Good Evening

Today I thought I was going to be really late for work, but that ended up not being the situation at all. I was only slightly late. The day went quickly, and for that I am grateful. Afterwards I headed on over to some audio store and bought a turntable. Actually, I only put a deposit on it, since I'm going to be picking it up later this week. The Chinese fellow who runs the store left me alone at first because he had to go pick up his daughter or something; but he soon returned and was very pleased to tell me all about the features on my new purchase. It's quite the upgrade from my previous model.

Today I also had a go at sharpening my razors. It's really satisfying to put a deadly edge on a blade all by yourself. I think I did a pretty good job, too. I try to test their sharpness by carefully thumbing the edge of the blade as that Foghorn Leghorn chicken used to do when he was preparing to murder some animal - but that aint no real kind o' test. I don't have the patience to try and split a "hay-uh" either, boy, so what I do is test them by shaving any available body hair. My hands and knuckles are completely hairless right now, and there are a lot of smooth patches on my forearms and thighs. It's ridiculous. I'm going to go try and shave my face in a moment or two.

I want regular visitors on my blog again. It used to be that people would come every day and comment. I plan to write regardless of whether or not people come from now on, though. If I write it, they will come.

The Eve of Boredom

It's currently 12:30am, and in five and half hours or so I'm going to get up, shower and make my way to the bus stop. The commute to work is roughly an hour. I feel out of place on the bus, because everyone has one of those stainless steel coffee mugs but me. Oh, and I say "work," but I don't have to do any, really. I'm now beginning week two at this company, and I'll be continuing my training for its duration. I have to listen to an overly peppy guy talk about company loyalty and how we shouldn't abuse our sick leave for eight or nine hours.

The people I'm going to be working with are odd. On Friday I was out in the smoking section during the lunch "hour" when I realized that I had left my electronic ID card thingy at home that morning.

"Excuse me," I politely said to a middle-aged woman. "Would you mind buzzing me in? I forgot my badge, and---"

"--You have to go around to the front of the building and see security--I can't let you in."

"Oh, come on," I pleaded. "I'm just out here for--"

"You have to go around front!"

At this point a guy from my training group (whom I should have asked to open the door for me in the first place) stepped in to say that he could vouch for me, and that I did work there. The woman just continued smoking and shook her head. Bitch. I was a little late to be going back in as it was, but walking to the other side of the building was going to make it worse. I muttered a "Thanks a lot" and headed to see security.

So I get there and I explain that I had left my badge at home and reached out for one of the temporary ones they give to employees in these situations. But no, they were "out" of those! "Sign here," said the female security guard, sliding me a binder. Hey, that's even easier, I reasoned, quickly scribbling handwriting I didn't recognize as my own. I then went to go upstairs, but she held up a hand and said that I'd have to wait for my trainer to sign me in also! Dammit! I was hoping to sneak back into the room unnoticed (where he was sure to be "teaching" by that point), but now he was going to be summoned downstairs to let me in.

A minute or two later he emerged from the stair well, walking briskly. As peppy as the guy normally is, I could read the annoyance on his face. I even attempted an "Aw shucks" smile and shrug of apology, but he didn't say a word. Way to climb the ladder, Wino! Ha!

I don't even care, though. In a few hours when I find myself in that building again (with the pass, I hope), I know I'll be very bored. "Well, at least there's probably a few hotties in the class to gawk at, eh Wino?" Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you? All obese.

I just realized that if I'm going to be cutting up co-workers, blogging at work is going to become pretty difficult. All it would take would be one like-minded person (whom I've yet to find) that I'd feel comfortable sharing this garbage with. For shits and giggles, and what not. And then pretty soon the address would be passed around. On second thought, what do I care? It'd make for some good topics, I imagine.

"Found dead muskrat on desk today."

Straight Razors

A new hobby I've recently started is collecting and shaving with straight razors. I've always been fond of vintage items, and these things can be found at just about any antique store, rummage sale or estate auction for reasonable prices. I'd say the average blade might run you five to ten dollars. I have always liked the look of these sorts of razors, but it wasn't until I saw a brand new one in a knife store about a month ago that I said to myself, "Hey, this is something I could actually get into!"

Most males--myself included--have a innate attraction to sharp, menacing objects. For me it all started at a young age when, after watching shows like He-Man I decided that the sword was the absolute coolest weapon. I knew, of course, that I'd never be allowed to own a real one (just the plastic swords I still have in a box somewhere), so, when I lay on my pillow at night as a youngster, I would tell my brain using some sort of childish mantra that anything was possible in my dreams, and once there, getting a sword would be as easy as wishing for it. And it really worked! I managed to teach myself lucid dreaming at the age of five or six, not knowing that such a thing existed.

Next came a love of knives, which I realized were far more accessible (and concealable). My grandmother, who also gave me my first pellet rifle at the tender age of six, bought me my first knife at Canadian Tire (which is a national hardware store chain here). It was a folding, lock-blade knife with maybe a 2" blade. It came with a little leather carrying case and cost around four or five dollars. My little brother got one too. That was a great day. Having that knife made me feel as though I was ready for anything. I can remember cutting leaves from the trees and carving my initials in stuff when I got home. My mom wasn't too pleased when she found out what we got, but her nerves calmed over time.

As the years passed I acquired the ever-popular swiss army knives, hunting knives and even throwing knives. At one point I owned a nice switch blade (which I bought for twenty dollars from Argus) and even a butterfly knife. This was during high school, though, so for some reason I foolishly decided to trade or sell the switchblade. The butterfly knife was stolen, I believe.

But back to the straight razors. And while I'm throwing history your way, I'll mention that the first safety razor came into existence in 1895, and from then on in shaving became progressively pansy-assed. Yes, I own a couple of Gillette safety razors (the standard two-bladed models - not those gimmicky, over-priced 'Mach-3' things), and they've served me reasonably well; but I'm leaving them behind for the straight razor. Why? Well, there a number of reasons:

For starters, it's just plain fun to do things that are a little out of the ordinary. These things are from a bygone era, and using one is like travelling back in time or something. Prior to the safety razor's existence, anyone who wanted to be rid of body hair had to use one of these potentially deadly instruments to do it. Wanna feel like a cowboy or a mobster? Then put one of these edges to your face.

Also, they do a damn good job! If used properly, you won't have to shave for a couple of days. Another thing that's appealing to me is the fact that there's a learning curve that requires dedication and patience. You can't do a rush job with one of these suckers as a novice shaver every morning or you'll slice an ear or lip off. Research and practice is required. I've been reading up on these things for weeks now and I've yet to put one to my face. I even went to talk to a barber who collects them himself. He said that when he went to school for his trade, they'd make the students practice by removing shaving cream from inflated balloons.

Another thing I like is the "freak out potential" straight razors have. I haven't done it yet, but I plan to display these things above or on my bathroom sink, so when someone visits they'll almost certainly say, "What the fuck are those for?!" And I'll say, "for shaving, of course." I also like how it's a distictly masculine activity. What's more hardcore than shaving your face with something that can literally slice it right off just as easily? Not much.

So far I've got five straight razors. The first I ordered from a guy in Ohio who is a straight razor user and collector in his own right. It arrived yesterday and it's as sharp as can be. I also purchased two others that I found in antique shops. Both are from the "Wade and Butcher" company, Sheffield, England. Sheffield is known the world over for its steel manufacturing, and next to Solingen, Germany, they're pretty much the best, from what I've read. My mom also picked up a couple for me at an antique store the other day for five dollars each. (Yes, she went from fearing for her little boy's fondness for pocket knifes to actually supplying razors he can put to his throat. Strange.) Oddly enough, it's my dad who is the most concerned. He thinks I'm crazy for wanting to attempt this and is convinced I will slit my throat. But hey, he's been right before! That's a pretty badass way of killing yourself, anyway, don't you think?

In any event, aside from shaving my arm hair for practice, I've yet to do much with these razors. But the time draws near. A little more research and a little more shopping will soon see me to the bathroom mirror where I will test my metal. Wish me luck.

And guys: give it a try. It's a ritualistic activity you'll be sure to enjoy.

No, really - I'm back this Time

This site doesn't really deserve any readers, since I've been gone for so long; but in the off chance that any of my previously frequent visitors stop by, this will serve as an explanatory post for why I've been away for the past while. And I do plan to post more often. I recently got a desk job that requires me to go to bed early, get up early, work long hours on the phone and computer, and then come home with just enough time to fall asleep so I can effectively do the same thing the next day. Argus... Ed... Bottle Rocket... you guys know where I'm comin' from. So this will give me lots of stuff to gripe about, I'm sure. And at least I can surf the internet at work and do this sort of stuff there.

So anyway, as Argus detailed on his blog, Fast and Dumb (listed in my links), things have been a little heated lately. Here's my account of what went down.

On the 7th of this month, between 8:30 and 9:00am, I slowly awoke from my sleep to the sound of what I thought was rain outside my bedroom window. I groaned and rolled over on the pillow, but it wasn't long before my ears perked up. The "rain" began to sound like hail. Figuring that this was an impossibility in the summer months, I opened my makeshift curtains (bed sheets) and saw that the outside of the window sill, upper gutter/roof and porch were on fire. The pitter patter of rain was actually the crackling of burning lumber and bits of charcoal falling onto the shingles of the rooftop beneath my window.

"Holy Shit!" I yelled. (Or something to that effect.)

"What's going on?" asked Argus from his bedroom.

Bounding to my other room (my "office," as I liked to call it), I exclaimed, "The fucking house is on fire!" causing him to run out and investigate with me. When I opened the door to the office a little wider, I saw that the flames weren't solely on the outside of the house; the far wall by the window was ablaze, and the curtains (towels in this room) were melting and falling to the carpet. Flames were crawling quickly along the ceiling, also. At this point Argus went back into his room where, as I learned from his blog entry, he grabbed money that was stuffed in books and called the fire department.

It was then that many thoughts started quickly rushing through my head. The first thing that came to mind was how surreal it was to be waking up to the smell of camp fire in the house. And that's just what it smelled like; that nose-pinchingly sharp, almost sweet smell of burning wood. Seeing the flames outside the window was very scary, and I couldn't believe my eyes. I can remember being bored as hell whenever we'd do fire drills in school. "As if it would ever happen!" I thought. But there I was, and no doubt about it, it was happening.

I then realized that the house was going to burn, that there was nothing I could do about it, and that I would have to leave - or, you know, die. So there I am in bare feet, wearing a black t-shirt and Simpsons boxer shorts, and I'm about to run outside (with none of my posessions) to watch the show. Show, he says? Yeah, that's pretty much how it went down. Not only did everyone in the complex wake up to gawk at what was happening (okay, I can understand why they would - especially the people in the condos that were attached to ours), but people from outside of the little, wall-enclosed neighbourhood came with fucking lawn chairs! I'm surprised they had the courtesy to leave their marshmellows at home.

So then I started to consider what I should grab and drag outside, knowing full well that this is exactly what I've been told my whole life not to do if I ever found myself in a fire. At this point there wasn't much smoke (the alarms hadn't even gone off), but I could feel the heat from the flames. Like I said, I immediately knew that I would have to leave, but another automatic response of mine was to think of all my cool stuff. Since I didn't have any cash in my many books, my first thoughts were of my record collection. Years of searching shops, yard sales and ordering from England had made it very important to me, and I didn't want to see them melted to nothing. Then there was my closet full of many leather coats and other expensive clothing. "I could grab an armload of the best ones?" I thought to myself. But in these few seconds of contemplation I also thought how utterly stupid it would be to end up on a mortician's slab with LPs fused to my charred body, a skeletal smile on my blackened face.

"Man," the morgue attendant would joke to the janitor. "I've heard about your die-hard music lovers, but this is ridiculous!"

So I decided to leave with nothing and jogged to the end of the hall. Meanwhile, Argus was busy looking for Pepper, who acts more like a human than she does a cat. Luckily she was soon discovered hiding under his bed. I ran down the stairs and outside where several neighbours were shouting "Did you call 911?" to one another. Then some guy, eager to save the day, demanded to know whether anyone was in the house or not.

"Yeah, my cousin," I said. "But he's coming right down with the cat." So then the dude barges in the house (not even removing his shoes!) to find him. They emerged seconds later.

In the end, three units were left vacant from the damage the fire, water and smoke caused. It was mostly the roof and porches that burned, so most of the things that got wrecked were due to smoke and water. My records were more or less okay, incidentally. I'm pretty mad that the jackets are warped with water damage, but the vinyl itself is good to go, so they'll just have to do me until I can replace them each, one by one, with copies that are in better condition.

Oh, and since the incident I've seen a lot of fire extinguishers, hoses and escape routes in buildings, and I've got to say, it's only now that they look "real" to me. They're there for a reason.