still time.

And the actor – who is this pretty-boy? I don’t want a name-brand actor, that would distract from the image of Superman. You’d be thinking, “Oh, there’s Brad Pitt as Superman.” It has to be an unknown guy, so they got this part right at least. But where are the muscles? This guy couldn’t beat his way out of a paper bag! I want steroids! Superhuman mass to destroy enemies and protect the weak! Who is this guy kidding? Drink gallons of Winstrol and hit the iron. You’re an embarrassment, son! General Zod would have owned his ass. Margot Kidder would have thought him cute in a high-school valedictorian kind of way. He’s not a man.

And he’s not Superman.

This man always will be:

Looking in the Mirror

2005-07-16T00:03:00.000-04:00

I don't know if I should contribute any longer to my blog.

I've been asking myself, what's the point? One blog in millions. I sit in front of the computer to write something for people to read, but why do I do it? These are my standard blog entries:

1.) A comment or opinion on something. Something quasi-journalistic, but of course, not really, because it's basically unedited and untempered ranting. But really - who cares what my opinions are? Why are they worth writing about?

2.) A deliberately tongue-in-cheek story-ish entry, including dialogue and funny pictures. Usually immature. Why should I do that? How am I bettering myself or others by posting something ninth-graders would probably come up with? So many hours spent writing something that didn't improve my abilities whatsoever...

3.) Short stories. These seem to be the only worthwhile contributions, because I try harder at these, and hopefully people enjoy the content more than the other stuff, which mostly feel to me like brain-farts. But to make them blog-worthy, I edit them down and chop out various passages to keep the length punchy, or else nobody reads them. And the point is to get people to read, right? But why do I care if people read what I posted?

4.) Movie reviews. Rottentomates.com is a better resource, certainly.

Suddenly it all seems like such a waste of time.

Greatest All-Time Daydream

2005-07-12T12:35:00.000-04:00

[The scene: an aerial view of the Air Canada Centre in Toronto, the roof illuminated in the dark by a series of spotlights. The Toronto Maple Leafs insignia can be seen on the roof. Outside the arena, tense groups of fans in hockey sweaters wander around, waving to outside cameras.]

Bob Cole: “Time is winding down here at the Air Canada Centre. It is now a tie game, folks. 2-2, on Ward’s dramatic second goal about twenty seconds ago, at 18:55 of the third period. What a game! It gets no better than this, everybody; this is what playoff hockey is all about. It’s the seventh game of the Stanley Cup final, and it’s allll going to be decided tonight. Tie score! Between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Detroit Red Wings.”

Harry Neale: “We’ve seen an incredible performance tonight from Ward. Two goals, a fighting major, and a ten minute misconduct! He hasn’t left the ice since he was released from the penalty box two minutes ago, when he tied the score to bring the Leafs right back into this game, Bob.”

Cole: “And the crowd suspects there is more to come as they set up in the Leafs' end for the faceoff!”

(brief pause; crowd can be heard cheering loudly)

“There are only twenty-seven seconds remaining, and we’re going to overtime if neither team can settle it in regulation. The faceoff is to the left of a masterful Eddie Belfour, who has faced 44 shots tonight. The puck is dropped…and the Wings control. Shana…Yzerman, plays the puck to the boards, and is immediately mugged by McCabe. The puck is frozen over there at their feet as the two players kick away at it! And…twenty! seconds are now left in the third. McCabe finally gets his stick on it and plays it to an open Kaberle, wheeling over in front of Belfour…

(crowd suddenly erupts in roar)

"And Ward was just nailed at the line by Shanahan!…Ohhh, what a hit that was - and no call! His helmet is rolling across the ice…I hope his head isn’t in it!

(crowd begins to boo lustily)

“Kaberle still controls the puck, circling back behind Belfour in the Leaf zone, looking for an opening for one last rush - it looks like overtime now for this game!

(crowd begins chanting countdown: 10, 9, 8…)

“Kaberle, feeds a long pass behind Shanahan…and Ward grabs the puck at the redline! And – it’s onside! No icing! He’s skating full-steam through the middle…Lidstrom pokes…OH GOD, LOOK AT WARD, WHATTA MOVE! HE’S PAST LIDSTROM!

(crowd explodes, the roar distorting the broadcast microphones)

“Ward is all alone across the blueline! Only seconds left…shoots…scores! HE SCORES!!!

(Cole is screaming as the horn sounds to end the period)

“WARD, WITH HIS THIRD GOAL OF THE GAME, WINS THE STANLEY CUP FOR THE LEAFS! I’VE NEVER SEEN SUCH A FINISH IN MY LIFE! And there he goes! Mobbed by his teammates…what a sensational end to this series!”

(crowd is screaming non-stop – hats begin to drop to the ice like snowflakes, collecting in drifts to honour the hat-trick. Darcy Tucker is crying with joy as he hugs the jumping crowd of players. Stripped gloves and hockey sticks are flying everywhere as the team celebrates the most dramatic Stanley Cup victory in history. The wobbling camera cuts to coach Pat Quinn, who is shaking hands with the coaching staff)

Headed South

2005-07-06T19:25:00.000-04:00

When I heard the rush of car tires outside, I tented my magazine beside the cash register even before the bell rang; my feet hit the floor at about the same time as it dinged above my head. My boss, Mr. Hoyer, is big on customer service. At his gas station, he wants the customers seen to in less than thirty seconds, or else you lose your job. He’s very serious about that, too; earlier this summer, I came out to the pumps one night to find him sitting there in his old Crown Vic, his thumb pressed on the button of a stopwatch.

“That was twenty-eight seconds, Faber. You’re pushing it. What were you doing in there? Have your nose in a Playboy?” he sneered.

“No way, Mr. Hoyer! I walked out as soon as I heard the bell ring,” I said.

“You don’t walk outta there, boy, you run.”

I sighed. “Okay, Mr. Hoyer.”

“All right,” he grumbled. “Remember - I’ll be coming around now and then just to check up on things.”

“I got it, Mr. Hoyer,” I said. He clunked the Crown Vic into Drive, and he was gone, having not even topped up his tank. The asshole had come by strictly to harass me, and had left me feeling jumpy and picked-on. The hell of it was, I had been at his car under his thirty-second service standard, but I still had the vague sense in the back of my mind that he didn’t think I was doing such a hot job. I knew I shouldn’t have felt guilty about it, but I still did all the same. Thanks, boss. Ever since then, I felt a little nervous anytime I heard a car roll up outside, and I imagine that's what the old bastard had wanted in the first place.

I could see though, I wouldn’t have to worry just now about a visit from Mr. Hoyer. The car waiting at the pumps was a smaller, foreign car, a dusty blue Volvo that had seen some hard miles and better days. Not beat-up or anything; just used, the kind of car that you would never notice unless it was part of your job to pay attention to cars.

I moseyed up to the Volvo (but still certain I was there in under thirty seconds), and craned my neck at the driver, a worn, weatherbeaten-looking guy on the far side of thirty. His blondish hair was pulled back from his face in a lazy ponytail, and his chin bristled with the eccentric beard of a mountain man. In spite of the warm evening, he was wearing a simple cotton jacket, a fuzzed elbow propped in his window.

“Hello sir, what I get for you?” I said.

The guy, he spoke so softly, I barely heard him. “Can you fill the tank, please?”

“Sure thing. Supreme?”

“Regular,” he said.

I lifted the hose, and flipped the pump on. Hoyer’s gas station was one of the few left where an attendant actually filled up your car for you. Almost every other gas station was self-serve now. Hoyer liked it that way too, because it meant his station was different from other places. Superior. Along with his quick-to-the-car rule, he wanted us to check the oil and wiper fluid levels and things like that for the customer. He was pretty old school that way. I didn’t know of any other station that did that, but I didn’t mind it at all, actually. It meant I had a job, for one thing, and the genuine pleasure the customers took in these little considerations was worth it, both in the smiles (from women, especially) and the extra lettuce they would sometimes press into my hand.

“Check your oil, sir?” I raised my voice over the hum of the pump.

“I think I’m all right,” said the guy.

“Wiper fluid? Tires?”

The guy smiled up at me, and the quality of the grin lit up his face. His eyes were arresting, blue gunfighter’s eyes that had the sudden ability to reach out and hold you in place. Between the lines around them, I saw the teenager he must have been, not so long ago. The difference in his appearance was so dramatic, I actually did a double-take at the sight of it.

“Naw, it’s cool,” he said, opening his door and easing out of the car like an old man. He stretched for the sky as he did, arching to his tip-toes in his clunky-looking shoes. He was pretty small, I noticed. Small, and thin.

“You don’t strike me as a Volvo kind of guy,” I said.

The guy gave me his million-dollar smile again. “Oh, but I am,” he said. “Volvos are practical cars. They’re unpretentious vehicles, and the safest in the world.”

“I guess,” I said. “But women don’t much care about those things.”

“Well, I don’t care much about women, either,” he said.

“Don’t care - why? Are you gay?” I didn’t mean to say that, but my mouth has a way of acting before my mind can stop it. I didn’t know what it was, but I noticed that sort of a vibe radiating from him, something out of the ordinary in the way he was standing there. Or maybe it was just because he was slightly built man with long hair. But I shouldn’t have worried, because he just laughed at me.

“Gay - no. But I’ve been called that before. No, I don’t care much about women right now because I decided to go on the road for a little while. I always liked doing it, and it’s been a few years since I’ve had a good trip in the car,” he paused. “Have you ever hit the road? You know, just taken a powder and gone someplace?” he asked.

“I don’t have my license yet,” I said. “But even if I did, I think I would want to go on a trip like that with my friends, not all by myself.”

The guy leaned on his fender, tugging a pack of Camels from the pocket of his jacket. He poked one in his mouth, and tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear. “Yeah, but a trip like this, you need to do it by yourself,” he said around the smoke. A battered Zippo appeared in his hand, and he sparked up, pinching his face into the flame. He dragged deep, and blew a cloud into the night, tilting his head a bit to better hear the crickets out in the weeds. “A trip like this, you want some time alone, so you can figure some things out. Sometimes friends just get in the way,” he said.

“I guess,” I said. “Where are you going, anyway? Are you in a band?” I said, nodding at the large guitar case I could see in his back seat.

The guy stiffened a bit, turning to look at me. “I used to be - but not anymore. Not for a while. Are you a music fan?”

“No, not really,” I said. “I don’t have many hobbies at all, actually. I like watching movies and hanging out and things, but that’s about it. And reading, I do a lot of reading, too.”

He relaxed again, taking another drag of his cigarette. He closed his eyes as he did, the coal of the smoke brightening in the dark like a tiny toaster element in his lips.

“That’s okay, music isn’t very good anymore anyway," he said. "It’s all this processed MacDonald’s shit now, dreamed up by some suit in a boardroom for the teeny-boppers. ‘Are his jeans ripped enough? Is he dangerous-looking, but in a safe way?’” he waved his hand around in disgust. “They don’t even play guitars, most of them. American Idol bullshit. When I was a kid, at least the stupid hairspray bands could play instruments.”

He had this kind of sing-song voice that went up and down as he spoke, a sort of storyteller voice that made me think that he’d talked this way to people many times in the past. I liked listening to him. Just then, the gas pump dinged full, and I began to nurse a few more drops into the tank. Sometimes you can squeeze another buck or two into a supposedly full tank. I looked at the pump. “It’s going to be twenty-five bucks, sir,” I said.

The guy reached for his wallet. "Sir", he mused. "My old man made me call him that, I always hated it. I don’t look like a ‘sir’, do I?”

“I guess not,” I said. I thought he did, though. Anyway, I called everybody that who I didn’t know. In my hand, the pump stopped at last, and I flipped off the switch and racked the nozzle.

He walked over to me, holding the bills between his fingers. “Twenty-five,” he said, pinning me down again with his eyes. “And now, it’s time to rock and roll. How far am I from the I-96?” he asked, getting back into his car.

I folded the money into my overalls. “You’re almost there – it’s maybe a half-hour down the road,” I said. “Not too far. You didn’t tell me where you were headed.”

The guy settled in his seat, gripping the steering wheel for a moment with his fingers – remarkably long and thin, wrapping the wheel like tree roots. “I’m not sure yet,” he said. “That’s the other rule for a trip like this. You’re not supposed to know. It’s how I’ve always done things, and it’s worked for me in the past. But I do know I’m going to the South. I have an image in my mind, of a dream I had once,” he said, and now the gunfighter eyes were looking beyond me.

“There was this little bar - just a shack, really, beside a river someplace, in the South, and it was quiet, except for the water. You walked up to it, and all you could hear was wind in the sycamore trees around you, until you got to the door of the bar, and that’s when you heard the music playing inside. It was hot in there, and packed with people, like a religious-revival tent, with a bony waitress serving the little tables like a contortionist. These guys were onstage, like these 1950’s colored guys who looked older than Adam, their heads down over their instruments, and playing the Delta blues like all get out. They were sweating up there in their strappy tee-shirts, and the guy on bass was in his bare feet. And I wiggled in and found me a seat, and sat a while, drinking in the atmosphere just like corn liquor. And then sometime later, they let me play with them. I pulled out my guitar, and I played onstage, and one of the guys sang an old song I’d never heard of, but sounded familiar anyway.” He stopped, maybe embarrassed a little about what he told me.

“It sounds like a great dream,” I said.

“It was. I think about it all the time. Anyway – I’ve always wanted to head South, and find someplace where I can play barefoot on a stage. Someplace where nobody knows me, and it doesn’t matter to them that they don’t. And just play.”

“Why would anybody know you?”

He looked at me again, back from his daydream, and I squirmed a little under his long gaze. “Oh…I don’t know,” he said finally. “I guess what I mean is, some moments are better in front of total strangers, people who don’t have any opinions of you. You can just play for them…and if they dig the music…who you are won’t matter to them.”

“I guess I don’t understand. Nobody would know me if I played a song for them,” I said. “But yeah – the I-96 will take you south. A long way down, anyway.”

He reached for his keys. “Have a good night, man,” he said. He pulled his car away from the pumps, driving slow, the same way my grandmother would. He made the turn for the Interstate, and I watched his taillights blink between the trees until he was gone.

I went inside, and grabbed my magazine off the counter, intending to put it back on the display rack, when I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. There, peering over a Hot Rod magazine, I saw the same sky-blue eyes looking into me that I had just seen out by the pumps – but that was impossible. I yanked the magazine – Spin - from the rack, and read:

Kurt Cobain 1967-1994
Ten years after his death,an intimate look at a troubled childhood
and secret heartbreak that shaped a rock legend

It was him. "No way," I breathed.

But it was. Unmistakably, except in this idealized studio portrait, restored to the youth I had imagined in my mind's eye only moments before.

The customer bell rang again over my head, and by the time I made it outside, I knew that I had waited long past thirty seconds to get there.

Insults

2005-07-05T21:18:00.000-04:00

This is not exactly a deep thought, but I wonder why classic insults typically include body parts that are usually contained in a set of jockey shorts:

"Hey! DICK FACE!"

"Did you hear what she said to me? What a cunt."

"No. I said Combo #1, penis-breath."

And of course, there are the combinations:

"Suck my dick, you retarded asshole."

Who decided these are the insults? Society has taught us that these are the bad words, but what if back in the day, our ancestors had arbitrarily chosen different body parts?

"I say, give me my shield, you dimwitted kneecap."

"That's right. Lick my elbow, you wench."

"Where is my mead, you useless earlobe?!"

But it's probably not arbitrary at all, but because disgusting bodily emissions usually seep from the insulting orifices we are familiar with.

That is all.

Drag Race

2005-07-03T23:21:00.000-04:00

I am alone, folded across the back of my motorcycle as the day dies around me. The dusk descends upon me on the streets, creeping black across the empty lanes ahead, before being beaten back again by an approaching set of seventies-vintage streetlights. The tangerine fuzz of the spotlights is already behind me, disturbed now only by the flight of gathering moths, magnified among the cracks and oil-stains below like angel’s wings. Traffic lights hang ahead in the dark, red this time, and I back off the throttle, hearing the slowing whup-whup, whup-whup of tar snakes beneath my tires as the clock rolls back to zero. I pop the bike into neutral, and the green indicator light doubles, trebles, inside my visor before I slip it open above my head. I do this at every stoplight, because otherwise, my exhaled breath would fog the plastic.

I’m looking down the deserted road ahead when a car eases to the line beside me, a murmur of conversation floating out the windows from the back seat. I look over and see a glossy yellow Mustang, waxed and detailed with football-hero care. The tom-tom hammer of American V-8 burbles side-of-beef thick through my dusty leathers, thumping my chest with the heavy hand of a play-yard bully.

The driver, his wrist is cocked in extravagant relaxation on his three-point steering wheel, his left arm hanging chimpanzee along his pristine paint job. He looks me over.

“Nice pipe,” he says. “Let’s hear the engine.”

My exhaust, I just installed the titanium glass-pack the week before, and I hit the gas. The ripping rev of my own v-twin rises briefly above the notes of the Mustang, and then once more settles below.

“Nice,” he says. “I like that. Nice bike.” But just to underscore who the real man is, he pumps his own throttle, and his 'Stang flexes on the pavement, bellowing rich and angry on high-test gasoline.

“I’ve got three hundred and fifty horses to the rear wheels,” he says.

A face appears in the window, from the back seat. “Hey dude, you wanna drag?”

They can’t see my face inside my helmet, but they see me pause as I do the math. Three-fifty to the rear wheels, oh yeah, that’s bitchin’. But his car weighs ten times what my bike does, and I can hit sixty off the line in just over three seconds. Still –

“C’mon, man, c’mon, c’mon. Give ‘er man, let’s do it.”

Well, when you put it that way. I look behind, confirming the empty highway, and nod.

The backseat frat boy whoops and slaps the side of the car, and I flick down my visor, revving the throttle with a James Dean wrist. Not to be outdone, the driver of the Mustang gooses the engine, and the ascending snarl of dueling engines drowns out all other sensations.

We’re doing this, having our little hit-the-gas pissing contest, when the light blinks green, and I accidentally dump my clutch at nearly eight thousand rpm.

I feel my rear wheel grab, and the nose of the bike leaps from the ground, pulling the best third-grade poppa-wheelie you’ve ever seen. As the bars rise to my eyes, my wrist locks the throttle open all the way, and my new muffler etches a sparkling Back-to-the-Future stripe into the pavement as I blast across the intersection.

I hear the banshee shriek of the Mustang laying rubber behind me, and I know nothing but go, go, go, and at last the wheel of the bike comes back to earth, and I slam the shifter into second, the engine raving all the way open, the traffic lines ticking past as I hit seventy miles per hour, and I risk a look back.

The Mustang is sideways in the intersection, just pulling out, a blue cigarette cloud of vaporized tires rolling under the lights behind him. He blew it, I realize. Too much gas, and he sat there spinning his Bridgestones even as my out-of-sight wheelie was finally coming under control. I flash my brakes, one-two-three to tell him the race is over, and he pulls up beside me.

Inside the car, the backseat frat boy is giving me a mock salute, and the driver gives me The Nod. I nod back, impenetrable inside my leathers, and notice the bike is back again into the meat of its powerband. With one last look – I own you, motherfucker – I open the gas to the stop, knowing I am matchless at this rpm, and I blow past the nose of the Mustang at seventy again, charging for eighty.

The last thing I see are the downcast headlights of the Mustang in my mirrors, still struggling to catch me as I disappear into the night.

Argus sees: War of the Worlds

2005-07-01T10:42:00.000-04:00

I’m in a movie mood lately. I’ve seen all the big Hollywood blockbusters so far this summer, and this week I’m on vacation. Last night, after a week of going to the beach, I was in for a change.

“Wanna go see ‘War of the Worlds’?”

Sure. The reviews all look pretty good, and it’s got the redoubtable Stephen Spielberg behind the lens, with Tom Cruise doing all his usual Tom Cruise Faces for the camera. It’s as automatic a winning formula as you can get.

Except – it wasn’t. War of the Worlds was a big disappointment for me. The critics, for the most part, are way wrong with this movie.

If you’ve read the book, or seen the 1953 original screen adaptation, the 2005 version will have no surprises for you. Throughout the movie, I sort of held out hope that Spielberg would pull some magic out of his director’s hat, but it never happened. Keep in mind, the original story was written in 1898, so the plot turns aren’t as fresh as they could be – but essentially, this movie is "Signs" all over again, except the premise is even worse, right down to the scary basement scene, which did not work for me at all [Spoilers follow]. Tom Cruise and family are hiding out in a basement while enormous alien tripods stomp around outside, and which could rip apart the little house in which they were hiding in zip flat. But for some inexplicable reason, they sent in some kind of floating probe-eye (just like the 1953 version) to find them, instead of vaporizing the house as they had been doing everything else. Oh, and despite the alien’s obvious and incredible power, the Cruise family isn’t found. Huh? How big was that basement, anyway?

The other major plot point is the eventual demise of the aliens (no thanks to the humans in the movie), and although I won’t reveal it, various clues dropped along the way throughout the movie leave this device wide-open to critical flaying. So – we are to believe that 1.) the alien tripods have been buried under the Earth for millions of years, 2.) the aliens have been “drawing their plans against us” in all that time, but 3.) are taken out by…something even more stupid than the fact that 70% of the globe is under water? How could the aliens not have forseen this, in a million years of planning? Hopefully this next won't give too much away, but even we puny humans know enough to get a malaria shot before we visit Africa, as a precaution - but this kind of foresight was beyond the aliens. How?

Also, I got to see a cool vintage Mustang in the movie for about three seconds, teasing me into thinking it would show up later, but it didn't. What a letdown. You don't put a cool car into a movie unless you're going to use it for something. That's a rule, just like when a guy gets bad news on the phone, he throws it across the room, or when a guy says how great things are going in his life, he's about to die. There's a formula to follow.

This entire movie had the feel of a director and cast going through the motions. E.T. or First Encounters this ain’t. Wait for the rental.

Heat

2005-06-29T13:35:00.000-04:00

So far, this June has had more days 30 degrees or higher (86 Fahreneit) than all of last summer combined. Fourteen so far, and today figures to be the fifteenth.

Too hot to do anything. Surely too hot to add anything creative to the old blog. I spent yesterday growing red as a ballpark hotdog on a local beach, relieving my flesh periodically by wading out into the water and plunking myself into the drink. Too hot to swim, too, I'd just sit there neck-deep while the sand swirled into my shorts. I dragged a football out there to throw around, but even that was too much for me. A splashing preschooler grabbed it while I wasn't looking:

Kid: Hey, want your football back?

Me: Sure kid, pass it here.

Kid: (evil cackle) Go get it then! (throwing the ball in the other direction).

Me: Why, you little bastard.

His Mom: HEY! Don't talk like that to my son!

I drank litres of water, juice, and Cokes, and made one trip to the bathroom all day. Luckily I have the week off to rest like a Mexican in the shade - but what happens after that?

I read that in all of recorded weather history, no June has ever been the warmest month of the summer, so I'm guessing there will be more furnace-like days in the weeks to come.

It's feast or famine up here in the Great White North. Only a few months ago, I was wearing three layers of clothes for the trek to work, braving -30 weather conditions. Now, I've worn the same battered pair of swim trunks every day for a week. Hell, what do I need to take them off for? Anytime I get too hot, I just jump in the river, so showers are no longer necessary.

I did succumb to a shave yesterday, though. Beard hair is even more intolerable when you're sweating.

Wino and the Mystery of the Bathtub

2005-06-20T17:26:00.000-04:00

I enter the house, and as always, I am reminded of a cave. Wino likes to spend his days in the dark, and the curtains in the living room are cinched shut with old-woman care. His room upstairs has thick beach towels thumb-tacked around the windowpanes to prevent the passage of any sunbeams, but ironically, he usually conducts his business in there with the desk lamp switched on.

“I just like it that way,” he shrugs.

I see him in the gloom, flopped on the couch, and I hear the familiar blare of the Simpsons of the tv set. I used to think of it as a point of pride that I can pinpoint any episode if I hear a single line from the show; right now, Wino is watching the episode where Homer joins the Stonecutter’s fraternity.

“…and now, the final ordeal. The paddling of the swollen ass...”

I drop into a nearby chair, and exhale mightily. Another weekend, vanquished.

“Where were you?” Wino asks.

“I went away for the weekend.”

“Oh,” he says. He has his finger on the remote, tapping the red rubber buttons in Executive Order contemplation. Missiles loose. Say again, the missiles are in the air.

“So. Ah. What happened in the bathroom?” Wino says. He turns to look at me, and I’m struck with the impression he’s been thinking of a careful way to say something, possibly for a while, but then decided to just come out with it, and damn the torpedoes.

“The bathroom? What are you talking about?” I say.

“The bathroom. I wanted to have a shower on Friday,” he grouses. “But there is something wrong with the bathtub. It’s horrible.”

"What the fuck?!"

I struggle to remember something wrong with the bathtub. Friday morning was a couple of days ago. A leak?

“There’s a mess in it,” Wino prods.

And then I remember. Before I packed my bag for the weekend, I noticed that a cookie I’d left in the bottom of it had disintegrated, spilling crumbs all over the inside. Lacking anything better to do with it, I had simply brushed out the crumbs into the bathtub.

“I guess I forgot to rinse it out,” I say. “Why, what’s the big deal?”

“Go look at it,” Wino says. “Tell me what it looks like.”

Natural bathroom condensation had collected with the crumbs in the bottom of the tub, and I had to admit, it wasn’t pretty. I imagined Wino, sitting here in the dark all weekend, indignantly pondering the sudden appearance of this unknown munge in the bathtub.

“I thought for some reason you got drunk again the night before, and had an accident in the tub,” Wino says.

“Why the hell would I do that, with the toilet right beside it?”

“How the fuck should I know? Like I said, I thought you were drunk. Who knows what you were thinking.”

“Why didn’t you just clean it out so you could have your shower?” I say.

“I didn’t want to touch it! And besides, I thought it might be something else, not puke,” he says, gesturing at a few specific clots sticking to the side of the tub.

“Oh! Those are just chocolate chips. Chips Ahoy,” I specify.

“All right then,” Wino huffs, and heads off in search of his towel, glowing a happy blue in his window.

Not Guilty?

2005-06-13T22:19:00.000-04:00

I was in a room with about twenty other people when the news came over the radio:

Not guilty. On all fourteen charges.

What?

To a man, nobody could believe it. I still can't. Honestly, does anybody really believe Jackson is innocent?

Look at this weirdo. I haven't been following the details of the case, but I don't need to. With this guy, sweeping generalizations suit the matter at hand.

He's guilty. He's a freak. He paid off millions in hush money to avoid previous civil trials. For crying out loud, there were fourteen charges against him - none of them stuck? What's the matter with the American legal system when a guy like this can get away with what he's done? I refute all arguments in support of this clown.

I thought I had seen it all when OJ walked away a free man, intent on finding the "real killers."

Yeah, I'll bet he's right on the case.

Knowing Jackson's history though, it'll only be a matter of time before he messes up again. It makes me wonder where he finds all these parents who are stupid enough to let their kids within 100 feet of this creep.

Astounding. Where is a good lynch mob when you need one?

Bored at the Team Meeting

2005-06-08T21:14:00.000-04:00

10:21 a.m., Tuesday, June 7, 2005.

We’re at our weekly team meeting. Our manager has just finished summarizing the topics discussed at his own manager’s meeting; twenty-one interminable minutes of communicating issues hashed out by the tall foreheads that either don’t impact me personally or don’t interest me very much.

“So, in staffing issues, Frances Bane will be returning to Group 3…”

“Who?”

“Frances Bane – she was seconded to another department for six months. She’s back now.”

“Oh.”

Someone thoughtfully purchased a box of donuts for our little get-together. The sun slants through the window to sparkle across various glazes and chocolate varnishes. Unfortunately, all the donuts are the filled variety; the only kinds that are left are blueberry and Boston Cream. I’ve always hated Boston Cream. The sickly yellow filling will forever remind me of pus and mucus, in that order.

Beside me, Jen is ignoring our manager and playing with her hair. In sudden concentration, she scribbles a hasty note on her pad and shows it to me:

fucking Bryce needs to close his legs o my god its gross

Bryce is sitting across from us. He is nearing fifty, and we have speculated that he is still a virgin.

“And he looks just like Cartman from ‘South Park’!” Conan said yesterday, his eyes bugging out at us. “His head is perfectly round, and it jiggles up and down when he laughs! ‘hyuh-huh-huh!’ And his torso is perfectly round too!”

We laughed, after looking over our shoulders.

Today, Bryce is wearing a loud Hawaiian-style shirt, only it’s printed with orange and yellow flames instead of a calming island pattern. He is also wearing shorts. For some bizarre reason, he is sitting with his knees lifted to his chest, his white deck shoes braced on the edge of the table. From her seat, Jen has a perfect view of his package. And if Bryce’s satin shorts ride up any farther, well…

“I’m going to puke on myself,” Jen hisses. She furiously braids her hair and stares at the ceiling. Our manager is now talking about the upcoming division picnic.

“And apparently there will be sandwiches and that sort of thing there. Veggies and dip,” he says.

“I want fajitas, like we had last year,” Conan announces.

“Sorry buddy, our new commish didn’t want to do that this year, so it’s gonna be veggies. It’s all you can eat, at least. And it’s only five bucks this time,” my boss says.

Bryce drops his feet to the floor, not noticing Jen’s groan of relief. “Hey! I was at the bar last weekend, and we ate like kings!” he says. “There was an Italian wedding upstairs, and the groom called the bride on his cellphone and told her the wedding was off. So the cooks had all these pans of pasta they had to get rid off. I haven’t eaten like that since Christ was a cowboy. God!,” he says, his head bobbing around like a pigeon. “Those were good eats. I guess the bride had it coming, too. Ate like kings.” Inspired, he reaches for a Boston Cream.

Conan rolls his eyes at me. Bryce, of all people, making disparaging comments about a failed wedding. The irony is hilarious.

“Bryce thinks I’m his friend or something,” Conan told us. “He was telling me about this great massage he said he had. I guess he has this ‘back problem’. Something. Anyway, he was saying that it felt so good when she put her hands ‘down there’, and that he ‘understands why guys would go down to Bank Street to get one of those massages.’” Conan made a face. “I think he was fishing around with me a bit to see if I approved of his behaviour. The guy is a mental case.”

“Eww! He’s creepy. He wants to be your buddy,” Jen said.

“He’s weird,” Conan said. “He’s a ball of rage. I bet he’s the guy who plugged up the urinal on purpose.”

Bryce, he’s chewing with his mouth open, and the tallowy mess is a hundred bukkake come-shots, squidging noisily in his cheeks.

The clock ticks over to 10:30, and my boss closes his notebook.

“That’s all I have,” he says.

Arthur: 1947

2005-06-06T22:32:00.000-04:00

It is the sound of grunting men that attracts Art’s attention. Grunts, mild cussing, and the sound of splintering rock. Art just bought a sack of seed at the Co-op; he’s on his way back to toss the hundred-pound bag into the bed of the Model-A truck he’s owned since 1928. He hears the men curse again, and so, he draws around the corner of the Co-op to find out what the fuss is all about.

He sees two men, Jack McCracken and Frank Honey. Men younger than himself; boys really, their forest-green work shirts sticking like bread-dough to their chests in the July heat, each heaving twenty pound sledgehammers at the wall of the Co-op. Jack is taking golf-like swings at the wall, his hands high on the ash-handle to control his strikes. From the look of things, they haven’t made much progress in their work. A few forlorn chips of stone are flecked about their feet, dusting their boots grey.

“Afternoon, boys,” Art says. “What’s all the racket over here?”

“Hello there, Art,” Jack says, removing his hat and wiping his brow. He’s too weary to match Art’s grin. “We’re trying to put a hole in this wall, here. They want to build an addition to the Co-op out back, but we have to take down the wall first. But this part of the wall isn’t brick, it’s solid rock. It’s probably been here since Creation,” he pants.

Art sizes up the grey rock. “This doesn’t look too bad,” he says.

Jack guffaws. “Ain’t too bad? Frank and I have been out here for a half-hour trying to put a hole in this here wall. If the two of us can’t do it, you can’t either. And we’re half your age.”

“Well, let’s see about that. Hand me that hammer,” Art says. “I’ll have it down in a jiffy.”

Jack snorts and horks something yellow into the weeds. “All right. Be my guest, Art. Let’s see what you can do with her.”

Art sets down his grain sack, and pulls his hanky from his back pocket to dry down the handle of the sledge. It’s slick with sweat. It wouldn’t do to have it go flying out of his hands. He wads up the red cotton and stuffs it back where it came from.

“The first thing about sledgehammers, it’s about speed, not strength,” he says to Jack. “You have to hold it right here at the end so that you can swing it as fast as you can. You’ll be banging on this wall all day if you choke up on the handle like you were. You need fast, hard swings.”

Art hefts the sledge by the end, and whips it around, the tendons on his arms jumping out with the force of his swing, aiming for what looks to him like a mortar line. The rolled cuffs of his shirt pop as he flicks the sledge with sudden, vicious speed.

Pwack! He’s satisfied to see a fault develop in the wall from just the one hit. Jack and Frank exchange looks.

“The other thing about sledgehammers is, you have to start your swing over your head. Let gravity do some of the work. Swing down at the wall, like you would chop a tree. Down, not from your waist.”

Art snaps the sledge behind his ear, and arcs another strike at the wall, grunting with effort:

"Uhhnn!" Pwack!

The hammerhead thunders into the wall, a rattling shower of rubble breaking loose and tumbling to the earth. Art felt that last impact shake the wall a bit. It won’t take many more. He rests the hammer Bunyan-style on his shoulder. Jack and Frank aren’t wheezing for breath anymore.

“And if you think you’ve got the grip…well, the fastest swing of all is with one hand. Your other hand can slow you down, oftentimes.”

Art looks at the wall, widening his stance and spins the sledge from his shoulder one-handed like an Indian tomahawk. He steps into the swing, a sneer of effort creasing his face, as he puts all of his two hundred and twenty pounds behind the hammer, following through the impact to his mark like a pitcher would release a good, hard fastball.

Pwackk!

And a rock the size of a pumpkin disintegrates, splitting and tumbling into the basement of the Co-op with a half-dozen others, a hole at last ripped wide in the rough-hewn granite. A cloud of rock-dust billows from the wound, rolling in the summer air and sticking like flour to the faces of the men. The wall looks to be at least two feet thick at this point. With three hits, Art did in thirty seconds what Jack and Frank couldn't do in a half-hour.

Art hands the hammer back to Jack, dusting off his hands, and tips him a wink. “Maybe you fellows softened it up for me first, though.”

He picks up his grain sack like it’s nothing more than a bag lunch, hefting it over his shoulder and ambling again for his Model-A. It used to be red. It still is, only now it’s because the scars of twenty winters have rusted the doors and rocker panels.

Jack watches him go. Almost fifty years later, he’ll meet Art's grandson on the occasion of his funeral, and he'll tell him about the day he saw Art break down a stone wall with one hand.

Argus Watches Cinderella Man

2005-06-03T23:30:00.000-04:00

I saw the trailer for Cinderella Man a couple of weeks ago when I watched Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.

It seemed straightforward enough. The violin strains began, and I learned about a Depression-era boxer, James Braddock, a scrupulously good man who was down on his luck. Slow motion fighting sequences began to play, married up with an inspiring music score, followed by clips of the villainous opponents the hero must overcome. I saw grim depictions of the hardscrabble poverty “Jimmy” endured, and yet, against all odds, the teasing suggestion that he managed to climb high enough out of the gutter to take on the champ for all the marbles. Cool, I thought.

(warning - some spoilers to follow.)

What can I say, I’m a sucker for these kinds of movies. I decided on the spot to go see it when it came out, even when I had the gut feeling that I basically saw the same movie last year when it was called, “Seabiscuit.” Identical themes, sentiment, set pieces, camerawork, and structure were used in that film for the same effect. Or even better, I could pop in my Rocky DVD and see the original underdog boxing movie without laying out my ten bucks. But hey, that’s why formulas are used; because they work. It doesn’t have to be complicated for me to enjoy a movie. Cinderella Man (yeah, I didn’t like the title much either – I wondered why they used that name, until I read about the real James Braddock, and found out they called him that in the papers back in the day. They should have called it something like, “Doctor Knockout” or "White Guy Kicks Ass", but anyway) isn’t the most original movie I ever saw, but to me the experience was money well spent.

I’ll just say right now, Russell Crowe is the best leading man in Hollywood today. Nobody else comes close – no contest. His range is great in every significant gee-whiz movie he’s ever made – A Beautiful Mind, Master and Commander, L.A. Confidential, Gladiator. He can add Cinderella Man to his list. He was completely believable as a punched-out boxer from 1935 New Jersey; a movie like this starring Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt would leave you thinking, “hey, there’s Tom Cruise!” all the time, but not Crowe. You forget who you’re watching, and that’s what a great actor is all about. I like also how most of his roles are the “man’s man” kind of role. You get the feeling when you watch him that Crowe takes no shit from anybody in real life, something I like and which of course, only adds to the image he presents onscreen. I read before I watched the movie that the fighting sequences he shot for the film were of him and the boxers actually fighting each other, teeing off with full-contact punches to get enough good footage for Ron Howard to use. It only makes me respect Crowe’s work even more.

Russell Crowe: a real man

The whole cast was great, in fact. Paul Giamatti plays the part of Jimmy’s aw-shucks manager, a guy trying hard to present the image of success, but who in fact lays everything in his life on the line to support Jim’s title hopes. He takes the role of “supporting actor” literally, propping up Jimmy with motivational pep-talks, fight tips, hydro money, and yelling the occasional, “you son of a bitch!” anytime Jimmy does something spectacular.

Renée Zellweger capably played Jimmy’s wet-blanket wife. For two hours, she actively tried to manipulate Jimmy and hold him back from the redemption in the ring he sorely needed, both for himself and for his impoverished family. Hello – we’re starving? Why is it that women in every sports movie seem to exist only to discourage/distract/corrupt the hero? I swear, either they actually say things out loud to put him down (like Zellweger’s character did), or else they subtly mess up his head with too much sex in order to derail his ambitions (like in The Natural). Think about it, seriously. Rocky. The Rookie. Slap Shot. Major League. Any sports movie, the athlete should have stayed away from the woman like the plague. I dare you to name a sports movie where that wasn't the case. So some future advice: anytime you watch a movie that involves sports of any kind, realize that the woman in the picture is actually an enemy, and success will result in spite of her existence, not because of it. They are tokens. Props, if you will. You can’t very well have a movie without a woman in it, after all. [Edit: Now that I think about it, when is the female lead ever an advantage to the male in any Hollywood movie? Unless the movie is a chick flick, and so, most of the cast are women anyway, I just realized that women exist in most movies in order to provide 1.) somebody to save, 2.) somebody to get naked, 3.) somebody to hold back the hero. When is there ever a strong female presence that carries part of the movie? I'm sure there are some, but I can't think of any right now. It's not like I'm against women in movies either, I'm just sayin'.]

The guy who plays the evil champ, Max Baer (I don’t know his name, and don’t feel like looking him up), was also great, alternately charming and despicable; a joking, clownish killer who swaggered around outside the ring with a half-dozen trampy women in tow. He had style. And the only time I laughed out loud during the movie happened during this sequence:

(Some guy, knocking on Max’s hotel door) Max. Max!

(The door opens – it’s Max) What!

The Guy: Max, Jim Braddock –

Some Girl, behind Max: Max, whoizzit?

Max: (yelling) Shut up!

I don’t know, it was just the way he yelled at the women. I got a kick out of it. A few people stared at me though, because I was the only guy in the theatre laughing about it. I was hoping he’d give the woman the old whack-with-the-back-of-the-hand treatment, but I was let down.

As the movie ended, your typical “based on a true story” summation notes lit up, nicely underscoring for the audience the total manliness of Braddock: he served “admirably” in World War II (I imagined him charging over a trench, gunning down multiple Nazis with a machine gun in each hand) and with his construction company, built a bridge in the 60’s (I then imagined him strutting around manfully with huge slabs of metal on his back, single-handedly assembling the structure).

I only had two serious complaints about the entire film. Before it started, I was forced to watch seven commercials before the feature presentation got underway. I don’t mind the trailers – but commercials? I didn’t pay ten bucks for that crap. It was eighteen minutes from the official start time that the flick was finally rolling.

My other complaint has to do with the fight sequences – they were shot really tight, so it was hard to tell exactly what was going on. There were times when a guy would land a punch, and I’d think, “cool!” and he’d move his head a bit and I’d see it was actually the bad guy who threw the great haymaker. I found it really tough to figure out who was who, unless Jimmy was fighting a black guy. Then I had no problems.

Anyway, after all that, you don’t need me to summarize the movie in order to figure out whether you’ll like the movie or not. Did you like Rocky? Seabiscuit? Any movie that involved a hopeless underdog who manages to overcome seemingly impossible odds? Don’t forget, it’s a Ron Howard movie. Do you really think he’d leave you swinging in the breeze? You’re in capable hands with him behind the camera.

I say, if you like movies where the hero gets pushed around a bit, but gets the chance to come back and stomp the shit out of all his tormenters, this is the movie for you, with just a touch of schmaltz thrown in to keep the movie firmly in the “Oscar nominee” trolley track. It won’t really surprise you, but that’s kind of the point. You wait the whole movie for the, “oh, yeah!” moment, and you aren’t left disappointed.

Awesome Brand Names

2005-05-30T21:14:00.000-04:00

Yes - you're reading the label correctly. This is "Cock Flavour" instant noodle soup.

I saw this for sale at a discount store near my place called, "Big Bud's." Think of Walmart, and now think about a store five notches down the ladder of retail respectability, and then you'll be getting within shouting distance of ol' Bud - when I was shopping there today, it appeared that vagrants and drunken reprobates were stocking the shelves.

I have no idea how any company could imagine this to be a good name for a product they want people to eat. But on the other hand, the moment I saw it, I knew I wanted to buy it. So perhaps it's actually part of some genius marketing strategy. The "strange impulse buy" segment of the market, maybe.

Anyway, the next time you've got a hankering for some nice warm Cock in your mouth, I hope you think of Big Bud.

Argus & Wino are Moving

2005-05-27T22:04:00.000-04:00

I wrote in another post that my landlord was selling our place, and that Wino and I would have to find another place to live unless we successfully managed to scare off any buyers.

Well, that proved too irritating. People kept coming to see the place at inconvenient times anyway, and although nobody has bought our unit, we decided, "let's get the fuck outta here," and are moving this weekend. The place we're going to is actually in the same townhouse complex - sixty feet away! So we're going to be carrying our loot back and forth between the houses just like ants at a picnic.

And gosh, it's going to be so much fun. It's pouring rain right now, and the forecast calls for more tomorrow.

So if you're checking back, it'll be a few days before I can post again.

Argus and Wino go to the Driving Range

2005-05-24T22:34:00.000-04:00

Wino just came in the door, and he’s still wearing his aviator sunglasses. He pulls them off, the arm catching on his ear as he pulls them from his head. “Hey,” he grunts. His face is all blotchy from the sun outside. I'm watching tv, waiting for him to come in.

“Check it out,” I say, pointing to the corner.

He looks. “Golf clubs. Whose are they?” he says.

“Mine. Jason gave them to me – for free! He got them at a yard sale, but he doesn’t like them. I guess one of the club heads flies off, but I can’t remember which one he said. I think we should go try them out. There’s a driving range down the road,” I say.

“I dunno,” Wino says. “I’m hungry. I feel like eating.”

“Well, Wendy’s is on the way.”

Wino brightens up a bit. “Hmm. I guess if I had to, I could force myself to eat a hamburger!” he says, full of beans again.

I wish the thought of a fast-food hamburger still did that for me. I can’t help but think of Dave, that old coot with the cheesy apron in the tv commercials, who probably died with chunks of burger stuck between his teeth, and a rough sketch of a proposed “Quadruple Classic Burger” clenched in his stiffening hand. Our local Wendy’s kept a cardboard cutout of him standing for months after he died, watching over the burgers he loved so much. And then he was thrown in a dumpster.

*

The range is ten minutes down the road, and there aren’t many people there when we arrive. It’s the dinner hour, so most people are probably still eating. I had an apple on the way, so I’m all right for now. But Wino is griping.

“Cripes, we’ll be teeing off right into the sun,” Wino complains. “And we should have gone to Wendy’s first.”

“If we did that, then everybody else would be here too by the time we showed up,” I say.

But it isn’t all that bad. With almost nobody on the range, we are easily able to pick a couple of stalls that are side by side, and are soon driving balls downrange, or slicing them merrily into a nearby farmer’s field. And in my case, launching them nearby other golfers with frightening regularity. What? What’s that, man? No, I didn’t shoot that ball at you. You must be mistaken. No, it was that other fellow. My balls are orange, see? Relax, man. Put the club down.

Some people, they take this stuff so seriously.

It isn’t long before we notice the guy out in the field in his little cart, trundling around in circles, collecting golf balls.

“What a shitty job he has,” I say, shading my eyes to look at him.

“Definitely. Watch this,” Wino says. His voice has the tone of a kid waiting for a bottle rocket to go off. He lines up the cart, and drives the ball, missing him by a mile. I laugh.

“You have to lead him a bit, he’s motoring along pretty fast. Aim ahead of him,” I say.

Wino sets up another Day-Glo orange ball on the rubber tee, and fires a second unnoticed shot. “Goddam,” he says. “To hell with the tee.” He grabs a handful of our balls out of the little bucket, sprinkles them around on the threadbare turf, and begins to shoot, rapid-fire. Pwip! Pwip! Pwip! I quickly join in the fun. The guy in the cart is nowhere near the little colored flags we’re supposed to target, and it becomes rapidly apparent what the hell we’re up to.

“Hey dad! Those guys are trying to hit the man in the cart! Can I do that too? Ha ha ha!”

We turn, and a little kid with his dad is pointing at us and smiling, and to our surprise, so are a few other people. It would seem that shooting balls at the cart-guy is accepted course etiquette.

We blow a few kisses and settle back into our stances, recommencing our shooting, each near-miss drawing cheers and clapping from our little crowd:

“Good one, man!”

“That was close!”

“Cap that motherfucker!”

It is no secret to the fellow in the cart what is happening either, and he is trying his best to wither us with dirty looks as we shoot, but he can’t really do anything about his little problem. And besides, I reason, this is why he earns the big bucks. To my amusement, his long stares are only provoking more laughter and ridicule from our fan club:

“Lookit ‘im! I don’t think he likes it!”

“Suck it up, buddy! What did you think would happen?”

“You’re a retard!” screams the little kid.

It is Wino who finally makes contact. The cart makes an abrupt turn towards us, when a previously off-centre shot touches down on the roof of the cart.

Pong!

“Oh yeah! Direct hit! Way to go, champ!” yells the guy with the kid. Wino smiles and raises his hands, brandishing an imaginary heavyweight belt for the spectators.

“Okay, I’ve got to get him now,” I say. “There’s only one more ball, so I have to make it count.”

“Hurry, he’s driving straight at us. Put down the wood and try an iron. Maybe an eight or a nine,” Wino urges.

The guy is really booting along. I grab the eight, drawing back for my patented home-run swing. “Die, rebel scum!” I yell, swinging for the fences.

And that’s when the head flies from my yard-sale eight-iron, spinning majestically through the air, catching the rays of the setting sun like a chrome boomerang as it arcs through the sky, the trajectory ending perfectly on the windshield of the ball-collector’s cart. Behind the destroyed spiderweb of glass, the driver goes apeshit, tromping the gas.

“What do you say we go get those burgers, Wino?” I say.

Argus Sees Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

2005-05-23T13:48:00.000-04:00

So last night, my friends and I finally got together to watch Revenge of the Sith. We didn’t see it on opening night mostly because at this stage in our lives, we have other things getting in the way of immediate gratification of any desires we might have (fun stuff like jobs, girlfriends, appointments, and so forth.)

And was it worth the wait? I’m here to tell you that no, it wasn’t. No way, no by far.

I’m not a fanboy of the series, but I did enjoy the original movies, and even saw Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi as a kid when they were originally released in theatre. The two follow-up movies were big disappointments for me, but not because I was camping out at the theatre in a Wookie costume three weeks before the movies played for the first time; I was let down simply because they were lousy movies that didn’t appeal to me on any level; story, special effects, characters, dialogue. None of it was any good, I thought, and critics agreed with me for the most part.

However, I had reasons to believe Sith would be different. Most of the early indie reviews were positive (“fawning” isn’t too strong a word to use here for some of them), and even when the name-brand critics posted their thoughts on the film, the consensus was clear: Sith was a very good movie, the best of the prequels by far, and possibly a contender for “best of the series” status. Was it true? Would Sith finally live up to all the hype? I decided to hope that for this movie, Lucy would finally hold the football in place for Charlie Brown.

As it turned out, I shouldn’t have bothered. But at least I was conditioned to expect disappointment based on the last two films. The movie was a drag. I think modern movie reviewers are slipping in rating their movies because the overall quality of modern films gets worse with each successive year, and they are forced to give something a good review even if it doesn’t deserve it. I bet if you took Revenge of the Sith ten years into the past and released it without the majority of the gee-whiz special effects included, it would be justifiably roasted by the press.

Without summarizing all the plot structure of the film (that’s boring, just go read some reviews, plus I was so sedated that I'm sure I don't remember many of the details), I’ll lay out my reasons for why the movie sucked, in no particular order:

1.) The special effects. I read someplace that there were something like 2,000 special effects used in Sith, and I believe it. Every single scene was saturated with CGI “wizardry”, and I am something of an old-school movie fan who believes less is more. I also believe that the availability of cheap and effective special effects is used too often as a crutch by modern producers as a substitute for plot, and Lucas proved to be no exception. Never-ending battle scenes with thousands of blaster bolts flying back and forth, thousands of CGI monsters battling each other to the death, thousands of spaceships, droids, and people crowding each and every shot is just too fucking much to look at. (Even as the backdrop for the supposed dramatic scenes – for instance, why on Coruscant, the city-world, no matter what disaster or event was going on, there were always hundreds of ships flying past the windows like minnows in an aquarium? I was asking myself, “What the hell are those stupid little ships doing, anyway? Where are they going? Don't they know the Republic is falling?" More than anything, they looked like a crush of aliens in their air-cars, commuting to the office.) And I’m sick of it, George. All those effects, they bore me to death, and during any of the particularly CGI-loaded scenes, I was checking my watch to see how much time the movie had left.

Remember in the old days, when Han and Chewie were desperately trying to activate the hyperdrive, while simultaneously attempting to get away from maybe one or two Tie-fighters? That’s all I need. The drama of those moments always had me on the edge of my seat. Modern movies are so self-consciously overblown (“Look at me! Look at how amazing and skilled we are!”), that I just shut down at the sight of it. Why is it too much to ask that CGI technology be limited to background settings and other scene-filler instead put front-and-centre as the main attraction?

2.) The script was terrible. You know a movie has been written well when people joyfully quote cool lines from it in the restaurant afterwards. But there was nothing worth quoting from Sith. Even now, a day later, I’m having trouble remembering anything the actors might have said. The few scenes that involved speaking were mostly short, forgettable interludes connecting the action sequences. One exception to this was Palpatine – I enjoyed listening to him speak, and the lines he was given. But nobody else said anything worth remembering. (And what the hell is up with Yoda, anyway? This guy is a Master Jedi, the apparent leader of the Jedi council, something like 900 years old, can communicate with Wookies, but for some stupid reason, he can’t properly arrange a sentence in English. Sorry, it’s not a charming idiosyncrasy of his character, it's just irritating.)

Jedi Master and lightsaber-toting midget hero?
Yeah, but he needs to go over his "Hooked on Phonics"
book a few more times.

Anyway, here is an example of the clunker dialogue: there is a scene at the end, after Anakin has been mounted inside his Vader suit, when Vader asks the Emperor if Padme lived (I’m paraphrasing a bit here):

Vader: What about Padme? Did she live?
Emperor: Ah…uh, it seems that because of your anger, Padme was unable to survive through childbirth (struggling to contain a smirk behind Vader, like he’s waiting for him to sit on a whoopee-cushion).
Vader: NOOOOO!!! (raising his fists in the air)

3.) The characters stunk. Either as a result of the script writing, the fact that they were filmed in front of a green screen, or the fact that they seemed to exist mostly as a break between the action sequences, none of them engaged me emotionally in any significant way. General Grievous was supposed to be the cool bad guy in this movie (other than Vader and Palpatine, of course) and his character was absurd. Utterly, completely absurd. For example, he’s a droid who coughs. What for? I don’t know. He also couldn’t stand up straight, hunching his way around battle cruisers even though we’re shown later on that he has the ability to wield four light sabers at once. And during that frantically-cut action sequence, the big showdown between him and Obi-Wan, (oh, as an aside, that's another thing I hated about the movie – the fast action cuts ensure you never get a good look at anything), Obi-Wan yanks off a piece of Grievous’ metal chest to reveal a living heart grafted to his metal frame. Bang, he’s dead. “How uncivilized!” Obi-Wan sniffs, tossing the blaster. Why the hell would something so critical to Grievous’ survival be placed in such an unprotected place? Ridiculous! It reminds me of Spider Man 2, when Octavious points out that the only thing keeping his brain from being taken over by his set of robotic arms is a fragile, glowing microchip stuck on the back of his neck. There had to be a better place for it.

4.) The acting was lousy. All of the characters delivered their lines with the intensity of a guy making a pizza order. Literally anybody at all could have played Padme, Anakin, Mace Windu, or any of the other characters with identical, forgettable effect. Natalie Portman was wasted. (And, inexplicably, looked eye-poppingly bizarre at various points in the movie, as though her head had suddenly gained twenty pounds - at one point, Anakin tells her she's beautiful. Some kid sitting behind me whispered, "But...she looks so ugly!" No shit kid, I thought.) The exceptions were Obi-Wan and Palpatine. Ewan McGregor and Ian McDiarmid were fun to watch for the most part, but even McGregor wasn’t immune to moments of woodenness, mostly during his interactions with Anakin. Perhaps Hayden Christenson's terrible acting was contagious, infecting McGregor anytime they were onscreen together. I read a lot in the reviews about the friendly "bantering" onscreen they were supposed to have, and none of it appeared natural to me. Did the critics see the same movie I did? Honestly, I'm not exaggerating, I've seen better acting in films made by students. How could Lucas have messed this part up so badly?

For me, there was almost nothing to like in this movie. I did enjoy watching Anakin turn into Vader, but I was expecting his seduction to the Dark Side to be more subtle than it was (Silly me). As it happened, Palpatine killed Mace Windu in front of Anakin with a blast of Dark Side energy that desiccated his face (and this is just classic too – Windu was brandishing his light saber, yelling, “you are under arrest!” at Palpatine – Palpatine responds by zapping him with lightning, and his face begins to melt. “Help me Anakin, I can’t stop him!” cries Palpatine, as his face gets worse and worse…but gee, here’s a thought – why not stop shooting Mace with the lightning? He wasn’t trying to kill you at this point, and maybe you’d still have a face…but anyway…), and after Mace was dispatched, Anakin immediately agreed to be Palpatine’s apprentice: “I hereby swear my allegiance to you, and your ways.” And Palpatine was staring at him with his ruined face and yellow eyeballs, hissing, “Good! Gooooood! Ha ha ha ha!” How could there be any conflict in Anakin about who to trust and follow at this point? It would be obvious to a preschooler that Palpatine was a guy you don’t fuck around with, so Anakin’s sudden conversion to the Dark Side seemed improbable, clumsily handled, and far too quick to be realistic.

But maybe it was this expected succumbing to the Dark Side that managed to win over the reviewers? Or maybe it was the admittedly gripping visuals of Vader being airlifted from the lava pits back to the Emperor, accompanied by soaring, tragic, dirge-like orchestral music. I did enjoy this part of the story, but from start to finish, it only made up about 20 minutes of the movie, and the depiction of Anakin’s turn to the Dark Side accounted for perhaps 40 minutes of the length, all told. Perhaps this was what redeemed the movie for most critics. I think it must be, because this was the only part of the movie I liked, personally. And it struck me that it was also the only part that of the film that, at last, had a different feel than the 8 hours or so of mediocre prequel material that preceded it: other than the depiction of Anakin's descent to the Dark Side, any scene from Episode I-III is completely interchangeable, as far as I'm concerned.

So did the ending save the movie for me?

Nah. I should have waited for the rental, but some movies have to be seen in the theatre, for better or for worse. I feel about it the same way Anakin did, after he beheaded an armless man: “Hum…I should not have done that. It is not the Jedi way.”

For sure. Save your beans and wait for the rental.

Karate Lesson

2005-05-18T22:50:00.000-04:00

I hear a crow, a distant sound, rasping caw-caw-caw through the windowpanes, which are cranked open on their rusted arms on all sides of the room. It’s July, and an occasional gust of air, carrying the smells of the country – honeysuckle, hay, daisies, and the sudden waft of manure – lifts the hair from our brows and rattles the colored papers on their corkboard push-pins. It’s evening, but the sun is still hours away from kissing the horizon, and the light slants through the stained glass windows fifteen feet above the floor, mounted there a hundred years ago by community-minded Protestant farmers. The rays pass through, red, blue, and green, turning the creaking hardwood floor where rows of pews once sat into a rippling Crayola seashore. My sensei steps back into a square of violet, and the outstretched hands of saints finger the sleeves of his gi.

“Again,” he says. “Sanchin stance.” We step into the millennia-old boxing stance, the left knee angled in slightly to protect the defenseless manhood, our bare feet sucking and sticking to the floor as we settle. Sanchin – Three Battle Stance.

“Chudan zuki. Middle punch. Ichi!”

A half-dozen hands snap out, hanging in space.

“Ni.” The right hand – always the first strike – flies back to our ribs. The left hand darts out, corkscrewing in the air, slamming into the solar plexus of an imaginary enemy.

“San.” Cotton robes pop with the strike.

“Shi.”

“Go.”

“Roku.”

“Shichi. I want to hear you at ten!”

“Hachi!”

“Ku. Ju!”

“Yahhh!” we bellow, the sudden shout ringing in the rafters with athletic rapture. And then we breathe, the stony balls of our fists waiting for a command.

Silence. An itching crawl of sweat slides from my hair, rolling into my eyebrows, tracing a path along my temple. At the front of the class, the sensei smiles.

“Good. Rei,” Our hands slap our thighs, and we bow, meeting his eyes like we were taught. You never drop your eyes, because anyone can be your enemy. Trust no one. It is foolish to leave yourself unprotected.

“Outside,” he says. “We run.” He jogs for the exit.

In bare feet, we run from the church behind the sensei. My feet are tough, and slap the dirt with machine precision. We pass through the graveyard, and I read the names: Wallace, O’Donnell, Bannon, McCracken. A hundred granite monuments testifying to lives lived, lost, and now forgotten. And then we are through the gates, running through a cornrow, our toes sinking into the rich earth, lightning bolts of black loam soaking into the rivulets of sweat on our legs, and kicking up behind our heels.

“Sprint! Until the fence! Hajime!”

And we charge, knees lifting to our chests for maximum power, heels pistoning into the dirt, arms scissoring past the sharp, reaching leaves of adolescent corn, our gis billowing in the wind, and green, blue, and orange karate belts flapping and popping behind us like the tails of kites.

At the end of the field, I see the lone crow I heard earlier in the church, head cocked and watching us stampeding towards its tree; and having seen enough, it spreads its ragged wings into the air, flumping for altitude. I try to catch up to it before it can get away from me, even though I know I’ll fail. But I don’t let that stop me because I am very young, and I can run as hard as I want to.

Mike Gets a Surprise: Conclusion

2005-05-15T22:14:00.000-04:00

Part One, Part Two

“Hey –“ I begin, and then I stop right there. Ever had a smile die on your face, and you can kind of feel it go? That's what just happened.

Standing in front of me is Dan’s sister, Amy.

Amy. Jesus Christ, what a shock. I thought Shelly would be at the door, not Amy.

In a shot, I’m glad that I just went to the bathroom, because I feel like I'd fill my pants otherwise if I hadn't. Amy has this horrible shit-eating grin smeared across her face, and she’s just standing there, staring at me like I’m a ham sandwich or something.

“Hey there, Amy…” I try, but it doesn’t work. Her bare foot slaps forward toward me, and she grabs the doorjam, blocking my escape.

“Oh shit!” I yell. I just can’t help it. You had to be there, I mean.

Amy goes to our school. Well, she goes, but not really. Amy delivers the newspapers every day to the homeroom teachers, always with a supply teacher in tow helping her do it. She’ll hold the paper out there in her paw for the teacher to take.

“Thank you…Amy…” the teacher will grunt, trying to yank the paper out of her pudgy fingers. And Amy will just hang onto those goddam papers for dear life, like a dog or something. I’m always surprised there isn’t slobber or something on it when the teacher finally gets it. As it is, sometimes it gets ripped up as it’s pulled out of Amy’s fingers.

Amy is a retard.

She never comes out of the special ed room she "goes to class" in, because this one time a couple years ago she attacked another kid in the cafeteria. She wanted the kid's french fries or something. After that episode, she was only allowed out for food and for recess and stuff when everybody else was in class. So, for instance, we'd be sitting there in Algebra or English, and then we'd hear her skipping and whooping down the hall on her way to the soccer field, and we'd all give each other looks: There goes Amy again.

She's a year younger than Dan and me, but big. Way bigger than me - Amy is maybe five-ten.

She’s a five-ten, 250-pound crazy retard, and I’m alone in the basement with her. And fuck -

She’s naked, standing there in front of me looking like she was put together out of some shit God found on his workshop floor after he made an NFL linebacker. Her hands are flexing and clenching and things, looking like they are getting set to latch onto something. And there are no newspapers in sight, just me.

I’m five-seven, maybe a buck-fifty in my damp swim trunks. Oh yeah, this isn’t a fucking problem. Not at all. How the hell did she know I’d be in here?

Amy takes another step, and the smile widens. Her eyes, those sloping retard eyes, never move from my face.

“Okay, back off, Amy!” I say. “Back off now, goddammit! Hey! Stop!”

But Amy doesn’t stop. She charges into the bathroom, pushing me against the vanity, shoving her huge, flabby body against me. I smell a heavy, greasy stink of sweat and peanut butter, and her freckled boob slaps my face like a garbagey water balloon. I gag in disgust, and then her hands, her horrible sausage hands, are all over me, groping at me in a hideous, meaty way. She paws at my hair, and then in an instant, stuffs her hand into my trunks, yanking and honking on my dick, squeezing so hard I feel like something is going to get torn off. She drools and jabbers in my ear, moaning something that makes sense to her:

“Ugghn, dubba, gubba! Blaaygg!! Abbadabba!”

“Fuck! Fuccck! Get offa me! Help! Fuck, GET OFFA ME!! Ahhhh! Ahhh!” I scream. I’m full-blown now, holding nothing back, slapping uselessly at her back. In that moment, I wish I had a bag over my head.

And then she stops, finally. Dan is here, and he's shouting at her.

“Amy! STOP RIGHT NOW!” And she does. She lunges away from me, standing between me and Dan. I drop to my knees, cupping my damaged nuts. I can barely move, they hurt so fucking much. I don't think I've ever felt worse in my life, to tell you the truth.

Dan, he’s got some stuff in his hands. He’s holding this old teddy bear out at Amy, a filthy, freakshow thing with no eyes and hanging limbs, and beneath it, his Zippo is popped open, lit and singeing the hair of the bear’s leg.

“Amy!” he yells. “Get upstairs, or Mr. Brownie is going to be burnt to a fucking crisp! You hear me? I’m gonna burn him up! Get the fuck up there!”

And Amy, she’s away, moving like a gorilla. Fuck, she’s fast.

“Aiiieee! Aiieeeeee!!” she screeches, and snatches the bear from Dan’s hand. She runs outside with the bear, and we hear a dozen surprised yells. In a moment, we hear a cannonball splash, the sound of a hippo returning to the swamp.

“…oh my god, she’s so disgusting…,” some guy yells outside.

And then it’s just me and Dan, and he hangs his head. “Whoo! Oh, my god!” Dan says. The Zippo clinks shut, and he hunkers down with me. “Some little sister, eh? I thought I had locked her door. Are you all right, man? Shit. Didn't I see you talking with Shelly outside? Let's get you sorted out before she sees you like this. Let's get you a beer or something.”

Fuck. Best fucking thing I heard all day.

Mike Gets a Surprise: Part Two

2005-05-12T18:40:00.000-04:00

Part One

“Mike!” yells this guy James. “Mike, you won’t believe what just happened!”

Fuck, not now. “What happened, man?” I say. I sip some of my beer; it’s warming up a bit on me now though. I’m not drinking fast enough. I’m irritated, a bit, that James came over to talk to me.

James, he’s laughing like some crazy bastard, and it takes him a few tries before he can spit out what he wants to say:

“You know that girl Denise? She looks hot except for her face? Oh, ha ha ha!” he laughs.

Shit James, just tell the story, I’m kind of busy here, I'm thinking. He’s bent over double, the veins on his head popping out, he’s laughing so hard. But I start to smile at him a bit though anyway. It’s pretty hard not to when a guy is laughing like that. I’ve stopped being mad at him.

“So yeah, Denise? I got her into my tent over there, and I was sweet talking with her. She was totally into me man, I swear. So you know what I did? I started telling her about my Cree heritage. About how we have all these rituals and shit. She thought it was deep. Anyway, I got this amazing idea because of how butt-ugly she is. I told her that the Cree, we have this ceremony, it’s how you “Become a Man”, and during the ritual, you have to have sex with your woman with a deerskin sack on her face!” he shouts laughter, laughing straight up in the air, and I start to chuckle along too.

“So what happened? What did you do?” I say. I’ve forgotten all about Shelly for a second.

“I don’t have a fucking deerskin sack! I’m not even 100% Cree! So what I did was, I said that we could fuck in the tent, but for the ceremony, I had to put a grocery bag on her head while I banged her! And she did it, man! A fucking grocery bag! She even asked me if it was any good! Bwah, ha ha ha!!”

I laugh like crazy, feeling like some lousy bastard, but rocking around in my chair at the same time anyway. Who has the balls to tell a girl they can fuck so long as she puts a bag on her head? That’s just evil. But so funny, gawd. And Shelly’s right here, too - but how can I not laugh? Seriously, I don’t know. Maybe it makes me a bad guy that I was laughing, I don’t know. It’s just one of those awkward situations.

James is wiping his eyes. “Fuck, so anyways, I had to tell you that story, man. I’m going to get some smokes now. See ya, Mikey,” he says. He wanders away, his shoulders looking pink and really un-Cree in the sunshine.

“What an asshole,” Shelly says, frowning after James, and I shut up right away. I knew it was a mistake laughing with James, but that was just a fucking great story. It was impossible not to laugh about it.

“Yeah, he’s kind of like that with women,” I say, very seriously and all. I’ve got this wicked poker face when I need to use it, nobody can ever tell when I’m bluffing. “He’s not very sensitive about their looks. That girl Denise, I bet she feels bad right now about what happened,” I say. But I struggle to keep in another runaway chuckle about the story, and I stand up out of my chair at that moment, in case I get to laughing again. I need to go take a leak anyway.

“Listen, Shelly, I need to go to the bathroom. Do you think you want to come inside with me? We could maybe chill on the couch or something, without so many people around and talk and things,” I say. It’s real aggressive of me, I know, but…

“Okay,” she says, right away. “I’ll be right in. I’m going to jump in the pool for a couple of minutes, and then I’ll come find you,” she winks.

Suddenly, all I can do is smile. “All righty then,” I say. I pad away to the basement door, setting my bottle on a nearby table. The beer in the bottom is practically warm as piss now. But I couldn’t care less about that, even if I knew there were more cold ones in the cooler, if you know what I mean. My mind is on other things. Shelly, she’s a really nice chick, I mean it.

The bathroom, it’s inside the door of the walk-in basement. It’s an unfinished basement, probably because Dan’s parents knew a bunch of kids would be walking around down here someday in their swimsuits, throwing shit around at each other and using the can. The bathroom is unoccupied right now, so I manage to do my business without having to wait at all. That’s something that makes me happy, a bit. When you’ve really got to take a leak, and you can’t wait another second, and here’s this quiet place to go do it in - I don’t know, that just makes me feel glad inside. When I finish up, I look at my face in the mirror for a little while. It always looks different to me when I’m drunk somehow. I start to make faces at myself, frowning a little and baring my teeth and stuff, trying to look like some badass. For some reason, after I've been drinking, it’s always like I’m watching somebody else in the mirror, like somebody else is pulling faces on me. I don’t know why. My cheeks are all red from the beer and the sunlight, and I stick a smoke behind my ear for later on.

Just then, I hear footsteps padding up quickly outside, and I feel happy again all of a sudden. Shelly came in earlier than I expected. I swing open the door with a big smile on my face.

Conclusion

Mike Gets a Surprise: Part One

2005-05-09T20:55:00.000-04:00

I’m at Dan’s party, and so far it’s been a fucking great time.

His parents are on vacation, so that means we have the run of the house. Before I came over, I chugged a few brews out of the old fridge in the basement, out of sight of my mother. That old Viking fridge, boy. It must have been made about a hundred years ago. It’s always stacked with the beers. My dad should put a padlock on it, seriously. I put the empties behind some boxes so nobody will see where they went for a little while.

“Have a good time, but you be careful around that swimming pool,” Mom told me when I came up. “Danny’s parents are home, aren’t they?”

“Sure, Mom. Don’t worry about it,” I say.

What party worth going to ever has parents at home? Nothing bad’s going to happen anyways. My mom worries too much about me sometimes. And she’s got to know what’s going on over there, she was a kid once too. It’s just a bunch of people having a good time, nothing dangerous or anything. So I just say what I need to in order to get out of the house without any more hectoring, because I can feel the beers starting to come on a bit. I need to get pedalling my bike, before I end up wheeling it into a ditch or something. Or a parked car, I did that once too. Racked my arm up pretty bad, but that was okay. I just told people I got into a scrap:

“I got the guy pretty good, though,” I said, punching the air. “A couple good shots, right in the mind.” Everybody kind of forgot about the bruises on my arm after I told my story. That’s the way it is – all you have to do is explain yourself a bit, and the questions always stop. Even if it’s a lie. Actually, it’s better if it’s a lie, because for some crazy reason, people believe the lies more than they would the real story. Like, if I said I ran into a parked car because I was drunk, they’d say, “What? No way – on your bike? Get outta here.” The lie is always easier to digest, so I just tell a good story and they buy it all the way. It’s when you try to hide things by saying nothing that you get into trouble. People love secrets, and they just won’t get off your back until you spill them.

So anyway, I’m at Danny’s party, and I just couldn’t ask for a better way to spend my day. He’s invited over a lot of girls he knows, and some of the ones that work with me at Subway. Some of ‘em are only sixteen or something, but that stops bothering me after I have a few more beers. Lindsey Lohan is seventeen or so, isn’t she? The Olsen twins? Something like that. I dunno, they’re around that age, and grown men keep wanting to see them in Playboy, so should I feel bad about checking out some Subway girl? No way. It’s not like I’m forty anyway.

Dan, he’s got the beers beside the pool in one of those Styrofoam coolers, and I park my ass beside it for easy access. I don’t even care if I’m drinking too fast, because Dan’s got plenty more here on ice in case I puke. And you know what though? The truth is, puking when you’re drunk even feels good. If I'm drunk enough, I even like it. It clears your head out so you’re not all dizzy and everything. You’re all empty inside afterwards too, and then you can go drink some more. I mean, I’m not going to puke or anything, all I’m saying is, it doesn’t bother me very much if I have to.

I’m chatting it up for a bit with my buddies, and then I see this cutie across the pool I know from Subway. I’ve sort of had my eye on her for a while. She’s got this hot ass, and the other guys at Subway kind of rag on her a bit because of her looks. She’s too young to know how to handle it. She doesn’t know what to say when they hit on her, is what I mean. I wave at her across the pool. She comes right on over when I do it, too. That’s got to be a sign of some sort. Her name’s Shelly, she’s really cool. I like her a lot.

“Hey, how are ya Shelly?” I say. I’m feeling pretty sauced up, sitting here in the sunshine on my chair and everything. “You want a beer?” She looks a little uncomfortable standing over me. I have to shade my hand looking up at her, but that’s all right, it gives me an excuse to check out her rack from below. From down here, it looks like you could sit a couple of beers on top of her boobs without any problems.

“Hi Mike. Okay, I'll have a beer,” she says. She takes a bottle and plops down on the cement beside me.

“You havin’ a good time? Dan’s a great guy eh, having this party like this?”

“Yeah, he is,” she says, and sort of stops, looking across the pool at some people over there. She’s kind of quiet. That’s okay though, I’ll get her talking. I slide my shades up over my hair, and lean over to her a bit.

“Yeah, this is a nice party. Listen Shelly, I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while, I mean, I don’t want to embarrass you here, okay? It’s hard talking at work about things like this, you know what I mean? But I think you’re this really cool girl. You’re really special, is what I mean. Different from the other girls, you know? I just wanted to say that. Like, I thought you should know. I never get a chance to talk to you much, so I just thought I’d take the opportunity to let you know that you’re this nice person, and I like talking to you.”

Man, I’m feeling smooth right now, with all the beers in me. Saying all that shit to her, my heartbeat didn’t budge over fifty beats a minute, I bet. And Shelly, I had her attention the whole time I said it. Before I said anything to her, I had a hunch this is the kind of thing she wanted to hear, the way she came and sat with me and everything, but I swear to god I thought I blew it for a second irregardless.

“Oh, Mike - that’s such a nice thing to say,” she says, her cheeks getting all dimply with me and everything. So cute. She cocks her head to the side and pats my hand. Yeah, this is going really well now. She’s getting into me, a bit. “I think you’re really nice, too. Thank you for telling me that,” she says. It was a real movie moment. I thought I had her in the bag right then, except this dumbass guy I know showed up at that second.

Part Two

A Bea Arthur Update

2005-05-06T11:34:00.000-04:00

A few posts ago, I put up an entry that suggested I had found and linked nude photos of Hollywood actress Bea Arthur.

It was a joke, of course - I did no such thing. As far as I know, they don't exist.

But to my amazement, I've looked through my sitemeter thingie since I posted it, and found that at least a good half-dozen people ended up on this site after googling "Bea Arthur nude" in their search engine.

I don't know what to make of that. I had no idea the demand to see Bea in her birthday suit was so high - a handful of people clicking on a remote blog in the hopes of finding naked pictures of Bea must represent thousands of men desperately searching through innumerable commercial porno sites, determined to finally lay eyes on the grandmother lode. (And...why? For crying out loud, what for?!)

Maybe world-famous erotic phototographer Donovan Phillips of [edit: this link is not work-safe] Donny's Ramblings could pull some strings for these depraved characters and finally immortalize our Bea in the eye of the camera forever. In so doing, he would become - a legend. At least in the niche market of websurfers who look for naked eighty year-olds.

And I'm sure a world of depraved men with their pants down at computer keyboards would thank him.

My Gramma's Weird-Ass Boyfriend

2005-05-04T22:54:00.000-04:00

We’re sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, in my Gramma’s basement.

The tables, they are those flimsy plywood kind with the folding legs you find at strawberry socials or smoky bingo halls, their true nature concealed for now beneath the same thick linens my grandmother has been using for thirty years. I’m at the “kids” table, even though I stopped being one at least a decade ago. This means that there is a fizzing glass of ginger ale in front of me instead of wine. I don’t care though, wine isn’t my thing. Not the kind that comes out of a screw-top bottle, anyway.

Over at the other table, there is a sudden metallic clank, and a dozen hands grab unsteady glasses as a man rises uncertainly to his feet. His name is Ralph – I met him earlier. He’s my Gramma’s latest boyfriend, and I had pegged him as kind of a rumpot upstairs in the kitchen:

“Where’s the stuffing?” my mom asked, looking around.

“I’ll find it!” Ralph announced, barging through the doorway. No matter was his apparent drunkenness; he kept his Caesar glass close to his chest, not spilling a precious drop of the tomatoey liquid. He yanked open the oven door, squinting his eyes against the light jabbing at him from the greasy light bulb mounted inside.

“There it is! Right at the back of the bus!” Ralph yelled. He reached in behind a casserole to tug out the dish of stuffing, pushing the crusted thing at my mom.

“Thanks,” she stared. But Ralph was already gone, hollering something about “all hands on deck!” which actually made bizarre sense because he was wobbling around the house in a pair of boaty old-man shorts that nicely accentuated his pale, knobby knees. I assumed that he’d quiet down in time for dinner – there was a family to impress, after all.

But now, even through the dim light of the yard-sale candelabras, I can discern the rheumy glister in Ralph’s eyes. To my mind, there is nothing in them at all. The Caesar glass is still clutched in his mitt, and his mouth falls open to speak:

“I…just want to offer…a toast. To the lady - to the lady, of the house,” he stammers, his lip all pooched out and quaking at us.

Looks of astonishment flash across the tables, as everyone simultaneously realizes that Ralph is falling-down drunk, sincere as a priest…and on the verge of bawling his eyes out in front of twenty people he just met, for reasons they don't know about. Twenty people who almost never drink alcohol, and who certainly do not reveal any actual feelings to one another. It is a family ideally suited for the social expectations of the 1950's. Ralph's reputation is forever sealed in less than ten seconds.

“On this…very…special DAY! I want to say…thank you…thank you very much to you, Barb…this wonderful…wonnerful…holiday…this group of people….” he trails off, and my grandmother stands, whispering something into his ear. Nobody will look at him. In this moment, Ralph has ceased to exist. Easy tears course through the cracks in his face, and he is nodding, nodding in the exaggerated, I know, I know, way that drunks always have. Gramma hooks his arm and leads him upstairs. A collective sigh of relief: the embarrassment is gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Amen,” I say. “Pass me a roll.”

Drama at the Grocery Store!

2005-05-01T19:39:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I was getting my groceries.

I was nearing the end of the task, trundling my cart to the fruit section.This part of the store is usually at the entrance, I know - "Why were you finishing up in the fruit section?? LOLOL!!"

The reason is because I usually shop through the grocery store backwards. See, store designers, they want you to get your essentials at the back of the store - the milk, the bread, the eggs, the meat - after you've gone through all the other aisles first. It's no accident that the food you actually need is past all the other crap. They want you to put stuff like cookies, coloured cereals, pastries, or anything else sold in boxes into your cart before you get your true essentials, the stuff you must eat to survive. You're way more likely to toss a box of Pop-Tarts into your cart before you've "spent" your money on bread and chicken thighs. Anyway, this is kind of a meandering digression from what happened yesterday. But think about that the next time you go buy food, and how the store is set up so that you'll walk around their products, just like cows through a slaughter chute. You could airlift the entire middle section of a grocery store out, fill your cart with everything left that's stocked at the edges of the store, and still walk out of there needing nothing at all. Try it at home! The psychology of food marketing irks me, so I resist the forces as mightily as I can. When I get in there, I head right to the back and fight my way out.

So I was standing by the bananas, kind of lost in my little world, when I heard the scuttling of running feet. This is rare in grocery stores, and broke whatever reverie I was floating around in. I look up, and two employees, a young kid and an older lady, burst around the corner of the aisle, bumping into each other.

The woman, she spotted me right away, and pointed. "LOOK! There he is, hurry!" And they started running, right at me!

I didn't know what the hell was going on, but I got ready for it. Go down swinging, I always say. Instinctively, I dropped into my old karate "horse-riding stance", and cocked my right fist up behind my ear. I've never popped a woman before, but I've been ready for the opportunity ever since I saw Dirty Harry do it a few times in his movies. Punching out a woman - I always appreciated scenes like that in a film. There are times when they just ask for it, but never get it in the nose because of the social taboos involved in mainstream filmmaking. Splat! Who says that only a girl can hit another girl? Anyway, it looked like I was going to have to do the deed, and had my boys all set up.

The woman though, she rushed right past me, and the kid, seeing me getting wound up a bit, skidded to a stop, putting his hands up in a, "hey, take it easy, man," kind of way. I looked around, and there's the woman, bent over my grocery cart.

"You left a trail all over the store!" she yelled, grabbing my bag of milk. When she did, an arterial geyser of milk sprayed three feet in the air, hosing down the bananas I had been thinking of buying moments earlier. I looked down, and sure enough, a white splatter of milk was trailed behind me all over the floor, ending in a little puddle under my cart. It seems that when I threw a box of Pizza Pops into the cart, a sharp edge must have popped the bag.

[An aside for Americans: most milk in Canada is sold in 4-litre bags. According to an online conversion calculator, that's about 4.2 of your alien quarts. It's not just one big bag of milk by the way, it's actually a sack with three little bags inside that you mount in a pitcher and cut the corner off of with scissors. It's a more efficient way to package up the milk for sale than cartons, and Americans who come here always wonder about these big, honking sacks of milk we've got for sale. "Where the hell are all the cartons? This bag thing is retarded!" they always say.]

See, in this demonstration, the corner of the milk bag
is cut for easy pouring. It's not retarded, and if you're
like me, the "bag" method of packaging means you
can latch your mouth onto the bag and inhale a
litre of milk in about 3 seconds!

"We'll get you a new bag, man...don't worry about it," said the kid. He scurried off to the back of the store, returning momentarily with a replacement bag for me.

The "delicious" irony of the entire episode: Because I went to the back of the store and got my milk first instead of last, I left a Hansel & Gretel trail of milk all over the damn store, and was the personal cause of anguish and hysteria. To my amusement.

Take whatever lesson from this that you will.

Billy and the eBay Caper: Conclusion

2005-04-27T18:35:00.000-04:00

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

The next morning, Billy's life has appreciated to about twelve hundred dollars. Wonderful, but not unprecedented. He must be worth more than a goddamn bear, has to be. But by noon, there is almost no change, no more bidding. The price has peaked at $1245.95. No change, nothing since nine o’clock.

Two o’clock, nothing.

And four, and nothing.

Billy’s fifteen minutes are nearly expired, and the auction ends overnight. Fretfully, I drink my whiskey, wondering where I've gone wrong, retracing my path, looking for my misstep. I put my ear to the earth but hear no buffalo. My Tonto sense has abandoned me. My intuition has vanished. And The Price is Right has no answers. I retreat to the computer to pore over my work.

The clock ticks to five, and I can’t figure it out.

But at last, finally, I see my mistake. It is incredible. Wonderful! A glorious moment, really - knowing that you've made the biggest error of your life, but realizing you still have time to fix the problem. A warm spread of relief begins in my belly, prickling my skin and ending in my fingertips. I know I’ve got it this time.

Redemption.

Shortly, Billy comes home. Early - a good driver can finish his route off before the mandated shift turnover at six. And Billy, he's a good driver. It requires a lot of concentration to move that truck around. A lot of concentration, and no imagination. Imagination is bad, because trucks crash when the mind wanders. Billy is such an obtuse lackwit, I'd place bets on him being the best truck driver in the world. I'm ready for him with the camera again.

"More pictures?" Billy says. "Isn't the auction doing pretty good?"

"No, we have to do one more update before it closes. Keep it fresh. You know. Get in the chair again. Let's go."

Billy is still wearing his overalls from the truck, and he yanks them off in cranky gestures. "What a pain in the ass," he mutters. He has his usual Sally-Ann wardrobe on beneath, which will only improve the look of the shot. I tape the aquarium hose to his arm and cuff his hands to the chair. Tight.

"If we have to keep it fresh, why are we taking more pictures of me in the chair?" Billy says.

"Because, Billy. We're going to do something a little different this time." I slap a piece of duct tape over his mouth, and he huffs laughter through his nose. It's just like playing pirates.

I put down the camera, and then I pull the chef knife out of my back pocket. Billy snorts some more until he sees the look on my face. I'm trying, trying very hard not to laugh at his expression, because I'm going to need every amp of my available powers to concentrate on my next task. I step closer, glad that the floor in this room is cheap hardwood instead of carpet. Billy begins to squeal behind the tape, but I had given it a good hard press to keep it in place.

Earlier, when I was looking at my auction page, I noticed someone had placed an email comment beneath the pictures:

What a joke that pic looks fake man, no way is he going to kill himself. Im not going to bid anything you jackass -- FredinDallas

I almost slapped my own forehead. Of course - how could I be so foolish? The bidders, they need the proof. And it only makes sense. In the grocery store, you sample the grapes before you buy them. You try on a shirt before you charge it. You want to buy a car, well, you take it through its paces before you sign on the dotted line, don’t you? Good god, man. The buyer, they need to take their measure of what's for sale with their eyes, and all they've seen so far is a picture of Billy in a chair.

They require evidence of the intent. A contract. Before they put their money down, they have to know, really know, that Billy is serious about ending his life, or else the bidding will stall, finishing lower than the value of a used Chevette. Don't worry, Billy, this is my very best idea yet. You'll see. I begin to hum a little tune, the theme song from M.A.S.H., which I had seen earlier.

“Because, Billy,” I say. With the handcuffs and the solid oak chair, Billy can't squirm around very much, and the duct tape is muffling his hopeless mewling quite nicely. I squint my eyes away from him, like when I’m spooning my morning grapefruit in front of the Saturday cartoons. They squirt.

“You have to understand. Suicide is only painless in the song.”

The knife is sharp, and his fingers drop into my hand like baby carrots.

Billy and the eBay Caper: Part Four

2005-04-26T21:10:00.000-04:00

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

With the new pictures put up on the auction page, there have finally been more people looking at it. But we're now only three days away from the closing date, with only a single bid. An anonymous comedian has bid ninety-nine cents for Billy's life. It’s a price I reckon to be reasonable, but nothing close to what I'm hoping for.

If the life of a bear cub is worth thousands to liberal, bleeding-heart eBay buyers, so must be the life of a lonely, ugly man. Shouldn’t it?

Ninety-nine cents. We have a long way to go.

The amended pictures aren’t good enough. We’ve come too far now to have the plan fail.

The Plan

To reap unprecedented riches through a fraudulent eBay auction. The world will believe Billy will commit suicide unless he is paid enough money:

1.) Pictures will be taken, and posted onto eBay.
2.) Bidding will ensue, with total success as a result.
3.) Billy will never learn of the true outcome of the auction, i.e., he gets twenty dollars.
4.) Billy will be fired as a roommate, and I will buy a lifetime supply of alcohol.

But I realize now, with only one measly bid and a paltry hundred or some-odd page views, that the problem is exposure. I need more of it, much more than I started with. My original group email distribution list is thus a shriveled embarrassment. I curse my arrogance at not spreading the information farther. Cripes, almighty! Why didn't I make more contacts? Christ in a sidecar! I suppose I thought an idea this grand would take on a life of its own, without my influence. I batter myself mercilessly all day for my failure, and set about to rectify the error. It can be fixed.

There is always enough time.

In a frenzy, I re-send group emails to my evidently useless network of friends and acquaintances, including all contacts I find written on the backs of forgotten business cards and restaurant receipts. I email dozens of newspapers and television stations. Blisters bloom across my fingertips. I rant to disc jockeys. I post the auction link on internet bulletin boards, every last one I can imagine. Chat rooms. Blogs. My elbows sweat. Who knew how difficult it would be to earn easy money.

Manfully, I refute the need for food.

But the whiskey is always standing nearby, filled with warm, easy calories. It cannot be ignored. Alcohol, the fuel of F-1 racing cars, also contains many carbohydrates, the fuel of our own bodies. I'm drinking racing fuel. We share many similarities, I and the car. I’m hard as steel. We're engineered for a purpose. I shift myself up another gear. I'm a machine, expelling methane from my high-performance engine as I speed toward the winner's circle.

This tactic going to work this time. I know it in my bones.

The next morning, I get an email message from an acquaintance named Steve. All stupid guys I know are named Steve:

HEy Dude, your eBay auction is posted on fark.com! Your a fucking crackpot man take her easy or anyway you can

Steve-o

God, the moron. But Fark, the internet mecca of bizarre newspaper headlines! If a story is posted there, it's guaranteed to have millions of readers. The Big Time. Hollywood! I’ve made it - the story has broken worldwide now, and the Fox network will be banging down my door any moment. I put on my best t-shirt, just in case. Does my robe smell bad? I decide it doesn’t. Finally, the bids will pour in like turds rolling downhill from an outhouse. And they do. By the end of the work day, Billy's life is priced at five hundred dollars.

By the end of Fear Factor that night, he breaks a thousand.

Conclusion

Billy and the eBay Caper: Part Three

2005-04-24T11:43:00.000-04:00

Part One, Part Two

We're at the eBay website, typing up the particulars for the auction.

Luckily, I've already sold a few things here before, so I don't need to run the gauntlet of filling out all the online forms again. Posting the photos of Billy, that's no difficulty either. But the problem is, I'm having trouble filling out the sale description reliably. What I'm typing - it's too hammy, doesn't sound right. Something. It's just not legit. I realize I need the mind of a lesser talent.

"Billy," I say. "Do your thing." This is what he manages:

PLEASE HELP ME. IVE FELT NOTHING IN MY HEART FOR A VERY LON TIME NOW NOTHING TO KEEP ME GOING ECEPT MY JOB DRIVING MY TUCK AND I LOST THAT JOB TODAY ANYWAYS. EVEN MY DOG "SPARK" RAN AWAY FROM HOME NOT TOO LONG AGO SO IDONT EVEN HAVE HIM FOR COMPANY EITHER. "LONG STORY SHORT" I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO LIVE FOR ANYMORE, AND NO MONEY ANYWAYS EVEN IF I DO. MY PLAN IS TO OFF MYSELF WITH MY NIFE BECAUSE IVE ALWAYS WANTED TO GO THAT WAY I HEARD ITS LIKE GOING TO SLEEP. IVE EVENTRIED IT A FEW TIMES AND IT DOESN'T HURT TO BAD. BUT IF MAYBE ENOUGH PEOPLE BID ON MY ACUTION I COULD MAKE ENOUGH MONEY TO GO HOME AND LIVE WITH MY MOM AGAIN INSTEAD.

YOURS SINCERLY, BILLY

"Excellent," I say, tenting my fingers.

But two days go by, with no bids offered to save Billy's life. Oh, plenty have stopped at the webpage to see what was for sale, but with millions of users on eBay at any given time, there's bound to be a few random tire kickers clicking on the auction to see what the hell might be for sale. 58 page views and no bids are not going to put me on easy street. I appraise Billy's pictures with my director's eye; I understand that he must be responsible somehow. The photos of his arms in particular are pitiful; the cuts he made appear to be mere cat scratches. Contempt soaks my soul. Billy, you fool. The masses need more than this. I begin to empathize with their disinterest; what an amateurish attempt this must seem like. Time is flying on the auction; I feel the urgent need to change the formula. I order Billy downstairs again.

"This time, you're going to be handcuffed in a chair, with a homemade 'suicide device' in the picture, standing beside you, got it? It's a jar with floor cleaner in it," I say.

"Floor cleaner? Handcuffs? What the fuck is that for? Why can't I just pose with my knife?"

"Because, it has to look like the process can't be stopped, that you can't cop out of it somehow. Nobody takes cutters seriously, it's the route taken by teenage girls who want attention. You're just laughed at Billy, you're worth no money. We'll put a clock here beside you, like a countdown.

"People love deadlines, Bill. You should know this, goddammit.

"We're going to tape a length of aquarium hose to your arm like an I.V., with a big red button beside your finger to 'activate the I.V. drip', just like the Jack Kevorkian machine. We're going to say on the auction that poison will enter your bloodstream once you hit that button. It's more pitiful and eye-catching than a knife in your hand," I say. "It's more eventual and gradual, yet inevitable. Tubes, tape, the staring eyes -- there's something about prolonging the process that tugs on the old heartstrings. Think about that Schiavo woman, the press she got. This is the method for success, I'm certain."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Get in the chair."

I take the photos. I feel a hand on the back of my head, like someone is touching me, but I shoo it away. Not now, dammit. I need to concentrate. Focus. The payoff will be worth it, I can feel it.

"Stop giggling, Billy. Suicide is supposed to make you feel bad," I say.

Part Four

Billy and the eBay Caper: Part Two

2005-04-22T08:37:00.000-04:00

Part One

It's simple, really. Complete with lunatic dialogue and fearful photographs, I'm going to threaten to kill myself in front of millions of people, right on eBay - unless I get paid enough money to stop me, of course. With the appropriate preparation and media seeding, I'm going to hold myself hostage, and the world will pay me off. A person would have to be a madman, some kind of unhinged maniac to want to participate in a plan like this.

"But I want to be the guy killing himself!" Billy yelled. "It's my camera!"

In Canada, there is no fine, no law, no jail sentence preventing anyone from committing suicide if they so desire. It stands to reason that there is no penalty for one to threaten suicide, either. It makes sense, when one thinks about it academically for a moment. What can the authorities do - press charges against a dead body? If a man wants to off himself, by god, he's going to do it no matter what it says on a sheepskin.

"If a guy attempts suicide and he lives, he should be charged with the death penalty!" Billy hollered.

Billy is fortunate to have a job; he drives a truck for a living. He has a physical appearance so deranged, he was once kicked out of an ice-cream parlour because the jockey behind the counter thought he might be a child-molesting retard who was featured on the evening news. Or that he was merely mentally unstable, and therefore a threat to the customers. Or both, it doesn't really matter; people instinctively recognize Billy as That Weird Guy Over There, and they avoid him accordingly. The impression he leaves is like the vague rubber-diaper smell of the Special Ed wing of a public school, an air about him that says Look Anywhere But in My Eyes.

"For fuck sakes, I wanna do it!" Billy pouts.

So I have no problem at all with him wanting to be posted online as the "suicidal" eBay deviant who wants money to not kill himself. I don't want my face on the internet, after all - that had been a sort of final option idea from the outset. And using Billy instead of me is dandy because I believe his sagging, simian features are ideal for this kind of treatment. As I've already talked about, he has a look to him more believable as a man on the edge than I would be. More legitimate. It will be good theatre to use him, is what I'm driving at. Besides, his camera work is bound to stink, and I want the photography as convincing as possible.

Billy is it. I congratulate myself on the selection. This is going to work, goddammit. Has to. The hounds of creditors are on my trail, and no amount of whiskey is cleansing the desperate scent of long-outstanding debt from my body. They're getting closer, and I need a wade through a swamp to throw them off for a bit. Back off! For a while, at least. I need to regroup. Time to get my head together, is all.

We arrange things in the living room, against the wall with the water stain. It looks more pitiful that way, I reason. Billy can't wait for his star treatment. Billy has trouble remembering long sentences, so I begin to rap orders at him, machine-gunning the phrases in quick sound bites for easy comprehension:

"Okay, the auction can be modified later on as it gets closer to the closing date. We'll put updated pictures on it as time goes by. Mess your hair up. Like you've been drinking. Good. Take off that Homer Simpson sweatshirt. We don't want them laughing. You have to be depressed. Pitiful. Put on something dirty, cheap," I bark.

Billy takes off his sweatshirt, revealing an audaciously tacky Hooters t-shirt. In all of existence, the only men who wear Hooters shirts are those who never get to touch actual hooters. He's coat-rack skinny, and this is excellent. Looking him over, I don't want to jinx myself by counting the potential dollars the auction will earn; he looks that terrible. I arrange our lampshade to focus a dim light down at him, to accentuate the misery of his features.

"Maybe you could take a few shots of my wrists?" Billy says. "I was a cutter in high school."

My god - he was a cutter! A natural talent! I grimace inwardly for never having noticed his arms -- details! Everything has to be perfect! -- but thinking it over, I forgive myself because I remember that barely even look at his face. And yes, there they are: the clean white lines, laddering down his forearm where he'd no doubt attempted to garner attention from some valueless gothic tramp. But I frown; the scars look too old to be credible...

"I can freshen them up a bit," Billy offers.

Perfect. Use the chef knife.

Part Three

Billy and the eBay Caper: Part One

2005-04-20T21:35:00.000-04:00

It may be a few months since I last worked.

I struggle to remember exactly; the days since the termination of my employment to the present have smeared together, a result of interminable daily routine and unbranded whiskey from the mom & pop. All I'm aware of now is that the weather outside is finally warm enough to justify walks through the local park, but I lack interest. I need money, and I've heard it doesn't grow on the trees over there. It doesn't arrive in the mail anymore either, so I don't look in the little box attached to the house. In fact, in the spirit of independence, I removed it from the brick entirely and dropped it in my shrubs. To my relief, this ended the daily arrival of pizza coupons. I reasoned that I saved a tree. I celebrated with a whiskey.

I spend my days watching television and surfing the internet. My roommate Billy, though an ineffectual nincompoop, actually has a job, so I can change channels free from dispute during the day. But when he returns from his shift, we are forced into the uneasy kind of co-operation familiar to jail-cell occupants:

Billy: Change the channel! My show is on!

Me: Nonsense, it's not even 7 o'clock yet. I think a boob will be on soon.

Billy: Change it! The show might be on already!

Me: Silence, you ass. Your show is on at 7:30 anyway.

Billy: No it isn't. (pause) Okay, there was no boob, can you change it now?

Me: Wait.

Billy: Hurry up, goddammit!

Me: All right, I'm done. (channel flip)

Billy: We missed the beginning!

The entertainment of the argument is worth it, frankly. Boobs, in prime time? They come on after eleven, the silly bastard. I just like to watch him squirm about in his seat.

But to my amazement, it turned out that Billy actually does have a use. Last night, we were hammering out a verbal contract to keep the television tuned to the channel "Fear Factor" would appear on, something I didn't feel like watching, when we saw a snippet of news:

"...and the man has taken a picture of a grizzly bear in his backyard, which he posted on an eBay auction page. In his description, he claims that he will execute the bear with his high-powered rifle should the bids not approach his desired price. The current bid for its life is $3,000, with no reserve price set..."

"Brilliant!" I exclaimed. I had been scheming for weeks to summon a way of earning easy dollars from an eBay sale; to my dismay, none of the potato chips I purchased resembled the face of Jesus. Nor did any slice of toast I carefully browned in my toaster. No, I had to think of an original idea, and finally I had one. It took some barefoot yahoo in America threatening to kill a stray grizzly unless somebody paid his ransom to set the wheels in motion for me.

"Hey, we could do something like that," said Billy. "We could threaten to blow away Spark unless we get enough money. He's pretty old anyways."

Spark, Billy's old blue-tick hunting hound. I was grateful for the sacrifice, but I suspected the scam was working for the chum with the grizzly because for some reason it's not animal cruelty if it's a wild animal. Some kind of loophole like that, had to be. Batter a cow into submission with a sledgehammer, bleed it, quarter it, and you get roasts for your family reunion. Woo! More meat? Pass the ‘slaw! Do that to your cat, and you get a mug shot and a jail sentence.

Out in the backyard, Spark snored the evening away, unaware that the shadow of death had passed over him a moment ago.

No, entertaining though it might be, I didn't want to hold the gun to Spark's head. Animals, it's been done. And besides, who knows what John Law might do to me if I threaten the life of an old hunting dog. The beauty of the plan I cooked up was, it's completely legal. All I needed for it to succeed was a little media exposure and some human stupidity, of which there is an abundant and inexhaustible supply. I finished my drink, slamming the highball glass on my end table.

"Billy, I've decided to kill myself," I announced. "Get me your digital camera. I'm going to need lots of photographs."

Part Two

Bea Arthur: Nude?

2005-04-19T22:04:00.000-04:00

Bea Arthur. She'll beat your ass.

Well, my experiment in posting links to racy photographs of Kirsten Dunst met with some decent success. Blog traffic increased a smidge, and I got the intrinsic joy of having the face of Dunst gracing my blog, if only for a while.

But someone left a comment (aughra) suggesting that I might attract even MORE viewers if I were to post the photographs of another elusive celebrity. I thought it over, and decided she was right. Aughra, I made it my mission to find scantily-clad images of your favourite leather-lunged Golden Girl, Bea Arthur!

[As an aside, I'm certain by now that she's a Highlander in disguise. Immortal, can't be killed. She's on my celebrity death list, but unless someone decapitates her...well, she's still going to be "Old Bea Arthur" long after I'm feeding worms. Just a hunch. There can be only one...]

A quick Google search proved fruitless, ("Bea Arthur nude naked") because the period when she might have desired naked photographs of herself occured prior to the invention of the camera. I do however have extensive Hollywood contacts, so I called in a favour. A man by the name of Ludwig Highhat owed me large, so I rang him up:

Highhat: All right, I got what you asked for. Man, you are crazy, seriously.

Me: Never mind that. I've got the money. Where do you want to meet?

Highhat: Christ, don't talk like this on the phone. Let's get a coffee at Starbuck's.

Me: You're going to bring it though, right?

Highhat: Goddammit, what did I just say? I didn't hear anything you just said. See you there at one o'clock.

Me: Great! I'll bring the cash for the handoff.

*click*

Anyway, Highhat didn't disappoint. At the coffee place, I nearly lost my lunch when he brought out what I asked for. Luckily, I remembered I left it under my chair.

"I never like to buy the food here, it's way overpriced," I said, digging into my baloney sandwich.

"Whatever, man. You got what you asked for, so now we're even. See you around," he said.

I could hardly contain my glee at what I now owned. Probably the only risqué picture of Bea Arthur in the entire world, and it was all mine.

So here, I have a world exclusive, and I'm giving Fast and Dumb readers the first opportunity to take in Bea in all her glory, a quick look at a celebrity so secretive, it's rumoured she lives on Marlon Brando's island. It's a chance that nobody else on earth has had - before now.

Enjoy, everybody.

Click here to see Bea Arthur!!

A Dirty Poem

2005-04-18T17:21:00.000-04:00

This morning, the kitchen smells like potatoes.

Mouldering earth in a Cavendish grave.
I do not open the cupboard;
Light makes the monsters real.

Unseen, inside the damp sack, blind, white eyes reach with tenticular stamina; silent, and raw.

Pickles taste like vinegar.
Old wine is vinegar.
Rotting movie reels turn to vinegar;

The crotch of a bitter whore is vinegar.

I wince, reach into the bag, and pull out six wrinkled grandmothers.
I slice off their sightless eyes, fry them, and sprinkle the acid on my Cupboard Monsters.
They are defenseless, on my plate. I soak them with the blood of tomatoes.

Salt.

The vinegar on them, I taste 1940's Technicolour movie reels. It's good.

But whores will always taste bad.

See Kirsten Dunst Naked : An Experiment

2005-04-15T22:08:00.000-04:00

I read a blog entry on some guy's site that discussed how his web traffic blew up once he inserted a few words/photos into a post - words that included things like, "naked" in addition to the names numerous popular female celebrities.

So, inspired by his success, as an experiment, I thought I'd see what would happen to my blog traffic if I include a post that invites you to see "Kirtsen Dunst naked". Although, she isn't really naked, she's more like "Kirsten Dunst topless". And it's not even topless, it's more like "sort of topless." In fact, the pictures aren't even that good. But if you want to see the pictures I saw (I wouldn't look at these at work), click the links:

Kirsten Dunst topless 1

Kirsten Dunst topless 2

Kirsten Dunst topless 3 <-- although, this one isn't really topless

Enjoy!

[Edit: It's amazing how well this worked. I'll add a few more catch phrases, then - if I ever find the nudies for it, I'll post links.

Lindsay Lohan topless
Lindsay Lohan topless
Lindsay Lohan topless
Lindsay Lohan naked
Lindsay Lohan naked
Lindsay Lohan naked
Lindsay Lohan nude
Lindsay Lohan nude
Lindsay Lohan nude
Paris Hilton video
Paris Hilton video
Paris Hilton video
Paris Hilton naked
Paris Hilton naked
Paris Hilton naked
Paris Hilton topless
Paris Hilton topless
Paris Hilton topless
Paris Hilton nude
Paris Hilton nude
Paris Hilton nude
Angelina Jolie naked
Angelina Jolie naked
Angelina Jolie naked
Angelina Jolie topless
Angelina Jolie topless
Angelina Jolie topless
Angelina Jolie nude
Angelina Jolie nude
Angelina Jolie nude
Jessica Alba naked
Jessica Alba naked
Jessica Alba naked
Jessica Alba topless
Jessica Alba topless
Jessica Alba topless
Jessica Alba nude
Jessica Alba nude
Jessica Alba nude
Brittany Spears naked
Brittany Spears naked
Brittany Spears naked
Brittany Spears topless
Brittany Spears topless
Brittany Spears topless
Brittany Spears nude
Brittany Spears nude
Brittany Spears nude

Recognition

2005-04-11T23:19:00.000-04:00

I found out today, to my surprise, that the filtering software of various network servers are now blocking my blog. Including the software of my company.

It would seem that the content I produce is considered, "tasteless."

I'll accept it as a compliment, because I suppose it means I've been noticed by tech weenies someplace, enough so that it's reasoned sensitive minds need to be protected from potential corruption by me.

On the other hand, it means that any reader trying to access the blog through the same firewall will get the same error message.

I have no choice but to accept it, and to think that maybe it's better to be shunned than to be ignored.

Listerine Man Goes for a Ride

2005-04-06T15:01:00.000-04:00

“Hey, look!” Ed yelled. “It’s Listerine Man! They’re taking him away!”

I looked up the street, and sure enough, there he was. No, Listerine Man isn’t that guy in the stupid costume you see in the commercials. Listerine Man is just a bum. He usually sits on the sidewalk outside our building, drinking Listerine every day. Except today he was spread-eagled on the cement, with an empty bottle of mouthwash still clutched in his hand. Nobody would care, except that he had inconveniently passed out right where everybody wanted to walk. There was a cruiser parked at the curb, and two cops were trying to figure out what to do with him. I saw the first housefly of the season land on Listerine Man’s cheek and begin to wash itself in the spring sunshine – there was carrion to find, and eggs to lay.

“Man, he must have really tied one on! He’s passed right out!” Ed said. A small crowd was gathering around. Listerine Man moaned piteously.

“Get the plastic,” one of the cops said.

“Roger that,” said the other. He popped the trunk, and took out this big honking roll of plastic, which he began to spread around in the back seat of the cruiser. Everybody began to laugh and trade jokes:

“Is that a body-bag for the homeless? Or do you use a giant Zip-Loc for that?”

“Look! Cop cars come equipped with Drunk-Wrap! ”

“At least his breath won’t smell too bad!”

“Are you guys taking him to Listerine-Drinkers Anonymous?”

After a lot of grunting and straining, the cops managed to dump Listerine Man in the back of their car, at which point the crowd applauded and hooted. “Nothing to see! Nothing to see here!” another guy whooped. We all departed for our lunches, clucking about the gutter depravity of a man willing to drink a bottle of Listerine to get a cheap buzz.

It’s unfortunate that Listerine Man went too far today with his little hobby, doing something that a lot of people probably regard as hitting rock bottom, right down there with sniffing gas or shaving cream aerosols. But maybe he’s brighter than he looks – later on, after his carcass was hauled away, I went and looked up the ingredients of Listerine on the internet:

Menthol, thymol, methyl salicylate, eucalyptol, and…alcohol. In fact, Listerine has twenty-seven percent alcohol – the exact same consumable variety that we enjoy each night in our bourbons or vodkas, a fact I bet a lot of people don’t know about. Hell, I didn't. If I thought about it at all, I assumed it was "some other kind." And all those other ingredients are non-toxic flavoured oils, some of which are used in breath mints and other similar sorts of candies.

And when you think about it, why would Listerine contain anything dangerous or toxic? People swish it around in their mouths, for crying out loud – why would the makers put some kind of poison in it?

The answer is, of course they don’t. So for only a couple of bucks a day, Listerine Man can get as drunk as he pleases, probably have the world’s freshest breath, and battle gingivitis in the bargain. What’s so bad about that? It’s better than drinking antifreeze.

“What an idiot that guy must be,” Ed sneered later on, playing with his belly. He likes to pat it after he eats, and we had all-you-can-eat pasta for lunch today.

Oh, is he Ed? Is he?

Christopher Walken is Awesome

2005-04-02T12:49:00.000-05:00

My favourite actor is Christopher Walken. In my opinion, he’s the coolest motherfucker in motion pictures.

Picking a favourite movie actor can be a divisive subjective exercise. For instance, there are always people willing to anoint DeNiro or Pacino as their personal favourite actor, relying on classic films from 20 years ago as the basis for their choice. I roll my eyes when I hear those names, because those two guys have been mailing it in for 15 years. Others will pick Johnny Depp, because of the arcane variety of the movie roles he’s chosen, from offbeat B-grade movies to Disney blockbusters. Still others will choose an icon like Schwartzeneggar. Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise...these guys are all good in their own way, but none of those pampered pretty boys have the appeal for me that Chris Walken does.

[You’ll notice that I didn’t include any women in my little breakdown here – without trying to sound masochistic, I know that no women are ever included in any basement “best actor” debates. The only time they are mentioned at all is if they are particularly good looking, and that’s a fleeting trait. And that’s just the way it is, I’ll make no apologies for it. Men rule the movies, and that isn’t going to change anytime soon.]

But back to my pick, Walken has been something special for me ever since I saw him in The Shining when I was a little kid. Nobody else has the Christopher Walken face. You know the face I mean. That creepy, fishbelly face that stares at you like a backroom mannequin. Those dead eyes bug out at you and you wonder what the hell is going on inside that mind of his.

It's all in the eyes.

“When Chris enters a room, he makes babies cry,” an actor said of him once. What an awesome quote, and I totally believe it. Just look at the guy. The few times he smiles, I understand right away why he doesn’t do it – because it makes your skin crawl. When he smiles, I bet a puppy dies someplace. But why is all this a good thing? Because it means he’s a believable actor. His image, what he brings to a movie, is instinctively understood and immediately recognizable. There is a certain credibility in having Walken appear in a movie. All he has to do is show up, and everybody expects something uniquely "Walken" to happen.

And it doesn’t matter to me that some of his movies have gone down in history as some of the cheesiest of all-time. “McBain” comes to mind for me on that one. Or that the vast majority of his appearances have been bit parts and supporting character roles. Some of those supporting roles are some of the best-quoted pieces of pop culture. It’s in the way he says things. Nobody can deliver lines the way he does. Think about Pulp Fiction, when Walken appeared in a scene entitled, “The Gold Watch.” His only part in the movie was explaining to Butch how he stuffed a watch into his colon for four years so he could deliver it to him. I’ve met people who know that speech off by heart. “He'd be damned if any of the slopes were gonna get their greasy yellow hands on his boy's birthright.” That’s right, baby. Anytime he’s in a movie, I sit on the edge of the seat, waiting for him to speak, because I’m expecting a howler of a line I’ll imitate for weeks.

He put it the only place he could - up his ass.

Which brings me to another testament to Walken’s worthiness as "favourite actor": everybody who loves movies has a Christopher Walken imitation they haul out at parties or use with buddies. It means a lot for an actor’s appeal if he is lampooned everywhere from Saturday Night Live sketches to people’s living rooms. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Don’t forget the Walken Hair. The guy’s hairdo has looked the same – screaming up from the sides of his head like he just woke up – for the past 25 years. It’s absurd and iconic enough that Conan O’Brien wanted to talk about it one night on his show. Nobody else has hair that strange. But it's so strange it's cool. Know what I mean?

And to my surprise, I've read that a lot of women find the guy attractive and sexually appealing. With all the great qualities I listed above, he's a chick magnet as well? And it gets even better - he can dance like Fred Astaire.

If he was in politics, I’d probably vote for him. And that’s even considering the fact that he’s cast as a creepy bad guy 99% of the time. And in spite of that, a hilariously funny guy. He’s hosted Saturday Night Live a half-dozen times, each time with his signature style.

Yeah, it's a no-doubter.

Favourite. Actor. Ever.

My AdSense Update

2005-03-31T20:09:00.000-05:00

A friend told me in February that I needed to put Google AdSense on my blog.

"Some guys, they earn enough income from it that they quit their jobs! That could be you, man! Don't you want to quit your job too?"

I had to admit, escaping the taupe anesthesia of my cubicle with no apparent effort on my part sounded like a great plan to me. So I applied, and added it to my site. Woo-hoo, free money on the way.

I decided to check the account today and see how the old retirement fund was going.

So far, I have earned $1.39.

Simply put, this isn't going to do it for me, everybody. I need clicks on that stupid banner. Help me quit my job! Click on the banner!

Only a few more clicks, and maybe I can get a donut along with a coffee...

[Edit: Holy crap! I should have mentioned this before. The AdSense thing is at $4.30 now. I can almost buy a pint with that. Good work team, and keep it up! Help me sell out!]

Up to No Good

2005-03-28T21:28:00.000-05:00

You might have guessed from a previous post that I’m not too happy about having my place sold from beneath me. That’s what happens when you rent a house, though. You know going in that renting one is usually a temporary thing, until the owner moves back in (which happened at the last place I was renting), or maybe until some greedy old Scottish asshat finally becomes aware of the white-hot real estate market, and wants to sell his rental unit and run like a mad bastard with the money to Florida. The signs were there:

Setting: Months ago. Argus is eating a pizza when the phone rings. It’s the landlord, and he’s struggling for breath on his end of the phone.

Landlord: This is (name), your landlord. I was wonderin’ will you be home tomorrow night maybe?

Me: I guess so. Why?

Landlord: I thought I might come over and paint the garage of the place.

Me: What the hell for? It hasn’t been painted in thirty years.

Landlord: So you agree it needs it! I’ll be over by four.

So he ended up painting the garage this inappropriate, toothpaste-white colour, which I couldn’t care less about, except that he also painted over this really great oil-change schedule I had written on the wall for myself. It's so stark and sterile-looking now on the inside, I feel like I’m backing my car into an ER or something when I come home. Maybe I'm off base here and white is some great garage colour, and it's true that I haven't seen too many garages, but I'm sure they shouldn't be painted Colgate-white.

A couple of months later, he called me up to tell me he’s selling, and to accommodate people who want to come look at the house, at their convenience.

Isn't that a daisy.

And it’s a pain, it's a royal pain in the ass. Today, six people came for a walk-through when I was making my huge-man dinner. I’m supposed to act friendly and all when they come through, too. I wish the damn thing would just sell, but the fact is, it’s a dump that’s listed at a price that’s too high.

So my roommate and I decided to enjoy a little passive-aggressive warfare with the real-estate people. It's all we've got. We take their cards when they come, and post them on our dining-room wall, in plain sight of all visitors. Beside each picture is a rating. The placement of the cards is dependent on their rating. And at the top? It’s my cat, with a score of 10. The message to the real estate people who come here and sneer at my bathtub is this: You all rank lower than my cat:

My cat rocks.

The other thing we’ve done, it’s to make our place look as bizarre as possible to scuttle any possible sale until we’re good and ready to move out of here. So, this is Clint – he’s the God of the Stairs, and he guards us while we sleep. He’s in 3-D, with real pants and cowboy boots tacked to the wall. A girl who was here today actually screamed a little at the sight of him, and the real estate agent was very unimpressed with me about the whole thing:

"Get three coffins ready."

And this, it’s our fridge. I credit my roommate the creative work on the collage, I had none of the inclination he did to bother dressing the thing up. You can just see the tops of our respective 2005 Celebrity Death Lists, prominently displayed on the bottom door. He's up 1-0 so far: Carson bought it about a month ago:

Waldo is in there...someplace.

Finally, the basement, or what we call, the Shooting Range. We like to leave things lying around with bullet holes in them, to leave visitors with a vague unease when they are checking things out down here. Sort of like, at any moment, something bad could happen if they stick around too long. This is my roommate's Daisy Red Ryder - for this picture, we had just shot the hell out of the can you see in the background, and he wanted to document the rampage with a shot of his sidearm:

Happiness is a warm gun.

So hopefully the plan works out. Our place has air conditioning, and we're going to need it through the summer.

The Night I Met Dave Grohl

2005-03-24T23:09:00.000-05:00

We’re waiting in line, and it’s early, but the line stretches way the hell out to the street anyway. It’s a sultry July evening, the kind where you should be wearing bathing trunks on your back porch, but I’m standing in line in jeans and my beat-up Docs anyway. It’s like a uniform, only an idiot would come to a rock show dressed in silly shorts. I don’t wear the chain wallet anymore though, the time for that is long gone. It’s 1997, and we’re waiting to see the Foo Fighters in a small Toronto nightclub. They aren’t really a big attraction yet, and we got our tickets for $20 a pop from scalpers. Seven bucks less than face value, that’s a good deal.

“Why do scalpers always get a better deal on tickets than regular people do?” Chris wonders. “They know they are going to be selling them illegally. I’m so sure.”

“Who cares. It means we don’t have to go to Ticketmaster or pay extra fees. If it wasn’t for scalpers, I wouldn’t be here,” I say. I wouldn’t. I’m too lazy to get on the horn and order tickets from Ticketmaster.

Chris lights up a smoke, and scuffs around on the sidewalk. “I hope the opening band is good,” he mutters. You can tell though, he doesn’t really care. He just wants in to see the Foo Fighters. We’re both excited about it. Dave Grohl will be here. He used to be in Nirvana, the best band in the world. We’re going to see like a truncated version of Nirvana up there. It won’t be the real thing, but still, Dave Grohl. His drumming is legendary. It sounds like angry gods having a tantrum, when he rolls on his tom-toms.

“I heard that Dave sometimes plays the drums onstage, just to prove he can still do it. They set up two kits, and Dave pounds the skins just like he did in Nirvana. I hope he does that,” Chris says. The sun is setting in his eyes, and he squints at the club. “It won’t be long now,” he says. He doesn’t know that though, he’s just talking to sort of reassure himself. Me, I figure we’ve got a ways to go yet.

All of a sudden, a car screeches up on the curb, right behind us. Chris kind of jumps, and I turn around to see what the hell is going on, because this guy could have run me down or something. He didn’t, of course, but I guess I’m just mad because he scared me. It’s a black Beemer, and the rear window rolls down. This guy with long hair pokes his head out at me.

“Hey!” he yells, and he waves his fist around. “Hey! Hello, kiddies! Hellooo! Ha ha ha! Over here, everybody!” He looks right at me, and gives me this crazy baboon grin.

A guy in the crowd screams, “It’s DAVE! He’s here!” It was. Dave Grohl was yelling at us from about two feet away from the back seat of his Beemer, and a crowd of people begin to push over to the car to talk to Dave.

He wouldn’t have any of it, though. He cackles again like a madman, and he turns his head to the driver: “Go, man! Go, go, go!” And then the car peels out, and he’s gone, and the car makes a left turn, away from the club. Where the hell is he going, anyway? I found out later he was going to an interview at Much Music.

“Wow! We met Dave Grohl! He was right there!” Chris says. His eyes are bugging out all over the place. “This show is going to be awesome!”

And it was. We booed the opening band off the stage after only three songs, by chanting, “We want the Foo! We want the Foo!” until they gave up and stopped playing. I felt sorry for them a bit, but not too much, because they were a really terrible band. And Dave, he played at least a half-dozen songs on his kit, and threw the drumsticks he broke into the crowd like religious artifacts.

It wasn’t Nirvana, but it was close enough.

A Story of Gluttony

2005-03-22T19:01:00.000-05:00

On Sunday, I was preparing to make a wicked spaghetti sauce for me and my friend, when I realized I was missing the most important ingredient: tomato sauce. I had gotten every single thing I needed for my sauce the day before except that. I even got obscure stuff like zucchini and rosemary, but I somehow ignored the most basic ingredient when I was foraging around at the grocery store.

You idiot, I thought. Well, there's nothing for it now. Let's just go get it.

I decided to go to a store nearby my place, a kind of discount variety store called Giant Tiger. They sell everything there from cheap beach towels to ice cream. It's kind of like a poor man's Walmart - everything there is bottom-of-the-barrel cheap. A lot of the people who shop there are the sort that wear too-tight spandex pants or dirty checkered hunting shirts. So I felt right at home in my pajama bottoms and rubber boots. All I needed was the sauce, okay? It wasn't a night at the Oscars.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I walked in - because what did I see in front of me? Chocolate! Boxes and boxes of chocolate bars, on sale for the unbelievable low price of .30 cents per bar. Thirty cents! I began to hyperventilate, and grabbed one of the plastic baskets provided for my convenience.

I just couldn't control myself. The thing is, I'm addicted to chocolate. It's a craving, as real to me as cigarettes or heroin. I eat it every day, and a meal feels wrong to me if I can't have chocolate when I'm finished it. One of my favourite things to do is to read a book in bed with a bag of M&M's, or maybe take in a movie with a sack of cookies on my chest. It's lame, I know. But it's a fact. Anytime I can't eat it, I understand why people fail to graduate their 12-step program. One of these days, I'm going to pull a George and attempt to combine chocolate eating and sex, and that's when I'll know I've hit rock bottom.

Another thing to appreciate is, at ordinary corner stores around here, the going rate for a chocolate bar is about $1.20. Or sometimes there are deals, like 2 for $1.70, stuff like that. But never in a million years, thirty cents. And I mean, I know everybody loves a bargain. But I'm special that way too. We have a saying in our family:

"Wow, he jumped on that like a Ward on a penny."

My family, we like bargains. Most people like to talk about what name-brand their shirt is, or what company made their home entertainment system. Well, I like to talk about how cheaply I got it for. It feels like you win somehow when you buy something at a steep discount.

So combine the fact that chocolate is an addictive substance for me, for sale at a price literally less than dirt, and I was powerless to escape.

The other thing that caught my eye was the fact that the majority of the bars were American ones. In Canada, we have a rainbow of different bars for sale up here that most people have never heard of. But open in front of my eyes were crates of Paydays, Nestle Crunch's, Baby Ruths. You name it. The fetish of the exotic - I had to have them. I began to sweep chocolate into my basket. My hands shook as I did it - I had this stupid idea that if I didn't make good on this deal fast enough, it would be taken away from me somehow. Talk about an impulse buy.

The chick at the cash gave me the old hairy eyeball:

Checkout Girl: Gee, got enough chocolate, man?

Me (looking somewhat crazed): This will do for now.

Checkout Girl: I hope you didn't blow your wad or anything - don't forget Easter is next week. Those rabbits over there are going to be a quarter each.

Me (shouting): I forgot about Easter! I'll be back!

Anyway, I decided tonight to take a photo of my haul. I've eaten about a third of it so far, but I emptied my wallet on Sunday - $24 worth of chocolate. I haven't had this much on my bedspread since I went door-to-door in my old hobo costume for Hallowe'en in the seventh grade:

They'll be gone by the weekend, I promise.

Me (proudly, like bringing home a new baby): LOOK what I got!

My friend: Sacrement de vierge! That's a lot of chocolate!

Me (smug): I know, it was so cheap, too. I got a fantastic deal.

One thing though - during my demented buying frenzy, I forgot to pick up the tomato sauce.

Oh well. I can't remember everything.

The Joy of Being Rude

2005-03-19T13:28:00.000-05:00

We're eating cereal, and then the doorbell rings.

My guest looks at me. "Non!" she says. "Non, they are early!"

Too right. "Stay here, I'll get it," I grunt. I take my bowl with me as I go.

I stomp up to the front door, and peek out the window. Yes - another real estate agent is here. Shining blue Acura on the corner, her face already arranged into a phony news-anchor smile. They're always so eager to show off how successful they are. She's here with a prospective buyer.

My landlord, he's selling the house I rent. I've now had the pleasure of permitting at least a half-dozen tire-kickers poking through my place in the last week, looking in my cupboards and closets, asking me their stupid questions:

"Is that a fireplace?"

"Is that your cat?"

"Watching the Simpsons, eh?"

All when I'm worn out from a day at work, trying to clean up after I eat, or attemping to enjoy my day off with some peace and quiet. It got tired for me after the first walk-through.

And now, another unwelcome guest is here, an hour and a half early on my Saturday morning. I open the door with a grimace. I'm wearing a Bugs Bunny t-shirt, a black I'm-a-badass toque, and three days of stubble on my chin.

"Hello," sniffs the realtor, her made-up facade slipping just a bit at the unsavory sight of me. "I know we're here a few minutes early, but I thought it we could look show the place anyway, since we were in the neighborhood." Her wrist is cocked out at me, holding her business card between two precious, manicured fingers, and she takes a step forward, as though I am to swing the door wide for Her Majesty.

"You're not a few minutes early. You're an hour and a half early," I say. I ignore her card. What the hell do I want it for, anyway? I'm not going to call her.

She frowns regally, looking at her notepad. "Oh, no, no," she says. "My schedule says that we are to view the property between 11:30 and 12:30 today?" She shows me the piece of paper, like it proves I'm wrong somehow.

"No. Your office originally scheduled the viewing time today between twelve and three. I told them that wasn't acceptable, and they re-arranged it to be between 12:30 and 1:30."

She narrows her eyes at me, lifting her lip in a sneer. "Oh, is this a bad time then?" she patronizes me.

"Actually, yeah it is. I'm eating my breakfast. Check your schedule and come back when you're supposed to be here." I close the door, and lift a spoonful of cereal to my mouth. Outside, the realtor flaps her arms in disgust, and walks down the driveway with her client, who looked like a dumbass in any event.

I return to the couch. "Bon, bain...they are gone?" my friend asks me.

I wink at her, in a good mood again. "Yes, and they aren't coming back."

Using Steroids

2005-03-18T13:27:00.000-05:00

“Did you guys see Mark McGwire on tv?” Willie says. “I thought he was going to cry. Baseball, they’re a bunch of morons.”

We’re in the gym, lifting easy on a Friday morning. It’s a day off for me, and a different crowd is here during the day – they look mostly like mothers trying to lose the turkey wattle under their arms.

“What are they going to accomplish?” Anton says. “They ride McGwire’s home runs in 1998, knowing he’s juicing. And now they want to tear him down for it. They used him. It’s stupid. It’s not up to baseball to keep kids from buying steroids. It's up to the parents.”

I lean on a nearby squat-rack. “Do you guys juice?” I ask. I’d always wanted to know. These two, they’re always here, lifting hard. Willie, he’s a 170-pound powerlifter, and he has a squat of 535, good for number two in Canada in his weight class. Anton is his workout buddy, not a competing powerlifter, but is nonetheless an incredibly large man. Today, they’re doing deadlifts – six plates a side, and the kids in the corner whisper and peek at them like boys at a dance.

Anton laughs. “The only drug we use is weed, eh Willie?” Willie snickers. “We like to lift early, because now we’ve got all day to smoke pot. Expensive though, when you do it every day.”

Willie gets serious. “No, man…we’ve never juiced. But half the guys here do, and they have no clue how to do it. They want to be 250 in 6 months. It can’t be done, not without your balls falling off. You want some juice?”

I stiffen a bit. “No, I don’t. I’m kind of afraid of what might happen.”

Anton shrugs. “Man, you’ve been here what, three years now? If you took 6 weeks of easy orals, you’d blow up like a balloon, way more than these clowns. You’d be 230 in six weeks, no problem. You only get side effects if you abuse them. Do one cycle a year, and you’ll be a monster, with no worries.”

I’m interested, in spite of myself. 230, that’s how big Arnold was in his prime. “They must be hard to get, though, right?”

Willie points. “That guy, Adam, he juices, has been for five years. You can’t tell though, because he doesn’t know how to lift. He sells Winnie, if you want to buy it. It’s $50 for a two-week supply. Winnie is the shits, man. That’s what Arnie used.”

Winstrol, one of the oldest and best steroids in the world. They inject horses with it – it’s the same hormone as humans have. Blow up like a balloon; the idea of turning myself into some kind of small-town superman, wading through masses of ordinary men is strangely compelling. But why? I don’t even play a sport. Maybe it's the idea that, that you can do anything you want, can handle any problem that might cross your path. That you have power, in a triple share more than any man you might encounter. What can possibly threaten you if you can bench press 500 pounds? In a land of 50-percent obesity, with beer-bellied, fish-belly pale, 33-year-old boys playing Halo together in their dumpy, rented houses, what rewards might come the way of a man who has carved his body through the discipline of the iron and careful use of his own hormone?

The problem is, nobody knows the cost. Nobody knows what steroids do, in moderate doses, to a human body over a long-term basis. There are no studies showing if they are dangerous, beneficial, or anything else. There are no double-blind journal entries posted on PubMed or on the FDA website sharing the results of any steroid experiments on a test group. It’s a great unknown, and I wonder why the guys that know the most about using them are guys like these. Why the stigma? Who knows the truth about them?

Willie hunkers down to do his set of deadlifts. “Baseball, they’re on a witchhunt. They’re after the wrong guys. Legalize them, and let doctors prescribe it so it can be monitored. We can still get them if we wanted, so what’s the point? It’s not up to baseball to change society.”

He grunts, lifting 585 pounds off the floor as his bald head shines under the florescents. Bam, the plates hit the rubber.

“Fuck, last one, Anton. Let’s go, that bag of bud is calling my name.”

The Inmate Extraction: Conclusion

2005-03-16T11:24:00.000-05:00

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

A wedge of light spills into the hallway, and they all tumble into the cell, a clunking mass of leather and plastic. All I can see is the ankle of one man, shuffling around at the entrance of the cell, black, cocked on the toe like a sprinter in the blocks.

“Roberts! You--” Jason shouts, that that’s when I hear it, a BANG, this huge, tinny noise that sounds somehow like a person dropping a giant cookie sheet inside the jail cell. A man screams, and I hear the battering sounds of riot shields impacting flesh, and a guttural, caveman grunt.

“...uuuuuuuhhh! UHHHHH! UHHHH!...” I hear a wet smack, and now, a howling shriek pours unrestrained from E-107.

“What the FUCK is going on down there? What the fuck is that noise?” The supervisor at the end of the hall screams through the mesh of his bubble. He can’t leave it under any circumstance, unless relieved of duty, or an “abandon ship” riot order comes over the phones. All I can see is his frightened head, bobbing around within the safety of his enclosure.

I’m still pressed against the wall, and so help me, now there is smoke coming out of the cell.

“Lock it down! Lock it DOWN!” I shout at him, and the supervisor needs no further encouragement. The door to the Block booms shut, and I hear the deadbolts lock inside the heavy steel. Nobody is getting off this floor.

Back in the cell, Ankle Guy is down, I can see his leg kicking around on the floor outside the entrance, and that’s when I see the hand, a hand glistening sweat-slick in the light from the cell, it grabs the doorframe and vaults its owner overtop Ankle Guy. Bare feet slap on the floor, and I see his face. It’s Roberts, shirtless, wearing only his green pants, and he charges down the hall for me, his mouth torn open in a lunatic grin.

I have no time to think, no time to come up with a John Wayne way of handling the situation. I come off the wall, and my leg flies from the ground to hit Roberts square in his crotch.

“Huuunnnhhh,” he groans, and he skids to his knees in front of me. His hands reach out like a drowning man, and my leg bounces from the floor again, and this time, my black wingtip impacts him directly on his nose. I hear a Rice Crispies crackle of snapping bones, and he shrieks, blood soaking his chest hair in a sudden fountain I was unaware a human nose could produce.

And then I’m on autopilot. I leap on his chest, and pin his shoulders to the floor. Roberts is smaller, one of those deeply-tanned, beef jerky looking guys you see sitting around at construction sites wearing dirty wife-beater t-shirts. I can smell the slippery, armpit reek of him, a smell so sharp I breathe through my mouth. I punch him in the face, and blood sprays again. Roberts is fighting beneath me, and suddenly I can imagine the victims he must have raped. I think of the pictures of beaten women, welfare-skinny and trailer-trash blonde with cuts down their cheeks who won't look at the camera. I remember photos of happy, smiling babies with brain damage and without genitals that won’t leave my dreams, dismemberments, mutilations, bodies, multiple horrific images that slideshow through my mind in an instant, and then my control is gone. I’m punching him in the face, splat, splat, splat, my hand is breaking on the bones of his forehead and cheeks, and I don’t feel a thing, pushing his flailing arms out of my way, punching him until my arm is dripping red, punching from a well of loathing and fury I never knew I had, and this time I know the caveman grunts are all from me.

I would have punched his face until exhaustion had Jason not pulled me from the body.

“Stop it, man! Stop! You got him! Stop. Stop. You got him,” Jason shouts. He’s yelling in my ear, and I’m on my feet again, and Jason is bear-hugging me against the wall. I smell the smoke again, and the copper stench of Robert’s blood, and all I think is, not human. He’s not human. My hands, scarlet claws before my eyes, drop, spent, to my sides.

“Shhh,” Jason says. He hugs me hard, and feeling me relax at last, lets me go. It’s gone. I begin to gasp for air, coming up again from the depths.

On the floor, another guard, I think it's Ankle Guy, has chained Roberts at the wrists and ankles. He’s unconscious anyway, but prisons are all about redundant controls. He’s flipped on his face, and the blood from his face is smeared on the polished granite of the cellblock floor. I’m suddenly paralyzed with fear that he has AIDS or hepatitis. I’m covered in gore, and I realize I can’t feel my hand at all. My thumb doesn’t work. I broke it somewhere on Roberts’ face.

Another guard emerges from his cell, holding his cheek. He’s bleeding. “Look,” he says. He’s holding out something in his hand. “He made a bomb…it was a little bomb. Jesus Christ,” he says. It's a tuna can - blown wide and charred black to Elmer Fudd perfection.

Jason takes the shredded can, and dumps the contents on the floor. They’re the ashy remnants of matchheads, and a scorched wire flaps from the bottom of the can. A matchhead bomb. Pack a pipe or a can with matchheads, plant a wire inside it, wrap up the mess in a roll of duct tape, touch the wire to a battery, and you’ve got a homemade grenade.

“Shit,” Jason says. He wipes his forehead and laughs. “Well, this is what we came for, right? Fucking shit.” He slides his baton back into his belt.

I step into the sunshine pouring out of Roberts' cell, looking at my hand in the light that's shining through the eastern-facing window. Examining it in the clinical glare, I’m hoping like hell I don’t get in trouble for this.

The last thing I see are Roberts' feet, dragging through the puddle of blood he left behind, smearing a trail into the darkness we’ll have to mop up before we leave.

Another Bathroom Episode

2005-03-14T12:13:00.000-05:00

I already wrote an extensive list of things that bother me about public bathrooms a couple of months ago – a lengthy complaint that I thought pretty much covered everything I don’t like about the public bathroom experience.

However, last week, I witnessed yet another peculiar behavior in my office bathroom that left me wondering about the essential nature of man. I figured I might as well document it and add to my account:

No Hands, Ma

It’s funny, I’ve worked with this guy for a few years now, and never saw him do this in the bathroom until very recently, when I saw him do it twice in one week.

He was standing at the urinal when he unzipped, "took it out" to relieve himself (I’m only guessing he did this last part, I wasn’t watching that closely, and it's a reasonable thing to presume he did it) – and then he put his hands on his hips when he began urinating. Both of them! He kind of arched his back a bit (and therefore, pushed his hips forward so he kind of humped himself into the urinal), and stood there sort of like one of those idealized portraits of Superman, when he’s on top of a building or something and his cape is flapping behind him in the breeze. Let me tell you, it is fucking strange seeing a guy puffing his chest out like that when he’s staring at a wall, with his cock hanging out of his pants in the urinal in front of him.

This guy, he also falls into the category of people who talk to you when you are doing your own bathroom business, so it was unavoidable for me to notice this. So, why did he do it? Shouldn’t there be at least one hand around front for aiming purposes? What if he decided to do this at some point, and he ended up peeing all over his pants because he wasn't pointed in the right direction? So, besides being an eccentric way to take a piss, using a urinal this way doesn't make any functional, logical sense to me at all.

And if this wasn’t unusual enough, he actually stretched his hands out over his head as he took his leak. Arching his back, he tried to touch the ceiling tiles above the urinal as he relieved himself.

Him (hands proudly on his hips): It’s finally warming up out there, eh?
Me (trying to make my way out the door): Yah, it sure is.
Him (stretching to ceiling tiles): Uhhnn! (His wife) and I are going to North Carolina in two weeks, so it should be perfect weather here when we get back.
Me: Uh-huh. (Edging towards the door)

And what happened next, it took the cake for me. He put his hands behind his head, and began to gyrate in front of the urinal like Elvis Presley, jerking his hips from side to side as he tried to shake out the last few drops.

Him: Ha, ha! No matter how much you squirm and dance, the last drop always goes in your pants. Isn’t that right?
Me: Goodbye now! (speeding from the bathroom)

I wish it wasn’t too much to ask that people kept this kind of creepy behavior to their own homes. But to have that expectation is to forget the cardinal rule: people are morons.

*

The Inmate Extraction: Part Three

2005-03-13T14:07:00.000-05:00

Part One, Part Two

The E-Block supervisor doesn’t like that I’m here.

“There’s an inmate extraction this morning,” he says, looking out his window at Jason. “Admin are supposed to be in their offices.” He ignores me. I can see a book, open on his lap in the dimness of his guard-bubble. Guards have a high-school education and pull down double my salary with overtime.

I hold up my printout prop again, to catch his attention. I shake it around a bit…see? “I just want to tape up the balances in the hall, and I’ll be out of here. It won’t take a second,” I say.

The supervisor is very unhappy about this. It’s written all over his face. Prison guards never hesitate to express negative emotions. Spend a few years surrounded by convicted felons who have no interest in the Tony Robbins program, and their attitudes begin to effect a change in even the most stalwart of personalities. Give a person enough time here, for instance, a twenty-year veteran who has seen it all, this guy who might have started as the most mild-mannered nice guy will turn into a cynical, pitiless screw with no interests other than his own. Prison guards, on average, die less than three years after they take their retirements.

“Wait until after the extraction is over, then. You know you’re not supposed to be in there,” he says. But he doesn’t order me. I can sense his weakness. He knows that I’m not supposed to be here, but doesn’t know who I am. He’s a younger guy too, new on the job. I stare at his eyes, saying nothing. Do this long enough with someone, and the other person will eventually give in to what you want. It helps too if you’re physically more intimidating, or taller than the other guy, like I am in this case. Go ahead, try it yourself sometime and see what happens. People will avoid confrontation almost at all costs. This is something I learned from the inmates. If you watch them through your window, out in the yard on a daily basis, you can learn lots of things from them that you can apply to your life. Some staff members, they keep lists on their walls of various gang members, pinned up there like a human resources org chart. Some people, they follow the prison debt lists (it’s known which guys owe money to whom) to see what the outcome will be when a con can’t pay what he borrowed. Wagers are made. It’s like being tuned to the Discovery Channel, featuring the social habits of monkeys in the African Savannah. There are social orders, behaviours, hierarchies. Who needs reality tv when you can watch the real thing outside your office window?

The young supervisor sighs, giving up. “All right, whatever. Go ahead,” he says. He presses a button beside his phone, and we hear the loud buzz of servos inside the wall. The door to this level clanks open like an industrial version of the doors on the Starship Enterprise.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jason tells him. “We won’t tell anybody.” We pass into the hallway, a breeze of warm air pushing on our faces like we’re coming into a house out of the cold. It has a heavy, hunting-camp smell of smoke and bacon grease, a thick odor that sticks to your skin and clothes like diesel exhaust. A guard working in the Blocks, one of the first things they’ll tell you is, after a while, you can’t get that smell out of your clothes, your hair. It’s like mechanics who always smell like motor oil, no matter how many times they shower.

Eau de 10w40.

The smell puffing out of the Block is the drifting scent of failure, the hot stink of unfocused, impotent frustration. Our heels clock on the brown granite floors, echoing through the dim hallway before First Breakfast, and I know that the first thing I’ll do when I get home tonight is shower like Lady Macbeth.

We’re at the cell. Jason opens the viewing window, peering around inside for a moment, and then slips his baton from his belt. He raps the metal door with it, whack!-whack!-whack!, and puts his mouth up to the window. “Roberts!” he says, raising his voice. “Roberts, we are here to transfer you this morning to Kingston Pen. Stand against the rear wall of your cell, turn around, and place your hands on your head.”

Jason peeks around in the window again. “He’s not doing it…I can’t see him. These windows are too small,” he mutters.

“He could be beside the door,” says another guard.

Jason grimaces. “Probably. That’s why we’re here,” he says. He smacks the door again with his baton, and yells down the hall: “Open! 107!” at the supervisor in the bubble. A moment passes, and then there’s a loud, chock! inside the door. We all exchange looks. The last barrier between Roberts and us is gone.

There’s no response from inside the cell. We can hear the mutters of other inmates, vague murmurs mumbling through three feet of reinforced concrete in the hallway.

But Roberts is silent.

Jason wraps the swing-cord of his baton around his wrist. He looks back at the other members of the Emergency Response Team, then over at me against the wall ten feet away, giving Roberts one more chance, a quiet moment to present himself inside his cell in the acceptable manner. He doesn't.

“I still can’t see him. Shit,” Jason says. He puts his hand on the door handle of the cell, buffed to a mirror shine after forty years and a thousand hands.

The guards, they all take a deep breath, and Jason yanks open the door of cell E-107.

Part Four
*

Colin's Birthday Wish

2005-03-11T07:40:00.000-05:00

“….Haaapppy birrrthday, to youuu! Yayyy, Collie!” and everybody claps. He’s with his dad, Uncle Greg, and his big sister Jessica. It’s Sunday.

Colin is nine years old today. He is hoping the little box Uncle Greg brought over for him is a new Game Boy. He’s been getting more attention and better presents and stuff ever since his mother went to the hospital a few months ago. He’s supposed to be sad that she’s gone, kind of, but it’s actually a good thing that she’s not here, because his mom is crazy. Nobody says that though, they just say she’s sick.

“Collie, mommy is going to be away for a while,” his dad told him last night at lights-out. “She’s sick, and she needed to go to the hospital to get well. She’ll be back soon,” he said.

“Really, dad?” Colin asked. He wasn’t sure.

Because this one time? About a year ago? He was going to his room to see if he could find Figaro, their cat, and he saw his mom in her room. She was bare naked, lying on her bed, not even doing anything, just looking at the ceiling. She looked pale and fat on there, and Colin had never told anyone he had seen her like that. He even had nightmares sometimes about her, that he’s outside her room again, and she jerks up and sees him staring at her, and then she suddenly jumps off the bed like ninety and he can’t move, his legs won’t move, and she’s so fast, all he can do is watch her coming for him with her arms flapping and mouth gaping, and she grabs him with her thick, white fingers, and presses his face to her chest, so hard that he can’t breathe, and it doesn’t matter if he bites her or even kicks her Where it Counts, she never lets go of him. It’s the worst dream he’s ever had. He even wet the bed one time, dreaming about it.

“I promise, son. She won’t be gone much longer. She’s going to come back, and she’ll be all better again,” his dad said. He kissed him on the top of his cowlick. “Now, tomorrow’s a big day. It’s time to sleep. Nine is the most important age you’ll ever be!” He looked down at him in his bed for a second, smiling too wide, his hands in his pockets and playing with his keys.

“Okay, dad,” Colin said. He suddenly felt like crying a bit, for no reason. He closed his eyes so Dad wouldn’t see.

“Goodnight, son.” His father closed the door.

Colin thought about his mother in the dark, about how strange and scary she was sometimes, and he knew that he never wanted her to come back. He felt rotten thinking about that, didn’t want to believe it, and never even allowed himself to think about this stuff unless it was bedtime. But it was true. He whispered the words to his bear, the ones he couldn’t tell anyone else:

“I hate her.”

But that was last night, he doesn’t have to think about that right now. It’s his birthday! With presents…and now, there is the cake. It’s tall! And has brown icing. He makes sure there are enough candles on the top. One, two…yep, nine. He leans forward, opening his mouth to blow them out, and then someone clamps onto his arm, and it’s his sister, and she is pressing against him, cupping a damp hand to his ear:

“Colin, you have to blow all the candles out with one breath, or else you’ll go straight to hell,” Jessica whispers. Nobody hears her but him. Her breath is the dead, leafy cold of the iced tea she’s been drinking.

Colin jerks, looking at his sister. She grins at him, and Colin is reminded of the snapping turtle that was crawling across the lawn in the summertime. Jessica, who cried for days when their mother left, and who is so much like her. She likes to play games where Colin ends up crying in the end. And that's what she likes most, because she'll sing her favourite song to him when he does, and laughs, laughs like it's the best joke in the world:

"Cry a little cry for me...Collllie! C'mon, cry a little cry for me...COLLLLIE!!!"

And for the first time, he notices Jessica’s eyes, her staring, wide-set eyes, are the exact same flat brown as his mother’s. She’s smiling at him now in the way his mother always did, just like the last time he ever saw her, when he woke up and she was in the hallway outside his bedroom with her sewing scissors.

“Come on, Colin! Make a wish!” Jessica says.

He turns to the cake, and forgets all about the Game Boy.

Colin closes his eyes, squeezing his fists into hard balls on his thighs, imagining his wish,
breathing all the way to his shoes, and blows as hard as he can, a long, gasping breath on the candles that makes him cough.

“Yeahhh, Collie!” his dad cries, tousling his hair. “Now, don’t tell anybody your wish, or else it won’t come true!”

Colin watches his sister drinking her iced tea, her pudgy hands tipping the blue, beaded glass.

“I won’t, Dad.”

The Inmate Extraction: Part Two

2005-03-09T07:55:00.000-05:00

Part One

Jason raps on the glass of the guard-station. "We're going to E Block," he says to the guard sitting inside. The guy behind the window looks at me.

"E Block," I say. I hold up a computer printout. "Balances." The sheets flap in my hand in a gusting autumn breeze. Inmate balances are delivered to the blocks once a week. They are taped up in the hallways so the inmates can see how much money they have in their accounts to spend on chips and pop at the canteen. Today isn't the day I'm supposed to bring them, but I needed an excuse to be going to E Block.

The guard nods, and picks up his phone, calling E Block to let them know we are on the way. He presses the big red button, and the gate enclosing the inmate compound rattles open in front of us.

Jason slaps the Plexiglas of the guard station as we pass. "Thanks, Mikey," he says. The guy inside his fishbowl nods, and he presses the button again once we’re inside. The gate is a ten-foot orange replica of those little wooden baby barriers they had in the seventies, the ones they used to sell to new parents until someone's infant strangled to death on one of them. It accordions shut behind us, and Mikey the guard goes back to sleep.

We’re walking along the cement pathways to the block-houses, and Jason is telling me how it’s all going to go down. The walkway is littered with drifts of cigarette butts, unswept from the day before. A fuzz of October frost sparkles on a thousand pitched smokes like the remnants of an early-season snowstorm.

"We’re going to knock on the door and give him one more chance to exit without incident, we always offer that option. If he doesn’t respond, that’s when we go in," he says. They all have their helmets strapped on now, and nobody is smiling anymore. There is a reason for these
stormtrooper costumes. They are to protect the person wearing it, and also to scare the shit out of a wannabe troublemaker.

It’s no accident that Nazi SS uniforms were black.

"We have to put the chains on his wrists and ankles. If he resists, we’ll use the batons. We’re taking him to the van outside the supply-entrance, it’s closer than the main gate.

"The important things to remember is that we’ll be firm, and that we are in charge. The time for reasoning with us is over. He’s had multiple chances, just like the rest of them did.

"That doesn’t matter though, to a lot of them. They wouldn’t be getting extracted this way if they wanted to behave. They’re all looking for a fight, these guys. Look at the teeth they have left…they want it. They might even need it. They even ask for it.

"But we aren’t going to ask him anything. He’s just going to do what we say."

And the way he speaks, I know he doesn’t believe it’s going to go smoothly. That he’s hoping it doesn’t.

We’re at the block, and we all scuff to a stop, and Jason opens the door – an absurd brown door just like the kind you’d see on the front of a public school or village library. "Okay, man. So just stand back, and let us do our job. Stand against the wall, and enjoy the show," he says. Tickets, please. Theatre three, on your left. Enjoy the show, sir.

We step into the shade of E Block, and the sound of the door behind us is the slam of a bank vault.

Part Three

.

The Chimp Attack

2005-03-08T15:38:00.000-05:00

We’re flipping channels, and we see the grinning face of a chimpanzee, framed onscreen behind a news anchor.

"Wait, stop here a second," I say. "What's this?"

“…and doctors say the chimps, named Ollie and Buddy, chewed off most of Davis' face, tore off his foot and attacked his limbs and genitals….”

“Jesus Christ,” I say. “A chimpanzee attack? Some guy lost his face and his genitals? What would you have to live for?”

“Nice name...oh yeah, he’s my fuckin' ‘Buddy’,” my roommate says. “Man, that sucks.”

“And he’s going to be hopping around on one foot for the rest of his life, too. So he’s gonna be this dickless, mutilated, pirate-guy,” I say.

“…generally weighing between 120 and 150 pounds with strength much greater than a man…”

“Oh, yeah!" my roommate says. "Those fuckers are strong, too, I saw this one on tv, he lifted 600 pounds with one arm. Why doesn't anybody do monkey steroids, man? But just imagine having this superhuman, fuckin' hairy little monster, just clamped onto your leg, gnawing your bag off? Just imagine that, man...it's just latched there, chewing your cock, and you can't get it off, or else it will eat your face or somethin'...it's a fuckin' nightmare.”

“Just like...what was her name? That bimbo...Sarah?” I say.

"I'm gonna rip your face off in a minute here."

Ed is Bored Again

2005-03-07T15:13:00.000-05:00

Ed is bored. I forget on what pretence he came into my office, but we’re talking about being kids again, in public school.

“Remember recess, man? Floor hockey. We always signed up so we wouldn’t have to go outside at lunch hour. Floor hockey rocked,” Ed says.

“Yeah, we used to take turns in net, and we’d shoot these huge slapshots right at the goalie’s nuts from five feet away. We knew we’d be in there next, but it didn’t matter, we’d still nail that poor kid right in the bag. Right in the old nut-sack. Boom!” I laugh, remembering the joy I once felt in hurting other kids.

“Yeah, and Dodgeball in gym class. They don’t even have mandatory gym class anymore, they are worried about “straining” the kids. Yeah, the last thing they want is some fat kid straining themselves, having a stroke on the floor.” Ed suddenly contorts his face into that of a fat stroke victim. “Uhhh! Uhhh!” he grunts. He jumps around in my guest chair like he’s being electrocuted.

“They don’t even have Dodgeball anymore,” I say.

“Oh, fuck off. Sure they do.”

“No, they don’t. Remember how we used to run like a mad bastard behind the line on the floor, while the asshole of the class would wind up with those big red Mars balls we had and try to nail you? You’d be running around, and those guys, they’d target you in the corner, and the balls would leave welts on your legs as turtled up and tried to protect yourself,” I say.

“What do they do now?”

“They have this game, it’s sort of like Dodgeball. Except instead of throwing the ball, they roll it at you on the floor, no bouncing. And instead of running around, you stand still, and the ball has to touch your foot to take you ‘out’,” I say.

“That’s retarded,” Ed declares.

“Yeah, it is. What lesson is that teaching the kids? Remember the fear you felt, trying so hard not to get hit by the ball? This is a good life lesson. We need to learn to run away from flying red balls. Now, the lesson is to stand still, and hope like hell the ball doesn’t touch you. It’s a “frozen deer” strategy. Those kids should be running around like some other animal. What runs around? Rabbits?”

“Yeah. They teach you to just sit there, and just take it. Just like here! Take it, right up the ass! Uhnnh! Uhnnh!” Ed humps the air.

“Yeah, you’d like it in the ass,” I say.

“Fuck you, man. You always ruin my moments.”

Talking to Dog Man

2005-03-07T09:46:00.000-05:00

There he is again – Dog Man. He’s always sitting on the cement on the corner outside our building. During the wintertime, he puts on a surplus army jacket, and a German Shepherd is wrapped up beside him in the blanket he camps on. I have noticed that he usually disappears right after lunch. Maybe he gets enough coin by then that he can knock off a bit early.

“Good morning!” he waves at me. His gloves have no fingers, so he can keep them on when he smokes.

“Hey,” I say. I see that he hasn’t shaved since…oh, last summer. “Hey, I like the beard,” I say. He grins, rubbing his fingers through his greying tribute to ZZ-Top.

“Yeah, man. It’s my winter coat!” he laughs.

I laugh with him, and walk past. He's still not getting any money out of me.

*

The Inmate Extraction: Part One

2005-03-05T14:57:00.000-05:00

“We’re doing an inmate extraction today,” Jason says.

He’s excited, wound-up. I would have noticed this anyway, but I knew something was going on the moment he stepped into my office, because he is wearing his Emergency Response gear. A darkened navy-blue uniform. Full body armour. A plastic riot shield, worn on his left arm in Knights of the Round Table style. Batons tucked into Sam Browne weapon belts. Jason and a squad of other guards behind him are carrying their black helmets under their arms like a team of football players before the Big Game.

An inmate extraction means, a bunch of guards have to enter a cell to subdue and remove a problem inmate. Amusingly, it’s usually because they don’t want to leave the prison.

“It’s Roberts, that fucking bastard. They finally transferred him to KP,” Jason says.

Kingston Penitentiary, the maximum-security prison in our system. We’re a high-medium; Roberts has just been promoted. He has been an escalating problem here for months. Everyone at the Institution knows it - information dissemination here travels along the grapevine faster than a group e-mail distribution list. Roberts has been verbally abusting staff since his incarceration a year ago. Last month, he got caught making brew out of Heinz ketchup in his toilet tank, and was punished with a month in solitary confinement. And then, the final straw, he attacked another inmate after he was released from solitary last week.

“He used a shiv he made out of a tin can, folded over and over into a little spike,” Jason says. “He wrapped the handle up in duct tape from the shop, and stabbed the other guy in the kidney. Put 'im in the hospital.” Jason pokes his thumb into his back as he tells me the story I heard five minutes after it happened. “His psychiatrist says that the incident is probably a sexual thing, because he used a stabbing weapon from behind.”

A sexual thing. Seventy percent of the offenders at the Institution are sexual offenders, including our good friend Mr. Roberts. I haven’t read his file, but I know that he’s a serial rapist, having taken his pleasure from women, children, and babies. He’s undiscriminating; an equal-opportunity abuser. As long as it’s got a hole in it, Roberts will fuck it.

“Grease up a knothole in a barn door, and that little scumbag will poke his dick into it,” Jason says. He looks over his shoulder at the rest of the ER team; they’re just about psyched-up enough to go in and get him. “Hey,” Jason whispers. “Hey, do you want to come watch?”

I’m not a guard. I work in the finance office, taking care of exciting things like filing travel claims and processing accounts payable for the prison. My exposure to the inmates is limited pretty much to the old con who empties the garbage in my office. He has tatties running up and down his arms, inked there by an electric needle he made out of an old Walkman motor.

“Call me Cobra,” he told me. “Everybody does.” And yeah – there was the snake, wound lime green and comic-book scary down his sinewy forearm. The open mouth on his hand flexed and rippled as he hung it out to be shaken, which I actually did. This was when I was first hired, before I got to know who I was working with. After a few months of reading inmate records, seeing archived crime scene photographs, and after flipping through multiple victim impact statements, you stop believing in teddy-bear Hollywood ideas like redemption and rehabilitation. I came here thinking that Dead Man Walking was a powerful movie, making an important statement: it is wrong to take a human life. But I stopped thinking about inmates as people years ago.

For instance, are you a man if you abused and sodomized dozens of boys in your Boy Scout troop, humiliating them and scarring them for life to satisfy a Neanderthal pleasure that you express no regrets for possessing?

Do you still qualify as a person if you pour a bottle of 80-proof vodka all over your girlfriend’s head, and try to burn her alive with your cigarette butt? And when that didn’t work so great, you beat her to death with a baseball bat?

Are you a human if you raped a three-month infant so brutally that her tiny, destroyed uterus was surgically removed, and gave her a case of herpes she will carry in her useless genitalia for the rest of her life? And, as a bonus, gave her irreparable brain damage in the bargain?

Better questions might be, can you reform the blue eyes out of a person.

Can you make a person taller, smarter, or Caucasian through the application of bureaucratic process. Can you make a person do anything they don't want to do, or simply can never be.

All I know is, a person can’t be un-raped, un-mutilated, and un-murdered.

The Shawshank Redemption is a fairy tale. At least they executed the criminals in The Green Mile.

Give yourself a prize if you guessed that I don’t shake inmate hands anymore.

“I don’t know if I can go,” I say to Jason. “I have no reason to be in the blocks today.”

But Jason is pushing. It’s no fun unless somebody watches.

The thing is, during an inmate extraction, the only guards in the block are supposed to be the ones extricating the offender. All other administrative staff remain in their offices. The other convicts are locked down in their cells, and they can’t see what’s going on because their cell doors are solid steel, with their little windows all closed off from the outside. This way, none of them can nurse a grudge against the guards by seeing a comrade dragged away by his elbows. The subject is tastefully removed, away from prying eyes, and the only thing left behind is a dirty cell, one of hundreds just like it on the cell block. Administratively, he no longer exists. No inmate will remember him as a martyr for a heroic struggle, because nobody saw anything happen. It’s just like the falling tree in the woods thing.

And Jason wants me to come along for the ride.

The first thing any criminal does once they’re locked up is ask for the newspapers. They want to read about themselves.

Everybody is a closet exhibitionist.

But maybe there’s more than just that. Maybe Jason wants me to see Roberts slammed to the concrete, a knee straining on his neck, writhing in his greens as the chains are wrapped around his ankles. Maybe Roberts will act up, and they’ll get the opportunity to haul out their cans of pepper spray, hosing down his eyes until he cries out for mercy on his knees. And then they can take out their batons and beat Roberts to mush, making him ooze blood from every pore, punishing him for being born and putting us all into this position.

Maybe Jason wants me to see the look on Roberts’ face as he’s taken away to give me the satisfaction that nobody else gets. Because at this Institution, there is no satisfaction. There is no reform, there is no punishment. There is incarceration, and that’s all it is.

Inmates here get satellite television in their cells.

They get to eat three squares a day, and a vegetarian menu is available for the Muslims.

If you have a hankering to see a set of titties, well, you can arrange a subscription to Swank or Hustler through the library.

And if you threaten a staff member with death? All you get is a fifty-dollar fine. How's that for preparation for the outside world?

Employees here, we have to forfeit our rights to a safe work environment when we work in the penal system. It’s all listed in the agreement you sign when you’re hired.

If you even think about touching an inmate in anger, even if you’re a guard, you can lose your job. It’s reported to management, the appropriate documents are signed off, and you are escorted from the premises. The worst part of that is, all the inmates know it. They have their rights, and they have them memorized.

At least there is a pension plan.

But there is the one exception. During an extraction/transfer, you can do anything you want to an inmate short of killing him, because nobody sees it happen. Every single one of these guys, they arrive at their new digs all hangdog and bleeding in the van, their pants soaking and sticking to their legs with pints of angry urine.

There is a long sign-up sheet for Emergency Response duty.

“Call it a perk,” Jason says.

Fuck it. My boss is at the dentist. And the paperwork will still be here when I come back.

Part 2

New City Buses Suck

2005-03-01T08:19:00.000-05:00

There it was. Finally, the bus.

I’m sure few people in other places feel the same sense of relief at the sight of a city bus that the citizens of Ottawa do. This is the world’s coldest nation’s capital – we huddle in our little glass shelters until we see our ride groaning around the corner, and complain bitterly if we miss it.

But there was mine - I could see my route number glowing on the roof, trundling towards me where I waited obediently at the yellow line. With some surprise, I noticed that it was one of the brand-new buses; my route is one of the lesser used ones that are assigned the smaller and older buses in the city’s fleet. If a new bus is now being used for my route, that probably means the few remaining older buses have been taken out of commission.

“When that happens, when they get too old, they take them behind the shed, and they shoot them in the engine,” my buddy Ed said.

How old are they, then? Some of them look just like the models that were rolling down highways in the 60’s.

“The year they bought it is painted in the code at the back, beside the exhaust stack. That bus there, it says, ‘7840’, so that means it was purchased in 1978. Didn’t you know that? Did your mother have any kids that lived?” Ed said.

1978, that’s pretty good, actually. Most people think their cars are “old” if they were made 7-10 years ago. If anybody owns a 27 year-old car, it’s probably only taken out on Sundays in the summertime to go get ice cream with the wife. For a bus to have driven literally millions of kilometers since I was in diapers – well, it’s pretty amazing, now that I think about it. Why don’t cars last that long?

Anyway, I got on my new bus and flashed my pass at the driver, who made every effort to ignore me. This is a big pet peeve of mine: bus drivers who feel it is beneath them to look at bus passes. I pay all this fucking money each month for a silly piece of paper that entitles me to ride on the bus – the least the guy can do is look at the damn thing. I made an issue of it once – my “regular” driver at the time would always look out the window when I hauled out my pass, so one day, I just got on and started walking towards my seat.

“Sir! Come back here, sir!” he barked.

“Yeah? What is it?” I said. I’m all innocent. What, me? What did I do?

“Do you have your pass, sir?” he sneered.

I smiled brightly. For future reference, one of the best ways to cheese off total assholes is to act like they are your best friend. That makes them even angrier, which of course is what you want. Unless they are huge, psychopathic, total assholes – in that case, this doesn’t apply.

“I sure do!” I exclaimed. I pulled my pass out of my pocket and shoved it within an inch of his face, which caused him to recoil instinctively. “Can you see it okay? I wasn’t sure if you guys need to see it or not – I was going to call the transit office to clarify with your manager that I have to show it, because you’re always looking out the window when I get on. Maybe it’s just an ‘on demand’ kind of thing?” I said cheerfully.

“Take your seat, sir.” he grunted. The door hissed as it closed.

“I can sit down now? Is everything okay?”

“Take your seat! You can’t be blocking my sight out the door when I’m driving.”

“Just making sure! Thanks a lot, sir!” I say. The driver gave me a look that would wither a flower garden.

After this episode, he would grudgingly look at my pass each time I came on, which I would produce with cheerful compliance. I hope he gave himself an ulcer stewing about me. Unfortunately, almost all these guys do the "I'm not looking at you" routine, so I’ve given up trying to train them.

Anyway, back to the bus. These new ones – and others have told me the same thing – they just aren’t as good as the old ones.

For one thing, the seats on new buses are terrible. Where to begin with the seats? The new ones have these thick, absurdly soft cushions that offer no support on your ass whatsoever. You see them, and you think, “wow, so plush.” You sit down, and they feel good for about 90 seconds - until your backside begins to go numb from the hard plastic mold the cushion is mounted on. The old buses, they had these vinyl seats, bench-style (these are wider, too – the new seats are intended for one ass only, while on the old ones, you can really spread out and relax on that big pink bench), that were a lot more firm and don’t feel like a torture device after a 20 minute bus ride. Those big pink seats are actually a pleasure to ride on. The new seats have a backrest mounted at a more extreme, upright angle, whereas the old ones had a more relaxing incline to rest your back against. Why are they made this way? It’s like they don’t want you to sit there for long. They must have used fast-food restaurant seat designs when they dreamed them up; seats that are designed to make you want to leave as quickly as possible, which can't really be done when you have to sit there for your commute home from work.

Then there is the new bus layout. The seats are literally mounted all over the place, because they usually have two levels. It’s like drunken assembly-line workers went apeshit with their air guns on a Friday afternoon, and they put the seats anyplace they damn well wanted because the boss was out drinking. You get these ridiculous single seats mounted sideways on top of the wheel wells, benches mounted face-to-face (forcing you to violate one of the major Public Transit Ridership Codes: you never look at fellow passengers in the eyes), seats without a window, a rear row with no legroom at all, and amazingly, much less seating overall compared to the old buses. The reason for that is, there is a huge open area at the front of the bus to accommodate handicapped passengers. In five years of riding public transit, I have yet to see a single handicapped person on the bus. And besides, they have their own bus service, “ParaTranspo.” So why make all the new buses this way? Why must we suffer from retarded bus design features? As usual, minority interests dictate majority decisions.

The old buses? Pleasing rows of evenly-spaced and uniformly-sized pink seats, bolted on a single utilitarian level. Benches at the front for the pregnant or elderly, and a double-wide bench mounted side-to-side at the very back of the bus, which is my very favourite place to sit. There in the corner of this bench, I can put my foot up on a support strut in front of me, and read my book until it’s time to get off, or enjoy the scenery through the nifty retro-style sliding window. No complaints whatsoever about old bus seating, not one, not ever.

Check out the obvious joy on the face of the driver.
4 out of 5 bus drivers recommend old buses.

The final major problem with the new buses is, how the hell do you get off them? The old buses had one design. You got off them by manually pushing on a metal handle on the door, and you were out – everybody understands this concept. It’s the same one in use in your home or workplace. This also makes sense from a manufacturing perspective, because manual doors lacking motors or tiny air compressors don’t need any maintenance.

But the new bus doors...shit. Some of them, you have to wave your hand in front of a sensor for it to open. Others open automatically. Another kind, you press on a little yellow bar at the side of the door. Still others, you press on the door itself once the green light comes on. It’s mass hysteria. Anytime I’m on one of the confusing new buses, there’s always somebody who can’t open the door:

The bus stops, the green light at the door lights up. A woman waiting to get off presses on the door. Nothing happens. She presses again, with more authority. Nothing happens. People start to crane their necks to see what’s going on.

“Press the yellow bar at the side,” a little kid says. Little kids always have the answers for this kind of stuff.

“Pardon me?” the lady says.

“The yellow bar – push it!” another guy yells. But she can’t find the bar. What bar? She begins to scrabble desperately at the window, the doorframe…anything that might offer release from the bus. What if she can’t get off? What if the driver leaves before she can escape?

Finally, the kid jumps up, and pushes the obscure little yellow bar beside the door, and it hisses open. With obvious relief, the woman is on her way.

Incidents like that have traumatized me with a kind of bus-door phobia. I don’t want to have to worry about that kind of shit. So before I get off the newer buses, I always watch a kid getting off at an earlier stop so that I don’t have to suffer the embarrassment of being trapped on the bus like an old lady. Sad, but true. And it didn't have to be this way.

Look, there’s just no debating it. It’s not a fear of modern technology, a retro fetish, or anything else shallow or silly like that. The old buses are better in every way. I want them back.

“Fuck it, man. At least the new buses have air conditioning. I hate to sweat,” Ed said.

It’s -20 today.

“You think too much.”

Punk Rock Song: Riding in Benny's Coffin Car

2005-02-24T22:14:00.000-05:00

We all went to the fair
Sneaked inside and wasn't scared
Went on a ride and lost my keys

Then we went and played some games
With that crappy gun that doesn't aim
The carney said, "you win a piece of shit"

I didn't have it all
I wanna have some more
I wanna have it all
I didn't get enough

Riding in Benny's coffin car
Tryin' to get in the nudie bars
Polyester hung in our hair

Went to Ron's and got some shakes
Then we threw them at the Dairy Queen
When we were done we split for home

We never talked about stuff like that
And we can never have it back
I used to wake up alone

Ed and the Hot Gothic Norwegian

2005-02-24T11:35:00.000-05:00

“The clerk, that Gothic Norwegian? She wants me,” Ed says. He plops down in my guest chair.

“No, she doesn’t.” Bored. Ed talks about women all day. In his mental hierarchy of Interesting Shit to Talk About, females top the list.

“I think she’s trying to court me,” he continues, ignoring me. “Yesterday, for no reason at all, she came by my cubicle, and she touched my arm. That’s a big signal for women, just like when they throw their hair? And she was smiling. That’s her way of saying, ‘impregnate me, I want your seed.’ Women do this kind of thing all the time. You need to read the signs.”

“She’s just being friendly. She’s new here,” I say.

“Oh yeah? Check this out,” Ed says. “She just brought me cookies from downstairs. From the deli. These cost money! She got them just for me!” He holds up the little paper bag like a trophy.

Suddenly, I’m interested. “What kind of cookies?” My stomach jumps.

“Macadamia nuts. Don’t you see? She’s making me an offering. This is the third signal she’s given me now. She’s offering her soft cookies to me, the eligible male. It’s a metaphor. She wants her sweet, moist cookies in my mouth. My mouth,” Ed says. “She wants my tongue all over them.” He chomps down on one of them, the crumbs spilling down his sweater. “Ohh…man, these taste so good…so soft, delicate…these, these...Norwegian cookies…” he trails off, chewing on it as he closes his eyes in ecstasy.

“Gimme one,” I say. The macadamia nuts look sort of like white chocolate. Ed hands me the bag, and I fish one out. And…they taste good. Very good. The nuts are soft, sort of, and they don’t actually seem nutty at all. I cram it all into my mouth, filling my cheeks with sweet, Norwegian sex offerings. What am I doing wrong? Why aren’t women bringing me cookies?

I think of our counterculture file clerk for a moment. “Have you ever slapped a woman around a bit?” I ask. I lift my hands and brush them clean, like Pontius Pilate.

“What for? You mean, during sex? Oh yeah, a few times. Some women, they actually ask for it. That’s just fucked up, man. You get this girl, with a tattoo on her back and her two kids are sleeping in the next room, and she says, ‘Pull my hair. Hit me. Come on, really do it. Spank me. Harder!’” Ed shakes his head. “What about those kids? That’s not where I am anymore though…maybe five years ago, I’d go along with that, but with kids in the next room?…I just can’t do it,” he says. He looks out the window. “The Norwegian would probably enjoy it too, I bet.”

“Have you ever defecated on somebody?” I ask. I want more cookie.

“No, I haven’t. I always wondered though, what that would be like. I think it would feel good. Germanic or something…you’d be just kind of squatting there, and it all comes out of you…you know, in a mound like a Dairy Queen cone, but all warm instead…what an intimate violation,” Ed says. His eyes drift away.

“I wonder if the Norwegian would let you,” I say.

“I’d aim for her face,” Ed says.

Being Stupid in Class

2005-02-23T09:18:00.000-05:00

I lean over to D’Arcy’s ear.

"Did you watch ‘The OC’ last night?" I whisper. My butt aches; such hard seats. “That show is a 90210 wannabe. And it’s never going to have the 90210 cheese factor. Seth and Ryan - those guys are just shells. The OC needs a Dylan. Dylan created the sideburn craze of the 90’s single-handedly. Talk about a cultural influence. Where's the tv badass we look up to now? I want to hang out in the Peach Pit like Dylan did, asking that old alkie guy for advice, while I screw every 17-year-old in Beverly Hills on the side. Only, I don't want my long-lost dad to blow up. That's too traumatic.”

D'Arcy turns, staring vacantly at me. "Uh, yeah. Wait. Yeah." A long, pregnant pause. "Uhhmmm....," he hums. He begins to chew his pen, rolling it around with his tongue.

"Well?” I say. Impatient now.

"Huh?" he jolts, in exaggerated fashion. He hears me, the bastard. I stare at his landscape of pimples for a few moments, and then return my limited attention back to the prof.

The prof is telling us about Jane, who sells oranges on an island to a tribe of natives. "What is the demand for oranges...on the island?" he asks us. The studious Chinese kids down at the front furiously scribble down everything he says. These guys, they always get 100's on their test scores. They cluster around the prof at his podium like those ancient guys in robes must have, lounging around Socrates under a tree someplace back in the day. Does anyone remember who they were? I bet they wrote down everything though, frowning intelligently whenever Socrates looked in their direction.

D’Arcy turns to face me, the slow rotation of his head reminiscent of a revolving planet. "Do you think Seth and Ryan are fags?" he labors. He makes his voice sound like those kids in special ed. You know – the ones you see with dirt smeared on their cheeks, with that salty, macaroni sweat smell following them around like a cartoon stink cloud. D’Arcy’s breath wheezes at me as he waits for his answer. Head bobbing slightly, his eyes swim behind his thick, greasy eyeglasses.

I watch his slack face for a moment, and then I poke my finger into my nostril with slow, clumsy purpose, as though mentally feeble. My mouth gapes. “I dunno, wha's a fag?" I grunt. I work my hands with stiff, awkward gestures, and thump my chest. “Ehhh…Ehhh,” I moan, my tongue hanging out like a fresh kill on the hood of a hillbilly pickup.

The prof ignores us, drawing a supply-demand curve on the blackboard. He gets his salary whether we listen or not, so why should he give a crap. Maybe we are retards for not listening.

On the other hand, I doubt I’ll be drawing supply and demand curves for an employer anytime soon, so who cares. I try to imagine ever needing to implement this knowledge:

Future Boss: (exasperated) Did you get those SD curves plotted, or what? The director is counting on you, dammit!

Me: (desperate) I'm almost there...I'll have them on your desk in...10 minutes, okay?

Future Boss: (booming) They'd better be! The budget depends on this!

Yeah, not happening. I contort my face at D’Arcy again, and finally he snorts laughter, clapping his hands over his mouth.

“Jane has reached an equilibrium level of orange sales with the natives,” says the prof.

Some guy ahead of us slaps down his pen. "Thank god Jane has those fucking oranges," he mumbles.

Advice From the Old Biker

2005-02-18T08:32:00.000-05:00

I push the barbell above my chest, my physical catechism. The prayer of my body, recited four times weekly.

Three.

Two.

One.

I count down with my reps, because counting up makes my goal seem more difficult. Counting down to smaller numbers means, the iron weighs less.

That's what I tell myself.

I sit up on the bench to rest for a couple of minutes, and see a man seated across from me, dressed in black. He’s working out in skin-tight black jeans and construction boots. The sleeves of his Steve Miller t-shirt are torn off, revealing chunky, tanned biceps, flexing as he curls a dumbbell to his shoulder.

Curls. They are just about the most popular exercise in the gym, right after bench press. Everybody and their brother wants big arms. Go there on a weeknight, and a half-dozen fratboys will be giggling with their buddies in front of the mirrors, trying to grow twenty-inch pipes by lifting 25-pound dumbbells. Too bad they usually ignore the rest of their bodies.

The guy sees me looking. “Hey man,” he says.

“Hey.” I actually recognize him from before. He rides his motorcycle to the gym. I remember that because I have a bike as well. It's an unconscious thing; when you own one, you keep your eyes peeled for other riders, like you're in the Stonemasons with a secret handshake or something. I never come to the gym on it though, because I don’t want my leathers to get all sweaty after lifting weights. Looking at him in his silly outfit, I wonder if maybe his bike is his only vehicle. “Did you ride in today?”

“Yeah, man. It’s perfect weather out there, for once,” he says.

“What do you ride?”

The guy grins, his long Fu Manchu spreading into a brushy “M” on his lips. “It’s a Kawasaki Mean Streak. I just traded up, brand-new. Solo-seat…the pipes on it are like fucking cannons. Do you ride?”

“Yeah,” I say. I settle back under the barbell. I like my hands spaced wide for bench press. It works the pecs more that way. Big pecs, those are the glory muscles.

“That’s good…that’s really good,” he says, as though he just learned I’m studying for my MBA. He picks up his dumbbell and begins pumping away with it again. “I’ll tell you something, dude. I’ve been with a lot of women in my life. And along the way, every single one of ‘em let me down at one time or another.

“But my bike…all I ever had to do was treat it right, and it was always there for me. Yours will too, man...just keep it oiled up. Put a blanket on it in the winter, wipe the bugs off, keep ‘er clean…and your bike will last forever.

“Women, man…they come and they go, but you can ride that bike your whole life if you wanna. It’s never going to let you down,” he strains, close to the end of his set.

I notice the big hand with no wedding ring, and the trace of bitterness in his voice. The hard lines of his eyes, the silver hairs combed back through his mullet haircut.

I drum my fingers on the bar before I lift it off the rack, looking over at him. “I’ve been told that the way my bike vibrates, it’s like a rolling, 400-pound dildo. Why should I keep all that fun for myself?," I say.

“And my bike has a seat for two.”

He snorts laughter as his dumbbell clanks to the rubber floor.

“I know, man.”

Three.

Two.

One.

Breaking the Record

2005-02-16T12:51:00.000-05:00

I’m standing on the crest of a gentle slope, in the west.

I shade my eyes as I squint down a long stretch of highway, and I see nothing on it, nothing but the gentle, pink sun, sinking low in the horizon and warming my naked chest. I am alone, standing in the middle of the road, except for the crickets in the weeds, the trees, and the cows in pastures all around me. I feel nothing but a sweet summer breeze that fills my nose with a soft bouquet of flowers, corn, and June hayfields.

Beside me, my motorcycle is parked on its stand in the middle of the highway. It would make a fine photo. Have you ever lain in the middle of a deserted road, put your head back on the hard tarmac, just to see what it feels like? There is no describing how wrong the sensation is. You look up into the sky, and want to get off it as quickly as possible. The only things that are lying down on a highway are dead.

I turn east.

Ahead of me lies a length of soft, new pavement, put down and painted only a few weeks before. It’s perfectly straight, coal-black and immaculate in the fading light of the dusk, running two kilometres past the home I grew up in. At the end of it is Jon, who is watching for traffic coming from the other direction. I’m waiting for the “all clear” signal.

Half an hour ago, we installed washers on the gas tank of my motorcycle. See, the air intake is right beneath the tank cover. An engine needs air to burn gas. The more air it gets, the more gas it burns, and the faster it goes. So we grabbed a handful of washers out of one of my dad’s rusting coffee-cans, and put them on the bolts that hold the cover down, which raised it above the intake by a good inch or so. Without the tank cover blocking the way, this gaping, one-inch mouth should allow my intake to suck down the air like a galloping racehorse.

In theory, anyway. The entire exercise reminded me more than a little of putting old O-Pee-Chee hockey cards with clothespins on my bicycle spokes, so that they’d make a motorcycle sound when I pedaled down the road. I did that fifteen years ago in the same garage.

“With more air, maybe the bike will go faster,” I said to Jon. I wasn’t too sure about it though.

“How fast?” he wondered.

“I don’t know. If I’m really lucky…maybe ten clicks faster. I’ll have to try it out.”

Ten kilometers per hour more, that would be fantastic. The fastest I’d ever ridden the bike was 235 kilometres per hour, down this same stretch of highway last summer.

I saw this photo once, when the motorcycle land speed record was set on the salt flats outside of Salt Lake City, Utah, in 1948. In those days, the bike everybody talked about possessed a name as elusive and mysterious as its own legend:

The Vincent Black Shadow.

One day in 1948, a motorcycle racer named Rollie Free took his Shadow to the salt flats with the goal of setting the world-record speed for a motorcycle. He wanted to take it all the way up to 150 miles per hour, which would easily shatter the previous record of 136, should he accomplish the mark.

But despite a specially-tuned bike and numerous test runs, the fastest Free could push the Vincent was 148. This was good enough to break the record, but he wanted 150, and he couldn’t do it.

That is, until he decided to try something different.

After multiple, tortuous, high-speed runs, Free’s leather riding gear had actually torn open along the seams, scooping air and resulting in excess drag on the bike, hindering his attempts to break 150. And besides that, the gear was heavy. So before his final run, Free stripped off every stitch of it, and put on a pair of skin-tight swimming trunks, a shower cap, and some borrowed shoes.

The next thing he did was start up his Vincent, and take off down the flats for the last time, clad only in his Speedo swimsuit, working his way through the gearbox until he had topped out in the highest gear.

Finally, with the gas open all the way to the stop, he stretched his body out on the gas tank of the Shadow, putting his legs up on the seat behind him, with his feet hanging off the back of the bike in the slipstream – lying on top of the Vincent in exactly the same position that Superman might, flying in his legendary way above the streets of Metropolis.

He was doing this - with his nose pressed kissing distance from the gas tank, arms stretched out like a kid on a jungle-gym, and his toes pointed behind his bike to decrease every possible inch of drag- when a photographer snapped a photo of him. Rollie Free blew past the photographer that day at 150.31 miles per hour, setting the world-record speed for a motorcycle that would stand for twenty years. It also cemented the reputation of Vincent HRD Motorcycle Company in riding legend for all time. It was one of the most sensational stunts ever pulled off in the history of motor sports, and the black-and-white photo of Free, rocketing across the flats in his bathing suit, remains the most famous motorcycling picture ever taken.

Over fifty years later, I'm standing on a highway in my shorts, shirtless, gearless but for my helmet, about to make my own attempt at a top-speed run in nearly the same matter that Free did. I’m thinking about that photograph, wondering what Free must have been considering before he performed his lunatic stunt.

I know what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that, at the speeds I’m hoping to reach, it won’t matter very much that I’m wearing no gear if I wipe out. I’d probably just blow up like a watermelon all over the road.

I'm also thinking, I'm glad I didn't tell Dad I'm doing this.

Stupid as hell? Oh, yeah. But that isn’t going to stop me. When you own a motorcycle, there arrives a day when you have to light it up just to see what happens. For me, that day is today.

Across the valley, the headlights of Jon’s own motorcycle flash, on-and-off, on-and-off:

All clear, man.

I want this run to be absolutely as fast as I can go. The conditions are perfect; I’ve got a nice long, gentle grade to ride down, no traffic or other distractions to enhance the dangers, and a helpful breeze pushing at my back. And I'm not going to let those things taint the speed I'll reach - nobody remembers advantages like that, only the final number on the scoreboard. I have my fairing to shield me from the hurricane-speed winds I'll encounter, and I’ll be pressed against that bike like a coat of paint. How fast will I go?

There’s only one way to find out.

I swing my leg over the bike and thumb the starter. My V-twin burbles to life through its gleaming race-pipe - the same engine design as Rollie Free's Black Shadow. I gun the throttle a couple of times in preparation. There is nothing in the world that sounds like a V-twin thundering through a glasspack exhaust; nothing. I look behind me one last time to confirm that, no, there aren’t any cops coming up the road. I slap down my visor and punch the bike into first.

The motorcycle jumps from the tarmac, the exhaust blatting angrily behind me. I drop it into second gear almost immediately, then into third. In only three seconds, I’m past the maximum legal highway speed, a human bullet aimed at the end of the valley. Jon’s headlight is the beacon of a distant star, still flashing, “all clear.”

Into fourth, and the bike wrenches beneath me with muscular torque as I make the change, the engine continuing to cycle up between my knees. I can hear the sound of the intake, freed by the lifted tank-cover, honking as it gobbles the summer air. I look down and I’m already passing 160 kilometres per hour.

Ahhhhhhhhhh…

Fifth. The engine is now a full-blown, nasal bellow, open nearly all the way, filling the valley with its Spitfire roar. The needle passes 200. But I know there is some left.

AHHHHHHHH…

Sixth gear. That's it for the gearing; I slide back on my seat, squeezing the bike with my knees, imagining myself flatter than a film of dust on the back of my bike. I flick on the high beams with my thumb, rest my chin on the gas tank, and twist the throttle to the stop. I think of Rollie Free, with his bare face pressed to the glistening black paint of his Black Shadow, flying across an endless field of salt, sparkling in the sun like new-fallen snow.

BWAHHHHHHHH...

Trees and fence lines are blurring past, and birds are startled into flight by my passing. My eyeballs vibrate and tear up inside my helmet as the bike races to reach the end of its legs. It’s still accelerating, but now approaching the limit of its capabilities. Jon is now no farther than 200 metres away. A sudden sandstorm of blackflies ticks into my visor. Finally, I sense the bike arriving at the nadir of its speed, and I flash a quick look down at the clocks.

The tachometer needle is swung all the way over to the red, past 10,000 rpms. The speedometer is buried just over 240 kilometres per hour.

I come out of the sun, and I see Jon raise a fist and whoop as I burn past him, a faint sound that is behind me as soon as I hear it.

And for one last moment, I relish the overwhelming sense of rocketship power, the sensation of flying at ground level. The gleaming, jellybean red of my bike makes me feel like I’m hanging for dear life onto the back of Superman’s cape, and I take in the feeling of a motorcycle engine spinning beneath me, extended to the very limit of its powers. I feel like I can go anywhere, anytime, as fast as I want to. I finally close off the gas.

BWAAAAHHHHHHHHhhhh...

I’ll probably never ride so fast again in my life.

I sit up on the seat, catching the air with my chest like a human parachute, feeling the tornado warmth of summertime air rushing around my body and pushing me back to earth, the speedo rolling back...200...180...120...80. Now I'm rolling at a sane highway speed, and I’m almost convinced I can hop off and jog faster than I’m riding.

I turn around and idle back over to Jon, parking beside his bike. I kill the engine.

“How fast?” he says.

“The needle was past 240...maybe about 242,” I say.

“242? Holy shit,” he says. He pulls my calculator out of his pocket and does the math. 242 x .62.

“That’s 150.04 miles per hour,” Jon grins in the gathering twilight.

"150. The old record," I say.

I think about ancient, front-page photos of men in bathing suits who once rode spindly old motorcyles to bust 150 miles per hour, and how they became kings because they did it.

Around us, the crickets chirp louder in the failing light, and no cars pass to break the spell.

Revenge: A Dish Best Served Cold

2005-02-14T19:56:00.000-05:00

I open my eyes.

I gradually become aware of the cold winter light, feebly penetrating past the corners of my window blinds. It isn’t sunrise, though. The window faces east, but the sun has long since followed its path across the sky to its current westerly position. It is now late afternoon, maybe two or three o'clock. “Late”, in that it is late to rise at such a decadent hour. But it’s early for me; I’m a first year arts student. I start thinking about what my breakfast might consist of. Fries, maybe some pizza. It doesn’t matter, either one will do. It won't be eggs, though…eggs kind of disgust me.

I roll over to see with annoyance that my roommate Brent is in the room, reading. I’m glad that he’s away a lot, but you can’t get lucky all the time. He looks up as I rustle beneath my blanket, and places his book --"Heroes of the Lance"-- on his bed. He looks as though he has been waiting, and I realize that he’s been making some noises over on his side of the room with the intention of waking me up. Brent has a way of being inconsiderate with regards to my sleeping habits.

"Hey, you're finally up," he says.

With a grimace, I reach for a cigarette, in triumphant disregard for the authority and policies of this dormitory. Where the fuck is the ashtray? Oh, on the floor. I put it on my chest, a memento of a ripper club I went to across the river one night.

"Jim, hey, we have to talk, man. Some things have been on my mind, and I want to kind of clear the air. It's tough enough living with a roommate, and us talking about stuff is important, right?" Brent says.

I notice that a slight tremor makes itself evident in Brent's voice - it seems he has been preparing for this little confrontation. I find his nervousness surprising; having just awakened, lying in bed clad only in my underwear and fumbling around with my usual “morning” routine, I have to believe that I’m pretty unintimidating. Whatever.

"Oh?" I say. I twist my face at the stupidity of my answer. Brent, you idiot bastard. Leave it to you to create a socially uncomfortable situation.

I light my smoke, and put my hands behind my head. I found out a few weeks ago that if I have a cigarette as soon as I wake up, the buzz is intensified, as compared to other, more conventional smoking times. Also, instead of dragging into my mouth, then inhaling, the effect is maximized if the cigarette smoke is just inhaled in one giant drag, like a joint. It takes some practise. I do it now.

"Ifffffffff", goes the cigarette.

I chuff a little out my nose, but this breath isn't too bad, and I don’t lose much. My head swims, and I remind myself of the universal truth: anything that makes you feel this way can’t be good for you. I resolve at that moment to continue doing things that feel good. I watch as the blue smoke of my exhaled smoke roils and drifts above my bed like an evil spirit. On the wall beside me, Kurt Cobain kneels eternally onstage with his beat-up guitar, extracting the simple notes that somehow nobody else on earth was able to produce. Saint Kurt, praying on his knees to the god of Rock. I make an “O” with my smoke-trail.

In these few moments, I completely forget about Brent, in the same way I ignore television commercials. Not only is Brent an irritating, moronic, and clumsy bastard, he has absolutely no redeeming qualities to speak of. He could at least be an interesting bastard. I could likely tolerate the guy if he at least said something once in a while that didn't sound like it came from an after school special.

But there’s more. The thing is, I’ve been unable to forgive him since the day I came home from class a couple months ago to find him masturbating with a book of art nudes I keep in my desk. He'd had to rummage around through my things to find it. That kind of invasion is inexcusable:

“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled.

“Nothing! Ah…I was doing some reading,” he said in a loud, caught-in-the-act kind of voice. He made a sudden, exaggerated scratching motion in his groin under his blanket. “Man, I wish this jock itch would go away,” he said, tenting the cheap yellow wool. He tossed my book over on my bed.

Sure, Brent. I walked in to see you taking care of your jock itch. Fuck sakes, at least go in the shower.

Brent's half of the wall is bare, and the few personal items he displays on his dresser are utilitarian in origin: combs, deodorants, a small photo of his nauseating girlfriend. On his floor lie socks, discarded t-shirts, and his conformist, preppie shoes.

Brent: a generic and forgettable character.

"Ahhh, Jim...ahhh, well listen,” he says.

“I’m listening, Brent,” I say.

“Well, I'm just going to say it. Your attitude, I mean, the way you act sometimes...well, it's really bothering me. I mean, I feel like I can't have friends in here because you're always hanging around. Also, your stuff is everywhere, and the bathroom is always messy. Can't you - I mean, can you DO something about this? It's been on my mind a while. Don't you even GO anywhere? And my food in the fridge, the beer. When are you going to get some? Like, well...I guess that's it for now…and you're always sleeping, man! How am I supposed to be in here while you are always sleeping?," Brent says. The pace and volume of his outburst increased as he went on, until he is almost yelling. He runs a trembling hand through his hair, and I realize that Brent is actually upset. He jumps to his feet and begins to pace around.

“What, you don’t want me in my own room?” I say.

"No! I mean, don't get me wrong, man!," Brent says. "You're this great roommate - you play guitar and all that stuff - and that's cool! But, I need some room, man. I mean, we can get drunk some time - cool?- but I'm talking about some respect, y'know? That's all, man," Brent says.

He grabs a CD and heads for the door. I stare throughout this entire episode, wondering how this morning has started out so fucking badly. It’s just too much for me to take in as soon as I wake up. Respect? Did he learn that word from his rapper buddies? All I had wanted today was a nice little cigarette before my breakfast, Christ. Some fucking fries, Brent, you dumb shit. How am I supposed to enjoy those now? Now I’ve got you on my mind. I'm going to need a milkshake or something with them now, you ordinary, unexciting shitheap. And why can't you enjoy even one fucking song I like?

"I'm seeing Tim next door...ahh, I'll be back in a bit. Think about it," he points suddenly, and closes the door.

Think about what?

I seethe for a moment in silence, and stub out the smoke. I swing my legs from beneath my sheets, and pull on some pants. It’s always cold in here.

The thing is though, I know Brent is right. I can be a very inconsiderate, rude, and difficult roommate. I feel like the room is my sole entitlement, and I hate the intrusion that Brent represents on my privacy. In a million different passive ways, I seek to make his life miserable on a daily basis. But what really galls me is that Brent made the effort to point out the obvious. Of course I do all the things he mentioned. I don’t need Brent's simplistic, clumsy analysis to realize the truth of it. Ironically, Brent's awareness of my behaviour annoys the hell out of me, and the audacity of Brent's speech this morning leaves me feeling even more resentful towards him; it was a tactical mistake, and will only create more tension. I wonder if my application for a single room will ever be processed. I kick one of Brent's shirts on the way to the bathroom for my customary morning piss.

I stop short a moment. Wait, what did he say? The food? That’s a lie. The first week in this concrete cell, Brent ate almost all the food I had stocked the little fridge with. And beer? Brent obviously never counts, otherwise he would see that the consumption is almost totally his own.

I open the fridge to examine the contents - not much food, admittedly, but we don’t need a lot, what with our meal plans and all. Also, plenty of beer stood in the back in their familiar brown bottles. Another dorm rule broken, but who cares, really. We aren't going to throw the bottles around, and beer out of cans tastes terrible.

My bladder cramps, and a sudden inspiration flashes through my mind on this grey winter afternoon. My eyes widen as I consider its possible outcome.

This can all be made right.

Everything.

But only if I hurry.

I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge, and scuttle into our bathroom. This is going to be the ultimate roommate violation. But it is also going to be satisfying.

I twist the cap off the bottle --Molson Export-- and have a deep slug. Then I gulp a few more. It’s good, better than I thought it would be. My teeth chatter on the bottleneck as I work to guzzle down the foaming liquid. As a matter of fact, this morning beer tastes goddam amazing. I fill my cheeks, and hold up the bottle: half gone. Fucking beautiful.

I unzip my fly, hold the bottle over the sink, and do what comes naturally. I remember the similar scene in Dumb and Dumber when Jim Carey filled a few bottles in that hilarious brown dog truck they were riding around in.

"Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?” I say to the mirror.

“EEEHHHHHHHHHNNNNN!"

I roar laughter in the freedom of this moment. Would it work, though? Even just a sip would be total success. The bottle fills quickly, so I finish off in the sink, yet another antisocial, but very satisfying act. Peeing in the sink, I’ve never done that. It’s sort of like a very high urinal, actually. Turn on the water for a second...and, we're done.

Using a bit of toilet paper, I wipe the bottle off in consideration of the possibility of renegade urine drops. Now, this is the critical part. If the twist-top won't go back on, this little stunt is finished before it starts. I carefully screw the top back on as tight as possible. It looks okay. I look at the handiwork for a moment, and then shake up the bottle a bit. I see the familiar bubble of carbonation inside.

Excellent!

I sprint out of the bathroom to replace the bottle in the fridge, putting it prominently in front of the others. I’m just about to sit down when Brent returns, looking apologetic.

"Jim, listen. I don't know if I went over the top there or what. Exams are soon, that's all. I'm just fucked up, man. What can I say?," he pauses. "Want a beer? I'm kind of fucked, man."

This is too perfect.

"Uh, no thanks, man. I just woke up. I think I might have some fries in the cafeteria," I say. My voice is even. I was made for a life of crime. My mouth twitches, nearly betraying me. Struggling to contain the wild grin that threatens to surface is proving almost impossible. I turn away, pretending to look at my nose in the mirror. I am ice cold. No way does he figure this out, because I'm a fuckin' shark.

"Okay, man. Your funeral!," Brent laughs, grabbing the beer.

Hey, Brent, does that beer feel warmer to you?

Do you sense my excitement?

I peek out of the corner of my eyes.

The moment of truth arrives. Brent twists the cap, and we both hear the small, familiar sound:

psssk!

Brent pinches the cap, and does that fucking jock snap-the-finger thing, and flicks the beercap at me, zipping it past my head. In that moment, any shred of remorse I might have felt slips from my mind. This is for all other instances of beercap flicking, I think. Bottoms up.

Brent puts the bottle to his lips, and gulps greedily. He must have been thirsty. He polishes off half the bottle in one draught...just like I had, minutes earlier.

"Hunh!," he exclaims. "This beer tastes funny. It's not too fizzy, either," he ponders. He smacks his lips in the way that only a complete idiot could, and scrutinizes the label. As though this would somehow provide a clue for this strange taste. He shrugs. "It goes down pretty smooth, though," he decides. He has another swig, and sits on his bed, reaching for his pulpy book again.

I’ve seen enough. I rise to my feet.

"I'm going to get some fries," I say. "I thought I'd get a milkshake...but I changed my mind.” I walk to the door. "Later, Brent," I begin to strut, hand still on the doorknob.

“Later,” he grunts.

I hear him mutter as the door closes. “What a fuckin’ weirdo…”

Jimmy 1, Brent 0.

The Terrifying Mugger Incident

2005-02-11T09:43:00.000-05:00

I was in the food court of the mall when it all went down.

There I was, eating a bean burrito from Taco Bell. There are so many reasons to enjoy eating this kind of burrito, by the way; they are among the larger items on Taco Bell’s menu, they are among the cheapest, and I really enjoy the warm, beany taste of them. A nice helping of cheese…yes, it’s fair to say I was relishing my bean burrito at my table. The sun slanted through the skylights, illuminating the heads of my friends Hank and Bo. Those guys, they think bean burritos suck, and were eating more expensive combos instead.

Bo: Christ, you got burrito jizz on your chin again. You want a bib?
Me: Shut the fuck up, Bo. I like to eat like Friar Tuck, you know that.
Hank: My stomach hurts. I’d better not get diarrhea like last time. Did anybody notice the way the cashier kind of smirked at me? I think he was gay.
Bo: Yah, I did. Hmm, I notice you have sour cream on your tacos, Hank.
Hank: So?
Bo: Oh nothing. I’m just sayin’.
Hank: You sick fuck.

It was right around that moment when we all heard a desperate wail from a table about ten feet away. We looked over and saw a helpless older lady being tugged from her chair, as some creepy mugger guy yanked her purse from her arm. Her husband was just sitting there – I don’t blame him though. Sometimes these things happen so fast that you can’t react. And besides, he must have been pushing ninety and was kind of desiccated. What could he do, really? In the split-second that I took in what was going on, my heart went out to him. And we all make jokes and wonder why our senior citizens are afraid to go anyplace – it’s because shit like this happens. It’s like jackals thinning out the herd. They go for the weak ones first.

After a couple of healthy tugs, the mugger managed to pull the purse from the arm of the old lady, who was howling like a dying antelope. He was wearing typical gang-attire, and surrounded by other food-court patrons who were doing nothing. What a society we live in.

It’s a good thing we were there.

“LET’S ROLL!” I shouted. I whipped my burrito to my tray (well, I tried to – I actually kind of threw it to the side. It flipped end over end to detonate on the forehead of this poor schmuck who was sitting at the table next to us. I hope I didn’t take his eye out or anything…I never found out either way).

“FUCKING-A!” Bo screamed. We all leaped to our feet to pursue the disappearing mugger, who was dodging through mall traffic like a running back.

The mugger picked the wrong place to ply his trade. The three of us are gym regulars; powerlifters, actually. Bo has the “worst” squat among us, and he can push 605 off the rack. All this to say, our legs are trained to move a huge weight as fast as possible in the shortest time. And that we are matchless head-to-head in a sprint situation. Combine this with the startled parting of the crowd who saw us coming, and the mugger didn’t have a chance in hell of getting away.

We closed the distance faster than a starving cheetah.

It was Hank who got to him first. The mugger slipped trying to negotiate a corner, and Hank saw his chance. He launched himself in the air, an angry human missile, at the mugger’s pumping legs. Hank barreled into him with a tackle that would have made the defensive line of the Patriots proud. They hit the granite floor with a gasping, “HOOOF!!”

The mugger though, bless his little heart, wasn’t finished yet. He squirmed around on the floor and managed to donkey-kick Hank on the cheek. “AHH! FUCK! YOU STINKING CUNT!” Hank roared. He clapped his hands to his spurting face, shaking his head blindly back and forth. My turn – I was right behind.

I flew, knees-first, into the chest of the mugger. He was driven backward again into the pavement – but unbelievably, was still clutching the purse, attempting to make his escape. It wasn’t going to happen. I grabbed his filthy jacket and cocked my fist behind my ear, like I was preparing to launch a Hail Mary to a wide receiver. The mugger kicked beneath me. “Get offa me, you cocksucka!” he screeched.

“I don’t think so,” I seethed. My fist impacted his nose with a dead meat splat, spraying blood and mucus across the granite tile in a gruesome fountain.

“OH, YEAH!! DO IT, MAN! WASTE HIS ASS!” yelled a passerby.

The mugger was still writhing with insectile vitality, refusing to submit. “Fuck you...Fuck you…” he grunted. He was punching my shoulder with his free arm, still stubbornly desiring release. I have to give him top marks for that, actually. But still…it was time to put the baby to bed.

“You’re going down,” I hissed through gritted teeth. I struck him again, this time crushing his jaw. A handful of teeth rattled on the ground like spilled tic-tacs as his head hammered off the floor. It was over.

I rose above the slumped body of the mugger, taking the purse from his relaxing fingers. Not a mark on it – I was pleased. I looked around to see Bo and Hank grinning at me, and behind them, the shocked elderly woman and her husband, who was holding his wife with worried, rootlike fingers. I walked over to them. “I believe this is yours,” I said.

"Thank you, young man...thank you very much," the woman said, her lips trembling with emotion. She took her purse back with quivering hands as her husband stared at me with huge eyes, hanging onto his wife like a life-preserver. I paused for a moment, and reached out to tenderly touch a tear that was creeping down her cheek, cutting a path through the rosy makeup she had innocently applied that morning. I was suffused with a burning, furious hatred for all people who would scare and threaten the safety of a helpless old lady like her.

"It's all right, ma'am...it's all right. He's never going to hurt you again. I promise you," I murmured. Somewhere in the crowd, a man whooped.

The whole thing was written up in the city newspaper, and Hank, Bo, and I got our pictures taken for the front page. The CBC account of the incident isn’t as detailed as what I just laid out, so I wanted to be sure to put in writing Wednesday’s events as they occurred.

As a warning. Because me and my friends, we’re always around.

The opening chords of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" began to play through the mall's sound-system.

“Rock and roll,” Bo said. “Anybody up for some beers?”

The Messenger

2005-02-10T21:35:00.000-05:00

He awakens, not knowing where he is, or even remembering who he is.

Wisps of his final dreams cling to the edge of his mind, and they slowly retreat back into their cracks as he sits up in bed. He turns off his bedside alarm and makes his way to the bathroom. In the kitchen, he hears the fresh spurts of coffee dropping into the decanter, programmed to percolate at the same time the bedside alarm is set. As he stumbles a little on his new morning legs, he thinks about his past.

Childhood is far behind now, and part of him wants for that lost innocence, but he knows it is gone forever. Like the now forgotten dream fragments, it has slipped painlessly away with the passage of time. His struggles to recall what it was once like to believe in Santa Claus, or the infallibility of his parents mostly finish with him asking himself the same questions over and over:

What happened to me?

Was I ever that happy? And,

What am I doing now?

These thoughts, they beat like a dying moth in his mind. Only sleep makes it stop; or perhaps a single gunshot would, lifting off the top of his skull like a bloody, inverted pie plate. It isn't good to think about that.

The man never consciously thinks of these things; he only feels their presence in the effects on his mood. Even now, as he has his morning shower, his only thoughts focus on the events of the day:

If it is cold outside.

Will he be tired.

How long will his day last. Simple, functional things.

He dries himself with his towel, carefully replacing it on the rack. Damp, crumpled towels on the floor won't do.

Shaves.

Combs.

Brushes.

He is almost ready. But today will be like no other. It is brand new, fresh in the box. He turns off the light, and pauses. For just a moment, in the roseate gloom of the humid bathroom, he can almost believe he has returned to the womb.

Walking into his bedroom, he picks up the garments he had placed on his footlocker the night before; white undershirt and boxers, and white longjohns to shield himself against the cold. They are clean and new, fragrant in that special way that they can be only one time. It pleases him that today he is wearing new clothing close to his heart. He pulls the shirt over his nose to sniff briefly before he puts his work clothes on over top - these articles aren’t so new.

He eats his simple breakfast in the intimate confines of his kitchen, not bothering to turn the light on. The faint light of the east illuminates his table, and he enjoys the effect on his mood. He allots himself ten minutes for this small meal, the same as always: toast, coffee, cereal. It is staple food, no luxuries. He munches quickly. This food

Body of Christ. Take, eat.

nourishes the body, sharpens the mind. Finishing his spartan meal, he returns to his bedroom for his last tasks of the morning. In his methodical fashion, he drops to his knees beside the bed

Father, forgive me.

and slides the narrow box from beneath that he has been concealing from view. Concealing from whom? Nobody…but items like these are kept in dark places. He places its compact weight on the bed, neatly made, upon a many-coloured duvet. He opens it.

The gun.

An AR-15, the fully automatic machine gun made available only to the nation’s walking army. Or anybody with access to the internet. He regards it with a long look of introspection. He can still turn back, there is yet time - but this isn’t the thought that crosses his mind. He is marveling at the idea of how everything will be different just because he will use this tool today. And this rifle really is a tool; its utilitarian black construction is reminiscent more of a tire jack or some kind of wood-clamp than anything else. His will shall be delivered with its use.

He removes the AR from its small case and performs the ritual of breaking it down into pieces for cleaning. It is a surprisingly quick process, and especially since he has practiced religiously to get all the nuances right. Every morning before work for the past month, he has taken apart the gun, oiled it, put it back together. He does it now not even thinking about it, his hands doing the work, his mind a blank. He likens this state of mind to a yogi on his mat, intoning meditative chants

Hail Mary, full of grace.

until all random thoughts disappear. Popping the fully loaded clip back inside, the AR is almost ready for its intended purpose. One thing remains: the man screws a long, crude noise suppressor to the end of the barrel. Its construction was simple, accomplished in only a couple of nights in the basement with his old metal lathe. A million years ago, he had once crafted a hammer for his father in his high school machine shop. It was never used; it was an ugly, embarrasing thing. So is this, but like the hammer, it was easy to make, and it works just fine.

With a final twist home, he slings the rifle to his shoulder, muzzle end down. Then, one arm through his long, navy peacoat and then the other - and the compact AR fits beneath, neat as you please. He is glad for the weather: frigid, with gusts of snow. There is no need to justify his long coat. He pulls on his black gloves, with close fitting material, excellent for the sometimes dexterous work his job requires. He doesn’t bother to check for his keys or wallet. He isn't going to need them.

He walks to the door through the long, darkened hallway of his narrow home. He lifts his hat from its hook and squares it on his head. At last, he is ready. He appraises himself in the mirror beside his coat rack. Tall, forty-something.

Thin.

Neat.

Tidy.

The embroidered wings of the U.S. Postal Service gleam with their silver threads on his hat, luminescent in the pre-dawn light. He wonders briefly what kind of machine could have made such a difficult pattern. It doesn’t matter.

Opening the door of this house for the last time, a small crucifix appears on the wall, hanging in the triangle of light afforded by the open door. The man wonders why the Lord would appear so tortured and confused in all such depictions. Such a righteous sacrifice should make One fill with the majesty of the Holy Spirit? No? Was He not willing to make this most supreme of sacrifices? He kisses his fingertips, and places them on the forehead of Christ

Jesus wept.

as a sudden gust of wind flaps his pant legs like dark flags. He feels no cold. A man doing his duty places thoughts of creature comforts aside. A man with a purpose sees nothing but his goal. His face betrays no confusion or suffering.

Today, he is new. It doesn't matter anymore what once was. He is now the Messenger. He has found God. The rest of his life will begin today. His Message shall be delivered on newscasts, and books will be written analyzing the moments of his deliverance. Others will follow.

He will be reborn on this day, baptized in blood.

A man with faith needs nothing, but will be rewarded with everything.

Neither rain, nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night shall stay this courier from his appointed rounds.

Whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.

The man steps into the new morning light, grinning hugely to the sky, each white tooth a slick, Chiclet tombstone. Today, his heart is full.

Amen.

The Boy Who Was Afraid to Crap

2005-02-07T23:00:00.000-05:00

Robby flicked through the channels.

It was a usual summer weeknight after supper; boring. Too young to drive, and too old to enjoy the television. Only a bland assortment of re-runs and game shows were on the tube. He thought he needed to come up with a hobby. His friend Jeff was on his way over to play catch in a few minutes. There wasn’t even a ballgame on.

He was just deciding whether or not to go outside and wait for him when the stomach cramps seized him.

The familiar panic began to beat through his body. It was his greatest fear, the thing he worried about all week, the thing he hoped would never happen:

He was about to crap.

Oh shit...not now! thought Robby. The irony of his thought caused a shrieking laugh to explode from his mouth.

Teeth clenched, he dropped the remote control with a clatter and staggered like a sailor up the stairs to the main bathroom, desperately clutching his stomach (as though that would stop what was about to happen) the entire time. Along the way, his anus contracted painfully, causing him to lose his balance and bounce off of the wall like a veteran drunk.

“Oh god, please!,” Robby screamed, scrabbling at the wallpaper.

Now, crapping is not an unusual activity. But Robby's craps happened to be. The reason? They were nearly the size of footballs when they finally emerged. This is actually how Robby thought of them - as footballs - because he was so traumatized that he was unable to think of a visit to the bathroom in anything other than abstract terms. So he'd think to himself:

I hope I don't drop any footballs tonight.

Or:

I pray to God I don't fumble any footballs today at school.

They weren't really the size of footballs, but they were pretty fucking huge, to be totally honest with you. Far bigger than should be expected from a 13-year old boy. And they scorched his ass like hell every time he had to go. So naturally Robby was afraid anytime it had to happen. All week long, Robby ate cheese to delay the inevitable.

“You’re my little mouse!,” exclaimed his mother.

Little did she know. Robby hated the cheese, hated the thick, toenail stench of it. But since he believed it kept him from going to the bathroom, then he’d eat pounds of it, by god. But eventually he’d have to go in there.

Stumbling, Robby made it at last into the bathroom. He slammed the door, flipping the ancient deadbolt across. Now, he was safe from anything coming in...but he was worried about what would be coming out.

He managed to yank off his pants without screeching womanishly, and ripped off his feeble Power Rangers underwear. His hands shook like his grandmother’s.

But he did, however, plop painfully down onto the toilet seat and cause the cramps to ravage his body once more. Robby moaned pitifully and began the process he endured about once a week: he waited. He had felt the earthquake-like onset of this episode a few hours earlier and had managed to hold it in, forgetting about what must be done.

Until now.

Everything about the bathroom was hideous to Robby. The whiteness - so sterile and cold, like a morgue or hospital. The dank dripping of the faucet in the tub. He had nightmares about that sound, the goddam thing dripped no matter how hard you turned the tap off. The toilet paper on its stainless-steel peg, an obscene parody of something tasteful.

You wipe your ass with it!, he screamed in his mind. You scrub shit off on it! It's so gross! How can they advertise it on television? The toilet paper sat implacably. The time was soon.

Robby clutched the wooden toilet seat with slimy fingers, feeling his loathsome sweat popping out all over his body. It was humid here in the bathroom, and his fear only made the sensations worse. Most disgustingly, he was now sliding around now atop the toilet seat in greasy smears of his own terrorized buttsweat.

Robby wondered if the quiet sounds of his desperation were making their way throughout the ductwork of the old house to the other members of his family below. He hushed suddenly, imagining them with their heads cocked to the side as they listened to him taking a dump upstairs. Oh, the misery of fecal matter.

Robby gritted his teeth as he felt the tip of the crap begin to poke out of his rectum. “No…NO!” Robby willed it not to happen this time. Robby begged it not to come out. What if Jeff came now? Was he here already? He was sure he would die of embarrassment. He tensed himself even harder, but it was not enough.

The door of the bathroom suddenly pounded.

"Robby? Oh, you little dink. Hurry up." His brother, Alex.

"You fucking bastard,"Robby whispered hatefully. "Go away, go away..."

Bitter tears were now sliding down his cheeks. After an eternity, he heard Alex's heavy footsteps stalk away. At least he would be spared the humiliation of pooping while his brother waited outside the door.

Robby's heart was pounding in his chest. A sprint wouldn’t provoke such a reaction. Time was now very short. A sudden convulsive, chuffing fart blew out of his ass as the involuntary muscles in his stomach contracted. Wonderful - he was bathed in the hot aroma of his own body wastes.

Hell was a bathroom, he was certain.

"Dyugggh...yuuuuhhhh-uhhhh," he groaned. The huge, bloated piece of shit began the inevitable slide out of his ass. It was hot, burning the tender tissues there like a piece of molten iron. His anus chafed with the incredible, gigantic passage of the waste. Robby imagined the Titanic emerging from between his buttcheeks, splitting his colon apart, tearing open his intestines as it escaped.

Robby shook his head in futile negation. The time was now.

"No. NO!"

"ARRGHH!! YARRGHH!!!"

Ploop!

The huge chunk splashed into the water of the toilet. But wait, there was more! Another disgusting squeeze, and...

Sploosh! Out came another. Robby gasped in relief, collapsing on his hairy legs. He knew it was over.

And as he did before, and would every time to follow, he lifted his leg to look.

There they were, the two pieces were floating serenely, not even staining the pristine clarity of the water. A stray piece of peanut was embedded in one. Must have been from the Oh Henry I ate a few days ago, thought Robby. And now, he began to sob without restraint. Everything was fine. The world had not ended. He would live for another week. He would play catch. He wiped, pulled up his pants, flushed, and went outside.

Jeff wasn’t here yet. Robby thanked God for small miracles.

And tried not to limp.

Gang Tags

2005-02-07T08:02:00.000-05:00

*
He sat on the shiny pink bus seat, scrawling something in oafish concentration. He'd straighten up and look at what he had drawn, and then hunch over to doodle something else. He was wearing a pair of absurd powder-blue pants with matching shoes, and a ballcap screwed sideways into his billowing red afro. Some stupid white kid trying to look like a rapper.

I usually ignore people like this on the bus, but I took notice after the guy held out his notebook at arm's length for about the tenth time. The lad was actually practising his gang tag as he rode to school.

If you live in a city, you've seen them. They are on bus shelters, mailboxes, fences - anywhere a dog can lift its leg, some dumbass has painted a gang tag. They are an urban blight, but I also find them hilarious for their inherent stupidity.

For the purposes of slamming their design, I'm going to assume that gang tags are meant to be seen by the public. This is based on the logic that they are placed in the most visible places, scrawled over as much surface area as possible, over multiple locations. Therefore, the artist desires that they be seen.

So why do they all look like chicken scratches? What message are you hoping to communicate if your personalized logo is an indecipherable red smear on a park bench? Sure, that same peestain-like mark is then identifiable at different locations -- but what's the point? How is a person supposed to appreciate the meaning? Especially since there are dozens of these things, in all the colours of the rainbow dotting your typical urban landscape?

This one says, "This is my brain on crack" in gangspeak.

It reminds me a bit of people who buy overly complex personalized plates for their car. A suggestion: an easily-read, single-syllable word is way better for your license plate than an obscure acronym for comprehension purposes.

Buddy: Hey, look, another Beemer with a vanity plate. What's it say?
Me: (squinting) Looks like...hmm. VRMPT? What the hell is that?
Buddy: Clearly, it means "Vroom Patrol."
Me: Ah, of course.

So the guys drawing gang tags need some basic marketing lessons. The number one reason you advertise yourself is so that your target will identify with you enough to buy your product. If they don't know who you are, how will they do that? Gangs sell things, I'm pretty sure about that. If they want to increase awareness, they should think about using a basic symbol, something simple, something everybody can understand, to make a statement of who they are. Like these guys have.

Granted, gangs aren't necessarily following a business plan. Maybe they are just painting their marks as a way of threatening people instead. And those being threatened might actually recognize and understand what looks like a random scribble on a brick wall someplace. But even so, the tags would be more effective using the concepts detailed above, modified for a different design goal. Something eyecatching, like a single symbol, a mark, an image. Maybe something scary or demonic, to convey how upsetting and terrifying the local posse is supposed to be. Again, taking a cue from the experts, something like this:

Everybody knows
what this means.

But maybe I'm wasting my time, trying to find meaning in idiocy. Who else but total jackasses would practise drawing their criminal logo in a public place?

Who knows. Maybe there is something to them after all:

Cop: Aha! What's this in your pocket? A gang-tag! Let's go downtown!
Gang Loser: Tha's no tag. Tha's mah name in Arabic, yo! Cain't you read? It says, "Jamal", yo!
Cop: Hmm. All right then, you're free to go, uh, "Jamal".
Gang Loser: Dat's what I'm talkin' about!

Winning the Handshake War

2005-02-06T10:22:00.000-05:00

*
Everyone has participated in a handshake. It's one of the thousands of rituals designed by society over the epochs, smoothing our interactions with other humans at every stage when you don't know what to do. Meet someone new? Well, poke out the hand. This is the understood manner of introducing yourself.

Something to keep in mind is that people are judged quite a bit by the quality of their handshake. It's part of your first impression -- part and parcel of the overall image you are presenting; grooming, posture, and language. So if you offer a bad handshake, it's going to damage your credibility. Pay attention to the handshake details, and use your discretion to modify the method in accordance with the situation. For instance, take care not to overdo it when offering your hand at job interviews, to possible mother-in-laws, or actually, any member of the weaker sex. Basically, avoid doing most of what follows below.

But between men, like anything else, a handshake is a contest of wills, a way of arranging order; Alpha Male vs. Beta Male. At all times, as a man, your goal is to win the Handshake Battle.

The following is the definitive how-to guide to develop a handshake worthy of a king.

1.) You want to be the person initiating the handshake. By making the first move, you are boldly asserting yourself as the man in charge of the situation. And control of all situations is what you want. Make eye contact (which is a sign of aggression and dominance, the impression you want to leave), and thrust your hand forward with power and authority.

2.) The handshake is executed so that the web between your thumb and index finger meshes securely with the web of the other person's hand. It is pitiful to stop short with your shake, ending up grasping the fingers of your target. Only old ladies with names like "Agatha" do this. Ensure proper form by driving forward with the forearm, stopping only when your hand locks with that of the other person. If you are stopping short, you are betraying defensiveness to the other man. Lock hands, and if possible, pull the person toward you physically, as an exhibition of your reserves of strength.

The guy on the left is Scott McNealy, CEO of Sun
Microsystems. See how he pulled the other man close
to him for the photo? Also, he's got his hand on his
shoulder. Everything about his body language says,
"I'm the real man here - I own you, bitch."

3.) If you suspect you will be in a situation where you will be handshaking, make sure your hands are clean and dry. It's a good idea to keep a napkin in your right pocket for this, so that immediately prior to the shake, any moisture collected on your palm will be wiped off. This is incredibly important -- if you are desirous of projecting an image of power and control, damp hands indicate nervousness, weakness, and fear. There isn't much worse than a damp handshake, unless it's...

4.) A limp handshake. It's the worst impression you can make. Stiffen your hand prior to insertion, and maintain your strength throughout. But there is also another, better reason to apply this method during handshake interactions: During the shake, it is common for the opposition to attempt to squeeze your hand in an overt display of power. If you go in limp, you will probably be unable to overcome that pre-emptive squeeze, and, pathetically, be forced to submit. It should go without saying that this is a complete embarrassment. So the way to overcome this, again, is taking the initiative. Overpower the quarry with a crushing gorilla paw, underscoring your dominance.

5.) The last rule of handshaking is subtle, but very important. The iconic handshake in photographs is usually depicted as two hands meshing at an equal, almost karate-chop kind of angle. You need to understand that real handshakes almost never end up that way; someone was dominant, and somebody wasn't.

So for the final testament to your total mastery in the handshake exchange, rotate your wrist prior to the shake so that your hand ends up as the one on top; this means that you stick out your hand "king" style; that is, as though you are allowing a serf or some similar lesser person to kiss your ring. This is kind of what the Pope does, actually. If necessary (that is, if you have initially grasped the other man's hand with the equal "karate-chop" starting position), twist the hand over during the requisite "double-pump", concluding the interaction with no doubts over who owned the situation.

Look at Dubya's "I'm on top" hand angle.
He knows the rules of handshaking.

Win little battles like these, and you'll win the war.

Bored at Work

2005-02-04T14:29:00.000-05:00

*
"Hey! Look what I found in the photocopy room," Ed says. He's holding this trashy-looking book entitled, "For Shame".

"What is it?," I ask.

He pokes at the book. "This guy, he wrote this book about how marketing in the past was all about making you feel bad. Look at the pictures!" He laughs like a chimp.

Flipping through it, I see turn-of-the-century advertisements for pills, lotions, powders...and yeah, it looks like the goal of the advertisers of the day was to make you feel bad so you'd buy their product. In think actually there should be more of that today. No particular reason; I would just find it funny.

Do you want "Acid Mouth"? Neither do I.
So I use Pebeco toothpaste.

I spot one I like. "I think I'm about to waste organizational resources!" I say. I head to the photocopy room myself.

Later, I pin on my wall the photocopied picture of a one-hundred-year-old Listerine ad I copied: "Halitosis makes you unpopular - DON'T FOOL YOURSELF!" it says. There's this sad-looking broad on a chair all by herself while this Clark Gable type behind her is dancing up a storm with another, smiling woman. I guess she must have used Listerine that morning, or else she'd be moping on a chair too.

I don't intend to fool myself. I might have to buy some Listerine today.

Super Bowl Commercials

2005-02-04T11:01:00.000-05:00

*
In two days, one of the most anticipated events of the television viewing season will finally hit the airwaves. I don't mean the broadcast of the Super Bowl, however: I'm talking about the commercials.

These commercials are widely-known to be the very best of the year. They'd better be; advertisers have paid as much as 2 million dollars for 30 seconds of airtime. They are saved on computer, passed around on office emails, quoted, and talked about as much as the game itself.

This is incidentally an issue that arouses some angst here in Canada. We get to see the football game, but none of the cool commercials. Our home networks seize the American satellite feed, and insert their own commercials, containing shitty, unentertaining Canadian content. Yay, Canada.

The amazing thing is that few people can say with any authority that these ads work. Sure, a lot of them are funny as hell (so I've heard), but are companies selling more product as a result of the ads? Nobody knows for sure. Marketing research is inconclusive that traditional mass-media campaigns actually do anything at all.

Ask yourself this question: Can I name five commercials I have seen recently, summarize their content, and identify what was being advertised? I can't. I filter all that stuff out, a skill I refined to perfection back when my teacher was trying to teach me algebra. Or else i'm in the kitchen when it's on the TV anyway.

But even entertaining Super Bowl commercials that have a widespread and receptive audience seem just as ineffective. Can you remember any Bowl commercials, and what they were selling?

I can think of those "Bud Bowl" ones, but a significant reason has to be that they are aired multiple times during the broadcast. But what about a single, 2 million dollar, 30-second ad slot? Is it working? Think hard, of any of those ads from the past - can you recall much of anything?

In spite of Canada's aggravating censorship policies, I have actually seen quite a few, and I can't name a single product that was being sold. I laughed though. So I guess it's all good.

But I submit this proposal to wealthy and faceless corporations across North America: pay me the two million and gimme a sandwich board. I bet I'd be as effective promoting your product as your fancy Hollywood commercials are.

More importantly, I'd be rich as hell. Yeah, I like this plan.

Shameless Bragging

2005-02-04T10:23:00.000-05:00

*
A few months ago, I sent an article I wrote to the local newspaper for a column-writing contest. And I won! I would have been happy enough just to have the media exposure, but I also got a $250 cheque, in addition to multiple offers from women of Christian virtue to bear my children. Of course though, you know I'm only joking. I didn't really get any money.

For posterity, and your reading enjoyment, here is the article as it appeared in the January 10th, 2005 edition of the Ottawa Sun:

*
Dogged by Bad Press

The face, framed by a spiked collar and riveted steel muzzle, appeared poised to lunge for my throat, despite those evidently necessary constraints. Thankfully, the demonic figure I had spotted was safely contained in an above-the-fold newspaper photograph. Still, the image was impossible to forget. A picture says a thousand words, and the few lines captioning the photo were barely necessary to tell me that there had been yet another frightening pit bull attack.

When he introduced his plan to rid Ontario of pit bulls, Attorney General Michael Bryant referred to them as “inherently dangerous animals.” And if any dog looks “menacing” enough, Section 13 of the proposed Bill 132 grants police officers the right to obtain a warrant to enter the premises where one of these “ticking time bombs” has been reported. Thank goodness. The authorities need the power to protect us from all that exploding pit bull shrapnel.

It sounded like pretty sobering stuff, and frankly, after all I had heard, getting rid of these obviously crazed canines made perfect sense to me. In reading one news report, I learned that in the process of killing one of the animals, a police officer had needed twelve bullets to slay the creature. Twelve bullets! Maybe body armour should be made from pit bull carcasses. I asked a dog-loving colleague of mine her opinion of the beasts: “I don’t go near them,” she sniffed. “They scare me. They’re the ones responsible for the really severe mauling.” Severe mauling, pit bulls? How do you know that? A frown. “It’s in the news almost every day, isn’t it?” And Bryant himself stated that he had received thousands of messages from citizens saying much the same. It seemed that everybody was on board then; this is no-brainer legislation that can only help both an increasingly unpopular provincial government and its concerned citizens.

However, so far, the Ontario government has not commissioned any survey or study to back their claim that the majority of Ontarians support a ban of pit bulls.

In addition, in quoting that “pit bulls account for between 48 and 56 per cent of serious dog bites” in the United States, Bryant failed to mention that his numbers originate from an obscure Washington state publication, and that those figures are non-representative of dog attack trends in America. Why should it be necessary to cite such a deceiving statistic? Isn’t there a solid case for breed specific legislation?

The answer is: No, there isn’t. There are no reliable studies in Canada recording dog attack statistics. And when asked for any evidence at all that pit bulls are genetically predisposed to violence, Bryant actually admitted that, “I don't know of any scientific evidence in terms of looking literally at their DNA or looking at the genetics of it.” Essentially, he acknowledged there is no empirical data supporting the ban. This breed-specific legislation, in his own words, is a ban of uninformed, discriminatory prejudice, based on a handful of sensationalized individual experiences.

Interestingly, when Bryant makes sweeping generalizations regarding pit bulls, that they are genetically inherently dangerous, he is saying that all dogs are predisposed to violence, because the “pit bull” is not a purebred animal. It is bred from an undeterminable number of other breeds that are probably running around our neighbourhoods. And even if a particular strain of pit bull can be traced along a specific lineage, suggesting that they are predisposed to any kind of specific behaviour is like saying that racial profiling for humans is acceptable – something that no government in Canada agrees with.

The Canadian Veterinary Medical Association is against any form of dog breed ban.

And so is the Canadian Safety Council.

Why does the Ontario government support it? Bill 132 was one of the fastest Bills to be approved by Queen’s Park in history.

Perhaps they all saw the same scary photograph I did.
*

In my Office: Part Two

2005-02-03T13:22:00.000-05:00

*
"I heard your phone," I say. "Why does it sound like that?" I had to know.

Cellphone Guy is in his office, eating corn nuts. He does that every day. They're in a handy bowl beside his mousepad. They smell sort of like body odour. The first time the scent floated into my office, I ended up smelling my armpits, just to confirm that yes, I was wearing a fresh shirt. Corn nuts really stink.

He pops one into his mouth. "I like to know it's my phone when it rings," he says. There is corn nut dandruff stuck between his teeth.

"But why that sound? Why not something different?" And not so retarded, I didn't add.

He shrugs. "It makes me feel like dancing."

I think if I saw a guy dancing because his cellphone rang, I would crap my pants laughing at the sight of it. I hope he does it someday.

Internet Handles

2005-02-03T13:13:00.000-05:00

*
So just now, my buddy is trying to come up with a really cool internet tough-guy name to use for his online identity. I was so frustrated with his continuous suggestions that I finally grabbed a dictionary to come up with a name for him:

Me: Okay, how many words do you want? (flipping pages)
Buddy: One!
Me: (finding page, and pointing randomly) Okay, here's one. Hmm, it's two words: "Hansen's Disease."
Buddy: What's that?
Me: It means, "leprosy."
Buddy: I want a different name.

He's been wasting more time on this than an 11-year-old girl. And since he's doing it at work, I can calculate to the cent how much money he's "earned" so far trying to figure the problem out. Let's do that:

Based on the time of his first email on the subject (12:43), he's used 34 minutes of work time on the project so far. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he's now decided on a name.

This buddy earns $51,661 per year. That's gross pay - for our example, we won't consider any deductions.

Divided over 52 weeks, this amounts to $993.48 per week.

It's $198.70 a day.

This buddy works a 7.5 hour "work" day. That's 450 minutes.

$198.70/450 = .44 cents per minute he gets paid. Multiply that by the 34 minutes, and my buddy just got paid $15.01 to dream up, "Lubber" as his ultimate internet name (he just sent that suggestion to me).

"It's the Middle English word for parasite," he says.

No shit.

The Dome

2005-02-03T10:06:00.000-05:00

*
As long as I've followed the Toronto Blue Jays, they've played in a stadium in Toronto called, "The SkyDome".

Inexplicably, when people talked about going there, they'd drop the "The" prefix in the title; so when they mentioned it, they'd say something along the lines of, "Hey, we're going to SkyDome today!" Implicit in this subtle change in the statement is the idea that going there means you are participating in an event, rather than simply going to a place. Sort of like saying, "Hey! We're going to Woodstock!" It took Torontonians about five years to realize that the 'Dome was just a baseball field. Whatever though; Torontonians have this little-dick syndrome, you have to forgive them a bit. That's why they built the CN Tower - somehow, the world's largest phallic symbol makes Toronto "world class" to these guys. They fretted about having a recognizable global symbol, and now they have one: A mile-high cement penis. Hey, high-five.

Anyway, SkyDome cost Ontario taxpayers about $600 million to build, opening in 1989. Fast-forward 16 years, and the SkyDome, no longer the event it used to be, was flipped like a cheap whore to Rogers Communications for a mere $25 million dollars in January, 2005. How's that for a return on your tax dollars?

But that number amazes me - not for the incredible mismanagement of public funds, though. It's the ultimate selling price of the place that astounds me - $25 million, that's low! Imagine if you were some rich guy with $25 million burning a hole in your pocket? I'm sure they exist. $25 million for a mansion actually isn't out of the question at all in some tony Toronto neighborhoods. So why not buy the SkyDome? Imagine what you could do in there? I'd put a huge neon sign on the front identifying it as my place, sort of like the world's biggest nightclub or something. And you could live in the SkyDome Hotel and do anything you wanted inside the dome part. You could have dirt-bike races with your friends, play Nintendo on the JumboTron, and live out the childhood dream of hitting a "game-winning" home run over the wall to "win the Series." You could have all your buddies over to play actual games on the field, drink in the dugout, play in shorts and flip-flops, and generally act like a total bohemian, running around with the old pennants after you've won the "championship."

You could even invite Morgana, The Kissing Bandit to your parties!

She's probably pretty old by now though. Repeat after me: sagging lemon tits.

Why didn't anybody pony up the money to do any of that? Aren't rich guys supposed to be eccentric? Plus, the 'Dome is in a great location - bars and entertainment galore, plus you're right beside the lake. You'd be the only guy in North America with a retractable roof on his house! I guess guys like Bill Gates didn't read the fax or something, because an opportunity of grand proportions was missed by rich bastards everywhere.

Anyway, I read in the paper today that upon taking ownership of the 'Dome, Rogers Communications renamed it the "Rogers Centre." Why a "Centre"? It's a baseball park! How many baseball parks in the majors are called a "Centre"? That's right, I have no fucking idea. But I doubt it's very many:

Buddy: Hey man, get your hat! We're going to, "Roger's Centre!"
Me: What the hell is that? It it some kind of event? Is it prestigious?
Buddy: Never mind, just get in the car!
Me: Forget it, I don't get out of this chair unless it's for a prestigious event. Give me back my beer.

No, the new name doesn't have the same ring that "The SkyDome" did. Why didn't they call it, "The Roger's SkyDome"? You'd have a touchstone with the past name and prior glories, along with the modern brand name the company wishes to insinuate into our consciousness.

But maybe that's the whole point. There's no more glory or prestige in going "to SkyDome." If you're there, it's probably because that's where your homeless buddies are taking their sleeping bags after they got booted out of Nathan Phillips Square.

And they even took down the JumboTron last month. But that's all right; it's in a better place now, where Joe Carter endlessly hits Series-clinching home runs, and the AstroTurf always smells like a new Pontiac.

Pet Name

2005-02-02T22:15:00.000-05:00

*
"Bon, ben...mon beau cochon, mon beau petit cochon!," she says.

"Why are you calling me that? Cochon, what's that word?," I say.

"Cochon, it means pig," she says.

"Pig? You called me a pig?" I ask.

"Oh, pig, this is love words. Beau cochon, it's cute. When a pig is clean, they are nice! They're so cute!"

"Really? They are? Okay, then...bring me a Coke, my pig!"

She stares a moment. "It's only right the way I say it."

In Wendy's: 1994

2005-02-02T16:25:00.000-05:00

*
"So man, did you like that Pixies record?," D'Arcy asked. He popped a ketchup-soaked fry into his mouth, chomping lustily. He and I were eating identical Wendy's combos, our first food of the day. I was visiting him in Stratford over our summer break between first and second year. I was twenty years old.

"Yeah. I like almost all the songs. I can see why Nirvana copied those guys," I said. Rudely, my mouth was full of burger; my words kind of came out sounding like, "meef-meef, morf." But it didn’t matter. It wasn't like this was some fancy restaurant. And D'Arcy certainly didn’t give a shit either. I decided to wallow in medieval decadence.

D'Arcy slupped some pop out of his yellow cup. Or soda, as he insisted on calling it. "Fuck, man. We need to get some bevvies later. We have nothing for our party." The party was going to be a post-concert party. D’Arcy played drums in his band, The Puckering Rectums, and they had a show that night. They had these t-shirts with a dancing gingerbread man on the front. Why a gingerbread man? His brother, their bassist, thought it would freak people out. But more importantly, the rectum logos they had tried to stencil on their t-shirts basically ended up looking like big splotches of shit, so they had to try something else.

"Gingerbread men are easy," explained his brother.

I lifted my cup and took a long drink. It was funny how often I did stuff just because D'Arcy did. Sometimes, it was like we could read each other’s minds. With some alarm, I realized how we were even dressed the same today. Same shirt, same shoes...ah well. Everybody wore jeans, right? My mind shifted gears when I saw a cute girl walking by. Dressed seasonally, I noticed with approval.

A great idea suddenly inspired me. Finishing my soda in long, honking draughts, I leaned my head back and released a gloriously loud, wet belch:

“BUUUUUUUUUPP!!”

With instantaneous insight, I knew that this would be the loudest and most resonant burp I would ever produce. This historical fact wasn't lost on the patrons at Wendy's. There was utter silence; I saw some long stares of disgust. In the background, I could hear only the sizzle of the deep-fryers; even the beeping of the cash registers had stopped momentarily.

D'Arcy goggled comically, his chipmunk cheeks bulging with food. "Fu-uuuck, man!," he gasped. A chunk of fry flew out of his mouth. "That was totally uncalled for!" We both roared unrestrained hyena laughter, as though nobody else was in the restaurant. We bunched up our food wrappers.

Walking out, we spared not a backwards glance. We were busy men, after all - there was beer to buy, and music to play.

It was already a great day.

3:05: In my Office

2005-02-02T14:52:00.000-05:00

*
The guy in the cubicle next to me has a cell phone. He hardly ever uses it at work - why would he? But just now it rang.

Without a doubt, his cellphone ring is the stupidest sound I have ever heard. It's this weirdo, futuristic techno-beat that sounds like this:

"BEEEP, beep-beep-BEEP-BEEP! BEEEEP, beep-beep-BEEEP BEEEP!

It made me think of Jabba the Hutt's palace for some reason. I laughed like a young baboon.

On the Street

2005-02-02T13:29:00.000-05:00

*
"Hey, look," I say. "What's that sign say? 'Chateau du Sexe'! Ha ha ha! House of Sex, right?"

"Actually, that means 'Sex Castle'," she says. "Want to go in? You could play King of the Castle."

"Hail to the King, baby!," I shout at a passing man. He frowns.

Cat Barf

2005-02-02T09:47:00.000-05:00

*
I woke up during the night to a familiar sound: my cat, about to throw up on the carpet beside my bed. In my half-awake state of consciousness, I decided to do nothing about it. It would still be there in the morning, I reasoned.

Why do humans and cats vomit in different ways? And for different reasons? Me, I throw up if I'm sick. I feel nauseated, grab the toilet, and out it comes. BLAAAHH! BLAAAHH! This probably means that I'm going to throw up in the near future, too. And when I am no longer sick, I no longer vomit. I don't like to.

My cat though, she seems to throw up basically because she wants to. She eats, she throws up. She wakes up from a nap, she throws up. She's not sick, she just kind of empties herself, and that's the end of the episode.

The other thing is, there is plenty of warning about what is going to happen. If I get sick, I rush to the bathroom, because I'm about to spew all over the place unless I get there in time. Through a combination of a nearby toilet and dumb luck, I've always managed to lose my lunch into the john without any collateral spraying. And it all happened with one single, gut-wrenching squeeze. With the cat though, it's like this:

The Cat: Hurk! Hurk! Hurk! Hurk!
My Roommate: Hey! The cat's gonna barf! Ha ha ha!
Me : Aw, crap...
The Cat: Hurk! Hurk! Hurk! Hurk!
My Roommate: She's still going! Quick, put her on the kitchen floor!
The Cat: Hurk! Hur-braackk!
My Roommate: Shoot.

The thing is, after it's all over, she acts like nothing has just happened. She grooms herself a bit, and strolls away from the mess like it's all part of her day (which, I guess, it is). No residual nausea. Why does she do it? To make room for more food? I sometimes notice in the little pile of puke kibble pieces that are completely intact. Maybe these were disrupting her stomach? Also, how the hell did she swallow them?

Here she is. Ain't she a stinker?

When I woke up this morning, the ejected kibble I was expecting to find was mysteriously missing. Not even a stain on the floor. This is another key difference between cats and humans: sometimes, if I ignore the problem, and if I'm very lucky, my cat will eat her own vomit.

Vive la difference!

A New Hobby

2005-01-31T23:14:00.000-05:00

*
He wheezes, holding his hands up in an absurd gesture of protection. He won’t look at me.

“Please man…please don’…just don’…please…”

He has these strange, green gloves on against the cold, those crappy hobo gloves you always see guys wearing in heavy metal videos. They wave randomly in front of his face.

“I got nothin’ man…just don’….”

I stand at clinical distance. There is nobody around. The stony hallway is empty except for some trash containers. No windows. Nothing else to interrupt our conversation, not even a passing car. Vapour clouds through my balaclava, hanging with meatlocker stillness in the narrow alley.

He is sitting on a pile of cardboard. Weren’t there shelters? It makes my job easier, anyway.

He begins to moan. Apparently, acting coherent and sober is possible for only a few moments at a time before the act breaks down. All he emits now are animal grunts and whimpering. In the dirt beside him is a Coke can, flattened on one side and perforated with dozens of pin-pricks. His crack pipe.

I pull my pistol from my pants, fully loaded. My .45 ACP. Seven in the magazine, one in the chamber, a design perfected a decade before the first American soldiers in their pie-plate helmets took them to the trenches in World War I. I have it cocked and locked, the safest way to carry this piece around when it's in your waistband. I point it at his face.

“Look at me,” I say. He begins to sway his head, the palsied dance of an old man. But he is 30, tops.

I squat, reaching out with the .45 to press its hard eye against his forehead. “Look at me,” I whisper. Big dogs don’t need to bark. “Look me in the eye.” Stoned or not, he knows he’s about 10 seconds away from getting a hardball plunged through what’s left of his grey matter. Nothing is more scary than a guy with a gun who is whispering things at you.

This isn’t thrilling or anything, this knowledge. It's just a tool you use, like telling a woman she looks beautiful to get what you want.

Finally, he looks up. He is crying. His eyes are strawberry jam.

“Who deals around here?” I say. “I just want a name. I’ll let you live.”

“Fuck you, yo…you’ll fuckin’ cap me, what do you care,” he says. He hangs his head like a bad dog.

“Just a name. Give it to me. I’ll cap you if you don’t, I don’t give a shit.” I didn’t.

He considers his options and spills it.

“Smurf does. Smurf, yo.”

“Where.” I’m getting cold, and bored. I’d actually prefer to beat what I want out of this stinking heap of rags. It would feel better doing it, but then I’d get all sweaty. Also, I might leave something behind.

“He goes to da Side Bar. Weeknights. Too many kids onna weekend,” he says.

I stand, head cocking. No people nearby. No cars. I can’t hear a thing. I have two routes to my car, parked in the dark two blocks away with swapped plates.

“Thanks,” I say. I flip off the safety. A .45 is subsonic, so the sound won’t carry the way say, oh, a 9 millimeter would. I step away, damning him. I also want clean pantlegs.

Hold still, you. I wait until his panicked hand moves enough so that I can put the bullet into his eye socket without him blocking my aim.

I grab my brass and clear out. The drive home is uneventful – not even a single siren to race my heartbeat.

Public Bathrooms

2005-01-28T11:14:00.000-05:00

*
Using public bathrooms are a pet peeve of mine. I actually have quite a few, but this one is on my mind the most because I have to deal with it more often than any other.

Why don’t I like them? I have any number of reasons. A bathroom, in my mind, should be a place of solitude and contemplation. Someplace private and protected, a place where you can do a somewhat filthy business alone and unobserved, in such a manner that it’s almost possible to believe nobody else does it at all. Like, if you never see anybody do it, you can suspend the belief that everybody has to suffer the indignity of taking a crap every now and then. You never think about celebrities in the bathroom, right? Because you don’t, you never have to confront the reality that yes, these are people too, and they probably excrete shit on a daily basis.

Why does it matter to pretend that people don’t use the bathroom? That’s easy – anything related to our bodies or body functions is taboo in our society. Think of our swear words, the really bad ones you got in trouble for as a kid. Here’s a brief list, in alphabetical order:

Asshole.

Cockmunch.

Cunt.

Dickface.

Piss.

Shit.

Taboo things aren’t talked about - we aren’t comfortable doing it. It’s been ingrained into our society, probably since Victorian times, that anything related to what our bodies do is bad, and that we should all just pretend that we don’t do them. We can’t help it; we’re just a product of our surroundings. A parallel example that will enable you to understand this concept is French Quebecers. For them, the taboo subject was religion – throughout most of recent history, for hundreds of years, their society was ruled with an iron fist by the Catholic Church. You didn’t dare do anything that the Church thought was a sin, or else you’d go straight to hell. So they ended up having swear words like these:

Calisse. (Chalice)

Tabernac. (Tabernacle)

Sacrement. (Sacrement)

These are all things related to a church. They don’t sound very bad, do they? Sacrement? In English, this is probably a good word, but as I understand it, this one is one of the Baddest of the Bad swear words in French. And it works the other way too, of course – English swear words don’t mean anything at all to French Quebecers. They just aren't taboo. For instance, I was watching “The Big Lebowski” with my Quebecer girlfriend one time, and she got a kick out of imitating the actors:

“What da fuck is going on?”

“Donnie, shut da fuck up!”

“What da fuck?”

She laughed hysterically when she quoted these lines, because these sound like baby words to her. Me, I’d known her for months as this refined, ladylike and modern woman – so it was shocking (I wasn’t insulted or anything – it was just weird as hell) hearing her talking like a sailor on shore leave with obvious enjoyment.

So because being in a public bathroom necessarily exposes us to these taboos, they can be uncomfortable places. They are to me, at least.

It's possible to trace the line back even earlier than recent history, though. Have you ever watched a dog doing its business? What about a cat in its litter box? Think about what their faces and body language express: they look uncomfortable. Sure, there’s a certain amount of anthropomorphism that goes on with people and their pets, but really, there is no mistaking the expression on a dog’s face when it’s taking a shit: it feels vulnerable, and it doesn’t like it. My cat, when she’s in her box, she’ll perch there stoically over the little hole she dug, desperately pretending you aren’t there. You can poke her repeatedly and she won’t do a thing until she’s finished. She knows she’s trapped, and her face betrays a total loathing for the duration of the experience.

Think about cavemen, back in the day. For the majority of your daily routine, you were out in the woods or in the savannah somewhere. If you had to pinch off a loaf, that probably meant that you had to lift your furs and put down whatever weapon you were carrying. It left you in an exquisitely vulnerable and delicate situation, ripe for attack by another caveman, competing for the same scarce resources you were. Wouldn't you want to be able to do what you had to in total solitude? The instinct to feel discomfort when you are moving your bowels therefore must extend back many thousands of years. It’s only been recently that we’ve been able to perform these necessary functions in complete safety – imagine the novelty the first time it was possible to read a book, subconsciously secure in the knowledge that you wouldn’t be clubbed from behind for your sack of mammoth meat. And why else do we feel so relieved when it’s all finished? It’s because the threat of danger is over.

Public restrooms arouse all those nervous, instinctive feelings in me. Most particularly, my office restroom, the one I’m forced to use the most often. For some reason, using a bathroom at a bar or arena never bothers me – maybe it’s the knowledge that I’ll never see the other occupants again in my lifetime. Or maybe I’m just drunk. Either way, I can use the facilities in those instances without inhibition.

By the way, I’m certain this isn’t a unique phenomenon, these feelings of discomfort. In fact, I think the majority of men dislike using public bathrooms. How can I be sure of that? Easy, I’ll show you:

The Urinal Situation # 1

A man walks into a bathroom with 3 urinals. They are all unoccupied. Which one does he take? That’s right – the one that’s furthest away. Statistics have shown that the urinal (or toilet stall, for that matter) used the most often is the one furthest from the door. Keep that in mind if you’re one of those types that worries about a clean public toilet – the cleanest one will be the one closest to the door, because it’s used the least. The reason for the selection of urinal/toilet stall? Because of the instinctive need for privacy.

The Urinal Situation # 2

A man walks into a bathroom with 3 urinals. The one furthest from the door is occupied. Which one does he take? Of course; it’s the urinal furthest from the one currently in use. The man’s instinctive need to be away from other competitors kicks in, and he relieves himself at a discreet distance.

You’ve probably noticed I’m talking about men only here – there’s a good reason for that. First, I’m a man, and I can only relate bathroom behaviour I have personally observed. Secondly though, a simple observation of women outside the bathroom proves that women don’t feel the same way about bathrooms as men. The old joke about women going to the bathroom together exists for a reason – because they do it. They like to. Every time I walk past the ladies restroom at work, I can hear women chatting away in there, or amazingly, the sound of a hairdryer humming away overtop a conversation. When you’re at a bar or restaurant, ladies go to the bathroom together – and talk to each other while in the stalls! Needless to say, this rarely, if ever, happens in a man’s bathroom. Go to a bar on a Friday night, and enter the man's bathroom, and what you’ll find is stony silence, with rows of men using the urinals in funeral stillness, as the muffled beat of dance music thumps through the concrete walls. So why do women blow my theory?

The thing is though, they don’t. Back to our caveman example, and we can see why. Thousands of years ago, the primary role of women was child-rearing. Men were the fighters, the protectors, the hunter-gatherers, diligently roaming the woods and fields for food and supplies for his family. This meant that the camp was probably left mostly unguarded. So what do you do when you feel threatened, are vulnerable, and have to make water in the bushes? You stick together. Interactions of all types become a group activity for our ancestral women out of the need for safety, so they evolved with the instinctive need to relieve themselves with others for the greater protection that a group of women could afford. It’s not a crazy idea at all. Look at herds of antelopes, or lion prides; the females all hang out together to protect the young and enhance the overall security level of the social group. Is it so hard to imagine these instincts remaining programmed in humans today? It’s very reasonable to make that comparison. Other kinds of animal behaviour is clearly still exhibited by modern humans, so why not this?

At my workplace, the way the bathroom has been constructed, it’s almost like it’s been done in such a way as to make it as uncomfortable an experience as it can be, in order to violate all those imbedded instincts as thoroughly as possible. Consider these sensations:

The Sights

The urinals are squeezed, side-by-side, in one corner of the bathroom. No divider is between them, and they are right beside the sink. It is impossible to wash your hands or look in the mirror without seeing some guy in stark, florescent clarity standing against the urinal three feet away.

The Sounds

Many bathrooms have music piped in to obscure the sounds we make. This would be great, but we don’t have it where I work. Everything is conducted in library silence, and every single squelch, cough, or splash can be heard by everyone in there (and outside too, actually - an anonymous suggestion was put forth by my colleagues to install a sound baffle outside the man's bathroom, something that was discussed with some hysteria at a team meeting). I’d definitely accept a ventilation fan for some background white noise, but even this basic accessory is not included in my office bathroom. Which leads us nicely to…

The Smells

If any of my colleagues happen to be struck with a diarrhea attack (it’s happened – you spend the rest of your day wondering, “was that the guy?”), the smell lingers inside the bathroom literally for hours. Not to mention any other, but no less unpleasant odours that might be produced within. A guy I used to work with had this incredibly potent body odour – the rancid stench would stay in the bathroom the entire day, every day.

The Touch

Like I said before, the urinals are squeezed so close, that should you be unfortunate enough to need to use one, there will be elbow contact with your neighbour. It’s unavoidable. Why is this bad? It just makes me feel like a homo, and I want to avoid that sensation.

The Tastes

Thank goodness there are none of these – although I’ve seen empty candy wrappers, coffee cups, and glasses in there at any given time. WHY does anyone feel the need to bring food into the bathroom? Can’t it wait a couple of minutes? It must be the caveman instinct kicking in again: guard the nourishment at all times. Try not to think about the statistic about how few people wash their hands after they take a leak.

So as a consequence of this assault of the senses, I am forced to interact with colleagues in the bathroom every now and then. Something I’ve gotten into the habit of doing is using the bathroom only when it’s empty; if I go in and see some guy at a urinal, or a pair of feet in a stall, I just head back to my office for a few minutes. I can wait.

[As an aside, why are bathroom stalls made so you can see the feet of the occupant? Or are open at the top? Current stall construction seems like a really half-assed (pun not intended) solution to create a concession to privacy. That is, if you’re going to put walls up between the toilets – why don’t they extend all the way to the floors and ceilings? I would love a bathroom made this way. As they are made now, there might as well be nothing there at all if you can see the lower half of the person in there. I was actually in a bathroom once where the walls of the stalls were mounted high enough that you could actually see the ass of whoever was sitting on the toilet. The workers had to be either drunk or retarded not to notice that error. But I digress.]

But sometimes, no matter how carefully I plan my bathroom visits, I am forced to interact with other users, who don’t seem to share my feelings about bathrooms. Some of them act in a distinctly anti-social manner while in the bathroom; anti-social in this case meaning, ignoring all normal rules and etiquette you’d expect from a fellow male in the can. These are examples of people I work with who I have encountered in the bathroom. You might have seen versions of them wherever you work, too:

The Mumbler

This man, regardless of whether he is in a stall or at a urinal station, mutters to himself. The mutters usually seem profane and hostile. I’ve entered the bathroom before to hear him cursing to himself, only to suddenly stop talking, knowing that someone might be listening. I’ve also been sitting quietly in a stall, minding my own business, and heard him come in – he immediately began muttering angrily until he noticed my feet in the stall, at which point he silenced himself. There’s really nothing here that goes against the understood rules of public bathroom use, I just think it’s weird.

The Talker

This guy, regardless of whether or not he or you is using a urinal or a stall, will strike up a conversation with you. Every office probably has a guy like this. He’s also impossible to pass in the hallway without getting caught up in his web of conversation. If I see him coming outside the bathroom, already beginning to smile with happiness at the chance to talk to me, I quicken my pace and look at my watch, as though I’m in a hurry to get somewhere. It rarely works. The Talker is ignorantly oblivious to any kind of body language.

The Reader

As I explained before, I’ve tried to plan my bathroom visits to be as solitary and as brief as possible. The Reader ruins this strategy, because he is always in there, at any time of day. He’s only predictable early on – the first thing he does every morning is use the bathroom, always in the stall I think of obscurely as “mine.” I know he reads in there because I’ll hear the rustle of newspapers, and if I happen to go in there after he’s used it, they are always lying on the floor in little bunches, reminding me somehow of a hamster nest. I always know The Reader must be in there, because he wears these stupid-looking white sneakers. Other than recognizing his shoes, I’ve made no effort to know his identity outside the bathroom. What happens in the bathroom, stays in the bathroom.

The Moaner

Amazingly, on multiple occasions, I have been in the bathroom and heard this man groaning in a stall. He is well aware that I (and others) are in the bathroom, but he holds nothing back. Unfortunately, I have been unable to shield myself from knowing his identity. So I end up worried that I’m going to be traumatized by another moaning episode every time I see him. I’ve coughed loudly in order to alert him that I’m in there, or even struck up a conversation with another occupant at a urinal (a big taboo, something I normally never do) in order to try and convince The Moaner to quiet down until we leave. It never works:

The Moaner, inside his stall: Uhhhnnnn! Uhhhnnnn!
Me: (loudly) Ahem! Say, did you see that goal last night?
Urinal User: (staring manfully and correctly at the wall) Yeah, I saw it on the highlights this morning.
The Moaner: Aaaahhh! Uhnnnn!
Me: Well, goodbye now.

This sounds horrible, until you learn about…

The Talking Strainer

Amazingly, this person breaks all the conventions of public bathroom use. He is willing to talk to other men while he is in a stall, which is bad enough, but does it when he is actually struggling to move his bowels:

Talking Strainer: Hey…so (now straining) how was your weekend? *grunt*
Me: Oh my god.
Talking Strainer: Huh? (hideously straining again) Did something happen?
Me: …

Maybe this will help you understand why I mostly use the bathroom 16 floors below my office; always blessedly solitary, with music AND a ventilation fan to conceal things I’d rather not know about.

The Shooting Method

2005-01-26T10:58:00.000-05:00

One summer day, the kind when the sun beats down on you like a physical thing, my father called me into the backyard. I was doing something bright like riding my bicycle in circles in the dirt of the driveway, trying to keep the front tire in the track I had just made. Cicadas buzzed in the still, high trees, and my lips stuck together from the Kool-Aid popsicle I had eaten at lunchtime.

“Come on over here,” he waved at me. I finished off my lap and pedaled over to him. The shredded-wheat grass flicked musically in the spokes of my wheel. It never mattered how long it got. It died anyway. Our lawn was too big to water. We only had one hose, so we ended up having this pretty green blob of grass in the middle of the front lawn. The blob never got any bigger because mom was too busy doing other things to move the sprinkler around.

“Want to try something new?” Dad asked. It was one of those questions that are more like an order. He had a couple of his pistols lined up with display-case meticulousness on the picnic table.

“Okay,” I said. “What?”

“You’re going to fire this pistol,” he said. “You’ve been using that pellet gun Gramma gave you for a while now, and that’s good. So perhaps you can apply what you’ve learned with it to this.”

“Sure,” I said. “What do I do?”

“First, get some targets. I want you to go into the garage and get a few pop cans out of the box. Bring back a bunch of them.”

I ran into the garage, skidding to a stop with surfer flourish, and filled my arms with the heavy cans. In those days, they were that skinny 280 ml size, the hard tin ones pop came in before the bigger American sizes were introduced. You used to find them rusting in the ditch beside the highway when you went bottle-picking for pocket change. I ran back out.

“Now what?”

“Set them up out there on the fence. Line them up on the top rail, but don’t put them too close together.”

I stomped gleefully through the struggling annuals in my mother’s flowerbed to arrange my cans on the fence, giving them a bit of a twist on the wood as though this would somehow affix them in place. The cans shone on the knobby rails, starkly colourful and manmade against the wood and the empty fields beyond. The wind pushed down the field grasses there like a huge, invisible hand, smoothing the long hay in the same way it would the fur of a cat. When I jogged back to the table, Dad was messing around with one of the pistols.

“This a .22, a semiautomatic,” he began. “That means, every time you pull the trigger, the gun will reload itself and be ready to fire, every time you pull the trigger. Like this,” he said. He pointed his finger at the cans. “Bang-bang-bang! It has ten shots - not one like your pellet gun. But a .22 isn’t very loud, so you won’t need the muffs.”

“Wow! Okay, can I shoot it?…I mean, can I do it now?” The handgun had caught my eye the moment I saw it on the table. It was shaped with incongruous smooth contours and hard angles. Like the cans, conspicuously manmade, but compelling in a way that the cans weren’t. I wanted to hold it.

“Sure,” he said. Dad picked up the pistol and handed it over to me. I reached out for it, but just before I was to touch it, he lifted it out of reach. “Wait,” he said. “What do you do first?”

I had no idea what he was talking about, and then I remembered when he had done this with the pellet gun, months before. “You have to make sure it’s unloaded.”

“That’s right,” he said. “There’s no such thing as an unloaded gun. Never assume because I hand this to you that there isn’t a bullet in there. That’s how accidents happen, and they happen to anybody. Never touch this, or any gun until you know it’s unloaded.”

Dad liked to lay things out this way. I listened quietly. I was a compliant kid, and I knew that as long as I paid attention, I was eventually going to get my chance to try out the gun.

“Okay, is it safe? Is it unloaded?”

“Let’s check,” Dad said. “First, you press this button, which releases the magazine.” The slender black magazine slipped out of the oak grip into his callused hand. He held it up; as far as I could tell, there was nothing in it. “Okay, it’s empty. The next thing you check is the chamber – a bullet could be in the gun itself. You do that by working the slide.” He put the magazine on the table, and reached up to the back of the gun, pulling the machined slide back until it clicked open, locked in place with a secure snick! sound, like a type of tiny safe. “Can you see the chamber?” He turned the pistol around so I could see inside it.

“I guess it’s empty…I see a hole? Is anything in there?”

“No, it’s empty. If it was loaded, you would have seen one of these,” he said. He reached into a box on the table, and pulled out a bullet, the new brass flashing hot in his fingers. It had the same kind of look the gun did – purposeful, machined, engineered; made that way for a reason. It was small, and reminded me somehow of jewelry, like the heavy wedding band my Dad wore on his finger like a chunk of plumbing pipe.

“Okay, it’s unloaded. I’ll give it to you in a second,” he said. “What’s the next thing you have to do?” He began to load the magazine, pushing the gleaming bullets inside one at a time.

I knew this one without prompting. He yelled it at me anytime he saw me with my pellet gun. “Don’t point it at anything you don’t want shot.”

Dad laughed. “It’s true – even if the gun is empty, never aim it at anything you don’t want a bullet hole in. That’s the only reason you should use a weapon like this for anything.”He handed me the gun, which immediately pulled my hand to the ground like a magnet when I took it. It felt like it weighed about fifty pounds.

“All right – keep it pointed towards the field. It’s not as heavy as you think, it just seems that way because it’s small. Here’s the magazine,” Dad said. He slapped the clip, now filled with shells, into my hand operating-room style.

“Okay, slide the magazine into the grip - that’s right…push it all the way up until it clicks.

“Keep it pointed at the field, now.

“Last thing. Push the button on the side with your thumb to release the slide. It will snap forward, pushing a bullet into the chamber.”

Clack!

“Okay. You’re ready to go. Put one through a can.”

I stared out at the fencerow, picking the centre can as my target. It was wobbling maddeningly back and forth as I struggled to aim properly; if I didn’t pull the trigger soon, I wasn’t going to hit the can at all. I just had to hope that I would hit it. I tugged the trigger.

Crackk!

The can didn’t move.

“Try it again.”

I huffed in frustration, and concentrated. The gun didn’t feel as heavy now, at least. I slid my left hand to beneath the grip to support the automatic like I had seen on television. I blinked and…

Crackk!

The ejected shell bounced off the picnic table.“I didn’t mean to do that! I hardly pulled the trigger at all!” I complained.

“One more.”

I lifted the pistol again, my lips a tight line as I worked to put the logo on the can in my sights. The sights were wide, black squares, and the front post almost completely covered the can when I aimed at it.

The gun bucked in my hands. Miss.

Dad just smiled. “Take your finger off the trigger,” he said, reaching out for the gun. He took it from my hands like it was an egg, popping the clip out, and placing it carefully on the picnic table. He left the muzzle aimed out at the cans, irritatingly intact on the fence.

“In the 1950’s, American G.I.’s experienced the same troubles you just had,” he explained. “These doughboys, they’d join the army, and some of them hadn’t ever seen a gun in their lives.

“Some boy from Arkansas or someplace, who might have spent his childhood shooting at squirrels in the woods, had no trouble shooting the army rifles. These guys were usually the ones who ended up being snipers or elite marksmen. There is no substitute for years of practise. They didn’t need anyone to show them how to use a rifle – they knew how to use one instinctively, just like you might know how to ride your bike.

“But the other men, the ones who had never seen a gun except for in the movies, they had to learn. And it had to be second nature to them; their lives depended on the use of their weapons. These recruits though, they weren’t doing very well at all. They were intimidated. But it wasn’t their fault. It’s like going from zero to a hundred in a second – you can’t do it. It’s impossible to make that adjustment. The army issued them big .30-06 M1-Garand rifles that deafened them and turned their shoulders into hamburger after a day of shooting. Their shots were all over the place, and their scores were very bad.

“So the army came up with an idea: Start small. They gave the men air guns to practise with. Makes sense, right? It might seem obvious now, but back then it seemed like a crazy idea. Giving grown men, soldiers, a kid’s toy? But it worked.”

Dad had an old magazine on the table, flipped open to an article, and he showed it to me. In the black and white photo, I could see two smiling American soldiers holding Daisy BB guns. They looked like they were having fun.

“So, they began with BB guns, shooting targets and cans, just to get them used to the idea of holding a weapon.

“Here’s where it gets neat. While they were practising with the BB guns, the army did something very interesting, and is the reason this article was written. They trained the soldiers on rifles with no sights; they removed them from the guns.

“What they found was, after initially doing poorly, the soldiers began hitting the targets every single time. They began to try moving targets – throwing blocks of wood into the air for the soldiers to shoot.

“Then, they threw pennies in the air.

“And finally, drill sergeants would throw BB’s. Just one BB, the actual steel shot the guns were loaded with. The soldiers would shoot at that flying BB – and hit it. Almost every time.”

Dad flipped the page of the story to show me another army guy aiming his Daisy up into the sky. There was a black circle around a smudge in the photograph – an aspirin another soldier had tossed in the air, vaporized by the BB gun.

“The reason they did this was so that shooting became instinctive to the soldiers. They didn’t need the gunsights, because it was their body, their eye, aiming the rifle. It’s called, ‘point shooting.’ These soldiers, after a while, they could shoot like Annie Oakley. And after the men were that comfortable with the BB guns, they were more than capable on the M-1’s. Many of them became expert sharpshooters.

“It wasn’t magic, or some skill they were born with. It’s just a shooting method; a method you follow until you forget about it and then it becomes a learned reflex. In anything, there are results in using a method.”

“I’ve done that sometimes,” I said. “I forgot the pellet gun has sights, but I hit something anyway.”

Dad winked. “Okay…try it here then. Do it the same way.” He handed me the pistol again. “Clip,” he said, putting it in my hand.

I took the pistol and popped the clip back inside, liking the way it felt. Twenty yards away, the cans stood unmarked on the fence. I raised the gun. Dad began speaking behind me:

“Now, relax…point the gun like it’s an extension of your finger – you’re only pointing your finger at the target. It’s your finger. The gun isn’t even there. Just look over the barrel at the can, and ignore the sights. There is no gun, no sights, just your finger. Reach out and point with your finger like you’re saying, ‘look at that can over there.’"

I relaxed, looking at the can. I cast my mind out to it, reeling it closer like a fish. My eyes widened. All I could see was the lacquered sheen of something that shouldn’t be there, that didn’t look right against the backdrop of field grasses and distant trees. I imagined the speeding bullet flying right where I was looking. I thought about exploding aspirins, thrown in the air by laughing soldiers.

“Squeeze the trigger. Do it slowly, don’t yank it. If you make sudden moves, you’ll lose sight of your target. Keep your eye on the can.

“Just point. You’re pointing at the can.

“There’s no gun.”

Bam!

A black hole stabbed through the heart of the can, flying off the fence.

“Do it again. Next can. Point at it with your index finger. There is no gun.”

Bam!

“One more. Three is the magic number.”

Bam!

Another can joined the two in the grass. Three cans down now; there was one left. “This is awesome,” I said.

Dad smiled, and put his hand out for the gun. I handed it to him carefully, keeping the muzzle aimed towards the field.

“After a while, when you practise something, and get really good, you forget the steps you took to learn it. That’s the way it should be. The skill becomes an extension of yourself.”

The gun popped out, cuckoo-clock quick. No aiming.

Bam!

A hole appeared right in the middle of the last can. It wobbled, remaining standing on the fence.

“You’ll never remember when you couldn’t do it.”

Dad fired again and again, the action of the pistol hammering in his hand. The can lifted off from the fence, tugged by an invisible string, jumped again in midair, and then jerked one final time, spinning into the dirt, with wrecked shards of tin glittering nickel-bright in the summer sunshine. The slide of the pistol locked open; empty once more, with tiny chimneys of smoke coiling up from the bore.

“You can apply this line of thinking to almost anything in life, too,” Dad looked at me. Campfire streams of gunsmoke puffed from his lips, drifting fragrantly around his head in the summer air.

“Any of us, we are capable of anything.

“Talent is practise.”

Greed

2005-01-23T11:59:00.000-05:00

*
Today is January 23, 2005.

In the National Hockey League, 699 league games have been cancelled due to a player lockout. Everybody knows by now that the key to the dispute is cost certainty; the owners want to know how much running their clubs will cost them on an annual basis.

I find it interesting how many people side with the owners on this issue. Most couldn’t care less about the cost certainty or the morality of the owners’ position though – it’s about, “the players make too much. Screw them.” Simple human envy of millionaire hockey players is the source of the support that the club owners are publicly drawing upon. If you have any doubt about that, just read newspaper quotes anytime there is a labour dispute between any union and the establishment business here in Canada:

“Teachers? They’re soft. They get summers off. I don’t get summers off – they don’t deserve a raise.”

“Government workers? They don’t work at all. Why do they deserve a raise? I never got one.”

“GM workers? These guys have a grade 12 education – they are lucky to be employed. All they do is put stickers in doorframes for $30 an hour. Sign me up!”

Too many people refuse to wrap their mind around the idea that anybody should make more money than them – because surely, they are more deserving of that money themselves. Especially grown men playing a kid’s game, living out a dream that died for them ages ago.

Think about this: a few years ago, recognizing the fiscal plight of Canadian hockey clubs, the federal government came up with a plan to subsidize NHL teams across Canada in an effort to compete with American teams. See, at the time, the Canadian dollar was floundering by comparison to the U.S. greenback, two clubs had recently left their parent cities to start up again in the United States, and most of the remaining Canadian teams were barely solvent, publicly musing about moving themselves. The aid package for the six Canadian hockey teams amounted to about $20 million a year, total – about $3 million per club. $20 million; peanuts compared to what other programs cost, yet would have made a meaningful difference to the teams.

Predictably, the motion was a public relations disaster. The general public saw the funding as millions of public tax dollars as lining the pockets of rich hockey players and richer owners. In a stunning reversal, the plan was pulled off the table only 72 hours after it was proposed thanks to massive public outcry.

None of the critics of the plan thought about how much money an NHL team brings to a community. Selfishly, all they thought about was how much money hockey players earn, and how little they do by comparison. These guys are lucky to have their jobs, right? Why, some people would pay to play on an NHL team.

If a city is lucky enough to have an NHL hockey team, these are but a few of the benefits as a consequence of having it there:

Property tax dollars from having an arena in town.

Taxes gained from the owner of the team – millions of dollars going to the government that wouldn’t be there otherwise. Hell, in Ottawa, the city charged the Senators something like $88 million dollars to install a highway overpass to the arena location. Ask yourself: Is having all that money going into the system a good thing or bad?

The tax dollars from the NHL players. Literally hundreds of millions over time.

Peripheral businesses that inevitably spring up around hockey arenas. Restaurants, taverns, souvenir stores, housing complexes, shopping malls, for people spending money at all of them.

Jobs for people working at the arena, at all those places mentioned above.

Equipment sales. Pucks, sticks, jerseys. It might not be made in the same city where the team is, but do you think hockey pucks are made in Hong Kong? Hockey jerseys? It’s all in Canada somewhere, and people are making a living producing it.

In case you didn’t notice, the unifying theme throughout the above examples is that all of those things produce money for the government. Nobody likes paying taxes, sure – but indirectly, having an NHL club in a city is helping to cover things like the costs of hospitals, our children’s education, or new roads to drive on. In a big way. Millions of dollars that wouldn’t be there otherwise. And if people are paying taxes, that means they have jobs. Not just NHL players, but everyday people in the community. Nobody can argue that this is a bad thing. These jobs do not arrive at the expense of other ones.

Why doesn’t anybody complain when political parties pledge monetary support to businesses in Canada? Why isn’t there public outcry whenever a multi-million dollar grant is given to Bombardier in Quebec? Probably because that money appears to be going to the average Joe working at the plant. In terms of "worthiness", there is no distinction between Joe at the plant and a player at the rink. But in terms of the big picture, the player at the rink is actually providing far more to the country overall than the guy at the plant is. That's why players are given multi-million dollar salaries. They earn them, every penny.

So now - thousands of people are now laid off across Canada, entertainment spending is down, and sales of all kinds of hockey merchandise are down. The impact on entertainment spending is already tangible - Statistics Canada revealed information showing that entertainment spending alone in Canada is down $17 million per month as a direct consequence of the NHL lockout. Over the course of an approximate 9-month season, that's $153 million, gone. CBC is expected to lose $20 in profits as a consequence of a lost season...and even beer sales are down 3% over last year.

http://www.kansascity.com/mld/kansascity/sports/10662008.htm

Let's say there was no more hockey, ever: in order for the government to fund necessary programs, where do you think that shortfall of cash is going to come from? What about decreased spending in other, as-yet-undiscovered places?

This isn’t about supporting players over the owners. This isn't about me saying that hockey is part of our national fabric or any other sentimental argument.

We all suffer for the absense of NHL hockey, directly or indirectly, in the only place everyone can understand: in our bank accounts.

Ordering a Sub

2005-01-17T10:03:00.000-05:00

*
The small, tarnished chime sounded – ping! - as the door whooshed shut behind me on its pneumatic elbow. Entering the Subway, I was the first customer. I know this because I had watched the short, aging hippie flip the deadbolt open for the day after giving me a scrutinizing appraisal through the glass. As though I was a suspicious character of dangerous motive. I must have passed his test, because after that first look, he flashed me a wide, off-kilter grin.

“Just a moment, man. This’ll be the freshest sandwich you’ll ever have,” he proclaimed. He proceeded to switch on various overhead lights and display signs. The warm, yeasty smell of baking submarine bread drifting around the restaurant reminded me somehow of beer. I couldn’t really have one of those - I was on lunch break; early, in fact - 11 o'clock. A dusty sunbeam slanted through the front window, and the day’s virgin newspaper lay folded neatly on the counter. Finishing his quick opening ritual, he clapped his elvish hands together.

“Okay, what’ll it be, dude?,” he asked. The lopsided grin was still there, and I had a feeling it would be there for anyone as he attempted to hide his contempt for his job. His small eyes glinted ferally beneath the bill of his cap.

“Pizza sub, 12-incher, on Italian, extra cheese,” I rattled. As a veteran sub eater, I knew all the pertinent information to provide up front. I knew guys like these got tired of prodding the customer at each step of the process: “On what bread? How long? Cheese?” And so on.

The sub jockey cackled. “Hey, I’m a 12 inch Italian myself,” he said. How many times had he recited that joke, I wondered. I was sure for him it was as automatic as saying, "fine, thanks." He grabbed the bread, and turned to apply the toppings.

“So, extra cheese…,” he wondered aloud. He looked up at me with another speculative look, and the cracked grin resurfaced. “You know what, man? There’s lots of fat in this cheese. But our bodies need fat. This will thicken you up.” He laid the triangles of cheese atop the salami and continued. “If you were in the wild, man? You could live off a block of butter for a month. Your body converts the fat into useable sugars and energy so you can live. That’s why we have kidneys, man. To process this stuff. I mean, we need protein and all, but we just piss it all out. But fat?,” he paused reflectively. “Fat we can store, and you’d be in good shape after a month.” He finished putting the toppings on and looked at me expectantly, mouth working. I could tell he was waiting for a comment, and I realized this must be a game he plays daily: Freak Out the Customer. He wanted to appear strange, so I’d tell my friends about the far-out Subway guy I happened to bump into that day. It made him different.

“That's true enough,” I said. “Also, if you attempted to live off of a rabbit in the wild, you would starve to death in short order. Rabbit meat contains mostly protein – the kind you’d 'piss away' – and less than 1% fat. You would probably be immobile under a bush after 3 weeks, unable to hunt down the meat that was failing to sustain you.”

My answer wasn’t part of Hippie Sub Man’s routine. He stared, now motionless above the sandwich. “How…how did you know that, man? Nobody knows stuff like that,” he murmured wonderingly. In an instant, I had cruelly ripped apart his disguise to reveal a mostly stupid person who had memorized an obscure fact or two in order to randomly recite them in an attempt to look like an innovative weirdo. He wasn't unique. He was no different from the guy I saw drinking Listerine every morning on my way to work.

I decided to up the ante. In my very best Schwartzeneggar voice, I quoted the Terminator: “I know everything,” I paused, unblinking. “I want my sub hot,” I snarled, the Austrian accent garbling the command. The order put Hippie Sub Man back into his place. I was the Alpha Weirdo in this restaurant.

“Sure, sure! Sorry, man!,” he stammered. He jumped to perform my demand. “Man - I have to tell you. You are totally on my team, man. I need guys like you out in the woods,” he babbled. He looked only at the floor, unable to make eye contact. He rang up my sandwich on the register, $7.29, and handed me my change.

“Some other time,” I replied robotically. Leather jacket creaking, I snatched my lunch from his paw and marched heavily out the door as the second customer of the morning entered. Get out of my way. I am the Terminator, a deadly submarine-eating cyborg.

“What’ll it be, man? This’ll be the freshest sandwich of the day,” I heard him begin.