My stepson in a $7 (purchased from the Salvation Army in Thunder Bay) orangutan costume… with friends.
This is JT, the 3-year-old mutt that came to stay with us this weekend. As you can see he’s a happy chap with a sense of sophistication about him, crossed legs and all.
JT came to us Saturday morning with a few instructions and some notes on personality and whatnot. My first surprise was that he was so much bigger than my sister’s dog Whistler (a black lab), who, I think, I use as a benchmark for every dog (I’d call him “medium”). He’s not quite as big as Aden’s parent’s dogs (a Bernese Mountain dog and an Irish Wolfhound/mini-horse), but yes, a large fella. He instantly started sniffing around, but really not disrupting anything except the wee one’s play a little. The wee one isn’t fond of dogs (doesn’t hate them and isn’t afraid of them, just indifferent… mainly doesn’t like to have his face licked, but JT isn’t a licker) so this was a test to see how he would do around one. JT proceeded to inadvertently stomp all over his WeeTown where his cars were set up so that didn’t go over well…
Anyway, Aden left me and the boys alone for a few hours while she did some grocery shopping and keeping the pup away from the wee one’s stuffed animals while he played with them was more than a challenge. Apparently JT does have some commands to keep him from doing bad things, just I guess I wasn’t applying them properly. After 90 minutes I had a headache and the distinct realization that both these beings were vying for my attention (as opposed to, say, playing with each other) and also that my stepson and I haven’t yet had enough time to bond, nor has our family really had enough time to become a family unit. I knew, in a snap, that this wasn’t going to work.
My sister and Whistler came by and the dogs had a hearty play (as documented on Flickr) and then my sis and I had errands to run (so it became Aden’s turn with the boys, plus one… thankfully I think Whistler and JT kept each other busy rather than pestering Aden too much… but I dunno, I wasn’t there).
Supper time came around and with two dogs roaming the main floor of our bungalow, plus three adults and a child, it felt like chaos. I gave Aden a hug and said “I don’t think we’re ready”. She laughed a tired laugh and said, “I totally agree.”
We kept JT for another day and a half (he went home today) and it’s a little sad. With the hectic pace of Saturday, it could be we didn’t give JT a fair chance before making up our mind, and having a calm Sunday with the wee man off at his fathers and just JT hanging about, it seemed almost easy to rethink the decision. But I know that my relationship with my stepson is very important to me and to Aden, and hopefully to him, and that I don’t want to jeopardize that by splitting my attention between him and a dog. It will be better if we, in a year or two, can get a puppy and get the wee one involved in the training of the dog so that he knows how to handle it as well as wee can, and even better, he can bond with the dog seeing it through up from its infancy… at least in theory.
So, there’s a sweet, lovable, friendly, quiet dog that will be needing a good home. If you know of anyone looking for that… let me know and I can put you in touch with the owner.
I’m still having an awful time, staring the clock down as I await the first of three long weekends (it will turn out that 4 of July’s 5 weekends will have been extended ones for me, hooray… of course that 10 day work week sucks some donkey ass but I digress). I’ve picked up yet another little bug, which seems to be my lot in life this year. I’m 100% sure that it’s as a result of air conditioning though. I’m blown on directly from the vent at the office, and I had the A/C running in the bedroom overnight during the sweltering summer days of Sunday through Tuesday. This time it was a mild sore throat which has gone away but has led to a slight cough and some goodgey bits coming from my sinuses. Rock! Anyway, with the temperature calming down once again, and a couple weekends in milder territory, plus lots of vitamins and rest and relaxation, I should be right as rain until I come back into the office and repeat it all over again. Sigh.
And no, it’s neither Pontiac Fever nor Legionnaire’s Disease, but thanks for asking.
GAK (AKA the Man of Many Travels) arrived for a brief stayover, having departed Tokyo the previous Thursday, landing in Vancouver, flying to Thunder Bay on Saturday, in Toronto on Tuesday, off to Cambridge Wednesday, and departing today for Finnish lands, the country where he quite wants to be. Apparently their mountains are so lofty and treetops are so tall, Finland, it would seem, indeed, does have it all.
With GAK’s visit we went to the Stonegrill on Winchester, a place Aden and I had been eying for a while, and I honestly didn’t know what to expect. If you don’t know about the stonegrill (the Australian cooking stone), it’s basically a flat rock that’s heated to 700 degrees and your meal is placed on top, whence it’s brought to your table and you cook it yourself… yeah, it’s kind of weird to pay more for something you cook yourself, but it’s part of the experience, and it was a great experience. The small menu was honed to the items that best suit the stonegrill, and the tapas (pron. tay-paws) is equally small but exquisite. GAK and Aden both had steak (thick and tender), while I had calamari stuffed with chorizo, savory bbq sink-your-teeth-into-the-bone ribs and a fresh chip selection (potato, arrowroot and taro)… delicious.
For dessert, we had Persians which GAK had brought back from Thunder Bay. Over the next three days the dozen buns’n'frosting were shared amongst people who’d never had them before, each expressing delight at the pink’n'cinnamon flavour (yes, pink is a flavour). Astute geeKent reader will remember Persians from a 2004 entry…
Tuesday also brought joy to the extended family back in T.Bay. My brother from another mother’s brother (thus being my brother too) had his first younglings extracted from the belly of his significant other… world, meet Leo and Sol
Congrats to Rick and Miia.
This post has taken me -3- days to write.
I’m finally getting a day off. Whoo.
standing at the Southeast corner of Yonge and Gerrard waiting for the lights to change, at least a dozen people around me doing the same. Jaywalking towards us from across the street is a mid-to-late 30-something black man, relatively tall, fairly skinny, wearing big, silver-rimmed, 80’s-style glasses, and an earth-toned ensemble to match. He walks with a subtle-but-evident Easy Reader jive swagger. He addresses a woman standing two people over from where I stand. He speaks with a rapidity and intonation akin to Johnny Cochran:
man: You… are awesome. I wouldn’t mind making love to you tonight!
He says this all as he continues to swagger through the group of people, giving a knowing glance to and a bit of a side step past the woman he addressed. He was in no way attempting to pick up this woman, he was not trying to intimidate her or offend her, he was just letting her know. There were more than a few laugh-out-loud chuckles.
I’ve probably talked about it before, but I’m not so good with the parties. Oh, I’m sometimes A-OK with going to them and occasionally I’m utterly hesitant (I’m sure many of us experience those similar moments of agoraphobia (or more specifically, demophobia) where we really would just rather not be amidst the throngs of people, unsure whether we’re in a chatty mood, and not feeling our oats enough to be comfortable meeting new people), but that’s not what I’m really talking about. No, my party-itis is in reference to throwing parties.
I get anxious, and stress…or “anxtressed”, if you will. I have many issues, one being this rooted concern that nobody wants to come. Another is the mixing of different circles, like work friends with social friends… like Elaine trying to mix Jerry, George and Kramer with Kevin, Gene and Feldman (the “Bizarro” friends), like matter and anti-matter, like your parents with your in-laws… it’s stressful thinking about how they’re going to relate to each other. Can they even relate?
There’s also that aspect of ensuring everyone has a good time. There’s perhaps going to be someone who doesn’t know anyone else there, so then you feel responsible for their happiness, or if there’s someone who, like me, you know can be awkward in a group setting. These are the kind of things that plague my mind. I want my parties to work, I want everyone to have fun, and I feel like I must ensure a good time is had by all. I’m a nervous and stressed out wreck leading into these things… and I do know why.
First, well, when we moved to the other side of town when I was in grade school I didn’t feel very popular, I was self-conscious and felt like an outsider. The school I went to was small (one class for every grade, about 25 people per class) and I don’t think there ever were big parties to go to, and if there were, I wasn’t invited. Around that time, I stopped having birthday parties, and it wasn’t long after that I stopped caring about my birthday (much to my mother’s perpetual chagrin).
Second: high school. I had many friends in high school, some closer than others, but still, I wasn’t exactly rejected right out. Still self-conscious, growing into my body, oversized glasses and a bad side part in the hair, a fondness for extra large t-shirts and zero fashion sense… a prize, oh yes. You know high school, it’s all cliques: jocks, nerds, geeks, bangers, skaters, smokers (usually bangers) etc. I’m a pretty nice, and fairly congenial guy so people generally liked me, and I had some good friends in each of the cliques, and I was convinced that these clique people wouldn’t mesh together well. I never put it to task, mainly because I knew the result… My sister threw some great parties which a close friend or two would piggy back on, but it wasn’t my thing.
And third: well, I’ve tried a few times. I’ve tried to throw bigger parties, you know, of the more than 10-people sort, and few people came. I certainly appreciate those who did, but when you have a guest list of 20 and only four decide to come, it crushes the spirit a little.
And, pretty much since then I’ve given up. I like spending time with my friends, but for me, throwing a party is agony, like electrodes on the gonads: sure some people enjoy it, but not me.
Thankfully, this one went well, in part because I left much of the grunt work to Rooms.
The people who I’m sometimes good about keeping in regular contact with, sorta, will know that Rooms and I have been “planning” this party since we moved to BOBTown. We’ve had it scheduled anywhere from four to six times now, but for one reason or another we couldn’t stick the date, like Dragulescu didn’t stick his landing in the ‘04 Olympics (wow, that was left-field).
The first was too close to moving in and things weren’t settled. The second was a Christmas party that we couldn’t prep for because I was in London for two weeks. The third was further in December, but then we knew no one would show up. The fourth was early Jan which was too soon following the holidays, the fifth and sixth were the end of January, one changed due to a prior commitment, the other because it conflicted with another party.
Jeremy finally committed us to a date which shortly followed his birthday, and I saw no reason to object to it (but leading into it, I realized that if Rooms hadn’t fixed the date, I would have cancelled it due to fatigue… or malaise… or sheer lazyness… so good job Jer). I assembled my guest list and gave it to Rooms to send out the Evite. My thoughts were divided, as I was trying to decide if I should invite people I would think show up only, or if I should invite people who I know won’t show up but at least give them the option. I did put some on the list who I knew wouldn’t come, like people from out of town but perhaps coming into town that weekend, and a lot of people who I knew might come but probably had other plans and I realize now I missed a few people (those who don’t read my blog and thus were otherwise unaware), but I think I put a pretty full list together. Added onto Jeremy’s list I think there were over 60 Evites branched out with at least another dozen “plus ones” possibly expected.
Some people we both would have liked to have seen were unable to make it due to parental responsibilities, and I do feel somewhat guilty about not having a youthful component to the evening… but I also realize with just brief thoughts looking around, BOBTown is extremely far from being child safe (open staircase just one of the many danger zones). On a similar topic, I was concerned for a little bit that Aden wouldn’t be able to make it as she usually has her little one on Saturday evenings, but the wee one was able to venture out to daddy’s a night early.
A few emails back and forth between the busy BOBTown boys was all that was necessary for the pre-planning stages. We just kept things to a minimal affair. Food and booze with some music and videogames for entertainment meant people could mingle and play games and eat and drink at their own discretion which would also allow me to ease up on my hosting neuroses… get some liquor in people and let them sort themselves out was kind of my motto.
Rooms and I had started collecting food a few weeks ahead of time (well, primarily oodles of 1litre cartons of chocolate milk, because, yes, we’re 8-year-olds in men’s bodies) but really, to spoil the mystique, most of the work was done on Friday night and Saturday morning. Food and disposable plates and cups purchased, furniture moved, things cleaned, playlist made, booze assembled, fruit and veggies cut and arranged, plates and bowls of food dispensed, the house lights bumped up, Guitar Hero at the ready, and a second TV with the in-dire-contention-for-the-final-playoff-spot Leafs’ game over the fireplace.
Aden and L helped out where they could, and after a quick jaunt out for dinner and some more liquor bought, by 7:00 we were in ready-for-the-8:00-guest-receiving mode. We had two guests arrive ahead of time (though one had already seen the place numerous times in its previous disarray, so that was completely kosher), and they helped ease the pre-party anticipation tension as nobody else arrived until ten minutes before nine! Let me tell you there were actually a few minutes where I thought it’d be great if no one else showed up. Rooms and L were up early for Arnis practice, Aden was up at 7 with the wee one, and I was up at 8 with pre-party fretting going through my brain. We were all kinda tired.
But the seal broke just before nine and until about 10:30 it was a steady stream of people into BOBTown. Going up and down the stairs, letting in friends and strangers alike, I was giddy. I was also a little drunk, but with each additional guest I was more and more delighted. People came to our party. They came. Bless them they came. People also left the party, and that was okay too. Everyone has their tolerance levels, I’m just so delighted that everyone who came out came out and made the effort to come out. I’m tickled pink.
I’ll have you know that I ignored Room’s Evite almost immediately after he sent it. I didn’t check to see who replied beyond the first day. I knew a half dozen people who were coming, one or two who weren’t, a couple maybes, and the rest a mystery, and I needed to keep it like that. I thank everyone who responded and said they couldn’t come, and those who even replied and said yes or maybe… you’re infinitely better than I for I am the worst Evite respondee… he who will look at it and rarely make a reply. So now you know, and I’m sorry. To my friends who sent me a direct and highly apologetic email about not being able to make it, that was very nice of you. Just so everyone who couldn’t comes knows, my sister didn’t make it either, and I’ve forgiven her, so there’s no hard feelings anywhere. I literally am just so incredibly happy this party went off so nicely. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, I was drunk as a skunk and blathering wildly to whomever would listen, and it was my genuine pleasure to have everyone who came in my abode.
But, as I said to Jeremy, “Great party my friend, now let’s never do it again.” If anything, this post is here to explain to my roommate just exactly what I meant by that statement.
the day (Captain) America died: the mourning after
Yes, I did get ripped, and because whenever I drink too much my sleeping habits are affected, I only got four hours sleep (the time change didn’t help any either. @$#% you George Bush and your half-assed energy saving theories). It’s this odd thing where I can sleep soundly for three to five hours after an evening of imbibing and then I wake up and can’t get back to sleep. This Sunday, I felt dizzy when I awoke and it was minutes later that Aden woke as well, both of us in a twirly, unsleeping haze. We began to talk and joke and then the headaches kicked in. Though we were both extremely tired, sleep was not happening.
We got up and showered and Advil’d ourselves up and then went back to bed, sleeping for an hour but having to get up for a noon-time rendez-vous with Aden’s family for a Sunday brunch/birthday meal. It was hard goings for a while but after eating copious amounts of foodstuffs, we could manage our day quite nicely.
Upon returning home, I from visiting my old next-door neighbours (since I was in the neighbourhood for lunch) and Aden from a crappy Sunday workday, we napped for two hours, waking up just in time for the Amazing Race. Eating our leftover foodstuffs from the party, we weren’t exactly in prime form, but the hangover had relegated itself to very minor annoyance status and we had a much needed evening of relaxation… of course, somewhere along the way we lost track of the fact that the time change had happened (the only clock in BOBTown to see change was my alarm clock the night before), and got to bed much later than we had anticipated.
I realized about a year ago I no longer wanted hangover Sundays in my life, but occasionally you have to have one to remember why.
Across the street from the office I work at is an apartment building where the curiousity that is everyday life goes on, oblivious to its onlookers. One of the building’s tenants steps out onto the balcony and walks in place for about 40 minutes every day. It’s actually more of a shuffle than a walk, kind of a march but not really a shamble. It’s very peculiar and kind of mesmerising.
If you’re wandering past the NorthWest corner of Queen and Spadina and the scraggly girl with the massive herpes outbreak on her face comes up to you and says, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?” the apt response is neither “yes” nor “no” but rather “I believe you just did” and keep on walking.
I always find the various panhandler approaches very curious.
When we last left this story I had just spent a two week stint on Lavalife, before deciding it wasn’t my thing. Figuring that being where I am in life, and pondering the last decade of it, I needn’t really be looking for someone… I mean sure, relationships can be good, but they can also be more work than necessary, or more effort than worthwhile. I’m really into doing my own thing right now, really pushing forward with writing/reviewing, consuming more but wanting and having less, and getting into, quite literally, the best shape of my life. I can do what I want when I want, spend my money how I want to spend it, and go where I want to go without having to pass it by the committee. It’s funny, because I got an email the other day from a friend out west with the following statement:
I think I am beginning to understand why women in their early 30’s like to date younger or much older men. Guys in their early 30’s, I think, are even more immature than in their teens and 20’s. Once they hit 30, they all
seem to adopt this self-centered approach to dating. Feeling that they have always been the one sacrificing themselves, and tend to paint this rosy picture of them having always been the martyr. Blech! Get over yourselves!
You all hear me!
and in some respects, it’s so very true, for me at least. I don’t count myself as a martyr, but after looking back at the past decade, I see I spent a lot of my time not really understanding what I wanted. I would hang onto the goals or directions of others as a guide to where I’m going rather than forging my own path, which is only my fault I should disclaim. It’s just now that I’m realizing there are things I want to do, and I’m also realizing that I have the means to do them if I put a little thought or energy into it. I’m also realizing that there are things I like to do, and I don’t want to sacrifice them for the sake of someone else, not right yet anyway. So as I approach 30, I feel for the first time like I’m in control of my own life, and relationship, as formality anyway, doesn’t really factor into it. Trying to fit another person into my life doesn’t seem natural right now.
I mean, a best case scenario would be finding an easy-going working woman who likes going to indie concerts, watching lots of movies, has a goofy sense of humour and maybe, just maybe, likes comic books, and what was the likelihood that? Yeah, it wasn’t going to happen, at least I realized it wasn’t going to happen on Lava amidst all the snowboarders and world travellers . But then again, maybe it was.
(**aside** it kind of bothered me that so many women in the “dating” section so prominantly discuss how they like to travel the world… like, what? some guy is going to chat them up with a “hey baby, we’ll have our first date on the Riviera”. Maybe I’m just defensive ’cause I’ve yet to leave the continent)
I spied a picture of a cute brunette with blue-grey eyes and a fantastic smile. I clicked the profile and lo and behold she said straight out that she was looking for someone to go to indie shows with(namechecking “Lee’s Palace” and the “Horseshoe”) and that she wasn’t really looking for commitment, but just someone to hang out with. Also listed in her interests, under “things I like to talk about” was movies. An gig girl who likes to chat about movies… okay, yeah, I couldn’t resist. I sent a goofy little internal system message to her saying that we likely had a lot in common and that we should chat. A few days later a reply came through agreeing that we probably did have much to say to each other . She dropped some names of movies she’d just seen (like V For Vendetta and Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance) and shows she was going to check out in the future, but, even better, she left her email address at the bottom. Yeah, screw this Lava thing. I could tell right away that this woman enjoyed her film and muzak and had a sense of humour that said “I’m not some cooler-than-thou indie hipster snob”.
I replied immediately. It was late and the filter was off a bit, which meant I was in ramblin’ mode, letting the fingers to the talking and not really consciously trying to compose something. It’s so much easier when you don’t think so hard about it (writing emails to someone new is always a mind-bending procedure of “will this offend them” or “will they get this” or “does the inflection come through or will it be misinterpreted”… yes, instead of wooing I worry). I wrapped up the email with a few quick facts about myself, which included being from Thunder Bay. Her reply to that email I received the next morning and I would spend the rest of the day reassembling my skull because my brain exploded… it turns out that she is from Thunder Bay too, and that we’re the same age!
A flurry of emails were exchanged that day, back and forth about how weird it all was that we’d never connected before, trying to figure out if there was a connection, making plans to see gigs, geeking out about music and movies a little and even tossing some data about ourselves around. The chain spilled over into the next day, and the last email of the thread saw a phone number attached to it. I didn’t know what to think except that something strange was happening here.
Making that first phonecall to someone you’ve never spoken to before isn’t exactly easy. You tend to plan out all these things to say in advance… an opening line, for instance, or set up a list of conversation topics, just in case you don’t feel so natural. But that first phonecall, while a little nerve rattling, was one of the easiest things ever. The conversation just flowed and we both chatted with utter glee about our hometown to Metropolitan transitions, making each other laugh quite often, and eventually winding into making our top 5 films list. Our conversation lasted close to an hour before she had to run to get work done, but in the many emails that followed the next day, we completely agreed that we could have chatted until the wee hours. And in more random connectivity, I found out that she lives directly across the street from my old apartment. Curiouser and curiouser. Even more curious was she has a fascination of Superman and Wonder Woman iconography…that’s a dose of the warm butterflies in the stomach, right there.
We had a 2 hour plus conversation the next day, and I think both of us were immediately smitten with each other, or at the very least the idea of each other. We made a plan to get-together late in the weekend, a plan which I changed out of sheer excitement, and an empty Saturday night. We went to a movie, which I realized only as the movie began, was a stupid idea, because we had just settled into a great conversation when the projectionist rudely interrupted with his “cinema”. But after the film (which we both enjoyed, btw) we went to a pub and two hours passed by like it was 15 minutes. Conversing was so easy, and even though it was bordering on 2 am, we just didn’t feel like we’d finished yet. She suggested we take a little walk, which became a long walk, the conversation pausing if only to take in some of the ambiant noises that spilled from the bars into the streets around us.
We wouldn’t meet face to face again until the following Friday (and again on Saturday), but the frequent emails and phonecalls would tide us over. There was a lot of planning, much innuendo and a heavy dose of flirting perpetrated by both sides over the week. I joked about how great things were going on email and the phone but that we’d still probably be nervous wrecks when together again, but the joke was comprised of part truth from knowing myself, and all truth when the day actually came.
As far as second and third dates go, they went incredibly well, except for the fact that I was getting progressively more sick with a cold and that we mutually decided on Sunday to back off the whole dating thing.
Look, it’s not a case of not finding each other attractive, and it’s not a case of personality clashes, and it’s really not a “case” of anything that could be defined by cliche or metaphor. In one respect it’s simply that we stepped too far ahead of ourselves, because it was so very easy to. We understand each other in such a way that it made it easy to think that “yeah, this can work”. In talking about home, and how our tastes of film and music developed (NOSFA and Brave New Waves respectively), our relationship experiences, our take on turning 30, and so many other things we realized there was a parity there that would make it obvious that yeah, we should be together. But then, in ways less definable we also are at equal stages in our life… stages where the demands of a relationship just don’t fit… well, not the kind of relationship we were so quickly stepping towards.
So, in yet another odd coincidence we both thought the same thing at about the same time. We’ve decided to step away from the pressurized canister of “dating” and settle into the hands-free, pressure-free world of “hanging out” which I think is where we both wanted to be in the first place. We can do things together that we would probalby do by ourselves anyway, but together it just makes things more fun. An the “no pressure” means we don’t HAVE to do things together if we don’t want to or being disappointed if we can’t. We know we can call on each other any time without feeling like we’re interrupting, and that extends to doing the “pop-by” since we live so close to each other, which is relatively unheard of round these parts. Just by knowing her, the big city feels a little more like home, a little smaller, and a little sunnier.
Cel phone rings at work (rare, since nobody calls me)…
me - “Hello?”
(pause… I can hear music in the backgroung, and what sounds like teeth gnashing.
me (again) - “Hello?”
(pause.. I hear a sort of clicking sound, like someone popping their tongue)
him (angrily) - “Who’s this?”
me - “Who is this?”
(pause… what sounds like growling)
me - “Who are you looking for?”
him (very angrily) - “Who am I looking for? I want to talk to my wife!”
me - “Well then, you have the wrong number”
Oh, I just know he’s going to call his wife and say “Who was that guy…?”
If he didn’t suspect she was having an affair before, he does now. And chances are she is… cause really, her husband sounds like kind of a dick.
Not a wrong number
Call on my work line…
me - “Graig speaking…” (that’s my official greeting)
them (really loud) - *HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNK*
(pause… sound of cars on wet pavement in the background)
I stay silent for a minute, thinking that it’s GAK calling me from the road in New Jersey, but nope, its one of our French/Italian sales reps who finally speaks after another blast of the car horn.
Hooray for cel-phones.
We have the most delightful cleaning staff at work… they’re primarily Portuguese immigrants who don’t speak much English, but they’re always full of smiles and regardless of language we always try to exchange pleasantries when we cross paths. We have a very diverse staff, with hundreds of multi-linguists on staff speaking dozens upon dozens of languages between them, so on occasion I can actually have a more knowing exchange with the after-hours crew with someone interpreting.
Yesterday, a friend who speaks Portuguese was chatting with my favourite of the cleaning staff, a cheerful 60-something blonde woman who always has a big smile for me. As they pass by my desk she says something to him, and looks at me rubbing her face.
“She says ‘Doesn’t he look good’”
I smile and say “Thank you kindly.”
She speaks again, and he interprets, smiling broadly, “She says you look like Christ” and we both burst out laughing.
The woman went red with embarassment and started to walk away, and I told my friend to tell her it was a huge compliment which he did. She’s so adorable.
Anyone know if we can adopt grandmothers, because she’s awesome.
Despite earlier predictions, my desk shrine to Superman (and Run DMC) was not replaced with an assortment of Virgin Marys overnight.
Christ, hmm? The last thing my beard needs is more ego.
GAK and I were riffing yesterday, and came to a roadblock. Can anyone complete this sentence:
“The worst thing about self-crucifiction is…”
Best possible answer we came up with “…who’s going to put in the last nail?”
Napping is one of the weirder cravings of the human body, and just one of many arts I havn’t mastered. Whenever I have a nap I wind up sleeping for too long, waking up groggy, a little sick to my stomach, and quite hardly refreshed. “They” say that 20 minutes is about the longest one should nap for, as it allows your body just enough time to recharge without going into dormancy… or something like that. Proper napping techniques correlate to increased alertness, accuracy, and productivity… and man I could use all three.
One of the genius things I’ve discovered is my alarm clock has a napping feature. One push of the button and I got me a 20 minute cowntdown to get it done. I’m still yawning though.
A weird beard side effect, I suppose, is you get people who think you’re, well, “into stuff” asking you for said “stuff”. Why just this morning a rather bewildered middle-aged gentleman with an accent which I can only describe as “Eastern block” asked me: “Could you help me out with some deadly science?” He made a toking motion and I wasn’t sure I heard him right and said “I’m sorry, I don’t understand” and took out both earbuds. “Deadly science” he said, holding the “sssss” at the end of the word this time, once again making the toke motion. “Ah, no. Sorry” “Is alright” he said, beginning to look lost again.
Deadly science, huh?
Somewhere somehow along the way over the past 20 months I had lost touch with my buddy Mar. These things just happen sometimes, you know, like an email or phone call just doesn’t get returned one day and poof, suddenly their phone has been disconnected or their email has been shut down. It’s nobody’s fault. Chaos and upheaval in peoples’ lives make only the immediate worth dealing with, and the extraneous is just way too much to deal with. There’s clearly been some turmoil in my life, and Mar did move halfway across the world, so there’s really no surprises as to why it happened. But with the return of Sara this past weekend from Scotland, I began to think and wonder about my old amigo Mar and how things were going in Teatown.
And don’t I feel like an ass to find out that she’s been blogging (well “live journalling” for the sticklers out there) since she moved to London (which I’m officially calling Teatown from now on). It’s so easy to keep in touch if you have a blog. Even if it is a little impersonal it’s so easy to check in and keep tabs on someone when they’re sending out digital info on what’s going on in their lives. So in a much belated fit of giddy happy stuff I have added her blog to the links roster. Meanwhile in the past 24 hours we’ve already exchanged a couple of crazy emails, and we’re practically back like old times.
Mar, my long-term friends will recall, was an integral player in the CBC Radio3 broadcast (even before there was a CBC Radio3) out of Vancouver, where she also participated in many a band, most notably lo-fi she-punk The Ewoks. She’s taken her fine ear for sound across the pond for a kickass podcast Rock On London (the title of which, she tells me, is a botched tribute to the immortally dead Wesley Willis). If you want to know what’s interesting in the London and UK scene from a more underground “I was there when” level, Mar’s podcast is tits.
Meanwhile, Mar is in two bands, the (there’s-a-burlesque-troupe-also-named) The Scandelles, and, my favourite, The Duloks, which I’m told is a UK rip-off version of the Ewoks, featuring 1/3 of the Ewoks (being Mar). (for those that don’t recall, the Duloks were the Ewoks rival tribe in the Ewoks cartoon). Brilliant.
If you’re in Teatown next week, Mar’s having a birthday bash/the Duloks are performing their inaugural gig Feb.11 …. somewhere… around there. Crash her party and tell her I sent you.
The plan was to meet up out front of Bathurst station at “half-one” as Sara in her Scots-infected dialect would say. I decided to pop into the Beguiling beforehand and peruse the shelves for the rare and missed issues, plus try to find the Vertigo Pop: Tokyo series Seth Fisher did a few years ago. Spent a lot of time and wound up with a $3 book in my hand. I wasn’t doing no $3 interac transaction so I found way too many other things to buy to pad the purchase (why?). I wound up with autographed copies of In Me Own Words: The Autobiography of Bigfoot and its follow-up Me Write Book: It Bigfoot Memoir, both by Toronto’s Graham Roumieu. Both are hilarious, and well worth the shelf space.
(Bigfoot’s opening words: “I AM NOT CHEWBACCA! Me think Chewbacca jerk. He no can act…”… I wonder what Chewy has to say in response?)
Anyway, I abscond quickly from the Beguiling only to notice that it’s bloody raining. It’s a bit of a tinkle sure, but it’s bloomin’ February! During the, oh, four minute walk between the Beguling and the subway station the rain turned into snow and then back again, and then back into snow again, and then rain again. Crazy flippin’ global warming.
Sara was running late, and I was standing around wondering if she’d changed at all, having not seen her in over a year I wasn’t sure exactly who I was looking out for. Was that brunette with curly hair peering out of her toque chatting on the cel phone her? Yes, I know Sara’s blonde but perhaps she got a dye and perm? Who knows.
But when S finally showed up, man, I could have jumped and squealed like a little girl, or perhaps wet the floor like an expectant puppy, but I opted to give her a long, warm, firm hug instead, the kind of hug you save for your family and best of friends and only for those occasions where the distance and time between you has been all too much.
So we sauntered out in the rain, quickly decided to pop into a diner for some food and refreshment and catch up, which wasn’t so much catching up as it was just getting the Sara/Graig repartee going. Of course, Sara’s Scotsisms had me in giggling fits, slight Ringo Starr-esque intonations every now and again. Over an hour later we ventured back out into the rain and took in the underground Yorkville area, talking loudly about inappropriate things (”huge box of rubbers in the cupboard” was shouted loudly… rubbers meaning “erasers” over the pond).
An hour in the underground and we had to venture back to whence we came for S to meet up with her dinner date. The rain came down hard. Then harder. Torrential would be an apt description. My pants were soaked up to my ass, no foolin. The funny thing was, after I left S at the resto I popped into a cd store for 10 minutes, only to step outside where the rain had utterly stopped. Sonuva blip.
Went home, doffed the clothes, tossed on fresh gear and laid down for a nap.
I hate naps.
Despite my incredible fatigue, I should have stayed awake, because after a nap I always feel a) nauseous b) headachey c) competely dazed. People tell me it’s cause I napped too long (wha? 90 minutes too long?), but whether it’s 20 or 120 I still feel like the same piece of shit.
Anywho, post-nap, I polished off my viewing of “Big Night” (review tk), ate some gnocci (although I was far too unsettled to eat much) and decided to venture out to Sara’s planned drinkup.
In my dazed state, I completely forgot that it was raining all day, and that headgear would likely be appropriate. I stepped out onto the porch, observed the rain and decided it was too much effort to unlock the door and get some sort of scalp cover. My head was soaked through in seconds.
I jaunted up Dundas to the subway station, ignoring the cramps in my calves and keeping my head down so the rain was out of my eyes. When I hit the front of Hugh’s Room I heard a nasty commotion. I stopped suddenly and observed the events across the street. This tremendously big Middle Eastern guy had this Native kid in a choke hold, the kid’s arm railed behind his back. There was another smaller guy trying to hold onto the kid as well. The kid (probably about 20 years old.. yeah, 20 year olds are kids to me now) was screaming bloody murder. I observed the scene once more… two orange and green cabs, still running, were in an “L” shape, one on the street and one in the donut shop parking lot enterance. Two cabs, two guys, one screaming kid. Wonder what he did. (According to the kid, he didn’t do anything, at least that’s what he was screaming).
Action Graig sprang into, well, action. With a thrust of my arm my hand was in my pocket gripping my cel phone tight, ready to make a call at a moment’s notice. I looked for an opportunity to cross the street but traffic was heavy and cars were slowing down to observe the incident. A third orange and green cabbie showed up and the big guy let the kid go. I watched for a few seconds more and the kid backed up, yelling something I couldn’t really hear with the rain pounding at my skull, and then the kid started to jog. Good idea. I continued my sprint up to the subway.
Made it to my destination (which, curiously enough was only a few storefronts down from the Beguiling… I spent the day running in circles apparently), had a few drinks, some great conversation, and by the end of the evening the rain had stopped.
How is it possible that it’s easier for me to watch a two hour movie than it is to write a 20 minute review. I’m so far behind, it feels like I’ll never catch up. 7 movies left to review, I have two rentals still left to watch on the living room table, and I don’t want to watch them because I don’t want to add them to the “to review” list, and yet my brainial processes are all tapped out for today in reviewsville (did three film reviews and 6 comic reviews for Thor.. methinks that be ’nuff for one day).
I don’t even know why I put this pressure on myself to do these reviews. Does anyone even read them. And half the time they’re so bloody off-the-cuff that they’re borderline unreadable, because, as you know, I’m a lousy editor (I’m lousy cause I don’t even try).
Hey folks, GAK’s travelling New Zealand. Pictures and jealousy ensue.
I got home around midnight and spent a good two hours reading Ebola Monkeyman’s detailing of his first encounter with Nigerian email scammers. I swear there’s at least fifty pages of text in that one encounter. Hilarious to a point, until the prankster starts getting abusive. It would have been funnier had he played it straight the whole way through. But still, getting Nigerian scammers to email pictures of themselves holding signs with “secret phrases” is pretty damn funny.
It was linked off of 100 Greatest Internet Moments (what, no stinkyfeet? for shame) which I in turn pulled off of Circadian Shift’s links-a-plenty
Had an odd bit of that pre-sleep mania going on last night, likely as a result of eating peanut butter (the bad kind with trans fats… I know, I know) before bed. I was thinking about the Nigerian scammers and how oblivious they can be, especially considering how desperately focussed they are on trying to part you with your money. From there my mind trailed off to the TLC medical show I watched earlier this week, specifically about the dude with the flesh eating bacteria. I began to feel a tingling sensation in my shoulder, a burning actually that didn’t feel natural. So I looked at it and it looked purple and wrong, so I went to my Doctor at the clinic (who I saw on Monday, I swear this waking dream recaps my entire week) and he nodded and said “You’ve got mites.”
“The damn I do!” I shouted. Having never shouted “the damn” before, it seemed a pretty odd thing to say. I asked him for a scalpel (now why a clinic doctor would have a scalpel I’m not entirely clear) which he refused to give me, so I grabbed a pair of scissors from reception and started scraping away the infected flesh.
Oddly enough the infected flesh was only around where my Superman tattoo is (and Toast and I were discussing our tattoos and what new tattos we would get on Wednesday) and I managed to scrape away the whole thing. I asked the Doc if he could stitch up where I had cut away the flesh and he handed me the needle and thread and said do it yourself. As most of you probably know, stitching one’s self up one-handed is not an easy thing to do, and as I was in the middle of stitching up, my open wound bubbled, then erupted with millions of mites which scattered all over the clinic room.
“Huh,” I said. I guess it was mites afterall.
I don’t really recall where it went after that as I fell into a much deeper sleep. Probably something to do with an appearance on the Colbert Report and hanging out with the Thing from Fantastic Four (I’ve been reading the Marvel Essentials: Marvel 2-In-1 Volume 1 book this week, wherein the Thing teams up with a lot of really lame minor Marvel superheroes, printed on cheap paper in rub-off black and white… it’s awesome!)
SILLY THINGS TO DO
For today, refer to all your friends as either Jessie or Jess. If they ask you what’s up, tell them that they’re acting mighty strange and you’re concerned for their mental well being.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before…
A monk and a priest were walking down the street….
That’s all. On the weekend I actually saw a monk, complete with the Friar Tuck hair and burlap robe with hemp rope belt cavorting with a priest, collar and all. First thought was, “It’s a few days late for Hallowe’en”, but I actually think they were legit. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen the monk cliche in person.
I would just like to (publicly) thank Marmy and Toast for taking me in for the past week, and making me feel at home in la casa de dos gatos. You are both wonderful people, and I owe you much gratitude.
SILLY THINGS TO DO
by me, 02.11.05
Find a wall calendar and “X” out every day in thick black marker except for one, which you circle with a thick red marker. Write in that day “IT’S TODAY!” and explain nothing.
Woken up bright and early by some highly irritating quasi-”music” on CBC radio. Too tired to roll over and turn it off I left it to play for about 20 minutes before somehow I managed to muster a slapping of the “snooze” button. 9 minutes later and CBC has managed to find something even more annoying than before. I shut it off with rampageous (I made that up) action, and stewed in my dopey sleep juices (ew, forget I said that) for a few minutes and then, just after 9am rolled around, trucked my ass out of bed.
I have an 11:00 meeting with WNoodle, and another deadline to meet.
Through groggy eyes I feebly attempt to edit my Thor’s Comic Column reviews which I wrote in a fit of uninspiration during Mythbusters at midnight the night before. I had another review to write and my brain wasn’t ready for thinking… it wasn’t ready for much, except perhaps more sleep. I ploughed through the review in about an hour (and it’s decent but not great) and popped up to the shower, cleaned myself up and got myself pretty for some Pacific Mall fun.
A quick chat with Emma, whom like so many others, is having massive ragweed reactions right now, and I was out the door. I passed the neighbours briefly, exchanged cordialities before rushing off to the streetcar stop to wait ten minutes. Noods was sitting in his car in front of his apartment, waiting patiently. I was only ten minutes late. We zipped over to Toast and Marmy’s place but first stopped off at a Mac’s for a morning dose of wakeup we call Red Bull (mine was sugar free, Noods went all out).
With Toast and Marmy loaded into the car we jetted (well, Golfed) on up to Fairview, an expansive mall out in ‘burbialand where everything is oh so generic. We waited in Fairview’s awkwardly arranged food court for Metrogeek, and in the process decided feeding our bellies wasn’t a bad idea. I opted for a cranberry MMmmmmuffin, while the power trio opted for 5 Taco Bell tacos for $3, a tremendous bargain which I’m sure their bowels thanked them for later.
Metro showed up in due time, and decided to have an Arby’s snack while we were in Rome. He came back with a surprise on his tray…
“I didn’t know you were a model,” he says, and I give him a querying look. He nods and looks down, drawing my eyes down to his tray liner…
“Holy crap!” I say tactfully, snatching the paper out from under his sammich. Turning it right side up, and it immediately looks nothing like me, but upside down… it’s fuckin’ me!
“I didn’t know I enjoyed curly fries that much.”
“And I don’t think your teeth are that white,” Marmy adds.
But the likeness is outstanding.
photo by photojunkie
I think he’s officially become my Adversary… the Nerd.Inc. to my geek.ent. if you will.
Anywho, the five of us piled up into Metro’s VW and jetta’d on over to Pacific Mall where we (Hail Mary) found a parking spot immediately. We spent the day roaming its aisles looking for, well, very little in particular, except perhaps a quality pirate of Seven Swords which Noods had just seen at the Toronto International Film Festival and said rocked his socks sock-rockin’ style. Well, the only available copy had no English subtitles so we crapped out on that one, but we managed some delectible treats from one of Pacific’s many fine imported confectioners (I got 3 bags of “W Taste” - which is like a Tootsie Roll covered in coffee powder - so I was happy, and I found a copy of Wing Chun with Michelle Yeoh, which made me *very* happy).
From there we went to “All Star Wings” or some such up in Buttonville? (Markham somewhere) Yeah, they have 80 flavours of wings, which really I think is just too many. We ordered 50 (three different flavours) plust 10 extra, which went down waay to fast, so we opted for another 50 and after I gnawed off 28 I was kaput. The flavours were okay, but I’ve still yet to find a place that can top On Deck’s marvelous wings in Thunder Bay. Their cajun wings are the best wings I’ve ever had.
Good company mowing down of piles of deep fried bird parts seems like a nice capper to the day, but nope, we still had to drive back to Fairview and then back into urban life again. I got home about 7:30, just in time to recall that although I had finished my reviews I had yet to send them off. A final scan, and yes, they’re kind of crappy this week, and phoof, not my problem anymore. I had two hours of television time before I needed to head out yet again for the National concert, which I’ve been looking forward to since early this year.
I again made my peace with Emma and forged off into the forbidden lands of Toronto’s night, the glow of the backlight on my iPod my only warmth. I sautered back over to the streetcar stop, the same as this morning, and leaned against the pole and settled in to a nice game of Solitare. So enraptured was I that I completely missed a streetcar which I didn’t notice until it had already taken off. I felt like a dork, but fair is fair, he didn’t tap his horn or ring his bell at all, and my headphones weren’t on very loud. So ten minutes later I was finally on my way.
The National rocked ass.
More on the sideblog later about the band, however, one thing really pissed me off about the gig had nothing at all to do with the band, but rather the two skanks that were in attendance. Yes, I said skanks.
You ever see that movie the Banger Sisters? Me neither, but these two girls did and took it as gospel for how they wanted to live their life. They proceeded to yell loudly at each other during the National’s quieter moments, their conversation pretty much of the effect of “which one do you want to fuck tonight”. I was about one row back from the stage, and halfway through the set these two squawking birds decided to rush the stage and try and get the bands attention. They were total old school skanks.
The clothes, the hair, the makeup… for Christsake they were even drinking “50″. That’s the total skank/old man drink. At one point one of the skanks noticed the object of her affection, the bass player, was drinking Stella and she smacked herself on the head (literally) and said to her skank friend “I should have gotten a Stella.” Because, yeah, then that will give you something in common with the bass player, because, you like totally both like Stella. And it’s not like you have the music in common, because it could have been some shit raggae fusion punk band and you still would have been doing that skank dance that you both do.
And then, when the band was leaving the stage after their set, the girls… and I’m not making this up… jumped up and down flapping their arms waving at the band to try and get their attention. Bloody bikes.
Anyway, the band came back for an encore and the girls wouldn’t shut up as they played one of their most precious, delicate, quietest songs. It was to the point that even the band members were looking at them cross (us bloody hipsters… none of us have it in us to tell the skanks that none of the band will fuck ‘em if they don’t shut the hell up). The band left after the encore and the skanks went a-huntin’ to try and track them down. Then the band came back, a few of us intentionally filled the space in front of the stage to try to keep the skanks at bay, but those skanks are pushy skanks and they even elbowed me saying “we were like here before so…” and I just ignored them.
Skanks should be banned, I swear.
The evening ended with a trip on the supway where I scared the piss out of Ms. Luminescent who hasn’t seen me since my hair was, well, like it is in the above picture. Current pictures, were there any, would reveal a mop of hair that, well, resembles a mop. There’s plenty of it. It took about 20 seconds before the seed of recognition set in but Ms. L finally realized I wasn’t just some creepy arse, but in fact a creepy arse she knows! RAH!
We talked on our way to our mutual subway destination, as Ms. L now lives in our area (in fact on a street I once lived on). I came home and decided that, with the amount of Red Bull and W Taste in me (as well as various green tea products consumed throughout the day) that wasting two hours blogging this would be better than the caffinated struggle to get to sleep.
I think I judged wrong on that one… what a boring post.
LOS ANGELES (Zap2it.com) “The A-Team” may or may not ever take its place in the pantheon of classic TV shows, although viewers of a certain age (that’d be about 28 to 36, men in particular) tend to remember it fondly.
One of the show’s stars, though, may soon make it onto classic-TV network TV Land. Mr. T has signed a deal to star in a pilot for the channel called “I Pity the Fool,” in which he’ll dole out advice and try to help people in difficult situations. Lions Gate TV is producing the project.
It’s presumed that in the course of helping people get their lives right, no jibba jabba will be allowed.
“We are very excited to work with Mr. T and Lions Gate on ‘I Pity The Fool,’” says Sal Maniaci, head of development for TV Land. “By putting Mr. T in an unfamiliar environment, viewers will have the experience of seeing him back up his famous words and attitude with concrete actions.”
“I Pity the Fool” will find Mr. T acting as a “motivational guru” helping people improve their personal and professional lives. Mr. T will use his own varied life experience as basis for his strategy to help others.
The pilot is set to go into production in October. Stephen Belafonte (”Thank You for Smoking”), Ken Druckerman and Banks Tarver (”Growing Up Gotti”) will serve as executive producers.
As an unapolagetic Mr. T fan, this excites me greatly, however I’m almost certain this won’t appear on Canadian basic cable broadcast (what’s a “TV Land”?) even though Lions Gate is Canadian.
[from GAK via email]
don’t whiz on the electric fence
Hmm, the idea of public space seems to be narrowing, or outright rejected, as so many places have devised ways to keep people off of flat surfaces.
The majority of these were used, I’m sure, to keep homeless people from sleeping or hanging around.
It’s fascinating, entertaining, and a little disturbing all at once.
[via Functional Ambivalent]
Had an interesting encounter this lunch hour while at Burrito Boys (anyone curious what I had for lunch?)… There was a trio (two guys and a gal) behind me jibba jabberin’ away (Mr. T wouldn’t be happy) while I was blankly staring off into space, waiting for the burrito Nazi to call “next!” (okay, they’re not really Nazi’s, they’re very nice actually). Anyway, there was a tap on my shoulder, and when I turned the woman said “I noticed the buttons”, pointing at my satchel which is currently adorned with two “Rex Libris” pins, Frontier Index and Rainbow Quartz pins, a wacky 8-bit Namco pin, a cent button from Hoi (you can find them at the Japanese Paper Place or Magic Pony in TO), a highly grimoirized Space Ghost by “RAM” which I picked up from the Comic Expo last month, and a No Media Kings button. She held out her hand and there was a little black button exclaiming “FOLK!”.
“I was wondering if you would like one of ours”. Well, first off she was cute, so I wasn’t going to say no, and second…
“Sure. What’s ‘Folk!’”
“Its our movie,” she said. “We’re just looking for any place to promote it.”
“Hey, cool. Proudly I shall display it. ”
“And it’s the best movie ever.”
“I’m sure, what’s it about?”
“Ukranian folk dancing.”
“Neat! Is it a documentary.”
And the burrito Nazi exclaimed “NEXT!”
Now, being from Thunder Bay, I’m hardly a stranger to Ukranian folk dancing, so I was curious to check out “Folk!” on-line. I discovered that the woman’s name is Roxy Toporowych, and the two guys were editor Eric Gold and cinematographer Jeremy McCarter. It’s an unfinished film, in editing it appears as Gold lives in town (and perhaps partaking in FilmFest shenanegans?), but I’ll definitely check out “the best film ever” whenever it happens to arrive somewhere (it’s getting pitched to Sundance so here’s wishing them luck).
So a very lovely and kind person at the Humane Society has written me back and given me a sad and yet lovely update on the hobo kitten I dubbed Paws.
I have located the cat in the main clinic and unfortunately the injured leg had to be amputated. The leg was broken, there was swelling and infection, so the best way to ensure the infection did not spread and make the cat more ill, was to amputate. The cat is doing very well though and is recovery with daily care.
So Paws lives, less one paw, and is in full recoup mode at the moment. I’m not sure when the little one will be up for adoption but when he is I’ll let everyone know. I mean, how cool would having a three legged cat be? You’d be the best James Bond villain ever. Especially if you were missing a leg as well.
These are the hobo kitties (otherwise known as stray cats) that live in out back yard. We first came across them in late May, hanging around a neighbour’s front porch, there were four of them at the time. A few days later, they came and visited in the back yard, but they were down one, unknown whether one died or was taken in by someone.
The one on the left I call “Paws”, the one in the middle is “Nose”, and the one on the right is “Mittens” (because he has extra toes, like my friend Ryan’s cat, Whisper, so his paws look like oven mitts).
This is the kitties’ filthy hooer of a mommy, whom I call “Mommy”. Mommy also has oven mitts. This is referred to as polydactylism (and no, that’s not a flying dinosaur). Polydactyl cats are also called Hemingway cats because Hemingway was off his nut.
Unfortunately, today I came across Paws hobbling around, mewing away, he back leg broken, bone protruding, possibly (probably) infected. Resilient though, Paws is, and he won’t let me catch him (at least I think Paws is male), he’s still pretty spry. I called the city’s animal control (416-338-PAWS, ironically enough) and they said they couldn’t come and get the cat until we had them penned. Myself and my neighbours have been chasing the poor kitten off and on all day. While I’ve fed Mittens and Nose, Paws is even more wary of us because of his condition and won’t come and eat.
Our neighbour is waiting outside for Paws to come out from behind his shed, but I fear the little one won’t make it through the night. I’m not sure how he broke his leg, but I think the new dog next door (new neighbours or visitors?) had something to do with it.
Animal control did do a drop by, but we couldn’t find Paws at that point. The lady said she’d like to take the other kittens in to be spayed and/or neutered and put up for adoption, but she fears that the cats may get over agitated and have to be put down. She wasn’t sure what might happen to Paws if we do catch him, if they’re lucky they’ll be able to mend him, but the longer we go the more likely they’ll need to amputate or perhaps put him down.
It’s all very sad. If we do catch Paws, and they do manage to save him, I’ll let everyone know, because he’s going to need a good home (unfortunately, with Bailey’s probably infectious-though-dormant condition, we can’t take him in ourselves, or else we would have taken all of them in already).
I fear the worst as it’s been three hours since we last saw Paws (he went in behind the neighbours shed), and we havn’t heard a cry or anything from him in that time. Mommy is resting on the other neighbour’s kid’s playcentre, while Nose and Mittens are having a ball on the giant sandpile (they’re building a new patio/basement entrance next door, so there’s a big empty pit and a big pile of dirt next to it.)
I’m feeling pretty shitty right now, because if I had been a little more careful I could have caught Paws… it’s not my fault, yet I still feel like it is.
Update: 8:40 pm
The cats were migrating from one neighbour’s yard to another, when I spied Paws poking his head out from under the fence. Still skittish, he stepped away from me before I even got close. I grabbed some treats and tempted Mittens and Nose, and as soon as Paws saw they had something to eat, he hobbled closer.
And when he was eating, I grabbed him. Unfortunately I wasn’t prepared for him to fight back so hard and he put up a mean struggle. I had the forethought to put some gloves on but he managed to get a back claw into my arm. He began to wail and growl that kittyfight growl, and I was moving, but I wasn’t sure where I was moving to. I didn’t have a pen set up for him and the neighbours were far inside. Then I felt something hit my leg.
Did I walk into a chair?
Nope, Mommy was making a go for me, hissing away (I’m glad I had shoes on, but I still managed to scare her off), but Paws managed to bounce out of my grip and bolted, into a corner. He wasn’t moving.
Perfect. I placed a board in his way so he couldn’t leave from where he got in.
I grabbed Bailey’s cage, filled it full of odoriforous kitty treats, and placed it as close to the cornered kitty cat as I could. He was surrounded by cinder blocks and a fence, all five feet high so he wasn’t going anywhere. I needed to make sure he couldn’t hop over the cage so I stacked a few gardening pots on top. Now I had to get him out of the corner. Bamboo sticks from the garden weren’t provoking him out of the corner at all.. I needed something bigger. I grabbed a spade but was worried I’d hurt him more, so I grabbed a corn broom.. .hmm, gentle and noisy. It worked…
He went to the cage, looked and even stepped inside, when he noticed there was no way out, he began to back out. I tried to use the broom to push him in, but I wasn’t quick enough. In the darkness I didn’t notice that the one side I had wedged him in with had a gap just big enough for kitty to escape, and I wasn’t quick enough to block him off at the pass. He got away.
Outsmarted by a wounded kitten. Ouch. That bruises the pride.
Paws made it to the other side of an open pit, a sand pile too difficult for me to cross in the dark.
I made the effort, the little bastard resisted. I’m done for the evening. It’s too dark for me to operate otherwise.
Final thought: kitty catching, unless it’s a fatass, is not a one-person operation.
Yes, I’m still sick, and yes, I am at work. Thankfully it’s being none too demanding today with an estimated 1/3 of the population of the globe staying away from work today as well.
I’m trying to keep my couging to a minimum by drinking plenty of warm and cold liquids. Last night it took me nearly three hours to get to sleep thanks to a persistant hacking cough (a slight tickle in my throat every time I breathed in would trigger it). I eventually got to sleep either by hyperventilating and passing out, or exhausting myself and passing out. I’m a little tired today.
It IS a sweet smell, innit Mr. T?
One thing I hate is overpackaging. One thing I deem completely overpackaged is deoderant. And deoderant is one thing I deem completely necessary but don’t really see the alternatives to the overpackaged option.
One thing I also hate is forgetting to deoderize in the morning, and not remembering until I’m at work. I also hate how I begin to sweat the second I realize that I’ve forgotten to deoderize that day. And then I hate how I ever so subtly smell like a taxi cab for the rest of the day… slight wafts emerging from my collar from time to time. It’s especially bad on a day like today where I’m intentionally keeping my body heat in to help combat the gribblies inside me, and I’m drinking lots of warm stuff to raise my temperature.
The sad part is I’ve even bought an extra stick of overpackaging to put in my bag just for such occasions, only I didn’t bring a bag with me today.
snap, crackle, pop
I got on the streetcar this morning with a mug of hot tea and a book in hand. My head had a slight ache and I was making a conscious effort to keep all coughing in. Two years after SARS people are still wary about the couging guy on the streetcar.
My focus was drifting and I knew I wasn’t going to crack the bookcover at all this morning (it was, in fact, a softcover book, so there would be no cracking). My tea was hot, I would have to be careful not to burn my mouth.
Thoughts were forming in my head, and drifting away soon after, nothing was taking hold, my concetration today was shot. I noticed a street sweeper going in the opposite direction, and I also noticed that it wasn’t doing a very good job sweeping anything. As we progressed Eastward I could follow the curbside trail of dirt and garbage that the sweeper left behind. It was almost as if it was placing a Hansel and Gretet-esque trail of crap in order to find it’s way back. It was making the streets look dirtier than anything else.
As we approached Bathurst street, we got stuck behind some traffic, and something curious caught my eye. It was a mid-90’s model, aqua-marine coloured SUV, an oddity to be sure. But inside the vehicle was a woman, which in itself isn’t strange, but she was wearing sunglasses, which even though it wasn’t sunny isn’t exactly wierd either, but she was also in a t-shirt, which even though it’s not *that* warm out still isn’t that weird, but she was drinking coffee, which isn’t weird at all, but she was taking photographs…
And not with a digital camera, it was a bulky old school fillum camera with longer range capabilities. This wasn’t not aqua-marinied, SUVed photoblogger. This was a woman portraying some cheesy Private Investigator stereotype. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere as she looked comfortably settled into her seat, and she didn’t seem to be waiting impatiently for anyone.
Was she tailing somebody?
Was she casing a store perhaps?
Is someone cheating on their wife?
Maybe she’s a stalker?
She noticed me staring at her, at least it appeared she noticed me from behind mirrored State Trooper glasses, and she began to fidget with her camera nonchalantly. I wondered if perhaps she was discreetly taking my picture to track me down and kill me later.
My imagination gets a little carried away sometimes.
The streetcar began moving again, but my curiousity remained there. What was she doing?