geekent’s stuff’n things

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.

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.

PHEW.
It’s over.
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.

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.

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”
(I giggle)
*click*
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.

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.

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.
AWESOM-O!

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 closer.
And 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.
more pictures:

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