Walking Blues

I am Going to Kill and Devour the Easter Bunny

2006-03-26T22:21:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been really pumped about eating meat for some reason. Every night I'm out on the back deck, grilling either chicken legs, pork chops, or steaks so big I can't fit any other items on the plate!

Earlier this evening, around dusk, I was tending to the dozen drumsticks I had on the barbeque when a shadow caught my eye -- a rabbit, about ten or twelve feet away! It was brown and, I thought, surprisingly plump for this time of year. It must have done a good job storing up fat in the fall. Anyway, there it was, on the remaining crusts of snow, looking for bits of plant life to nibble on before heading back to the warren. My hunter instincts kicked in. He looked like a good meal! Lucky for him, I already had one on the go.

I decided that I want to hunt or trap me some rabbit! I like killing animals for sport and I enjoy the taste of flesh, so it makes sense to do this! Alternatively, I suppose I could just go to the pet store and pick up a tame little meal... but no, there'd be no sport in that. And that's another thing: learning to prepare and cook these critters is great survival training! If I ever got lost in the woods, it'd be a rabbit buffet!

Don Knotts (1924 - 2006)

2006-02-26T16:23:00.000-05:00

Some sad news today.

Actor Don Knotts, best known for his role as Deputy Barney Fife on "The Andy Griffith Show," died of pulmonary and respiratory complications at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills, California. He was 81.

On a lighter note, today I will be scratching Don Knotts' name from my celibrity death list!

Click Image to see an even bigger Image of the same Image

Here is a link to when I first talked about the Death List: LINK

In the past year I have predicted the deaths of two other well-known figures: The Tonight Show's Johnny Carson and Catholicism's Pope John Paul II. With three of the twenty names on the list now deceased, that equates to a 15% accuracy rate. Sure, most of the people on the list are old, and given enough time, I will have a 100% accuracy rate -- but 15% of the list in under a year? That's pretty impressive -- in a... morbid kind of way.

I have a feeling Andy Griffith will be the next to go. After seeing his former co-star die, he'll begin to question is own mortality. He'll stop taking "unecessary risks," become a shut-in, do one final interview for Larry King one night and then croak.

Kirk Douglas? Dude was born in 1916! He can't have much of a shelf life left. Ernest Borgnine has got to be declining, too. He was born in 1917 and I read in his biography that he was involved in an "air crash" in 1996, and that he had both his knees replaced in 1999. Hugh Downs, number eleven on the list, also had his knees replaced some years back. His time is near.

But it's kind of sad to cross off Don Knotts. He seemed like a friendly guy. If Bob Barker, Larry King or Dick Cheney had died (numbers 7, 17 and 19), I wouldn't have cared in the slightest. They seem mean. But Knotts seemed really good natured. I should have included a space for Dick Cheney's hunting pals, though. Ha. But I guess most of them wouldn't be celebrities.

I WORK WITH RETARDS

2006-02-20T21:03:00.000-05:00

When I began the two-week training period for my current (sucky) job some months back, the sight of my soon-to-be-co-workers depressed the hell out of me. There I was, in a room with a bunch of computers, whiteboards and -- well, people that looked like they had been rounded up at a bus stop... near a mental hospital... in a bad part of town. (Come to think of it, is a mental hospital ever located in a good part of town? Real Estate Agent: "You'll be just two blocks from the grocery store and three blocks from the bank. You've got a public school down the road, and conveniently, that's a mental hospital right next door! Don't worry, the screams quiet down at night.")

We had all been hired to work at a call center. I had never worked at one before, but I was relieved to learn that I wouldn't be making outbound calls. Everybody hates those people, who call you at dinner. No, we'd be receiving calls as customer service agents.

Anyway, I could immediately tell that one trainee in particular was going to be very annoying. At around three-hundred pounds, she was hard to miss. She was your typical trailer trash type and would use words like, "yous" and "aint." "Yous gonna eat that? You aint?!" *Scarf scarf!*

We'll call her Shyanne.

She really made me laugh a couple of times, though. No, I didn't talk to her and discover she had a heart of gold and a great sense of humour --- she just said some things that were fucking retarded.

When Rick, one of the managers, came in and gave the class a little introductory presentation, Shyanne would not shut up. She would keep interrupting, saying things like, "I'm gonna work real hard and get to the top, cause that's what I'm like in life. If there's something I want, I just go for it. I aint no quitter!" Rick was clearly annoyed, but he didn't lose his focus. I guess he was used to dimwits. Walking to the white board, he began drawing a patronizing little pyramid to illustrate "how the call center worked."

"You guys," he began, "are right up here at the top!" His marker squeaked as he underlined the top section of the diagram. "Without you, this organization cannot function. My job? Frankly, guys, I'm an expense. They pay me a salary to ensure that things operate smoothly, but without you guys... (Pausing for effect) I don't have a job. So you're right here at the top of the food chain. Me? The other managers? Down here." Squeak- squeak.

This proved to be a little too confusing for Shyanne, who raise her flabby arm in the air. Rick took a slow sip from his Starbucks cup, staring at her. Gulp. "Question?"

"Uhh, yeah. Like I said, I aint no quitter, and I want to get to the top. But... according to you're diagram there, we're... already at the top. So to get ahead, I'm going to have to work my way down?"

Dead silence. Well, except for my suppressed laughter.

Another idiotic comment of hers came a few days later, when Rick interrupted the class to give a talk on inappropriate office behaviour. He went though the whole gamut: sexual harassment, religious sensitivity, racism, proper attire, avoiding strong scents -- you name it. After a lengthy Q and A from a few stupid homies (yes, they actually wore their thugged out clothing) regarding what comments they could make about a girl without it being "sexual harassment" (and an ensuing discussion regarding the assertion that Rick was "trippin'"), the topic moved towards what we'd actually be doing on the phones.

Shyanne was once again concerned, because at her "old job," it was mandatory for the agents to try and actively "up-sell" the caller to better services, and also to show them that they were valued customers by making price concessions whenever possible. She asked Rick if we'd be doing any of that.

"You'll be happy to know, Shyanne, that up-selling is not required here. Also, because we are contracted out by a parent company, we don't have the authority to negotiate pricing."

Shyanne thought a moment. "Okay, but what if a customer is really trying to Jew you down, though?"

Ha ha ha. Wow!

After over an hour of sensitivity training, the dumb bitch hurls a racial slur at the guy who undoubtedly fires people for much less. Remarkably, he pretended as though he didn't hear it.

When I saw her later on I sarcastically commented, "Nice job with the 'Jew you down' comment to the head of the HR department!" She must have understood my tone.

"Oh, to 'Jew someone down' just means that you want to get a lower price on something, that's all."

It was actually pretty sad she didn't know that it related to the stereotype about Jews being cheap, so I quickly explained it to her. She didn't believe me. So I explained it again... a little more slowly. She said she understood, but I don't think she did.

It's no surprise, but she was fired a few weeks ago. She called in sick a lot; greased up her computer keyboard with fatty foods while she was at work; was "less than eloquent" when talking to clients. An all-around worthless human being.

Smoking

2006-02-17T16:33:00.000-05:00

It all began in 2001, on a school art trip to New York City. Our class was staying at a hotel in New Jersey, and a few of us decided to take advantage of the cigarette vending machines. Camel Lights. Soft packs.

I was 18 at the time - the minimum age to buy cigarettes in the U.S. In Canada -- Ontario, at least -- the age is 19. So in a way, buying cigarettes in the hotel lobby was a kind of rebellious; something I could get away with there, but not at home. But I also found it interesting to see how accepted smoking still was in the States. I hadn't seen a cigarette vending machine in Ontario in over a decade! Yet in New Jersey, they were wedged in between the Coke and candy machines.

In Canada at the time, the law dictated -- again, in Ontario, at least -- that cigarette manufacturers section off at least one third of the exterior packaging on their tobacco products for health warnings to the consumer. In bold, white letters on a black background, the packages read, Smoking will kill you! and, Cigarettes cause lung cancer! Since then, the writing has been replaced by graphic pictures of yellow teeth, blackened lungs and various statistics. Oh, and now these warnings have to cover half the package!

In the U.S., these warnings didn't exist. Instead, their packages had stickers you could peel away to reveal smoker points, which you could mail in for fashionable smoker-wear and other prizes. So in a weird way, I guess I kind of convinced myself that smoking didn't pose a threat in the U.S.

When I got back home, I still had my pack of Camels, which I brought to the fast food place I worked at. It was then that I gained an appreciation for the post-shift wind down with co-workers. Still, the smoking remained pretty casual.

A few months later, I was off to University, where I arrived a "non-smoker." (That's what my residence application said, anyway.) And to be fair, I didn't smoke for a month or two after arriving. But soon, the porch, which my room had the luxury of being closest to, became a frequent hangout on those crisp fall evenings, where I would often break for a DuMaurier with the people from my floor. Soon afterwards, though, the "breaks" included smoking while walking between classes... mid-class intermissions... the walk back from class. Et cetera. Before long, I had made friends who were smokers, which of course led to more smoking.

Add another summer of fast food smoke breaks, and another school year of smoking between classes and sometimes on the porch of the place I lived. In third year, I stopped. Same thing for almost all of my fourth year.

But now, after having worked at a job where cigarette breaks seem almost necessary for the past six months, it is the first time I have stepped away from the on-again, off-again "casual smoking" and become a genuine smoker. Not very heavy, but definitely consistent. And I've decided I don't want to be on this path. So I'm quitting. I don't want to associate with cigarettes anymore. For the past few days I haven't had one, and that's how it's going to be from now on. Cold turkey. I basically had one nerve-wracking day where I really wanted one, and I caved and bummed a couple from people at work. But since then, I've developed a cold, and with my system all clogged with phlegm, the last thing I want right now is to smoke.

What I plan on doing is replacing the cigarettes with the odd cigar. With spring a few weeks away, the barbeque will be fired up just about every night, and a weekly post-meal cigar would be okay by me. It's a lot more civilized and celebratory, anyway. Another masculine hobby that will go well with the straight razors.

My Cat Steve's Testicles

2006-01-29T10:19:00.000-05:00

I recently had to take Steve (my cat) to the vet, because when male cats reach about six months of age, they start thinking nasty thoughts and want to urinate on everything. He hadn't done any of that stuff yet, but because I agreed to the conditions the Humane Society outlined when I got him, even though he spent his first months with me purring and being an all-around good cat, I was having him neutered. A cruel punishment, but not all that unusual -- yet, anyway.

Before the castration, I had to get him up to date with his vaccinations. Apparently I had skipped on a rabies shot or two since I got him, and they aren't fond of bringing "stray cats," as the vet called Steve (I almost clocked him), into their facility.

After the Doctor had finished giving Steve his needles, a nurse came in to arrange an appointment for his emasculating operation. I had already been on the internet looking at the procedure by this point, so I just asked a follow-up question or two, just to make sure that what they planned to do was the same. At some point during her description of the operation, she said, "So when we remove the testicles, we..."

I stopped her.

"Wait, wait, you remove them?"

"Yes, we take them out."

"Oh... I was researching this, and on several of the sites I went to, they just tied a couple of knots in the cat's tubes and then sewed him back up without removing them."

She just shrugged. "Well, we take 'em."

I had only had a female cat before Steve, and she was fixed before we got her, so the whole neutering thing was new to me. But after my research, where I really did read a thing or two about them leaving the cat's testicles inside, vasectomy style, I didn't feel so bad about taking Steve to have it done. I mean, cutting a few wires is one thing, but taking his power station!? No, I had some reservations about that idea.

After taking Steve home and thinking about it a while, I decided that I wasn't going to let those monsters steal his mojo. Sure, I'd let them go through with the surgery, but there was no way they were going to throw the essence of my cat's masculinity in the trash!

Two weeks later, the day of Steve's operation arrived. I caged him up and took him in...with one additional piece of cargo.

I walked to the receptionist, introduced Steve and myself and told her why we were there. Then I asked her a couple of unusual questions.

"So, what do you typically do with the... extractions?"

"...the testicles?" she replied.

"Yes, the--testicles."

"Throw them in garbage...?"

"I see... I see. Would you mind... holding on to them for me?"

"You want us to...keep the testicles for you?"

"That's correct."

"Well, I... guess we could. I can't say we've ever had this request before."

"Great!"

I then pulled out the sanitary-looking spice jar I filled with alcohol and had knotted inside a plastic bag. "Just drop them in there!." I then added, "So, you don't anticipate there will be any problem, do you?"

"Well, like I said, we've never had this kind of request before, but I don't think there will be a problem."

At that point, some other receptionist started trying to put doubts in my head, saying stuff like, "Well, because it's an actual body part and not a tooth or, some sort of bone growth, there may be some legal issues about us giving these to you. I too had wondered if there would be any ethical or legal complications, but I somehow doubted this woman was too high on the totem pole, and was skeptical of what she was saying. When a bearded doctor stuck his head out and barked for her to get some coffee going, I totally disregarded what she had said.

Still, I wasn't too confident when I left the Animal Hospital that they'd go through with the plan.

It was early in the morning and I had to go to work. I borrowed my brother's cell phone and left the number with the hospital so they could call and inform me when Steve got out of surgery.
It was a long wait. Finally, the call came.

It was the nurse who had told me two weeks before that they remove the balls. She started telling me how everything went okay, and that Steve was "recovering nicely." In my mind, though, I was thinking, "Yes, yes, but what about the balls -- the balls?!"

"And we kept the testicles for you!" she added. "We put them in the jar you brought us."

"You did?! Fantastic! What do they look like?"

"Well, they're kind of...pink in colour."

"Pink? Really? Wow!" Did they float or sink?"

"They sank to the bottom of the jar."

"Neat! I thought they'd float."

"Nope. They sank."

"Cool!"

So that, my friends, is how Steve, despite being initially told otherwise, was able to keep his balls even though he was neutered. One of the doctors even said to me, "You know, in thirty years of practice, I have never heard the request you made today."

Amazingly, though, the nurse who brought me both Steve and his balls confessed that she had kept her cat's testicles in a jar when she had him neutered! I couldn't believe it. But still, I thought it was pretty neat.

"Eat this pinecone -- It will amuse me."

2006-01-28T14:52:00.000-05:00

Some guy from Mastercard called me the other day, trying to get my business. It was one of those dinner hour calls that would normally tick me off, but because I had been drinking, I let the guy read his script. The deal was 1.9% interest rate for the first year. After that time, it would jump to twenty-some percent, like most cards. I didn't even entertain the idea of getting the card at the time, but in retrospect, that's a pretty small percentage. I'm sure there are loads of people who abuse that 1.9% like a college student who has been given an extension on an essay they never intended to hand in on time, anyway. I was that kind of student, but I'm not that kind of citizen. Handing in late papers still got me a diploma, but skipping on credit card payments is only going to keep me from renting apartments or test-driving cars. So anyway, it was either hang up the phone immediately, or toy with the representative a bit. I decided I would make it my mission to keep him on the line as long as possible.

My first strategy was to ask questions. One of the things he mentioned about the card was that it had price protection, so if I was ever charged more than what was necessary, I would be able to contact the company and have them credit my account. So I asked him, trying to sound somewhat normal, "If I were to buy a shotgun worth four-hundred dollars, but then found it somewhere else for one-hundred dollars, you would credit me three-hundred dollars?"

"That is correct, sir. If you were to buy a... shotgun at a certain price and then find the same item somewhere else for less, we would protect your purcase."

"For shotguns?"

"Yes, absolutely, sir -- for any item, in fact."

"Oh, good... good. Now, would it have to be the same guage, or could I replace any shotgun with a cheaper shotgun I found?"

"Well, sir, it would have to be the exact same shotgun."

"I see... I see. Gotta love shotguns!"

"...Eh, yes, sir."

Then I spent a good ten minutes upping the crazyness, babbling about other credit cards the poor guy had nothing to do with. "Now what about Discover card!? I heard that's a damn fine card!" He was patient and said, "Yes, sir, I believe it is, but unfortunately, that's only available to people in the United States."

"How many shotguns do you think I could get with a Discover card if I were an American?"

"..."

I think I spent another few minutes asking him about the benefits of traveller's cheques, too.

"Yes, those are definitely an option, sir."

After half an hour of this nonsense, he either realized I was deliberately messing with him and had no desire to get the card, or he had some sort of limit his calls had to be kept under, because he was desperate to hang up. He just interrupted my talking and said, "Okay, sir, I thank you for your time, and I hope you have a nice night."

I like Sharp Objects

2005-10-11T03:51:00.000-04:00

I'm listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and I just finished changing the blade in my folding Mastercraft utility knife. The old one had bits of orange rust on it. It uses the the triangular type blades. They're not exactly triangles, actually. In fact, I know there's a specific name for their shape, but it's been a while since I've been in a geomatry class.

"Pay attention, dammit! Years from now, when someone asks you what shape a particular razor blade is, you may not know the answer!"

Speaking of blades, the straight razor shaving has been on hold for the last little while. I have to get a sharpening stone. It was weird, because when I went back to the conventional razor after weeks of not touching one, I kind of forgot how to use it. Then I realized, "Shit, this is like going from a Formula 1 racing to the Go-Kart track." If I had any "method" of shaving with the safety razor before, it went totally out the window. The straight razor is like the medicine ball of male grooming, because it makes safety razors seem so much easier by contrast.

So yesterday I was biing to work and a young Asian woman was driving her car in front of me at a pace slower than my own. The street was a super wide one, too, and yet she was totally hugging the right hand side, preventing me from getting by her.

She finally reached a four-way stop and showed no sign that she was going to move, the idiot. So just as I'm about to go around on the left, another car pulls up on that side, forcing me to make a tight squeeze between them. As I guided my bike on through, the old man in that car rapidly honked his fucking horn at me! (Or the woman in the other car, I'm not sure.) Whatever his intention, it was alarming and very unecessary. So I zip through the intersection ahead of the two cars and look over my shoulder to see the old fuck coming up alongside me again. With his window down he leans over and barks something under the noise of the engine. He gestures with his hands like someone telling a "I caught a fish this big" story. Again, I'm not sure if he's angry at something I did (nothing!) or the bitch in the car. But I'm really annoyed, so I lean over and scream "FUCCCCCKKKK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!" right in his wrinkled face. Haw haw haw!! Judging by his expression and the pace at which he took off, he filled his diaper.

Earlier this evening I grilled up some sausage-like hotdog things and put them on some buns that were a few days old, but lacking mold. I was hungry and eagerly bit into one of them, which I dressed with ketchup and mustard. It tasted weird. "The bun or the meat?" I wondered. I then fished the discarded wrapper out of the trash and saw that the dogs were a little over three weeks past their best before date. Luckily there were some mini-pizzas that tasted like cardboard in the freezer. I burned my fucking lip on a piece of pepperoni that slid off and stuck like napalm. Tomorrow I'm going to get some real food. And notebooks. And WD-40 for my sqawking bike chain. And the Pilot Pens I like. And a Doc Watson record. And some Jameson whiskey for my flask. And I'll look into the sharpening stone thing, but that's not really a priority. I think I'm going to get a fire extinguisher too. I stole one of them years ago. It's fun to shoot 'em in the open air on a calm night, 'cause it's like a cloud machine.

Now it's the Beatles I'm listening to.

At an old job my boss said he didn't like The Beatles. How can you not like the Beatles? Seriously...? He told me the Stones were better, and I was like, "Are you on crack? They're good and all, but they're nothing compared to the Beatles." Then he made a point of asking all the employees that walked by, "The Beatles or the Stones?" and dammit, the ignorant little shits all said The Stones, obviously picking up on the boss's preference. So I was like, "Name one Stones' album" -- and they couldn't, of course.

I Like Sharp Objects

2005-10-11T02:57:00.000-04:00

I'm listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and I just finished changing the blade in my folding Mastercraft utility knife. The old one had bits of orange rust on it. It uses the the triangular type blades. They're not exactly triangles, actually. In fact, I know there's a specific name for their shape, but it's been a while since I've been in a geomatry class.

"Pay attention, dammit! Years from now, when someone asks you what shape a particular razor blade is, you may not know the answer!"

Speaking of blades, the straight razor shaving has been on hold for the last little while. I have to get a sharpening stone. It was weird, because when I went back to the conventional razor after weeks of not touching one, I kind of forgot how to use it. Then I realized, "Shit, this is like going from a Formula 1 racing to the Go-Kart track." If I had any "method" of shaving with the safety razor before, it went totally out the window. The straight razor is like the medicine ball of male grooming, because it makes safety razors seem so much easier by contrast.

So yesterday I was biing to work and a young Asian woman was driving her car in front of me at a pace slower than my own. The street was a super wide one, too, and yet she was totally hugging the right hand side, preventing me from getting by her.

She finally reached a four-way stop and showed no sign that she was going to move, the idiot. So just as I'm about to go around on the left, another car pulls up on that side, forcing me to make a tight squeeze between them. As I guided my bike on through, the old man in that car rapidly honked his fucking horn at me! (Or the woman in the other car, I'm not sure.) Whatever his intention, it was alarming and very unecessary. So I zip through the intersection ahead of the two cars and look over my shoulder to see the old fuck coming up alongside me again. With his window down he leans over and barks something under the noise of the engine. He gestures with his hands like someone telling a "I caught a fish this big" story. Again, I'm not sure if he's angry at something I did (nothing!) or the bitch in the car. But I'm really annoyed, so I lean over and scream "FUCCCCCKKKK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!" right in his wrinkled face. Haw haw haw!! Judging by his expression and the pace at which he took off, he filled his diaper.

Earlier this evening I grilled up some sausage-like hotdog things and put them on some buns that were a few days old, but lacking mold. I was hungry and eagerly bit into one of them, which I dressed with ketchup and mustard. It tasted weird. "The bun or the meat?" I wondered. I then fished the discarded wrapper out of the trash and saw that the dogs were a little over three weeks past their best before date. Luckily there were some mini-pizzas that tasted like cardboard in the freezer. I burned my fucking lip on a piece of pepperoni that slid off and stuck like napalm. Tomorrow I'm going to get some real food. And notebooks. And WD-40 for my sqawking bike chain. And the Pilot Pens I like. And a Doc Watson record. And some Jameson whiskey for my flask. And I'll look into the sharpening stone thing, but that's not really a priority. I think I'm going to get a fire extinguisher too. I stole one of them years ago. It's fun to shoot 'em in the open air on a calm night, 'cause it's like a cloud machine.

Now it's the Beatles I'm listening to.

At an old job my boss said he didn't like The Beatles. How can you not like the Beatles? Seriously...? He told me the Stones were better, and I was like, "Are you on crack? They're good and all, but they're nothing compared to the Beatles." Then he made a point of asking all the employees that walked by, "The Beatles or the Stones?" and dammit, the ignorant little shits all said The Stones, obviously picking up on the boss's preference. So I was like, "Name one Stones' album" -- and they couldn't, of course.

Wino in Limbo

2005-09-14T13:27:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the lack up updates.

I ordered a new computer about a week and a half ago, but apparently they cancelled shipment because the "fraud prevention" unit couldn't get in touch with me about verifying my credit card.

"Were you trying to contact me at (place that burned down)?"

"Yes."

"Didn't I specifically tell you not to do that?"

"Well, we--"

"Just send me my computer."

Wino Puts a Blade to his Throat

2005-09-03T10:03:00.000-04:00

Wow, I hadn't noticed that the last post I made was on monday. That is a while ago! I was saying to a co-worker just yesterday that the week had gone by very fast for me, but I couldn't really explain the reason for it. Must have been my frequent drunkeness. Blackouts are like travelling through time and space - like in Alien.

Speaking of alcoholism, not too long ago (a little more than a week, I suppose) I bought myself a flask! It's stainless steel and it's the perfect size for the inside coat pocket. I've got it filled with Jameson whiskey at the moment, and come winter it'll keep me warm while I wait at the cold, cold bus stop.

If I was blind, I'd get a St. Bernard for a seeing eye dog, and he'd have one of those little casks of brandly around his neck... and another keg-sized one on his back... at all times. Actually, it might be fun to get a seeing keg dog regardless! He'd make an awesome addition to any party. Upon entering the room, loaded up to the breaking point with booze, I'd play the opening bits of Beethoven's fifth symphony.

It's interesting how we judge people who consume alcohol. For instance, if a man were walking through a nice residential neighbourhood, drinking from a recently opened green bottle of Jameson whiskey, he'd likely be sneered at. People would shout warnings of alerting the authorities and children would scamper to the other side of the street to avoid him. But if this man were to drink from a flask? Well, that's entirely different! The walkers who passed him would undoubtedly say things like, "Brisk night, isn't it? That should keep the motor running, though!" And as they chuckled their polite chuckles and as they parted, the strangers would insist that the flask-carrying fellow was a "perfect gentleman."

But why are drinking from the bottle and drinking from a flask looked at so differently? I mean, all of you've done is poured your liquor into a metal container! Way to go, drunkard! Despite your clouded state of mind, you still possess enough dexterity to avoid spillage. Say, top off the ol' coffee, would ya? Heh heh heh.

And speaking of deadly past-times and metal, yesterday I attempted my first real straight razor shave. I had goofed around with another one of my blades in the past, but it wasn't shave-ready, so I just ended up irritating my skin. But the razor I used yesterday was very sharp. I guy named Lynn Abrams sent it to me from Ohio. He's the founder of the straightrazorplace.com website. There they can tell you everything you need to know about this art.

Anyhow, I can report that the final result was not an overly smooth face. I had difficulty shaving my right side because I'm right-handed and I wasn't about to trust my evil left arm with that blade. Stogey Nightclub was nearby at the time but claimed he couldn't watch me drag a blade across my neck like that and left the room. A weak stomach he must have. I told him I might decide to purposely cut my jugular just to watch the arterial fountain coat the mirror red and him scramble to save me. (At least I hope little brother would save me.)

Oh, and I did cut myself, by the way; but it was just a common couple of nicks not unlike the ol' two-bladed razor'll give you. I cut my chin. That's a very difficult area to shave, not only because it's a rounded surface, but because the hairs are generally tougher and grow every which way.

As of now, I have five straight razors. I like four of them quite a bit, but one of the ones my mom bought for me was a "shavette" razor, which has disposable straight razor blades. It might make a good letter opener, though.

Good Evening

2005-08-29T23:13:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-29T00:29:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-27T22:13:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-25T17:54:00.000-04:00

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.

Back from the Dead

2005-07-31T15:55:00.000-04:00

There will be no rhyme or reason to this little update; I just feel like typing right now. And I suppose I should, given how long I've let Walking Blues fester.

And yes, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I can't die yet! I have to wait for a more stylish age to check out, like twenty-four or twenty-seven. Rock and roll!

But how? Maybe a swan dive from a tall building, playing a blistering guitar solo, choking on my own vomit and suffering a heart-attack as I plummeted? Yes, that will do. I would naturally have to be high on some combination of drugs and, just before I hit the water (yeah, I just decided I'd aim for a pool), I'd use the the shotgun I'd be carrying. Boom! SPLASH! A triumphant exit, with odes to Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain and Jones. Hmmm. Not grandiose enough. Okay, maybe I could do all that, but in a Porsche, for a touch of James Dean? The back seat would be crammed with homemade kevlar-bound editions of previously-unseen (and excellent) poetry, which would bring to mind the untimely deaths of say, Keats or Shelley. Why the kevlar, you ask? Well, because the car would have to be loaded with explosives, so seconds after it landed on the bottom of the pool, a time delay would send it skyrocketing right out again! Picture a huge tidlewave and a mushroom cloud.

I hear there will be a Family Guy movie coming out in the near future. Should be neat.

Lindsay Lohan Naked, Britney Spears Naked, Angelina Jolie Naked, Paris Hilton Naked, Hillary Duff Naked, Carmen Elecktra Naked, Pamela Anderson Naked

2005-06-09T22:53:00.000-04:00

I'm setting a "horny bastard trap."

If my calculations are correct, I should have 10,000 additional hits by tomorrow, once people from all over the globe type some of the above phrases in.

"What Not to Eat" - Uh Oh

2005-06-06T15:21:00.000-04:00

On my startup page (sympatico or MSN or something) there was a link to an article entitled "Ten Items to Scratch off your Grocery List." I decided to check it out, knowing that I'd definitely have some of the items at home.

I discovered that I'm going to die soon.

First on the list?

Soft Drinks - The average 12-ounce can supplies about 10 teaspoons of sugar and has no nutritional value. Some varieties contain caffeine which can leave you dehydrated. In addition, soft drinks can end up replacing more nutritious and hydrating beverages like milk and water.

I find the last bit particularly amusing, since Coke really has taken the place of water and milk for me. It's not my fault, though! My dad brings me tons of the stuff in bulk. Literally, I have about a ton of Coke. It's stacked much like you would find it at the grocery store in the basement, case upon case.

Potato Chips - A handful every now and then is fine, but how easy is it to stop there? Generally speaking, most varieties of chips are composed of saturated fat, sodium and empty calories. While some companies are starting to fry their chips in heart-healthier trans-fat-free oils, the fat and calories still add up.

Well, there's another point against me. Breakfast and lunch today was a bag of "Munchies Snack Mix" (BBQ flavour). Inside are Doritos, Fritos Hoops, Cheetos and Rold Gold pretzels. So good. But it's yet another nail in the coffin, apparently. Shit, I had a coke along with it. Two nails.

Fruit-flavoured Beverages - Many varieties contain a minimal amount of real fruit juice -- the rest is water and sugar. Because the juice content is negligible, the beverage provides little nutrition and zero fibre.

Wait a minute, wait a minute - I was under the impression that Sunny-D was fresh-squeezed!

Doughnuts - Along with pies, cinnamon rolls and other pastries, are often packed with artery-clogging saturated and trans fat. These calorie-laden foods are made primarily of fat, white flour and sugar and contain next to no nutrition.

But they taste so good! Especially the white, powdered-sugar ones! They make it seem as though these are particularly deadly, but I just don't believe it. They're too fluffy and tasty to be capable of destroying me.

Bacon - Along with hotdog wieners, sausage and bologna can be high in saturated fat, preservatives and sodium. And a diet high in sodium can lead to high blood pressure.

Man, I love bacon. Not too long ago I ate an entire pound of it! Well, to be fair, it lost a lot of its weight once I fried it in fat; but it may have gained back some weight once I covered it in salt. And what's all this about wieners and sausage being bad for you!? Those are the staple BBQ foods of summer! Bacon is more of a winter meal, but sausages!? No, you can't take those away from me. It's not even fair to suggest it.

Pre-packaged Lunch Kits - Tend to contain high sodium, high-fat processed cheese and deli meat, along with trans-fat-laden crackers, and a sugary, high fat dessert to top it off. Weighing in at about 620 calories, 33 grams of fat (13 of which are saturated), and 1,000 mg of sodium, is the convenience really worth it?

Is the convenience really worth it? OF COURSE IT IS! What do you expect me to do, eat a handful of granola and raisins? Forget it! I often go to Wal-Mart's freezer and purchase an armload of "Hungry Man" dinners simply for convenience's sake. You just toss it in the microwave and it's done! 1000 mg's of sodium! Dun, dun, dun!! Oooh, I'm shakin'!

Instant Noodles - Are often coated in artery-clogging hydrogenated fat such as palm oil. One 85 gram package contains about 16 grams of fat and loads of sodium.

Hold on - An 85-gram package contains only 16 grams of fat? That's not too bad! That means 69 of those grams are nothing but goodness! Maybe if 75 of the 85 grams were fat I would consider dropping it from the grocery list (actually, probably not), but the fact is, Instant Noodles are super convenient, and definitely worth it! Sure, they don't taste all that great, but it's food none the less. And they're cheap! Everybody wins!

Chicken Nuggets - Can be breaded, deep-fried and bursting with saturated and trans fat. And most brands tend to use dark meat which is even higher in saturated fat than its white counterpart.

Again, though, these taste too good for me to stop eating them. Whenever I buy them I make sure to get the more expensive white meat ones, though, since it's pretty disgusting biting into a chicken nugget and seeing that brown/gray meat in there. I remember seeing a huge box for a really cheap price one time, so I bought it. But when I cut one of the nuggets open and saw the colour, I convinced myself it was mainly filler and discarded them.

Canned Luncheon Meats - are among the least healthy sandwich fillers. They are often high in total fat (a 60 gram portion contains approximately 14 grams of fat), saturated fat and sodium.

Finally an item I don't purchase! The last time I had SPAM was about ten years ago when we had to "design a restaurant" for a class project. I decided the place would serve nothing but SPAM products (SPAM dogs, burgers, etc). When we presented our pitch we served spam cubes with pineapple and stuff. We got a great mark, too.

Meat Pies - One pie contains about 450 calories, 30 grams of fat and 1,180 mg of sodium -- almost half your daily allowance! If you're concerned about your heart health, consider eating them less often.

Now we're back on track again. Wait, does lasagna count as a "meat pie"? Probably. It's got a bunch of meat in it. And what's this about a "daily allowance"? I'm allowed to have as much sodium as I damn well please!

Well, that's the list. I don't think this diet is going to kill me any time soon, though. I'm quite slim and trim, and considering this write up comes from homemakers.com, I'm assuming this is more of a warning for fat-assed housewives. If I do eventually have a heart attack in my forties or fifites or something, they'll probably have a cure for it by then. Yes, I'm quite sure they will. *Eats doughnut*

A Day in the Life

2005-05-31T23:12:00.000-04:00

I'm bored, so I thought I'd add to the blog. I don't have a particular topic in mind, and nothing too exciting has happened lately; so, fueled by the one or three beers I have in me, I think I'll just recollect today's events.

Now when did I wake up again? Hmm. I suppose it was around 10:45am. My phone woke me up. Yes, you remember the loud phone I have. It's so loud, in fact, that it woke me up from another room. See, I'm currently in my "office," but the room next to it serves as my sleeping quarters. I was in there. It was my mom calling. The phone was only hooked up the previous evening (just moved into this place), and I guess she was just trying it out. I have yet to plug in my alarm clock, so it was good to have her call at that hour.

After the hang up, just kinda sat in the ol' "office" a bit. I wasn't about to make any breakfast (I rarely do) so I just kind of picked at the bits of food I had laying around. Not that I had to pick them out of the garbage or anything. I was at the grocery store last night, so I had some junk food laying around. A bag of chips... a bag of hot pepperoni sticks (which the digestive system does not like too much) and the remaining three butter-raisin tarts from a plastic tray that originally cradled six.

Then I surfed the internet a bit.

Later, I went to the mini fridge (yes, the room is well equipped) and grabbed a beer. I twisted the cap, and took a gulp. Then, casually glancing at my watch, I noticed it was 11:59am. Sigh. I would have felt so much better about that beer had it been 12:00 or 12:o1pm. There's just something about drinking in the morning that's so unwholesome.

Looking to add to the unwholesomeness, I decided that I would go to the corner store for a pack of Camels. Argus recently bought a pack, you see, and we've been smoking them on the porch (which is also conveniently attached to my "office"). Smoking isn't a habit for me - just a past time. "How am I going to get to the store, though?" I asked. Walk? Too slow. Bike? Flat tire. Roller Blade? "Hey, I haven't used those in a while!"

So I go downstairs and weave through the unpacked boxes to the closet. I find my skates. I don't think I've used them for a year or so. I go outside and lace them up on the concrete stoop and then make my way down the street. I'm a little wobbly at first, but this is mainly due to the road's bumpy surface. After a few seconds, I find my stride. When the pavement became smooth, I'm skating like an expert again.

At the store, I notice the sign that says no skateboards/rollerblades, but I ignore it. The check-out is right beside the door, so I figure it doesn't matter anyway. No hassle from the brown guy behind the counter. Maybe he didn't notice that I glided to the line up? I've never seen him there before, so I guess he also wouldn't be aware that I'm normally not 6'4" either.

"A pack of Camel Lights, please," I say. "And matches." He quickly fetches them, and I hand him a ten dollar bill (which barely covers the fucking things, and reminds me whyI hardly buy 'em anymore!). Then the guy starts caressing the bill, trying to determine whether or not it's a counterfit. He can't seem to tell, so he starts rubbing it on a white envelope or something with furrowed brow. I tap the counter impatiently, but he ignores me and holds the bill up to the lights and stares at it. The line behind me has three or four people now, but the clerk says, "Just a mintute," and runs all the way across the store to their back room, in search of one of those black lights, I imagine. He then returns, opens the till and gives me my change. I wonder if he does that for every customer?

So then I blade back and sit on the porch a bit.

I've noticed that the neighbor across the way is a guitarist like myself. I've seen him strumming an acoustic in the mouth of his garage the last couple of days, so when I hear a Green Day song ("Hitchin' a Ride") blasting from a stereo somewhere in his direction, I assume it's him, and decide to let him know that he's not the only rocker on the block. I step inside, leaving the door open, and turn on my Fender tube amp. Then, picking up the axe, I crank the volume and play the same song back to him. "Hitchin' a Ride" was one of the first songs I learned on guitar. I can't believe that album came out eight years ago. Time flies.

I then read for a while. The upcoming topic for the seminar I'm in is something to do with feminist literary theory, so I carefully arm myself with the knowledge I need to tear it apart in front of the pretentious, lesbian graduate students that sit around the table with me.

I suppose that's about it. I still haven't eaten anything healthy today, and have gone back to the pepperoni and beer a few times already. I was going to cook up some sausages on the barbeque, but I never got around to it. Meh. I'll eat something good tomorrow. And after that, I'll do my best to get into an adventure of sorts! That way I can come back here an tell you all about it.

Bye bye.

Stogey Nightclub Courts Trouble

2005-05-24T23:05:00.000-04:00

It's Wednesday evening and I'm sitting in my room, strumming an old acoustic guitar. Suddenly there's a knock at the door.

I grunt an acknowledgement and the door sqeaks open. It's Argus, and he's carrying a piece of paper with two creases in it. A letter, by the looks of it. He doesn't say anything; he just hands it to me.

"What's this?" I ask, putting down the guitar.
"Just read it," he says, a slight smirk on his face.

I read. Dear Tenant... during a recent property inspection... cigarette butts discarded on front lawn... all costs will be billed to...

"It looks as though they're actually serious!" I exlaim. "Fucking managment! Haven't they got anything better to do than hassle us over some lousy cigarette butts?!"

"Well, the cigarette butts alone aren't what attracted this attention," Argus says. "The other day, according to Stogey (Nightclub), our resident smoker, he was out puffing on the driveway when that uppity bitch from two doors down said something along the lines of, 'So you're the one who's been leaving all these cigarette butts around here!'"

I snort in disgust. Why the hell does she care what our front lawn looks like?

"Anyways," Argus continues, "apparently Stogey brushed her off, saying that he'd be more than happy to use a coffee can or something as an ash tray of sorts, but that he just couldn't bring himself to take up such a nasty habit. 'Caffeine gives me the shits!' I think he said."

"Ha ha! That Stogey!" I chuckle.

"Yeah, he's quite the character! And to think, he's only been here for two and half weeks, and here we are getting complaints!"

"Well, I'm sure no 'further action' will be necessary - I'll see to it that Stogey cleans up the the mess."

Later on, Stogey--who had been away on a trip to the nearby casino--returned home, smelling of beer and cigarettes.

"Hey Stogey! Did you bleed the place dry?" I ask.

"Youuuubettahbeleevit, you!" he slurs, steadying himself with a hand on the wall.

"Stogey, Listen," Argus says, holding up the letter. "The property management sent us this little note today, formally complaining about all the cigarette butts you've decorated the lawn with. They're asking that you clean them up. Heh - maybe you should've listened to that woman?"

"THE WHORRRRRE!!" Stogey screams. "She's the one who ratted me out! When's the last time you witnessed a fucking 'property inspection'!? She fuckin' TOLD 'em to come by!"

Stogey begins pacing back and forth, cussing to himself.

And he's almost certainly right. A few cigarette butts would be a pretty insignificant detail for any drive-by inspectors to take note of. Our bitchy neighbor clearly phoned this one in.

"After you've cleaned them up, you should put them in that bitch's gas tank!" Argus suggests.

"I should... I fuckin' should!" Stogey repeats.

Before long, Argus and I are on the front porch with cold drinks, watching as Stogey shuffles about the driveway and grass, picking up the discarded butts and placing them into a plastic A&P bag.

And then the woman that we suspect ratted Stogey out pulls up with her husband in their white Dodge Caravan. Stogey stands up straight from his chore like a meerkat and stares hard at the pair, who converse with one anohter as they unload their three-year-old son from his car seat. It's clear that they're doing their best to ignore poor Mr. Nightclub.

Mr Nightclub hates to be ignored.

"Hey!" Stogey shouts. "You two might want to keep your voices down -- we've got some fucking nosey neighbors around here who like to meddle in other people's personal business."

The couple move quickly towars their door, each jingling their sets of keys to ensure quick access to their house.

"You can't be too careful, I always say!" he continues.

They enter their house, slamming the door.

"JUST LOOKIN' OUT FOR YA, NEIGHBORS!"

We then cackle with laughter! Well, Argus and I do -- Stogey remains staring at the door. His face is red, and his fists are tightly clenched.

"Fuckin' whore," we hear him mutter.

Wino is Interviewed

2005-05-19T00:04:00.000-04:00

'Evening.

I thought I'd share the latest news about the wine store job with you - not that it's news any more. It happened a little while ago, but I've been lazy and haven't updated. Annnnyway.

Just for kicks, last week I decided to meet with Judy, the manager of the wine store. She had been wanting to do an interview, you see. Being shot in the face at this job was still a concern of mine, of course, but I had nothing better to do that day, so I called her up and she suggested that we meet in the little restaurant beside her place at 5pm. "Okay. See you then," I said.

I arrived at the restaurant early and found that it was deserted. No surprise there. Over the past couple of years numerous owners have tried to set up shop, only to see their businesses go belly-up before their first short-term lease came to an end. I considered telling the enthusiastic new owner that her investment was doomed, but she looked to be having fun painting the entranceway to the bathroom, so I just ordered a coffee instead.

I sat down at a table with my coffee and waited. It wasn't long before Judy rolled up next door in her mini van. I had never seen her before, but she told me that she was Spanish on the phone, so I was reasonably sure that it was her. Sure enough, after briefely entering the wine store with a clipboard full of paper, she came in to the restaurant. She immediately guessed who I was too.

"Wino!" she said with a smile. "I hope you haven't been waiting long?"
"No, no. Just a couple of minutes."
"Well, let's have a seat up here." She then led me up two steps and to a booth in the corner, where she layed out the resume I had given her and a few thick binders, which contained the details of her business.

I won't bore you with the formalities of the interview, since it was really your typical little chat. Where have you worked, what management traits did you enjoy in past employers, etc.

What I did find annoying, though, was how she would constantly break from our interview to talk with the waiter (whom she evidently knew rather well) who kept coming by to top off her coffee. "You're trying to make me pee, aren't you!?" she joked. "I've had nothing but liquid all day, so I've been constantly peeing!" Cringe.

She was one of those "loud talkers," who thought it perfectly normal to shout her casual conversation across the restaurant. "NICE DAY, ISN'T IT!?" she'd shout. "OH, REAL NICE!" came the reply. For fuck's sake, couldn't they save this for later?!

By this point I was pretty sure I didn't want to work for this woman. Not only was I risking bodily harm at her establishment, but I also discovered that the hours were few and the pay was lower than I had hoped.

The final straw was when she pointed to my surname on the resume and asked what its origin was. When I told her white European, she said, "Ah. You're just lacking that bit of 'spice' -- like a bit of Black or Spanish." What the fuck? 'Twas said in jest, but I was left unimpressed. What would be the reaction if I was interviewing her for a position and said "You're lacking a certain 'caucasion quality' I often look for in employees"? Ha! Not too good, I assure you. But I held my tongue. I considered sarcastically saying, "Yeah, it's really holding me back in the business world," and then laughing heartily with a slap to the table--but no. Best to shake her hand and depart. I'm cool like that.

Wino gets Serious (About being a Wino)

2005-05-09T14:33:00.000-04:00

The other day at around noon my sleep was interrupted by a phone call.

Now, most people would simply ignore a call at such an ungodly hour, but my phone has a real bell as opposed to some innocuous computer tone, so this is not an option for me.

As an aside, do you know why phone companies made the move from bell ringers to electronic ones? Well, neither do I—but here’s my theory: I think they knew that cell phones had the potential to be huge, but realized that if people associated them with the shrill, alarm-like tone of a bell, they wouldn’t buy them! In preparation for the future, the bells were replaced by inoffensive computer chirps a decade or more ago. So now, when you observe the hundreds—and potentially thousands—of people who blab away on their mobiles every day, know that none of them have a home phone like mine; for if they did, telecommunication would be to them as it was in the beginning: an annoyance—not a hobby. Conditioning, man.

So anyway, rather than bury my head in the pillows, which does little to mute the ringing, I find it’s less aggravating to answer the thing.

“What!?” I screamed into the receiver.

“Umm, hello?” said a hesitant female voice. “Is this Wino?” She didn’t sound too young, so I held back on the charm.

“Who wants to know?” I demanded.

“Umm, this is Judy from The Dionysus Depot. I’m calling with regards to the application you dropped off a few days ago—if it’s a bad time, I can call back.”

I removed the phone from my ear a moment and tried to put meaning the woman’s words. My hangover wasn’t helping matters, but I slowly began to form a recollection. I did drop a resume off at a nearby wine store in the hopes of gaining easy (and cheap) access to alcohol, but it wasn’t “a few days ago” as Judy claimed, but the VERY day before. Why was she so quick to call? Yes, the education and experience on my resume is impressive, but just as the rules of dating state that you must wait a minimum of three days before calling a person, the same is also true for potential employers. If Judy was serious about courting my talent, she would have naturally realized how desperate calling me so soon would appear. Something about this didn’t add up, but I decided I play along.

"…Hello? Are you there?" said a chipmunk-like voice from the phone at my lap.

”Yes, I’m here,” I answered. “Sorry I snapped at you just now—I’ve been getting quite a few crank calls lately, and there’s nothing more irritating than having your work disrupted by some troublesome little brat. You understand.”

“—Of—of course. Am I to assume that you’re employed at the moment?”

She sounded a little too concerned.

“Well, not exactly. Just some volunteer work I do for UNICEF. I’m up to my neck in paper work” I said, rustling a stack of Hustler magazines that lay on the floor.

“Oh, how nice!” Judy exclaimed, sounding impressed.

She then went through the formalities, asking me where I had worked and so forth. I answered all her questions, embellishing at every opportunity. She wanted to know if I was interested in working for the Dionysus Depot, and I told her that I was.

She then arrived at what had obviously been on her mind from the beginning.

“Now, you are aware of the problems we’ve been having here lately, aren’t you?”

“Can’t say that I am,” I responded. “What kinds of 'problems'?”

Judy went on to explain that neighborhood teens have been walking into her store lately, grabbing bottles of booze from the racks and taking off. The most disturbing news she related, though, was that there had recently been an armed robbery at the establishment.

Now, I’m very much in favor of the access to alcohol this job would provide…but I’m wondering whether or not all of this extra shit is worth it. Do I really want some homey shoving a sawed-off in my face and demanding that I give him the register’s contents because he squandered his welfare check?

It’s a thinker, this one. I do like my wine. It may be worth the risk!

A Walk through Blog Land!

2005-05-05T03:30:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry I haven't updated the site in a while, loyal readers. You've been checking my page every day, no doubt, sighing audibly at the sight of that now-familiar gerbil. Well, the wait is over.

I realized earlier this evening while posting criticisms on Donny the pornographer's site that I've been neglecting my own responsibilities as a blogger. Criticsms? Why, yes. You see, Donny hasn't been posting pictures of naked chicks (as he should be) recently. He's become thoughtful and political all of a sudden, voicing actual feelings and concerns. The outrage! I mean, I'm perfectly okay with him talking about serious stuff, but at least have the decency to decorate these posts with naked women!

If you're going to continue with serious topics, here's a possible format you could follow, Don:

Title: "A Sad Day for Donny."

Text: "...My beloved dog, Rex, died peacefully in his sleep last night - he was 11-years-old."

Picture: (Naked girl playing with her boobs)

Text: "...I'm truly going to miss you, pal. I keep tearing up every time I see your empty food dish and your well-chewed tennis ball."

Picture: (Girl - legs spread)

Text: Rex: 1994 - 2005

Picture: (Two topless girls making out)

You know, something like that. You mix the good with the bad.

So anyway, I posted a couple of comments on the most recent of Donny's posts. They read as follows:

"By today's standards." That's a phrase that's tossed around a lot--but do you really think that the men of past centuries were such a "down to earth" bunch? Hell no, they weren't! They knew a fine piece of ass when they saw it! And if Jebediah had a hot wife, you better believe the whole community looked at their beastly companions a little differently. I'm guessing that the popularity of your 'ugly models' is simply due to them being oddities in the porn world. After all, people are also very willing to stretch their necks to view a bloody car wreck too."

And then: And Donny!Let's get with the program, eh? Billboards? Jane Fonda the 'traitor'? Ugly women? These shouldn't be in a pornographer's vocabulary!

He then responded, saying that my comments always amuse him, and how he wished I would update my blog more often. "Yeah, but whaddayagonnado?" I muttered. And then it came to me! A lot of my time in Blog Land is spent replying to other people's sites. I waste a lot of good stories on their pages as opposed to putting them on my own! Remembering how I posted the gerbil comment reply, I realized that I could effectively kill two birds with one stone by showing you some more of the comments I've left! I'm so smrt!

So here are a few of this evening's messages to other bloggers:

That's a frog - not a toad.

I used to shoot frogs with my Daisy lever-action BB gun. When the BB tore through their bodies, all of their stored energy was expelled in one final, aimless leap. In mid-air they would usually die before landing face first in the muck (Thwap!), their entrails following soon after.

One day I learned that if I dropped those sturdy, "strike anywhere" wooden matches into the barrel of my empty gun, they would fire like little missiles at close range. I'd often spot a frog sitting in a centimetre or two of water, and then shoot a Red Bird his way.

FLOONK! went the splash.

The matches rarely went all the way through the body, either. They'd horrifically stick out from the frog's white belly, along with its greasy, gray organs.

For a human, the equivalent would be a 4x4 beam of lumber hitting the torso at 280-feet-per-second. Ouch!

-Wino

( In response to a picture the author had taken of a "toad" )

Isn't it gross how they tear their feathers out like that?

"Listen bird," I'll often say. "You may not want to admit it, but this feather-pulling nonsense is a problem--it's a problem that has GOT to stop!"

"Pretty birdy! Pretty birdy! Mackaw!!" they respond.

So vain, those birds. Always looking in their cheap little mirrors; spending hours on their grooming. We're always hearing about the alleged societal pressures teenage girls face - but I think these 'birds' have it worse.

( In response to a picture of a parrot )

It looks as though you let it dangle in a not-yet-solidified bowl of raspberry Jell-O.

But then again, I understand that IS a popular method.

Okay then... carry on.

*Steps out of your blog backwards - slowly*

( In response to a rather awful hair colouring )

Linkin Park? More like STINKIN’ PARK! Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!!

( In response to a post that actually praised Linkin Park )

You're joking, right? This isn't a revelation by any means. EVERY Pope has been opposed to homosexuality - not just Ratzinger.
It Catholic policy, man! The Vatican is the original "NO GIRLS (or girly boys) ALLOWED" club!

But hey, if you REALLY want to voice your concerns, I'll link you to the man himself:

http://askthepope.blogspot.com/

Joseph is ALWAYS there to answer the people's questions.

-Wino

( In response to a gay guy who thought he had uncovered a big 'secret' about the new Pope )

For a self-described "insane person," you post a sufficient amount of smut.

Good work, Crazy.

( In response to some guy who talked about being insane, but had lots of good pictures )

Mexican labor – you get what you pay for.

-Wino

(http://rough-writer.blogspot.com/)

( I've included the link for this one so you can see how subtly perfect this response of mine is. The guy, a pretentious "writer," talked about how he felt the need to get a job--to work with the "common folk." He then explains how he quit a mere hour or two into his FIRST shift. )

The Dead Gerbil Blues

2005-04-26T18:26:00.000-04:00

I recently came across a blog where the author talked about his family. Yes, one of those boring, family blogs. You've seen them, I'm sure. Nothing worth reading is ever posted on those boring, family blogs. Why is there never anything like "Uncle Frank blew his brains out with a shotgun last night!" or "I discovered that my wife has pissed away all my hard-earned life savings and that she's a dyke!"

Nope, none of that. He talked about his boring wife, his boring kids, and even his boring pets--a cat and a gerbil. I thought I'd leave a comment about my gerbil. I wonder if I freaked him out?

Like you, I had a gerbil.

Although it was a female, I named her Dartanion. A little musketeer.

After three years of having Dartanion as a pet, one day in 1996 I found her body in the aquarium that was her home. She was motionless, pressed against the glass of the tank, and slightly buried under the urine-scented cedar woodchips, toilet paper rolls and bits of gnawed egg cartons--she was dead.

But Dartanion's story doesn't end there. No, rather than simply toss her in the garbage like you would a dog or cat, I decided that she was to live on in a different state. I found an old mason jar, dropped the rat inside (plink!) and sealed the lid, labeling it using a ball-point pen and a piece of masking tape. I then put her safely in the chest freezer.

To this very day her cold body rests in that frosted jar. Now and then I'll show her to houseguests, who, with sickened expressions, stare into the dull, gray eyes of my now 12-year-old gerbil.

They don't understand, though. They don't understand that there can only be one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

- Wino McHackenpuke

The Good Doctor

2005-04-24T03:50:00.000-04:00

Two years ago, my genitals were viciously ripped from my body and devoured by a pit bull terrier. The surgeons at the hospital managed to save my life, but I felt as though I would never truly LIVE again.

I went into a severe depression, and indulged excessively in drugs and alcohol in an attempt to ease my sorrow--but these substances had little effect.

Because my testicles were digested by that beast like a gourmet serving of Alpo, my voice became unusually high. On my frequent walks to the liquor store, school children teased me and requested that I sing Hillary Duff songs for them. I decided that suicide was my only option.

It was then, during the darkest, most miserable point in my life that I met a man (a Doctor, in fact) who claimed that he could help me. I was just about to leap from a tall bridge and drown myself in the river below it when he approached.

"You look like a man who's lost everything," I heard his voice say.

Turning, I earnestly replied, "You don't know how right you are."

He then offered me his hand, introduced himself as "Dr. Equestrian," and explained that he had heard of my plight.

"I can help you, young man," he said. "What that mongrel took away from you, I can return--and THEN some!"

Dr. Equestrian goes over the details of the surgery with me.

I was puzzled, to say the least---but genuinely intrigued to know whether the good Doctor could deliver on his promise of restoring my manhood. "I guess I don't have anything left to lose," I squeaked, trying my best to smile.

What Dr. Equestrian did for me was "nothing short" of miraculous! Using his medical knowledge, he successfully attached a stud horse's member to the scarred canvas that was my groin! Thanks to this brilliant man, I now possess the power and virility of Seabiscuit. I am literally HUNG LIKE A HORSE!

Dr. Equestrian and an assistant preparing the brave, transplant candidate.

Teaching the Retarded

2005-04-18T23:30:00.000-04:00

I wrote in my profile details not too long ago that I enjoy collecting things that are a little 'taboo' by today's standards. I find it fascinating that what was totally normal back in the mid-twentieth century is now so alien to most people. It was only a few decades ago, and yet the world has totally changed, and it's not showing any signs of slowing down, either!

If you've never stopped to consider why a lot of old people are so grumpy, it's because they've had everything they were accustomed to taken away from them! I would argue that the technological revolution that transpired during their lifetimes was far more shocking than the allegedly disturbing Industrial Revolution of the 19th Century, which basically just started the ball rolling. I mean, at least the changes back then were practical: Locomotives allowed for travel; advanced farm equipment gave people the freedom to shoot their mules in the head, and electricity meant we were no longer dependent on fire for light and warmth. Nothing wrong with those advances. Then came radio and television, which made things quite comfortable. Yes, everything was going just fine--especially during the golden years of the 1950s and 60s.

Nowadays, though, a lot of the gadgets and fads are so retarded! (Yes, I said the word retarded.) I often wonder how Ward Cleaver of "Leave it to Beaver" would have reacted to them had he the ability to scorn our way of life, as opposed to the other way around?

It was a simpler time back then. After a hard day of work, Mr. Cleaver would relax in the leather-backed wing chair with his pipe, newspaper and clinking glass of scotch on the rocks. Later, after June had finished washing the dishes, vacuuming the carpets and scrubbing the floors, she would accompany her husband to the bedroom and fulfill the most important of her wifely duties.

Yes, Ward Cleaver had it good. Fortunately, he never had to put up with what today's fathers have to.

Ward, wearing his plaid slippers, sits in the living room, reading the newspaper. A pipe rests between his pursed lips and his glasses balance on the tip of his nose.

Wally enters.

Wally: Hey Dad, what's shakin'?

[Startled, Ward violently shakes his paper, and ash spills from his pipe to the carpet]

Ward: Ge--wha--what did you say to me, young man!? You know to address me as SIR.

Wally: [Rolls his eyes, and says in an effeminate tone] Aye aye, captain, thir! (saluting)

Ward: [Exasperated] "Wally, you are really trying my patience, and that's the last thing I need after the day I've had! Why, earlier at the petroleum station, the negro attendant did a predictably awful job on the the Buick's windows, and streaked them horribly. And if that wasn't enough, I--

Wally: Yeah, yeah, great story, pops--but I'm runnin' late. I need you to give me a thousand dollars so I can get myself an iPod, some blow, a pedicure, and a bitchin' new wardrobe. I've gots to work on my metrosexual look a little more.

Ward: [Puzzled] Metro-what?

Wally: Metrosexual. It's what's in, dad, you wouldn't know.

Ward: Well, I'm not familiar with all the 'happening' doo-dads you youngsters have got going these days, but I'll give you some advice that is sure to never go out of style: a man doesn't get anywhere in this life on the charity of others; if you want these things so badly, I suggest you do like the Beav and get yourself a paper rou--

[Wally pulls a knife and puts it to his father's throat]

Wally: Listen good, old man! I'll open you up if you don't give me what I need! Now gimme the fucking cash!

* * *

Tisk, tisk. When will that Wally learn?

For some good reading, you should hunt down some old LIFE magazines from the 1940s or 50s. They've got excellent, frame-worthy stuff in those editions, I can tell you. A while ago I saw a full-colour ad for a car company. It was in that portrait-looking style, and depicted a young teenager's face in the foreground with an automobile of the day behind him. The advertisement was trying to say how safe their particular model of car was, so the caption read: "IT WOULD TAKE 16 YEARS TO REPLACE HIM." Classic. "Shit, Peter was decapitated in a car-wreck - I knew we should have got an Oldsmobile!"

I've also got an issue of LIFE from 1948, where they document in the "Science" section a couple of monkeys who had their skull caps removed and replaced with clear, plastic ones! They bolted them on and then took some amazing pictures, which are now framed on my wall. Great conversation piece.

Today, though, I'd like to show you a similarly amusing relic from the early 1970s. It's a book by Kathryn A. Blake, that I found in a thrift shop for 10 cents. It details how to properly educate the beautifully unique people who do not possess the intellectual strengths we often take for granted. I think Blake summed it up better in her title, which is TEACHING THE RETARDED. Simple. Powerful. To the point. Although something tells me in may not be in print any more. Shameful, really. Just look at all of those happy, retarded children on the book's cover!

WINO

2005-04-16T04:22:00.000-04:00

Wino on the street. Drinkin' a bottle of booze
Ain't got nothing to say, yeah
And he don't got much to lose
Times are on his face. Blisters on his brain
Wonders who's at fault. Knows that he's to blame
Thinks back on his childhood and wonders the reasons why
Why some men have made it rich.
Why some men have cried
Reached out his hand, lord. For a nickel or a dime
Livin' every day, yeah, for one more taste of wine

Wino, soon you've got to choose
How long must you take abuse
Wino, you wasn't born to lose
Sweet wine is making you a fool

Wino on the street. Drinkin' a bottle of booze
Ain't got nothing to say, yeah
And he don't got much to lose
I want to help him out with his troubles and woes
I guess he's a happy young man
God in heaven only knows

Wino, soon you've got to choose
How long must you take abuse
Wino, you wasn't born to lose
Sweet wine is making you a fool

Yonder come a man, now this I know
Now you better find some place to go
Yonder come a man to take you downtown
He don't want you hanging around

-Lynyrd Skynyrd

Professor Pig (Click to see full Cartoon)

2005-04-10T06:16:00.000-04:00

Hermit the Frog (Click to see full Cartoon)

2005-04-10T01:01:00.000-04:00

Bad Luck Billy (Click to see full Cartoon)

2005-04-09T02:29:00.000-04:00

Be like the Squirrel (Click to see full Cartoon)

2005-04-08T18:02:00.000-04:00

Click the Picture! (Based on a true Story)

As a change of pace, I would like to announce the beginning of CARTOON WEEK!

That's right - Wino draws cartoons. So please excuse my sickening sense of humour and try to enjoy the pretty pictures for the next seven days or so. If I feel like writing anything, I'll post it over at The Handsomes.

The Increasingly Spooky Roommate

2005-04-08T14:20:00.000-04:00

Lately, things have been pretty tense around the ol’ homestead. Every time I leave my room to use the bathroom or get something from the kitchen I find that I’m on edge. Why so uncomfortable, you ask? In my own residence, you wonder? Well, as some of the more recent posts will inform you, ever since Pepper was fired from…the mission…her behavior has become increasingly bizarre. At first I thought she was simply going through a period of adjustment, but recent events have persuaded me to think otherwise—I’m now quite certain that she’s got a few screws loose in that furry head of hers.

After our heated confrontation in the living room the other day, Pepper mysteriously vanished. At first I wasn’t concerned. I mean, normally she can be found relaxing in her favorite chair by the television. However, when I would check to see if she was there (and I confess, I did this often), I would find it unoccupied. My first assumption was that she had taken off for a while; undoubtedly to blow off some steam; to get her thoughts in order. But a part of me knew that she wasn’t gone. I could sense her presence. Yes, she was trained by the best, and her stealth and skill are unparalleled; but when those hairs stood up on the back of my neck, I knew she was close by... Watching.

Earlier this evening, things got really weird—at laundry time.

See, the electricity rates were recently increased, so in order to avoid paying out the ass, it is now essential to use major appliances after ten o’clock at night whenever possible. I had been neglecting my laundry for quite a while, so with a ball of T-shirts under my arm, I ventured into the basement—Pepper’s apartment. Her “lair.” It is there, in the darkest corner, that the washer and dryer are located. I was nervous, yes; but I had to get a wash done, and I wasn’t about to let my increasingly spooky roommate dictate my routine. And besides, I reasoned, she probably did take off for a while.

The old, wooden steps creaked as I cautiously descended into the darkness. With my free hand, I urgently palmed the drywall for the light switch. Locating it, I smiled in relief and batted it on. The cellar strobed once or twice, and I heard the bulb rattle.

ZZ-TINKK!!

Burnt out—shit!

I quickly determined that this was not going to keep me from getting my clothes cleaned, and stomped down the remaining stairs in my socked feet and over to the washer. The air was moist and had that earthy, springtime smell. I hastily tossed the clothes in the machine, added the detergent, twisted the knobs into place and pressed the start button. Piece of cake.

As I was about to go back upstairs, though, something in the corner caught my eye. As I kneeled down to investigate, I discovered what appeared to be a crucifix made of old bones!

They had been gnawed clean, and were crudely affixed to one another with a piece of twine.
Horrified, I stood up to leave, but stopped dead in my tracks when I saw them—the two gleaming, yellow eyes that hovered along the ground towards me.

“P-Pepper!” I choked, grasping my chest. “You—you scared me.”

“’P-P-P-P-Pepper’!” she mocked. “What the hell are you doing in fucking apartment?!”

“—I’m just—just doing a wash,” I responded. “You’ve never had a problem with it in the past, so I don’t see why—”

“Just doing a wash, huh?” she interrupted, her eyes flashing towards the corner. “Since when does ‘doing a wash’ require you to root through my shit!?”

“Look, Pepper, I was just leaving when I saw something strange in the corner and—”

“—Strange?” she rejoined, growing more irate. “Are you implying that my handiwork is in some way less than ‘normal’? That I’m some sort of fucking lunatic because my conception of art differs from your own? Is that it, asshole?! Is that what you really came down here for? To give me some fucking lecture?!”

As she talked, she stepped closer, causing me to press my back against the crumbly brick wall. I tried desperately to think of something to say that would calm her down, but realized that being diplomatic was probably not the best option. So, fearing for my safety, I decided to use my legs—which are significantly longer than hers—to my advantage, and jumped over her body in the direction of the stairs.

“That’s right," I heard her say. "Get the fuck outta here!"

She could have easily caught up with me, but instead chose to sit and watch as I disappeared onto the next level and to the safety of my room, where I am now. At present, I’m in no state of mind to try and figure out Pepper’s behavior, or why she would make decorations out of bones, so I’ll have to do that at a later date—if, of course, no harm comes to me before then.

Papal Pepper

2005-04-04T19:08:00.000-04:00

The strangest thing happened earlier today. As I was walking through the living room I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Pepper was laying on a pillow against the wall. She was wearing a large, pointed hat and had wrapped herself in toilet paper! What on Earth!? I thought as I approached. The sweet scent of bourbon hung in the air.

I immediately assumed that she had gone insane, and that this dress-up activity was in response to her being fired from...the mission. Oh, I didn't tell you about that? Yes, unfortunately, on the day of...the mission... it was discovered that Pepper had a dangerously high blood-alcohol level, and she was immediately deemed an unworthy candidate. A sad state of affairs, I know, but her involvement would have likely jeoporadized...the mission.

"Pepper, what in the hell are you doing?!" I asked, gesturing at her ridiculous outfit.
"Go away," she said. "Can't you see I'm busy!?"
"--Actually, Pepper, I don't know what all of this is about. What's up with you?"

"I'm a little...I'm a little upset about the Pope's recent passing," Pepper went on to explain, lowering her head in dejection. "Although you seem to be thrilled with the whole thing, since it's just another point for you on the death list! The fact is, he was a great man!"

It was an uncomfortable moment. It was never my intention to disrespect the Pope--he truly was a great man, and did wonders for the Catholic Church... I just...thought he would be a sure-thing for the death list! It was only about the list!

"Gee, I'm...really sorry, Pepper. I--didn't know you were a practicing Catholic."

"You're not sorry!" she yelled, glaring at me. "All of this is just making you uncomfortable--you just want to be done with this awkwardness, don't you!? DON'T YOU?!"

"No, that's not it at all, Pepper--I just want to know that you're okay. I'm worried about your drink--"

"Don't you dare bring that up!" she hissed thunderously. "I've got enough in my bowl after losing my Captain rank and being dropped from the mission!"

"I--"

"--Fuck off--just--just fuck off. Leave me alone."

So I did. I left her there on the living room floor. I hope she gets through this difficult time in her life. I'd hate to lose her as a roommate. But man... I hope she stops dressing like such a weirdo. I fail to see how that getup paid tribut to the Pope in any way whatsoever.

Captain Pepper

2005-04-03T13:40:00.000-04:00

One day not too long ago, I was sitting around the house with nothing to do. When people don’t know what to do, they sometimes convince themselves that they are hungry in order to fill that “empty” feeling. I did the same. I went to the fridge, got myself an orange and devoured it.

“Hmmm. Still empty,” I thought.

Then, looking down at Pepper, I knew what I had to do. No, I wasn’t going to eat Pepper—I was going to transform her into…Captain Pepper!

I took my orange peel and carefully poked two holes in either side of the rind, allowing for a rubber band to be inserted. I then tied knots to secure it in place and said, “Pepper! It’s time for your mission!”

Pepper struggled at first, since she was a little nervous about her mission. But I simply reminded her that she should be thinking about her fellow countrycats, and that what she was about to undertake was noble work—hero’s work!

Strapping her helmet on her, I got the sense that she was ready to embark on her mission. In her eyes I saw determination and valor—traits that are quite rare in cats. She meowed a long and awe-inspiring meow of courage, tossing her head from side to side in an effort to psyche herself up for what was to come. “Brave soul,” I thought, tears welling up in my eyes.

Pepper takes a moment to pray before...the mission
(Click picture for another Pepper story of Argus's)

Celebrity Death List

2005-04-01T20:37:00.000-05:00

Late last year I decided that I was going to make a celebrity death list. I got myself a piece of paper and wrote down the following names in the following order:

Andy Griffith
Don Knotts
Peter Faulk
Gordon Lightfoot
Leonard Nimoy
Courtney Love
Bob Barker
Johnny Carson
Pope John Paul II
Sean Connery
Hugh Downs
Doc Watson
Kirk Douglas
Ernest Borgnine
Bea Arthur
Les Paul
Larry King
Bob Dole
Dick Cheney
Mickey Rooney

Now, as you are all probably aware, Johnny Carson died a short time ago. For some reason my guesses aren't coming true in precisely the order I had planned-- Matlock was supposed to go first, god dammit!! Ahem. *Straightens tie*

Oh well. For some reason my list started up on number eight, but it looks as though it's starting to go in order now, because the Pope is going to be dying any minute. Someone had better warn Sean Connery!

UPDATE:

As an added personal touch, I thought I'd include the original draft of the death list, which is posted on the fridge for public viewing. The names are scratched off as the people die.

Click for larger, clearer view.

Making your own death list can be a good way to add some excitement to family night, or just something to pass the time. It's a pretty simple task, really. Just write down the names of a bunch of people you think might die (paying particular attention to the drug-addicted and elderly) and then post it on your blog! Or fridge!
Here are some helpful websites to get you started:

www.deathlist.net

www.stiffs.com

The Handsomes

2005-03-26T15:10:00.000-05:00

Hey everybody!

Don't forget to check out the other blog I post on: The Handsomes. It's a collaborative page that contains some pretty good material, and, like a fine wine, it's only going to get better with age... or it may turn to vinegar, I don't know (Wallace).

I can tell you that The Handsomes has had a short, yet interesting history, though! You see, there used to be three contributing members, but now that number has been wittled down to just two: Argus and myself. Ed, who was formerly a member of the team, recently experienced a series of devastatingly unfortunate events.

He was first hospitalized after dislocating his arm after a slip on the ice. Then, only a few days later, he was tragically struck by a city bus. He lost a leg, the use of his hands, and most of the skin on his formerly handsome face. And although the poor guy can still type with the aid of a pencil he puts between his teeth, he finds it to be a slow and frustrating process. And who can blame him? If my life was instantly destroyed in a traffic accident, I sincerely doubt that posting smarmy articles on websites would be very high on my list of things to do.

Ed patiently awaiting the arrival of medical professionals
at the scene of the accident.

The future of The Handsomes is uncertain at the present moment. Argus and I will continue to post, of course, but whether or not Ed will make a triumphant return is unknown. For the time being, the plan is to recruit other members. As of now, one invitation has been sent out to Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm. He has yet to contact me with his reply, but it is my opinion that he would make a good replacement.

- Wino.

Dangerous Mind

2005-03-24T00:10:00.000-05:00

Today I entered the campus pub, ordered a pint of Guinness and sat down at a table to read a book of mine. It was around the lunch hour and the place was fairly crowded, but the background noise wasn't overly loud, so I was able to drown it out and focus on my reading--for about two minutes.

It was then that a guy and a girl sat down at the table directly beside me. The dude was pretty quiet, but the chick could not stop talking. I grimaced openly at their interruption and tried to continue reading, but it was no use. Their chatter made concentration impossible. I couldn't even move to another table, since they had seated themselves at the last available one!

Before long a guy got up from the table he was sitting at along the wall, and I quickly took the opportunity to relocate. This increased the distance between myself and the annoying girl from a matter of inches to about ten feet. Picking up my book yet again, I flipped to the page I had bookmarked and tried to resume.

"So then I was like, oh my God!" said the girl in her shrill, annoying voice. "Like, I totally did not expect such a low mark on my mid-term! Like, I studied and studied, and I even went to the see the prof about it, but he wouldn't let me re-write it, which I think is like, totally unfair!"

Fuck, I wish she'd shut the hell up! I thought to myself, shutting my book in defeat and reaching for my pint.

Just then there was a loud crash. I turned around, along with everyone else in the place, and observed that the mouthy girl was now on the floor, lying flat on her back. She then squirmed about and tried to quickly stand up, but got some help from the guy she was sitting with.

"Shit, are you okay?" he asked, pulling her by the arm to her feet.

Red with embarrassment, the girl only responded with an awkward smile as she adjusted her hair. The manager of the bar quickly jogged to their table to see what was the matter, picking up the wooden chair the girl had been sitting in. As he held it in the air for inspection, one of the legs dangled from a few splinters.

The girl couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds, and was actually eating what looked to be a healthy salad when that leg snapped, sending her ass to the ground. But what was most incredible was the fact that the girl actually did shut up afterwards! I instantly realized that it had been my angry thoughts that broke the chair leg.

Normally I'd have used such an opportunity to return to my reading, but I just couldn't seem to keep from fantasizing about all the other things I would do with my newly discoverd telekinetic abilities.

Brooke Shields - Hawt

2005-03-22T15:42:00.000-05:00

Blog Wars - Episode IV - A New Dope

2005-03-19T16:23:00.000-05:00

As many of you are aware, the majority of my site's visitors do not arrive by way of the "Next Blog" button. No, most of the time they are lured here, provoked by some negative comment I left on their site, and determined to defend their honor. Now, more often than not, the exchange will end at that point. The person will type up some dim-witted response, submit it, and then read past articles of mine in search of fodder with which to attack me. Ironically, they end up loving the content they find and become regular readers. I see it happen time and time again.

Recently, as you may have noticed, I've been neglecting my Blogging. Nothing has specifically been keeping me from it; overall, I'd say that laziness and a general lack of inspiration are to blame. But all of that changed today, when, after checking in on my page, I noticed some activity in the comment section of my Oscar post. A user by the name of "web-Pix" had submitted what appeared to be some sort of insult. It read as follows:

"Oh got this is a blog with a lot of bla bla bla is this all ?or What - Art Lover."

Now, as near as I could tell, this was some sort of primitive Inuit dialect. Nah, I'm just kidding - it was simply the work of some mentally retarded person. In any event, I clicked on Web-Pix's name and immediately found myself on a site with many contributors. The most recent post, made today by a user named "Henri's World," was a Photoshop-edited picture of the one I have in my profile. Here is that picture:

I give them an A for effort. Click the picture
to view it, and more low-quality art from the
people at "web-pix."

Who is this "Henri's World" guy? I thought to myself. I reasoned that because I had never encountered him before, I must have insulted one the contributors of the page, and that this was some sort of geek retribution! Fascinating. I then set about viewing each of contributing members' profiles, in search of any that might seem familiar to me. My sleuthing turned up results before long, when I came across the name "Jozee."

Jozee

I immediately recognized her, as would any fan of the Canadian comedy series, The Kids in the Hall. Remember her "Chicken Lady" sketch? It was definitely one of the funnier segments of the program!

Jozee as "Chicken Lady"

But I also recognized Jozee from somewhere else! Yes, I quickly remembered visiting one of her many Blogs and coming across her so-called "artwork." The piece that led me to comment is exhibited below. What mas my comment, you ask? It was: "You call this art?! *pukes*"

Wow, man. It...transcends time and space. *Tearing up*
This work can be seen on Jozee's "Virtual Lovers"
Blog.

Here's what she had to say about the piece: "Much of this based on the function in dimension, space versus time, kind ofrelative to chronosynclasticinfindibulum - ie: The theory of the universe ... "

Translation: "I think that my pretentious, bullshit 'explanation' will justify such abstract garbage. I'm well aware that this looks like a screenshot of an Atari game, circa. 1979, but the people who visit my site won't! Ha ha ha ha!"

Jozee's response to my vomiting was, "Thanks for hating my work enough to comment.As my 2D design Prof said, 'If art invokes an emotion, any emotion ,it's true art.'"

That's an interesting stance your "Professor" has, Jozee. But in actual fact, his wisdom is a defense mechanism used by artists with no talent. My guess is that he keeps Andy Warhol silkscreens underneath his matress.

Your Professor would say that because I did not like your work I was not appreciating it for what it is. In reality, I'm dismissing it because of what it isn't. Your medium is boring, and requires little to no talent. The same can be said for all your buddies who tinker with the Hue and Saturation of pictures in Photoshop.

The Oscars

2005-02-28T00:01:00.000-05:00

Wow, I've been gone a long time, but now I'm back. I've had access to a computer over the last week or so, but because it wasn't my own, I didn't really feel like posting anything. It would have felt forced.

So yes, The Oscars.

I think Chris Rock did a pretty mediocre job of hosting. He had a few good jokes, but most of what he brought to the table was the same tired, racist material we always see from him. At least he didn't once use the word "cracker." I think a line he should have added to his monologue bit about "waiting" should have been, "If you can't get Billy Crystal to host the show.....wait."

And come to think of it, why is it still acceptable for Rock to continue this racial inequality routine of his? Haven't the past few years at the Oscars dispelled any bias against black people? Not too long ago we saw Whoopi Goldberg host the show; and last year we all got to wince at Halle Berry's overly dramatic acceptence speech for best actress. Maybe it's just me, but I think she should have held back on her teary comments about "opening the door for black people," since she doesn't look the least bit African.

This year's ceremony also included numerous nominations for Hotel Rwanda (Including a Best Actor nod for Don Cheedle), and saw statues go to Morgan Freeman for Million Dollar Baby and Jamie Foxx for Ray. Gee, what a biased bunch the Academy are, huh? I mean, they only let Beyonce perform three songs! Cracker-assed crackers!

I Feel like Chicken Tonight

2005-02-14T20:34:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I stopped at the grocery store to get a chicken.

My nose detected the aroma immediately as I entered the building, and I instinctively went about tracking it down. I slowly stalked my way through the cereals, avoiding the Quaker's watchful eye, before long arriving at a small, well-lit clearing. It was there that I spotted the fowl, warm in their roost, each heedlessly ignorant of any potential predators. At a short distance I observed their clustered formation with keen interest, deliberating exactly how I would play this favorite game of mine. Then, as if by reflex, my body shot forward, enabling me to snatch one of the plump birds with one swift movement. There was no struggle to speak of.

I find that markets and groceries are such conventional places these days. Nearly everything is sprayed with pesticides, comes vacuum-packed, or is crammed into some eye-catching package, designed to make your children scream until you buy it for them.

When it comes to meat, though, things are basically as they've always been. The animals are inspected before slaughter, and then dismembered and sectioned accordingly by the butcher's blade.

But I think the pre-cooked chickens they sell are the most fascinating items. It's such a simple animal to prepare. The head is lopped off, the feathers and guts removed; then, after being impaled on a spit, it broils slowly over an open flame, almost exactly as it would have been done thousands of years ago.

Devouring it is also primal experience. You begin by ripping the skin, fat and tender flesh directly from bird's brittle carcass, hastily gobbling it as you go. Eventually you are forced to put down your utensils (assuming you were even using them in the first place) and begin poking between each rib with bare fingers to grasp the elusive meat. When you are through, all that is left is a glistening skeleton. The chicken has served its purpose in serving you.

Golf on the Hill

2005-02-14T15:47:00.000-05:00

When I was around thirteen or fourteen, my parents bought me a membership at the local country club. Prior to this, I thought I could never have an interest in golf. I didn't really know much about it, but despite this, whenever my uncle (who was an avid golfer) came over and suggested I start playing, I'd scoff, "No way--it's boring!" I assumed that it was boring, anyway. It seemed to be a slow sport, where nothing much happened. I based my opinion, of course, on what I had seen on TV. On the tube, the game seem so disconnected. It wasn't like hockey where all of the action unfolded before your eyes; it was more like a soap opera, where one player would take a shot, you'd see the ball (barely) float away, and then they'd cut to someone else.

When friends of mine started telling me about all the fun they were having on the golf course, though, I thought, "Hey, maybe kids can have fun with this sport," and I got interested. My interest resulted in me being given a brand new set of golf clubs! Score!

These are Golf Clubs

Jason, a friend of mine at the time, was of the kids who was into golf. He didn't have a club membership himself, but he'd been to the driving range from time to time. Anyway, Jason was over one day and we decided we'd go to a nearby neighbor's house to chip some golf balls, since they had a very big lawn, and had let me do so before.

These neighbors prefered that we use "whiffle balls," which are hollow plastic golf balls that don't fly very far. If we did choose to use real golf balls, we were to be very careful, since their yard (and our part of the neighborhood in general) was the highest point in town, so it overlooked much of the city. At the back of our neighbor's lot was a tree line, which was the very top of a steep, wooded hill. Beneath the hill was a street; beyond that, a used car lot; and beyond that, an even busier street, which ran parallel to the town's river.

As you might imagine, chipping plastic golf balls with our pitching wedges got boring very quickly. We livened things up by hitting them at one another, but even that grew tiresome after a while. Eventually we brought out the real golf balls and started chipping them to the tree line at the back of the lot. They'd tock off the trees from time to time, the occasional ball rolling harmlessly down the hill. And yeah, I guess that was kind of fun...

But what do ya know--even that got boring pretty soon! So Jason and I reached into our golf bags and grabbed our tees. Then out came the drivers, and then the real fun began. I actually tried to rationalize that we'd only hit "low drives" that would enter the forcefield of trees and then fall immedietly to the ground. Hey, it sounded plausible to a couple of kids who desperately wanted to crank a few shots! Ah, who am I kidding. I knew exactly what we were getting ourselves into.

TINK! Went the first of my drives, the golf ball soaring over the tree line.

"Oops! A little high, a little high," I said, teeing up another.
"You'd better be careful, man," Jason teased, before cranking a ball of his own over the trees.

We laughed hysterically as we belted all of our golf balls into the blue sky over the hill. Because we couldn't see where they landed, it was if they were disappearing. Such innocent fun.

Later on, when Jason and I were back at my house playing video games or something, the doorbell rang. I heard my mom answer it and then yell upstairs for me to come down. "Uh oh," I said to Jason, who was also told to come to the front door. Standing in the entrance way was an older police officer, holding one of our golf balls in the air between his thumb and forefinger, a stern look on his face.

"Does this belong to you?" He asked me very seriously.
"Uh-Uhmm," I stammered, looking at my socked feet. "Yeah, I think so."

For the next ten minutes Jason and I were lectured on how "dangerous" what we had done was. Well, it wasn't exactly a lecture. Basically, my Mom would shriek something like, "What were you thinking?!" and then she and the Officer would stare at us as we tried to look sorry for what we had done. Apparently we nearly hit some people who were browsing through the used car lot beneath the hill. The rest of the balls (and I don't know how many there were) miraculously managed to bounce through both the lot and through the rapidly moving traffic (some going as far as the river, around three-hundred yards away!) without causing any damage or injury.

My Mom later told me that while Jason and I stood red-faced, staring at our feet, the officer was giving her a slight smirk. When he eventually left (after giving us the stern warning not to do it again) he candidly remarked to my Mom, "Those two sure have some damn good golf swings!"

Kevin Costner's Response:

2005-02-12T15:06:00.000-05:00

As I sat down to my computer, I noticed that I had "1 new message" in my e-mail inbox. Probably some new Herbal Viagra, I thought, as I clicked the pop-up.

But to my surprise, it was an e-mail from none other than Mr. Kevin Costner, in regards to my request for him to link my web page! If you're a first-time visiter to my site, check out the article from a few days back, entitled "Will Kevin Costner Snub Me?" -- it will make all of this clear to you.

In any event, I'm pleased to report that this page's first celebrity visitor (that I know of) said: "I had a good chuckle reading over the content of your site."
The unfortunate news, though, is that due to the overwhelming number of similar requests Kevin and his Publicist receive, they will not be linking my page. But to be honest, I'm happy just knowing that Kevin enjoyed my site.

Another comment I enjoyed in his rather lengthy e-mail was: "It was an amusingly low blow to reference my 'Tatanka-sized' heart in your open letter of your Blog, incidentally." Ha ha! Whups. I didn't mean any offense, Mr. Costner.

He concluded by wishing me luck with my future endeavors, and I was left with the impression that he'd be visiting "Walking Blues" in the future.

You heard it here first, folks! "Walking Blues" has been given Kevin Costner's "Celebrity Stamp of Approval!"

"Keep up the good work, Wino!" Kevin chuckles.

Preston's Reckoning

2005-02-11T10:24:00.000-05:00

I went to the campus bar last night with Brittany, a girl from my class, to have a few beers. As we entered, I sat down at one of the last unoccupied tables while my friend went to the lineup at the cash to order, the two of us having already agreed to get a pitcher of the the cheapest stuff they had. After being in a class as boring as the one we were just in, any alcohol would have done just fine, so it only made sense to be economical about it.

I recognized the guy working behind the bar as a smug bastard--"Preston." He was lanky, around twenty-five or six, and had curly, pubic-like red hair, which was receding, almost as though it was trying desperately to get away from his ridiculous Buddy Holly glasses.
If you've been around post-secondary institutions, you've seen these types of guys everywhere. They wear brown corduroy pants in an effort to appear more earthy; and their T-shirts, which are usually tighter than ones underage girls wear to get in to clubs, are as obscure and ridiculous as possible--which, in their eyes, makes them subversive, different, and therefore "cool."

Yeah, this is the "Preston Look" all right. Eugh.

Guys like this usually do their best to make even the most simple conversations difficult, by constantly injecting their smarmy, pseudo-intellectual, leftist remarks. Brittany, now first in line, was about to discover this. She asked for our cheap beer, Preston tapping it in on the register's key pad, one of his eyebrows slightly raised.

"Hey Julie!" Preston said, grinning at a co-worker. "Do me a favor and pour me a pitcher of the very best cheapest beer we have, will ya?" He then snickered with a few of the other people at the bar.

Brittany, visibly annoyed, tossed the money on the counter. "How many times have you said that line today?" she asked. Preston gave no response, and passed her the filled pitcher and a couple of glasses. As she walked to our table she mouthed, "What an asshole!"
I nodded in agreement.

I hadn't eaten much all day, so after a bit of beer I decided I would get a few beef Samosas, which are basically spicey ground hamburger, wrapped in an egg-roll-like coating of...Samosa. They're about the size of those novelty dice people hang from their rear-view mirrors, only they're not cubes--they kind of look like greasy little pyramids.

I walked to the register, Preston eyeing my approach. "Hey, can I get three of your beef Samosas, please?" I asked.
"Three beef samosas, hmm?" Preston repeated, giving a chafed sniff.
"--That's what I said."
"That'll be five-fifty," he groaned, looking me in the eye. "You know, you may not be aware of this," he continued, "but Samosas are Indian food. In India the cow is a holy animal, revered above all others--so naturally they don't put beef in their Samosas. I think it's pretty absurd how the Western world is so determined to stamp out Eastern culture, yet constantly borrowing from them in order to add fuel to the ever-roaring capitalist machine!"

My hands, which were at my sides, then made a sound a lot like someone stepping on bubble wrap, I was clenching them so hard.

"Of course, simply stealing from their culture isn't enough," he went on, not sensing my rage. "No, we then take their Samosas, which are traditionally made only with spiced vegetables, and then fill them with the flesh of their sacred cow, as if to give the finger to their entire way of life! It's this sort of ignorance that made me become a vegan."

I stood there in disbelief. Does he actually work here, or am I on some kind of hidden camera show? I thought to myself. I reasoned that I had seen him here in the past too often for this to be some sort of prank. My mind went through all the responses I could give to this guy. But there were far too many to choose from, so I just gave way to my anger and let my mouth do the work.

"Take a look at that menu on the wall behind you, you stupid fuck!" I pointed. "It says BEEF SAMOSA--and you sell the goddamn things!"

All the people in the bar were looking at us by this point, but I didn't give a shit.

"I don't want hear about your fucking lifestyle, either, you sandal-wearing cocksucker! Instead of muttering your pretentious ideology to everyone who orders this stuff, why don't you fucking quit this job so you can save people the time it takes to point out that you're a fucking hypocrite!"

Preston squirmed. He was clearly used to having people nod along with his views.

"And by the way, I happen to love eating flesh!" I continued. "The redder the better, I always say. So toss those fucking samosas in the oven and hurry up about it!" I then bounced a handful of change off the counter for him to count and returned to my seat.

Brittany sat opposite me, shocked. "What?" I asked, pouring the beer, which I drank quickly.
"Oh, nothing--I'd probably have done the exact same, had I thought of it," she sarcastically responded.

A few minutes later my Samosas arrived, carried by one of Preston's co-workers. No surprise there. I stared at them on my paper plate, holding the plastic knife and fork they had provided. It occurred to me that Preston also worked at an establishment that chose to use disposable cutlery and plates so they wouldn't have to do dishes. Way to help the environment, Captain Planet!

I realised that I had lost my appetite. Brittany suggested we leave and go out for a smoke to calm down. I agreed. I took the Samosas to the bar and asked the now timid Preston if they had any plastic bags for me to put them in.

"No, we don't," he immediately responded.
"I find that a little hard to believe," I said.
"I can give you another plate to put on top of it, if you want."
"That's no good--I'm putting these in my backpack."
"Hold on," he said, walking into the back room.

He returned carrying a foam container, the perfect size for what I needed (although ironically even more harmful to Mother Earth, since it wouldn't decompose for another five-hundred years or so.) I wondered why he had to make a hassle right off the bat instead of getting what he knew was there immediately.

"Thanks a lot," I said, taking the foam container. Preston grunted his acknowledgement.
As I turned to walk out with Brittany, I glanced at the foam container and saw that something had been written on it in blue ball-point pen. "JERK."

"What's this shit?" I asked her, gesturing to the box. "Oh, that's probably the container they use for 'Jerk-Rotties,'" she responded. "They're pretty good, have you ever ha--"
"--that fucking asshole!" I yelled.
"I really don't think he was calling you an jerk," she said, handing me a cigarette, hoping I would follow her to leave.
"Yeah, right," I said, turning towards the bar.

"Hey Presss-ton!" I roared, running at full speed towards him. He turned just in time to emit a womanly scream at the sight of my charge. I then dove over the counter and barreled into him, driving him hard to the floor. Bottles rained from their display on the wall and crashed all around us. I grabbed an empty glass and splintered it into Preston's face, leaving deep lacerations.

"MY FACE!! MY FACE!!" he wailed, blood spurting. I then delivered a fury of punches, shattering his glasses and busting his teeth.
"I'm a Jerk, am I Preston?!" I shouted as I pummelled. "Well, I guess I'd better act the part!"

I then reached for a beef samosa that was on someone's plate and stuffed it into Preston's broken mouth. "Chew it up, motherfucker!" I screamed, attempting to work his jaw for him. "Swallow that dead cow--that's right! You loovvve it!"

Preston choked and spat a mixture of blood and hamburger as I continued to cram Samosa into his mouth. He had learned his lesson, I thought, standing and giving him a final kick to the head.

"Mahh fwayce!!! Mahh fwayce!!" he said unintelligibly, his mouth still stuffed with meat.

"Somebody'd better call this guy an ambulance," I said, wiping the blood from my hands on Preston's cords.

"Hey, way to go, man!" a guy my age said from a nearby table. "I've been wanting to tell that guy off for years, but I've never had the guts! I'm glad somebody finally kicked the shit out of him!"

I gave a smile of appreciation. "Hey, don't mention it. I didn't think--I just acted."

"Duuude!! Can we buy you a drink, dude?" another drunken frat-boy at the guy's table shouted, spilling a bit of his beer in the process.
"Thanks guys," I said, holding up a patient hand. "I'd naturally be happy to any other time, but... I think we'd better be on our way," I said, looking towards Brittany, who was still waiting, cigarettes in hand. I grabbed one from her and put it in my mouth, lighting it with my Zippo. As Brittany and I walked to the door, two enormous bouncers entered from outside and stood in our way.

"What was all that noise in here?" one of them asked. I gave them a cool stare, taking a deep drag off of my cigarette. Then, exhaling the smoke, I said, "Oh, nothing--just some homie causing trouble. I think he scurried out the back."

They evaluated the situation in silence. Well... near silence. Preston was still gargling "Mahh-fwayce!!" from behind the counter.

"Yeah, those homies are always stirring shit up around here," one of the bouncers said to me, winking. "You folks have a nice night!" They then stood aside, allowing Brittany and I to pass.

"You too, fellas--you too." I said.

Squirrel Trouble

2005-02-10T01:43:00.000-05:00

Around five years ago, after saving up enough money from my first real job, I went out and purchased a brand new pellet rifle. It was a break-barrel .177 calibre "Diana," and she sure was pretty. The name doesn't sound all that threatening, I know; but trust me when I say that it was a very well-made gun. Or simply look up the company yourself.

My new Diana fired at a speed of 495 feet per second. This may seem like an arbitrary number, but it is important to note that when it comes to weapons, anything that fires at a rate of speed higher than 500 fps requires an Firearms Certificate. I obviously didn't want the hassle of taking a course in order to obtain one, so I told myself I could do without those extra five feet.

When I brought my gun home, I was eager to show it off - but unfortunately, no one was around. I knew, however, that my younger brother would be along shortly, so I waited, rifle in hand, on the back porch. Home is a residential neighborhood, but that didn't stop me from shooting a few pellets into some pop cans to kill some time. The gun fired with excellent accuracy, and a lot of power. I couldn't have been more pleased with my purchase.

Before long my brother arrived and I was quick to show off the rifle. "Wow, nice gun!" he said. "Can I shoot it?"
"Uh, I dunno," I frowned. "I've hardly shot the thing, myself."
"All right," little bro shrugged. "Show me what it can do, then."
"Okay," I said, turning to the cans I had set up on the lawn.

But just as I did this, I sensed something in my peripheral vission. On the grass to the left of my brother and I was a plump, black squirrel, searching about for some nuts, it seemed. The little tresspasser appeared to be unaware of our elevated position, since it was busily digging about, its head buried in the finely-cropped green blades.

"Did I come at a bad time?" Note: Actual squirrel was
much uglier than this little guy - much uglier.

Digging in MY lawn? I thought. Not on my watch! I was thrilled to know that the gun was going to immediately begin paying for itself, and put it to my shoulder, taking aim at the filthy little rodent.
What awful luck this squirrel must have, I thought. Of all the yards on this street--this neighborhood--this town! What are the odds of it crawling its way into the only one where a kid was wielding a fucking rifle!

Psst! I signalled to my brother, who gulped in surprise as he caught sight of the foraging creature. I then grinned, closed my left eye, zeroed in, and pulled the trigger.
The rifle "Thwupped" and the squirrel's body instantly flattened in the grass. Then, just as I was thinking how anticlimactic it was that it merely collapsed, I was startled to observe an arc of crimson blood, not unlike the stream of a drinking fountain, gush from the back of its neck! "Eughh!" my brother squirmed, his face shrivelled in disgust.

I looked back at the squirrel, which was now twitching about on the blood-stained grass, doing a slow summersault or two. "Shit," I muttered, immediately wondering how many neighbors were witnessing this gruesome scene from their windows--and also how many of those people might think it necessary to dial the police! For this reason I was a little hesitant to load another round. I simply wanted to resolve the situation--and fast!

"Hand me that shovel over there, and grab me a plastic bag from the kitchen!" I said.
My brother then passed me a spade and disappeared into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a white A&P grocery bag. He was now an accomplice.

We both hopped off the deck and ran to the squirrel. I scooped it up with the shovel and took it behind our shed where there was cover. "Okay, here's what we're going to do!" I said, handing the shovel to my brother, the squirrel still flipping about in pain at our feet. "We're gonna hit the sucker with the shovel, and then put it in the bag!"

"You mean I'm going to hit it with the shovel!" he protested.
"....right. But we there's no time to argue--so just do it!"

He gave me a contemptuous stare, but I was the older brother, so he winced and followed the order, clanging the flat side of the shovel hard on the squrrel's body.

"Waeeeeennnnn!! Wa-waaaeeeeen!!" the rodent squawked in agony.
"Hit it harder, you idiot!" I yelled, looking about in a panic for any potential witnesses, whom we'd undoubtedly be forced to kill also.
"Forget it! I'm not doing this!" my brother yelled, defiantly holding the shovel in front of me.
"Goddammit!" I said, snatching the spade, and looking at the still-flipping animal. I wasn't looking forward to this, but it had to be done.

Clang! went the shovel, as it hit the squirrel yet again, this time ceasing its noise and movement. I then quickly flipped it into the plastic bag and tied it tightly. I glanced around yet again and felt fairly confident that no one had seen us. My brother and I breathed heavily and went inside for a drink of water, leaving the bag behind the garage.

About an hour later we came outside again, since we had to get rid of the evidence before our parents came home. Amazingly, when we arrived at the bag it was jostling about, the squirrel still squeeking from within! "Waeeennnn!!!" it squeeled.

What the fuck kind of squirrel is this?! I wondered. Why won't it die? It had taken a lead pellet in the neck, causing it to lose a significant quantity of blood, suffered two hard blows from an old metal shovel, and had been placed in a plastic bag where it probably should have suffocated by now! Who sent you, squirrel!? What do you want from us?!

I then gave it several more frantic blows with the shovel, and it stopped moving inside the bag. "Dead at last," I said. "About time," scoffed my little brother.

We then heard our parents pulling the car into the driveway. "Oh shit," I said, grabbing the plastic bag by the knot I had tied in it. I had to hide the evidence before we were discovered! I then opened the door to the shed, placed the bag on the ground, and covered it with a overturned flower pot. Just to be sure no one would disturb it, I placed a fifteen pound bag of soil on top of the pot. Crisis averted.

* * *

About a week later my Dad approached me and asked me to follow him. He led me towards the shed, and only then did I remember the squirrel! Putting it in there was only meant to be a temporary hiding place, of course, and I had meant to toss it in the garbage or something--but I had forgotten! It didn't look good, but I played dumb.
"Why are we going to the shed?" I asked, as innocently as possible.
"You know why," my dad responded, sliding open the door.

"Listen--I don't want you killing squirrels around here!" he said. "If we lived in the country I wouldn't care so much, but you can't be doing that in the city!"

Amazingly, he seemed to be more annoyed than angry. Not what I had anticipated.
"Okay, dad--I won't do it again."
"You'd better not," he said, walking back to the house. "And get rid of that thing--I can smell it from here!"

I then looked down at the spot where I had left the animal a week earlier. The soil and the flower pot had been removed by my dad, but the squirrel was laying on top of the bag, which it had obviously gnawed through! Its stiff body rested with its forearms outstretched, the face twisted in a look of determination! It haunts my dreams to this very day.

Will Kevin Costner Snub Me?

2005-02-08T16:00:00.000-05:00

I didn't really add that link to Kevin Costner's site for any particular reason. I think he's a good actor and all, and he's made some fantastic movies, but the reason I added the link was mainly because I didn't have any at the time, and I wanted to test out the feature.

"Wino, I love your blog!"

But then I thought, I'm going to be sending all kinds of traffic in Kevin's direction, and yet he's not doing anything for me in return! And hell, we all know he hasn't been making movies as often as he could be these days.

Anyhow, I e-mailed Mr. Costner and said, "Because I linked your site, would you be so kind as to link mine?" I've got a good feeling that he will once he sees how amazing the content on my page is.

Yes, I expect to see many Costner fans stopping by "Walking Blues" before long.

Update:

The comments regarding this post have been very encouraging. I think it would be just incredible if the good Mr. Costner, or whoever runs his website, ended up linking to mine - it'd sure make my day! Oh, and I'm no behavioral expert or anything, but after observing this fine actor's work over the years, I just get the feeling that he has a Tatanka-sized heart, and is the kind of guy that would bend over backwards to help others.

Remember in Dances with Wolves (1990), when Costner's character, Lieutenant John Dunbar, invited all the nearby Indians over for coffee? He didn't have to do that! He could have easily reported back to his commanding officer and said, "Sir, I advise that we lay waste to the nearby Indian people, who are proving to be quite the nuissance." But he didn't. Instead he chose to reach out to his indigenous neighbors, and build a friendship that transcended their two very different backgrounds.

And that's all I'm asking Lieutenant Joh-- er, Mr. Costner to do now: To build a bridge; to reach out to the little guy and say, "I'm here for you, man."

And I think you, my loyal readers, can help build this bridge. If you'd like to see Kevin Coster's site link mine, simply e-mail him your pleasant request, as I did, at: questions@kevincostner.com

A Stop in Kentucky

2005-02-08T11:18:00.000-05:00

I awoke to the sound of gravel crunching underneath the wheels of the Tercel. We had stopped on the shoulder of the road. "Oh fuck," said Jesse, stuffing his rolling papers underneath the seat, and out of sight. "What's goin' on?" I asked him, rubbing my eyes. He was squirming behind the wheel and didn't answer - but I managed to figure things out on my own, when I noticed the pulsing red and blue lights in my side-view mirror. "Oh fuck," I said.

* * *

It was summer, and we had just spent the past four days camping out on a large patch of Tennessee farmland with about two-hundred thousand twenty-first century "hippies."
Jesse's Toyota didn't exactly blend in with the old, rusted Volkswagen vans everyone else seemed to be driving, but we didn't care.
We didn't travel to Bonnaroo all the way from Canada to make friends with a bunch of stereotypes - we were there for the music, which included the likes of Bob Dylan, The Dead, The Dave Matthews band, and any number of lesser-known blues, country, and folk artists. That's why we were there.

And then of course there were the drugs.

The campground at Bonnaroo was absolutely teeming with chemicals. It reminded me of a hive, and the drones were steadily swarming in from the nearby freeway, each carrying his or her own personal nectar.
Jesse and I had stocked the coolers in the back seat with a good quanity of beer, but it quickly became apparent that if we wanted anything else -- anything at all -- we could get it. Within literally five minutes of parking the car in the not-yet-flattened grass, I was offered pot, mushrooms, acid, cocaine, ecstasy, morphine pills, heroin, and peyote.
My friend and I were young, and nearly a world away from home -- we felt as though we were on the first page of one of those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books.

* * *

"Just stay calm," I told Jesse between deep breaths, looking at the highway patrol officer in his cruiser behind us. "If we stay calm, we'll be fine."

It was a little after one in the morning and we had just crossed into the state of Kentucky. The festival was about an hour and a half behind us and we were on our way home. We were unshaven, dirty, smelly, and absolutely exhausted after having spent the past few days indulging in numerous substances, while wandering about listening to loud music under the sun's intense rays. Had we been stopped on the way down, we likely wouldn't have been as worried as we were at that moment. But because our brains were pretty fried, and we weren't entirely sure if we had anything illegal in the vehicle or not, our hearts were pounding hard.

Jesse rolled the driver's side window down as the trooper approached the vehicle, his boots clicking on the asphalt. We each tried to catch a glimpse of him in the side-view mirror as he came closer, but we were forced squint because the trooper shone the beam of his flashlight into our eyes using the reflection.

"How y'all doin' tonight?" the the officer asked, not expecting an answer. "Lah-cence and registration please," he continued, still shining his light in Jesse's face. After checking out his identification, he handed it back to him and politely asked Jesse if he would follow him to the back of the v-hickle.
"I just thought I'd show you why I pulled y'all over," the trooper said as he led him back. I rolled my window down an inch so I could listen in.

The cop then proceeded to explain that in all his years of law-enforcement he had never seen a licence plate that looked quite like the Tercel's, which had been almost entirely eaten away by rust.
"I mean, I couldn't even tell where y'all were from!" I heard the officer laugh.

Jesse forced a chuckle and nervously explained that during the winters in Ontario there was often a lot of salt on the roads, which accounted for the erosion. "I've been meaning to get it replaced, though," he added, undoubtedly hoping that this would be the final word of the evening.

But the trooper obviously didn't have to show Jesse his own licence plate; I understood immediately that he had separated the two of us in the hopes we would contradict one another's stories. This was the old divide and question technique. And, just as I predicted, the trooper then immediately got down to the serious business.

"Now, where are y'all comin' from?" he asked.
"We were just at the Bonnaroo festival," I heard Jesse say. "On our way home to Canada, now."
"That's a mighty long drive," the trooper said. "Did y'all enjoy yourselves down here?"
"Yeah--yeah, we had a good time."

Quit beating around the bush, I thought, tapping my foot impatiently.

"Now, I've got to ask you this," the officer said sternly. "Do you have any illegal substances in the v-hickle this evening?" I held my breath as Jesse paused a moment.
"No, we don't," he eventually stated. "Well, I can't say for certain whether or not James up there has anything on him, but I know that I don't have anything."
"You're sure, now?" rejoined the officer. "'Cause I've got a drug dog in the cruiser back there, and he can sniff out narcotics a heckuvalot better than I can -- even the tiniest ammount. So if you've got anything to tell me, now's the time."

Jesse paused again at this. "Well," he began, "there is a pair of manicure scissors in the glove compartment that we used to cut up some weed a few days ago. I guess those could have traces of marijuana on them."
The trooper said that he wasn't concerned with things like that. What he wanted to know is whether we had any substantial ammount of drugs.
"In that case, no," said my nervous friend.
"Okay, you wait here while I go talk to your buddy," the trooper said as he made his way to my passenger side window.

I then proceeded to repeat what I had heard Jesse say, word for word, about the scissors. I added that we did have a small bit of pot before we left the concert grounds, but we decided it was best not to drive on the roads with it, and gave it a couple of hippies -- much to their delight.

The trooper then gave me the same "now's the time to tell me" routine, which made me pause and think. I quickly realized, though, that any hesitation at this point would almost certainly look suspicious, and since I didn't want to risk having that drug dog poking around, like Jesse, I said that there were no drugs in the car.

The trooper, hunched over, stared hard into my eyes, attempting to read my thoughts. He then stood up straight, glanced back at Jesse and said, "Well, I believe you boys, and I'm gonna let you be on your way. You've got a long drive ahead of you, so you may want to get some coffee at the rest area around the corner."
We both muttered our thanks and told the officer we would take his advice as he walked back to his cruiser. "Y'all drive safe, " he said as he shut his door.

The two of us sat silently in the car until the trooper had driven off. "Holy shit, was I worried!" Jesse eventually said. "Oh, me too," I agreed. "Hey, let's head to that rest area he was talking about - I could go for a coffee."

Jesse then put the car into gear and accelerated down the road. A moment or two later he turned and looked at me, his mouth half open. "Holy shit," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"HOLY SHIT!"

"What! What is it?"

"Man, I totally forgot about that loaf of pot bread I bought!"
"Oh my god."

With our eyes widened, we both turned and looked in the back seat.

Sure enough, there it was, in plain view - the greasy, marijuana-packed loaf Jesse had shelled out a fair bit of cash for two days earlier. Its potency had been verified, since he had eaten a small piece of it on the day he bought it and been stoned for hours.

The amazing thing was, had we not genuinely forgot that there was a goddamn brick of drugs in the back seat, we wouldn't have known what to do! When asked the "are you sure?" question, we'd have likely stammered like an idiots, while sweating profusely. At that point the dog would have been summoned, half-crazed, the scent of drugs in its nose. He'd have located the bread instantly and Jesse and I would have been hauled off to a Kentucky prison, and given the opportunity to call our parents. "Hey, we were arrested in Kentucky - can you drive the 19 hours it takes to get down here and bail us out?"

As we pulled into the rest stop to get our coffee, we immediately tossed the pot bread into the garbage. We then sped off into the darkness, talking at length at how incredibly lucky we had been.

Procrastination and its Ramifications

2005-02-07T16:08:00.000-05:00

Fox's post-Super Bowl programming kept me in front of the television until around eleven-thirty last night. Simmering on the academic backburner were two essays, due the following morning. What am I saying? They weren't simmering at all - they were dead cold, since I hadn't even started them, nor had I read the two lengthy plays which each had to separately discuss.

11:35pm - I decide to get right to work on my reading.

1:30am - I finally open the book. "I think I'll read on my bed," I thought, making a mound of pillows on which to comfortably rest my head. I begin reading.

2:45am - I awake from my sleep. My book is open to the second page of play number one. I curse my foolishness, but I'm thankful I had left the bright lights of my room on, because they made it more difficult to rest comfortably. I decide that if I'm going to be reading on my bed, I had better set my alarm clock to go off every hour or so, just in case.

4:49am - I finally make my way to the end of the first play, but time is running thin, and I realize that the second reading will be nowhere near as thorough. I begin skimming over the text, nodding off now and then, but jotting down the important tid-bits as I see them, act by act. "Lord Byron, you windbag, you."

9:00am - After a little reading and a lot of sleeping I have a general idea about what I'm going to write. I drink some very strong coffee and then allow myself an hour to work on each paper, since they were both due at 11:30am and I wanted to leave the house by 11.

11:30am - I'm done, but I'm late. I jog to the bus stop and wait there with an elderly woman and later, a guy about my age. He's fat, dirty, and looks like an asshole.

"I'm an asshole."

11:36am - The bus hums to a stop and Mr. Asshole decides he wants to hop aboard before the little old lady - who had been waiting there longer than either of us! The ground was icy and as he shouldered past her, he nearly caused her to lose her footing. I was already pissed that I was late at this point, so why not blow off some steam, I thought. After writing that post on pedestrian etiquette, I've been even more conscious of this sort of rude behavior.

I grabbed the fat fuck by the back of his jacket and tossed him back across the sidewalk and into the snowbank. Since he was so large and already up the stair of the bus, this was an easy maneuvre, because gravity did most of the work. The bus driver wasn't alarmed in the slightest, either. In fact, he looked pleased I had done something.

A picture of the fat asshole in the snowbank. ..
Okay, it's not him, but I had to add this.

"After you, ma'am," I said, gesturing for the woman to go ahead of me. At first she hesitated, a little alarmed at what had just happened, but then she gave me a smile and thanked me as we got on. I sat with her at the front, and gave fatass the most hateful look I could as he walked to the back of the bus in silence; visibly embarrassed, his clothing soaked with slush.

Blog Surfing

2005-02-07T01:41:00.000-05:00

Click. Click. Click-- "What the fuck?"

Don't you hate it when you're clicking from blog to blog when you're suddenly assaulted by a barrage of pop-up windows! "You're about to enter my site! - I can't wait until you see my site! -here comes my site!" and so on. Oh, and then something will come on my screen telling me that I've got to upgrade my browser or something! Why? So I can view all the shit you wrote about Jay-Z and Hillary Duff?

Yeah, it's usually young teens that do this, and it is very annoying. Maybe if they offered some real content I wouldn't be as pissed off every time

Another thing that annoys me is foreign language blogs. Is there a way to prevent these from popping up on my screen?

I'm sure most people have clicked on to Japanese blog that's brilliantly designed, right? Well don't you hate it when they alter the site around so that the "next blog" button is nowhere to be found? You're trapped!

The Tree House

2005-02-05T18:14:00.000-05:00

It was summer, 1993. I was eleven years old, with few responsibilities--and that was just the way I liked it.

Our quiet resedential street was lined with hundred-year-old maples, and the dimming sunlight would flicker through them in the evenings as the neighbourhood children ran barefoot along the sidewalk. The wind carried with it the smell of barbeque and the sound of buzzing cicadas.

Directly nextdoor to us stood a Victorian-era brick house, with an unusually large side lot. It was so large, in fact, that the owner ended up subletting it in order to erect another home, which he planned to rent out. During this summer I unhappily watched from our porch, often with popcicle in hand, as that yard, where my friends and I would often have cap gun shootouts, was scooped out with backhoes so that the foundation could be poured.

Our industrious neighbor, who lived in the large Victorian house, had a daughter, Samantha, whom I had befriended. She was a year older than myself, but probably just as boyish. We both had mop-top hair styles, enjoyed riding our bikes, catching newts and worms in the nearby ravine, and loading up on as much candy a dollar or two could by us at the nearby convenience store.

Sam had two dogs, and they followed her everywhere, even though she almost never forced them to wear leashes. One of the dogs was a large, smiling golden retriever called Taffy; the other, her favored of the two, a tiny black poodle-terrier mix she had named Jack. Taffy was a very well-mannered dog, but whenever she was around Jack she did not receive much attention. Like an infant sibling, Jack stole the spotlight. His behaviour was nearly human. He would give polite little barks as if to say hello, and then look up at you with his understanding little eyes--although they were partially obscured by what looked like big bushy eyebrows. Sam could almost always be found outside, running up and down the street for whatever reason, with Taffy trotting beside her and Jack behind them, sprinting to keep up.

I had another friend named Tim in these days, who would often come over to my house to play Nintendo, because his parents refused to buy him one of his own. One afternoon, after our thumbs had become raw from playing Super Mario Brothers 3 for several hours, we ventured oustide in search of more wholesome entertainment.
Samantha, as usual, was nearby with with her dogs, and she quickly approached as if she had been waiting for us. "Hey, what are you guys up to?" she asked.
I told her that we were bored with video games and in need of something to do. She paused a moment and then her eyes lit up. "Do you want to go work on the tree house? We've got a ton of lumber scraps on our lot!"

This suggestion interested Tim and I, and we nodded our approval. We knew of the "tree house" Samantha referred to--it was nothing more than a few decomposing boards that someone had hammered into one of biggest maple trees in the neighborhood. This tree grew in solitude in the far corner of an empty lot at the end of our street. None of us knew whether the fort had been constructed years earlier and left to rot, or if had been constructed recently with material that was already rotting; but this didn't really concern us. Our plan was to tear the old fort down in order to build a new one in its place.

So, after hauling out my old wagon from the garage, we all proceeded to the build site nextdoor and began collecting various pieces of wood that littered the yard. Then, after we felt we had grabbed enough, we carted it all down the street along with a few hammers and nails, Taffy and Jack following patiently behind us.

The original fort was perched about fifteen or sixteen feet above the ground. Sam, Tim and I all ascended the steps, hammers in hand, eager to begin the demolition. Meanwhile, the dogs waited in the shade below, playfully chasing one another from time to time.

Up in the tree we began our work by attempting to pry the rusted old nails from the wood; but we soon discovered that because there were literally hundreds of them, this would be a slow and futile effort. Thankfully, because most of the lumber was so old, we realized that we were able to hack at it with our hammers and dislodge the boards quite easily. So the three of us began chopping and prying at the fort, in an effort to make way for the new one.

We were making a good deal of progress when Tim and I decided decided to rest for a moment. Samantha, however, was feaverishly attempting to dislodge a very thick board, which was dangling from a cluster of brown, crooked nails. Tim and I sat silently as Sam, totally focussed on the task at hand, began kicking at the old plank with her running shoe.

The board suddenly broke loose from the tree and fell, and each us hunched over the hole it left in the floor in order to see it land. It was during this instant, which still remains burned in my memory, when the three of us remembered that Taffy and Jack had been chasing about on the ground below us. What made us forget about the dogs, I don't know. Perhaps it was the excitement of working on the fort--or maybe because they were always so quiet. Whatever the reason, all I know is that at that moment there was nothing we could do but watch.

During the instant the plank fell, little Jack was rounding the trunk of the tree counter-clockwise, playfully chasing Taffy. The board hit the little black dog hard with its corner in the middle of his slight frame, right behind the ribs, abruptly slamming him to the gravel. Jack yelped repeatedly in agony as he squirmed to free himelf, and then ran frantically in circles. No harm had ever come to him before, and this sudden onslaught of pain terrified him. He bucked and kicked as if he was fending off invisible enemies, but what he likely thought were repeated attacks were in fact the waves of agony shooting through him.

We watched helplessly from above as Jack suddenly collapsed within the whirlwind of dust and debris he had kicked up. Samantha, horrified at what she had just done, scrambled as fast as she could down the tree with tears in her eyes, saying Jack's name over and over again. Tim and I remained frozen, and exchanged a wide-eyed look at one another. "He's dead, he's dead!" Samantha hysterically shrieked as she ran up to Jack, who lied very still in the dirt.
At this point, Tim and I made our way down to the ground and subtly approached Sam and her little dog.

Jack wasn't dead, but it was clear he was dying. His tongue, which hung like a rope from his mouth, began turning blue, and his eyes, his previously warm and caring eyes, were glassy and vacant. Between sobs, Sam shouted garbelled orders about veterinarians and "going for help" to no one in particular. And it was just as well, because she must have known that Jack didn't have much time.

The little dog's stomach was distended and his breathing was rapid and automatic. Taffy, who no longer had a reason to run, sat calmly nearby and watched the scene, looking like she always did: contented and simple. Tim stared in silence, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

And then Jack stopped breathing.

We all sighed, not knowing what to say--so we didn't say anything. Samantha regained her composure and picked Jack up off the ground to carry him. Tim and I gathered the tools, put them in the wagon and began walking home behind Sam; Taffy as always, moving silently with the procession.

As we made our way down the sidewalk, a young lady in her mid-thirties, who was just leaving the front door of her house turned to Samantha and exclaimed, "Awww, what a cute little puppy!" and reached to pet Jack, who lay as if he were sleeping over Sam's shoulder. In a flat and uncaring tone, Samantha responded, "He's dead." The woman, startled, quickly recoiled and put her then shaking hand to her mouth as we marched on.

We buried Jack amongst the hedges in Samantha's side yard that day, and never went back to complete work on the tree house.

Women with Authority - Gasp!

2005-02-05T01:20:00.000-05:00

The professor's got it all figured out.

Did that title make the little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end? If you are a male, the answer to this question is likely yes. If you are a female, the answer is probably a no--you're likely salivating right now.

I, (like many males, I'm sure) could write volumes on this topic. But in order to keep the ladies from turning away in disgust, I'll make this short, simple, and relatively easy to digest.

If you're a woman in a position of authority, don't try and give us men a high-heeled kick to the face on behalf of your sex. Acting in a vindictive manner will only cause you to crash through a few levels of glass ceilings, regardless of the title you have on your name tag. All of your male colleagues will whisper behind your back even if you hold one of them over the fire.

The reason for this is because the male ego cannot withstand such treatment from women. History has taught us that change comes slowly. Hell, women only got the right to vote eighty-odd years ago, and since some men (not including myself) are still steaming about that one, it's pretty naive to think that ordering them around will go over that well.

Why, I can recall working at a job a few years ago where just such an incident happened to me. A younger female co-worker with less seniority than I, thought her newly appointed "Supervisor" status gave her license to boss me around. I quickly made it clear that her behavior was unacceptable, but she would have nothing of it. Mad with power, she told me to go home and that she was going to call the big boss man about me. "Fine," I said, grabbing my coat to leave. "You do that." And by golly, she did! She called up the very man who had just given her her authority and explicitly detailed how she had abused it. A tactical error on her part.

The next day I came into work and the boss motioned me to come talk with him. "So," he said, giving me a slight smirk, "I hear we had a 'problem' between you and 'Karen' last night?"

I understood immediately that we were on the same wave length.

"Yeah," I responded. "Yeah, we had a little problem."

"Well, I'm sure we won't have any more problems like this, will we?" he said.

"I have a feeling we won't."

After this, "Karen's" behaviour was noticeably subdued. She maintained her Supervisor status, but if she wanted me to do something from then on in, she asked--and smiled politely when she did. And do you know what? I was almost always happy to oblige her.

See, that's the lesson here: men know that in today's society women can ascend to almost any station--and we're fine by that (*nervous cough*). What we don't like is when this authority is abused in order to harm us. The trick, which I alluded to above, is to deliver your bitter medicine with a spoonful of sugar. Remember, authority is relatively new to women, so in order to reach higher heights, you've got to act nicely. The day will come when no one will remember a time when women did not have authority, and on that day women everywhere will be perfectly within their rights to kick the shit out of any man who looks at her cockeyed. But because that won't happen for another, oh, hundred and fifty years or so, please be patient, mmkay?

Pedestrian Etiquette: How to behave

2005-02-04T21:09:00.000-05:00

Why is it that when someone makes a careless maneuver in their vehicle, it is commonplace for other drivers to angrily honk their horns and make obscene gestures? Well, naturally, it is because when a person defies or neglects to obey the rules of the road, he or she is automatically--and quite audibly--singled out and made to realize how fucking stupid they are.
When it comes to walking, though, we do not have a set of rules in place. Yes, there are pedestrian crossings at intersections and that sort of thing, but I am referring to instances when all that keeps us from crashing into one another is common sense. Unfortunately, though, few people possess this trait. Collisions are rare on sidewalks, staircases and in hallways, but because of other peoples' ignorance, we all suffer. Whenever I am scheduled for an appointment with the dentist, for instance, he will remark, "Your teeth look great; but it looks as though you've been grinding them in your sleep." No, Doc; I grind them whenever I encounter fuckwits who get in my way--so I guess I grind them a lot!

Usually it's hard to piss me off when there is a lot of space. The reason for this is because if I am walking in say, a parking lot, and there is someone coming towards me, I can alter my direction very slightly and manage to stay the hell out of the other person's path by making a new one for myself. Oh yes, I am perfectly willing to take the initiative by being the one to move out of the way; this is all I ask for: the freedom to go where I want, when I want. But because most of our day to day walking does not occur in parking lots, but in confined spaces, when people do not behave conscientiously, it drives me nuts.

So let's discuss a hypothetical situation, shall we? Two people are walking down a hallway towards one another and there is enough room for both to pass by comfortably. Okay, now I don't know if in England, where they drive on the left side of the road, people will walk in a similar manner; but because this is North America and we drive on the right (ie. correct) side of the road, we should naturally do the same thing when it comes to walking.
I absolutely hate the defiant fucks who will walk on the left and look at the ground in front of them as they approach, as if to say, "I don't you see you coming, so what I'm doing is okay." Wrong, asshole. Wrong! It is not okay, and I will make this person know it, either by stopping abruptly and forcing them to go to the other side, or by shouldering them. No, not enough to send them flying, but just enough to say, "I hate you."

People are naturally more confident when they walk in groups because they feel there is strength in numbers and that they do not have to pay attention to anyone else. When walking by yourself, how many times have groups walking two or three abreast forced you to the side? Lots of times, I'm sure. So this brings us to the etiquette one should follow when strolling along in numbers.
It's quite simple, really. If space--whether it be on a sidewalk or in a hallway--is limited, don't force others to jump in a snowbank or flatten against a wall to avoid you; momentarily walk in single file, for fuck's sake!

With regards to speed, I'll say this: slower traffic keep right. If you're determined to walk slowly, that's fine; but don't do it in the goddamn centre of the hallway so others can't pass you. I don't want to scuff your heels with my boots, but I will if I have to. This relates perfectly to escalators, too. If you want to stand there like a goon, travelling at a speed comparable to even the slowest of walkers, it's fine by me. But consider this: because cumbersome things like shopping carts and baby strollers are not allowed on these machines, it's only logical to deduce that they were designed to get people to their destinations more quickly--not leisurely. So again, stand on the right side of the stair to allow others the opportunity to get either to the top or bottom about ten times faster than you.

And now a few words on how we should all deal with doorways. Because I am a gentleman, I am more than happy to hold the door for a lady. Women are, after all, delicate creatures who appreciate such gestures. Why is it, then, that the weaker sex will often fail to reciprocate with kind acts of their own? Women will happily enter first as I hold the door, but will just as quickly let one shut in my face. Infuriating. When it comes to men, never yield the right of way as you might with a female, but make sure to either hand off or give added push to the door if they are following behind you so they can catch it.

When it comes to public transit, it's is truly amazing how selfish others can be. For example, every day I ride an inner-city train, and every day the same thing happens: as we come to a stop and the doors open, there is always a fucking wall of people blocking my way on the outside, craning their necks in an effort to seize the first opportunity to squeeze through the crowd and hop aboard! You morons! Why do you do this!? There is more than enough space outside the train for people to create a path for what should happen. (I sincerely hope that you know the answer is to allow the people on the train to get off before you attempt to get on.) It is so simple, yet people never let it happen. When you are waiting to board either a train, bus, taxi, or anything, understand that if people are getting off, they have the right of way.

I could write a fucking book on this issue, but I think these few guidelines give a good understanding of how to behave. I encourage everyone to try and think of the other pedestrians out there. Be as courteous as possible and proceed in a calm and orderly fashion.

Attack of the Vagrant

2005-02-04T13:01:00.000-05:00

Monday, December 3rd, 2001.

My alarm clock radio went off promptly at 8:00am sending two annoying noises into the air: one was the annoying sharp string of beeps that are standard on most alarm clocks; the other, the godawful music of Creed. My response to the words, "Can you take me highhhhhhhher?" was a firm slap to the snooze button.

I took a moment or two to contemplate sleeping for the rest of the day, but then decided I would rather absorb some local culture, head out for a walk and chat up some merchants. I threw my legs over the side of the mattress and placed my feet on the floor.

"Fucking shit!" Bare thighs coming into contact with the cold metal frame of the cheap university bed was never a pleasurable morning experience. My roommate groaned and rolled himself over. I lit a cigarette knowing he hates me smoking in the room. I didn't have to worry about setting off the smoke alarm since I had detached it months ago. I threw on my faded Levi's and put on my long black leather jacket. Out the door I went. As it closed behind me, the alarm clock's brief "snooze" came to an end. I heard my roommate curse, get out of bed, and then stomp across the rooom to shut off the clock. I struggled to light another cigarette due to my mischevious laughter.

I was soon walking down a stretch of sidewalk, fast approaching the downtown area. As the shops became more frequent, so did the pedestrians on the street. Elementary school children darted around the other walkers trying to get to the playground before the bell, no doubt. I took a deep drag and finished off my fifth cigarette of the morning, then hastily flicked it off the sidewalk and into the mouth of an alley way.

My curiosity made me glance over to see where my smoke had landed and I was startled by what I saw. A white-bearded homeless man in his mid to late fifties dressed practically in rags was trying desperately to suck the remaining smoke out of the discarded cigarette. My face shriveled into a grimace of disgust at the sight. The bearded man then looked up at me and said, "Say, you wouldn't happen to have another one of them to spare, would ya?"

"Fuck no!" I responded. "I can’t spare any. Besides, these things will kill you," I sarcastically shot back.
"Ah come on--I'm well over the legal age!" The bum replied.
"Fine, "I said, withdrawing a cigarette from its package. "I'll sleep better tonight knowing that I played some part in getting the homeless off the streets--inhale deep."
I then tossed tossed the cigarette with an underhand motion just out of his reach. A small gust of wind pushed along by a nearby closing door helped the cigarette into a stagnant puddle by my feet. It quickly absorbed the festering water and the whiteness of the paper disappeared leaving a wet, rotten-looking brown colour.

I was fortunate enough to be carrying my camera that
horrific moring.

"Ah, fuck you!" the homeless man roared, his few remaining yellow teeth barred in anger. "You owe me a smoke ya son of a bitch!"
"The hell I do, you piece of shit!! Go get a job and quit wasting my time!"

I then turned on my heel started on my way again. Suddenly, without warning, I experienced a sharp stinging pain deep within my shoulder just under the collar bone.

"Yarrrrrrrgggghhh!" I screamed.

Looking down at my shoulder, I saw the filthy hand of the bearded vagrant clutching a deeply imbedded hypodermic needle! Despite the intense pain shooting through my body, my mind was racing! I was much more concerned with long term effects of this encounter than I was a bit of exterior damage...or so I thought.

"You goddamn cheap son of a bitch!" the bum wailed as he applied all of his weight onto the needle. A loud groan was all I could muster. I could feel the syringe tearing my flesh. Suddenly I heard a 'snap' and I was momentarily freed from the psychopath. The needle obviously could not handle the thrashing about. My leather coat also must have aided in breaking it in two.

By this time bystanders watched in horror as the crazy bearded man made another lunge for me. This time I was ready. I ducked quickly to one side avoiding his lumbering attack.

"Arghrrmrph!" he muttered as he struggled to regain his footing. "You are so fuckin' dead" I screamed.

"Bring the noise!" he fired back.

With that, we charged one another. My fist made a swift and forceful blow to the man's mouth and I grinned as I heard a crunch as felt his jaw shift.

"Mmmarrrggghhh!" he squealed, as blood trickled its way down his fuzzy, cotton candy-like facial hair. He stumbled to his knees but then fell to the pavement on his side, taking long rattling breaths.

"You bumbling oaf!" I said. "It was a bad move trying to pick a fight with a fit, young student. I not only get to enjoy kicking the shit out of your aging body, I can also enjoy peace of mind because no court in the country gives two shits if I exterminate your sorry ass!"

"Yah?" The bum wheezed. "Well you won't be too happy with what I injected into ya!" He then laughed maniaclly.

"For your sake, I hope that's only a bum joke," I calmly responded.

I then lept into the air and brought my knees to my chest.. The heals of my heavy boots were poised and ready for impact. A cluster of pigeons took off, startled by my aggressive movement. As I descended, I eyed the unshaven throat of the homeless man--it was my target. I made a mental note to thank my grandmother once again for buying me the Bruce Lee Collector videos, closed my eyes and clenched my teeth tightly.

An audible 'thud' mixed with a 'pop' echoed in the nearby alley as my entire body weight crushed the man's spinal cord. It was a mere stubborn layer or two of old dirty skin that made the difference between a broken neck and a decapitation. The bum's body trembled momentarily but then stopped as the last sour breath exited the lifeless heap.

There was a shocked silence from all on the sidewalk who had stopped to watch. My mind became conscious of all that was going on for the first time in what seemed like ages. I noticed that cars had stopped on the street to view the scene, while mothers tried in vain to cover the eyes of their curious young children.

Utter silence.

My mind raced. "Will this mob now take my life! What have I done?!"

Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of...clapping! I looked up, puzzled. I observed that this was no solitary clapper, for others were readily joining in. Smile after smile appeared on the faces of the bystanders; cheers and whistles were made; and car horns honked with excitement.

"Good work," said a middle-aged man in a suit as he patted my back with approval. "Don't worry, we saw it all -- that asshole got what he had coming."

"Damn right, he did!" another man added.

My mind took a rest. "Self defense -- self defense all the way," another voice said.

I turned around and saw the figure of a police officer. I froze and nervously muttered something.

"Don't worry, son. You did good. You did real good," he said, grinning.

After that there was only the matter of my wound. I spent the rest of the day enduring test after test at the local clinic. Thankfully, there was no sign of any diseases or foreign substances in my system.

Just to play it safe, they gave me a tetanus shot. The nurse gave me a bandage for the cut on my shoulder and sent me on my way with a lolly-pop.

Welcome

2005-01-28T13:50:00.000-05:00

"Welcome to your lovely new blog, Mr. McHackenpuke. Care to take the grand tour?

"Sure."

"I thought you might like to. Unfortunately, since this is the first entry I have nothing to show you. Can I interest you in a pudding cup?"

"What the hey."

"Drat. I must have forgotten to add them to the shopping list last week - we're all out."

"That's okay, I wasn't hungry anyways."

An awkward pause.

"Get out, Mr. McHackenpuke."

And with that, Mr. McHackenpuke left the blog, muttering under his breath that he'd be back -- he'd be back real soon.