tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32677119019143057082024-02-08T00:37:35.415-05:00A Fistful of T-ShirtsPhilosophical Ramblings of a T-Shirt JunkieAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-51887020466863488942012-04-18T12:34:00.000-04:002012-04-18T12:34:54.861-04:00Oxygen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIqxOB_UM2sbdVKS_ncF8xo184r0c4zEcxSyS-GhUnUu_NdLBr0_8OrDlrx_Uygv1BsbIemnCvj3AS8nPw7XJV0KyfnpyZWmpL05OEP4oE-uKEJsm_5LL_wKwI1QmqweCzhW2a5sZDIvL/s1600/affots035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIqxOB_UM2sbdVKS_ncF8xo184r0c4zEcxSyS-GhUnUu_NdLBr0_8OrDlrx_Uygv1BsbIemnCvj3AS8nPw7XJV0KyfnpyZWmpL05OEP4oE-uKEJsm_5LL_wKwI1QmqweCzhW2a5sZDIvL/s320/affots035.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Five years ago our pet hamster died.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've never had a pet hamster before, and I took it as a personal failure.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He was a long haired teddy bear hamster. And he lived a quiet, isolated life in the basement. Oh sure, we would feed him, change his cage and the kids would play with him often enough, but, as with most things, when he was out of sight, he was out of mind.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, I didn't just rush out and buy a pet for my kids. I did my research. I scoured the internet for information about hamsters. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One suggestion on a hamster forum was to make sure the hamster had good breeding.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This sounded reasonable. It made good sense. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Until I was reminded that it was only a hamster.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The life span is about two years or so, and to hunt around for some hamster with royal blood seemed abit more work and money than I wanted to invest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I settled on one from a local pet store.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The kids named him Percy, after the little green engine from <em>Thomas the Tank Engine</em> TV show.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just shy of the Percy's two year anniversary, I found him stone cold and curled up in its nest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not wanting to prolong the sadness, we informed the kids and set about the funeral preparations.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wanted to build a pyre. But was vetoed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I had no choice but to dig a hole in the frozen ground in mid-january.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We wrapped Percy in a paper towel shroud and buried him next to a linden sapling.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The kids cried for a long time, while I silently pondered how the hamster died so soon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was well feed, had water, a nice clean cage, a wheel and plenty of treats.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I concluded that the pet store sold me a lemon, and vowed that next time I would buy a hamster from a proper breeder.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Recently, while Googling aimlessly, I stumbled across some hamster websites and decided to do some light reading.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Apparantly, when hamsters get too cold, for instance, when they are confined to a cold basement, they enter this state of hibernation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To rouse them from their torpor, it requires a bit of warming up.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Oops.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-80878207768170824932011-12-20T12:47:00.000-05:002011-12-20T12:47:06.590-05:00Sight Beyond Sight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M3_V8oHD4pzjy3cKY7jur9jpZblDLgEWifcVXOlHZ7ytq6elp2a7jZd3LcU8T2lYjJUFbgEbx-swcq-OOiqiB7cJg4bKHfckmWMdbh3tcL5X1fkMUR4H94bV4OYOSpfyg3V4UO0npE3M/s1600/affots029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M3_V8oHD4pzjy3cKY7jur9jpZblDLgEWifcVXOlHZ7ytq6elp2a7jZd3LcU8T2lYjJUFbgEbx-swcq-OOiqiB7cJg4bKHfckmWMdbh3tcL5X1fkMUR4H94bV4OYOSpfyg3V4UO0npE3M/s320/affots029.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
When I was in grade 2, I had built a time-machine out of a refrigerator box.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was big, and had weathered a countless onslaught of action and adventure.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Patched and repatched several times over with masking tape and construction paper, it was sported a stunning array of wounds like trophies. Riddled with bullet holes, laser burns, claw gouges from ferocious alien beats and an assortment of buttons, gauges, levers, display monitors and dials rendered in meticulous crayola detail, it was a cardboard monolith to my destructive imagination.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For reasons that have been lost to the fog of time, I had skipped school in the afternoon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My parents were working and I was home alone. After a Herculean effort, I managed to drag the box out of the basement and into the backyard where I was beset by danger in some Jurassic misadventure involving a triceratops and a garden hose that sprayed flesh-dissolving acid, when I heard the side gate open.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was a girl that lived down the street. She was in kindergarten.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Her arrival was timely, and without much preamble, together we finished off the triceratops and a gang of meat-eating dimetodons. Unfortunately, our side didn't escape unscathed either. Somehow during the battle, the acid from the garden hose had soaked her. And it was dissolving her clothes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With sound logic that could only make sense to a kindergartener, she needed to take off her wet clothes and let them dry before the acid did irrepairable damage.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At that same moment the refrigerator box had transformed into a change-room. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While she was taking off her wet clothes, I had gone inside to get a drink of Tang. Finishing my tasty and refreshing beverage (and not even having it occur to me to bring her one) I returned to the backyard to continue our adventure.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She was still in the refrigerator box.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How my young male brain was able to switch from the killing of dinosaurs to the sudden urge to see a girl naked, is a question best left to science. Without hesitation, and with a stealth born of predatory instinct, and knowing that it was best done on the sly, I crept up to refrigerator box.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Lucky for me, in it's transformation from time-machine to change-room, the bullet holes were still intact...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Inadvertantly I had transformed the refrigerator box into my very own Sword of Omens. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-70690863477609726732011-08-06T22:55:00.001-04:002011-08-07T02:01:38.811-04:00Lessons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddEtLuYt-pOG7bQNBz93DybXRe_IKjxHk0BPdeg86CgAZVIHqbQkkjRXl_j_MTr-L_Xgf35B1hjeJkYESX4cPJ_B4lHvbjjnm0hmRzUDYWY_WpHxUaexCltJ95D8P9Qg3R8to7JaeFwgz/s1600/affots043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddEtLuYt-pOG7bQNBz93DybXRe_IKjxHk0BPdeg86CgAZVIHqbQkkjRXl_j_MTr-L_Xgf35B1hjeJkYESX4cPJ_B4lHvbjjnm0hmRzUDYWY_WpHxUaexCltJ95D8P9Qg3R8to7JaeFwgz/s320/affots043.jpg" t$="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Karate is not just a cool way to kick someone's ass. It is also steeped in ancient wisdom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Instead of karate, I had decided to learn Krav Maga.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Krav Maga is a martial art steeped in vicious brutality.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There is very little formality in Krav Maga. The teaching tools are more direct and there is a noticable lack of subtle life lessons and profound riddles that a student must solve on his or her own.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What is strongly enforced is the need to wear a mouth guard. During class it is not uncommon to be struck in the face by another combatant. The mouth guard protects your teeth from getting busted or having them shear through your lip or tongue.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Gloves and/or wrist wraps are important as well. They prevent blistered knuckles from the intense and endless strikes against the padded shields.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A helmet is used, primarily, during sparring sessions.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Shin guards are awesome. Checking another combatants kicks without them is one of the most painful things you will expereince.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A cup, by far, is the most important piece in Krav Maga. Groin kicks and knee strikes to the groin are fundamental techniques and are ingrained in the student from day one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I love my cup.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What Krav Maga lacks in philosophical teachings, it more than makes up for in devastating self-defense techniques.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Had I instead decided to go with Karate, I am certain that the wisdom imparted by my very own Miyagi would have prevented me from storing my mouth guard, and my ball-sweat-slick cup in the same dufflebag compartment.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-23914587990227280792011-07-18T12:56:00.001-04:002011-07-18T14:35:18.485-04:00The 70s<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3csF8j3MMKsCSxykdCE_KjBtv_B-bxAdvcCfqaSeySoons5rsBNaIhNKV2E16B20lwzcJy6hw8rhKrseE86BgcJGTWWJQ_UtbnMqggUKHZwPbW-IJ-r7kl6Ya0_9R5t4Y6BKy5FOepUR/s1600/affots038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3csF8j3MMKsCSxykdCE_KjBtv_B-bxAdvcCfqaSeySoons5rsBNaIhNKV2E16B20lwzcJy6hw8rhKrseE86BgcJGTWWJQ_UtbnMqggUKHZwPbW-IJ-r7kl6Ya0_9R5t4Y6BKy5FOepUR/s320/affots038.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I remember the 70s like any kid born in the 70s remembers them: With a fondness born of nostalgia.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There was a quality to that decade worthy of nostalgic reflection, for it was the last decade of true lawlessness.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You could drive drunk straight through a stop sign and into the side of a house; stagger home and tell your wife to lie to the to police when they arrive, telling them it was you driving.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The cops didn't press charges because they figured that a hard working man had enough to worry about. And as for the wife, well, she'll be getting hers later.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When the cops brought your kid home for some stupid stunt that involved vandalism and fabricating a story about a clown in a black van, you could yell at your kid; drag him bawling through the house by his ear lobe, into the kichen, and the police officers would wait patiently by the front door, not wanting to interupt the rythmn of the genuine-leather-on-flesh sound your belt would make.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The cops were sympathetic and appreciated that a hard working father needed to take responsibility for his own kid and not leave it to others to do it for him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When we bandy about terms like nostalgia, its not because we actually miss being kids. It's the bitterness of getting screwed out of being an adult male in the 70s, so we could be just like our heroes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our dads.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-24984456521316643962011-07-07T14:30:00.005-04:002011-07-07T16:00:02.613-04:00Fear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggj2oTioVHNoqRkNQe7a2Q0TMfvcEnY1Z_zjghNBzvEcLqHKfiebxZTuRAm65ZsJOKVAfoGbSI-wXKwZoh_bPWI9DszZQ_5v9Ts42hBZiCsefhXw_duObrfgT_0zrWtlP3wsJzfCeqewEr/s1600/affots034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggj2oTioVHNoqRkNQe7a2Q0TMfvcEnY1Z_zjghNBzvEcLqHKfiebxZTuRAm65ZsJOKVAfoGbSI-wXKwZoh_bPWI9DszZQ_5v9Ts42hBZiCsefhXw_duObrfgT_0zrWtlP3wsJzfCeqewEr/s320/affots034.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All spiders are poisonous.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">From Wikipedia: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spider">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spider</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em><strong>"Spiders</strong> (</em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Order_(biology)" title="Order (biology)"><span style="color: #0645ad;"><em>order</em></span></a><em> <b>Araneae</b>) are air-breathing </em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthropod" title="Arthropod"><span style="color: #0645ad;"><em>arthropods</em></span></a><em> that have eight legs, and </em><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chelicera" title="Chelicera"><span style="color: #0645ad;"><em>chelicerae</em></span></a><em> with fangs that inject </em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venom" title="Venom"><span style="color: #0645ad;"><em>venom</em></span></a><em>."</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I hate them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My first part time job was at <em>A&P</em> - a now defunct grocery store chain.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I worked in the dairy department. Besides stocking the shelves with milk, cheese, butter, eggs and cottage cheese, the dairy department was also responsible for Parcel Pickup.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Parcel Pickup was where customers would go to pick up their groceries for easy loading. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After they purchased their groceries with the cashiers, they would load the bags in these big, numbered, red bins, then place them on a conveyor belt. This conveyor belt would take the bins into a dark tunnel at the back of store where the customers would drive up and collect their bags.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When a car pulled up, a magical bell would ring, summoning one of us to find the correct bin and help load the groceries into their car.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One slow night, Rob and I had finished our shelf-stocking duties and decided to waste away the last half-hour or so of work outside the Parcel Pickup doors.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was summer, and our shift was over at midnight.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There were these overhead lights just outside the main doors, set into the ceiling of the overhang that ran the length of the building. I spotted movement at one of the lights.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Holy shit!" I said.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Holy shit!" Rob echoed a moment later as he saw what I saw.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was this giant, ebony spider. Its ping-pong-ball-sized body was bulbous and shone like the body of a newly washed and turtle-waxed 1968 jet-black Pontiac GTO. The eight legs looked like nails plucking the steel cello strings of its web. We could see its fangs, flexing and glistening with venom as it salivated at the thought human flesh.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Watching this hell-spawn weave more of its web, we knew what we had to do.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Get the shovel." Rob said.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Right." I said, and rushed back inside to get the rusty shovel we used as dust pan.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The weight of the shovel felt good. The stout wooden handle and metal blade would make short work of this beast.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Rob stood back, content to cheer me on as I circled the arachnid. I shifted my grip on the shovel several times, trying to find that perfect striking angle.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I was certain I had it, I made some test swings.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The spider paused.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was acutely aware of its eyes looking at me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I panicked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In a rushed one-handed swing, the shovel arced towards the spider. I used my other hand as a shield to cover my vulnerable eyes in case it could spit venom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em>Clang!</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The shovel blade rang off the bricks as it only partially connected with the light. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Rob bellowed a rousing HUZZAH, fists pumping the air.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Jubilation turned to horror.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Holy shit!" Rob said.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Holy shit!" I said.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The spider was still alive and going crazy. It was pulling a Hulk Hogan, shaking and jittering in its web.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Hit it again!" Rob yelled pointing frantically at the angry spider. "They remember! Don't let it live!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">His fear was infectious and I swung the shovel again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em>Clang!</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My aim was even worse.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This time spider vanished. However, there was no smear, no remnants to confirm the kill. Only the tattered edges of the ruined web.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Where did it go? Where did it GO?!" I was freaking out, my mind inches from the precipice of hysteria.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I don't know! I DON'T KNOW!!" Rob shouted back, arms flailing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We searched the ground beneath the light looking for the corpse, moving in and out, ducking and weaving in some bizarre animation of an exotic bird dance.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"OH MY GOD! It's on the shovel!" Rob yelled. And ran.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Screaming like a teenage girl, I whipped the shovel into the parking lot, then slapped at my body just in case the spider leapt from it and unto me, then I too fled back to the safety of the dairy department.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Looking back to that night, I am still haunted by two questions:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One; What ever happened to the spider? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And two; I wonder what we looked like on the black and white CCTV security camera they had mounted outside Parcel Pickup?</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-49630945375026161512011-06-20T12:27:00.001-04:002011-06-20T14:54:02.672-04:00Influence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuBgdNMVIitg1yq5DDZzWmqSdPyzIytYdLcqtbHh7mRagdPj8BRvp2qudgKGp1u80CjoTfF6DJN6NHPbVv4oVf6P_zlT_M__qP5t_yL4AM9g4Loy6tXVSBpG4Xoi35tDITz5IGHi_GCOl/s1600/affots037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuBgdNMVIitg1yq5DDZzWmqSdPyzIytYdLcqtbHh7mRagdPj8BRvp2qudgKGp1u80CjoTfF6DJN6NHPbVv4oVf6P_zlT_M__qP5t_yL4AM9g4Loy6tXVSBpG4Xoi35tDITz5IGHi_GCOl/s320/affots037.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With Father's Day still fresh in my mind, I took a few seconds to contemplate what it means to be a dad.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Over the last few weeks I knew my kids were working on gifts for me. Little art projects they were tasked to undertake at school. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's no different than when I turned a lump of clay into a horrible looking ashtray for my dad when I was their age.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These little tokens of affection and appreciation are treasured. Even though the art projects are carbon copies handed out to each kid in class, it's the individual touches of crayon, paste and glitter that makes them unique and just for me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I see the drawings my daughter makes of me and her together (little crayon stick figures) it brings a smile to my face and a tear to my eye. She draws me with hair. Which, as I grow older, makes me happier than it should. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She also draws me with big muscley arms. I love this! Not because I'm vain (which I am) but because she sees me as her protector (which I am) and she feels safe, and can depend on me (which she can).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As a parent, there is no better feeling than knowing you are doing your job.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A few weeks ago, we took the kids to see <em>Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides</em>. It was opening night, but we went to the earlier showing to avoid the evening crowds.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was sitting next to my son.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">During the commercials and previews, there was a segment about fashion trends for this season. The guy on the segment was talking about how guys can 'make a statement' by putting together an outfit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The shirt was a plain, short-sleeved button down. The pants were beige khakis that were rolled up to create a capri pant. He was wearing brown deck shoes and a light brown cardigan. The coup de grace was a leather satchel- waitaminute...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Guys don't wear outfits! What the hell!?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The entire clip lasted about a minute, but the horror of what they showed will haunt me for the rest of my life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I turned to my son and watched him for a moment as he stuffed popcorn into his mouth. Kids can be very impressionable when it comes to media marketing and peer pressure, and the idea of something like what we had just watched having an influence over him, was gut-wrenching.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had to know. So I asked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Leaning in, I said, in the most neutral tone I could muster, "Would you wear something like that?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He turned sharply towards me, a look of utter indignation etched on his young face, and said: "No way! That guy was wearing a purse!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My relief was palpable, like a fart that fills a room and makes it too warm to wear a sport blazer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Smiling, I tossled his shaggy mop of hair and leaned back in my chair as the film started.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Contentment soothed me like the burn of a fine Scotch. I mentally notched for myself another victory.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not on my watch.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-35159794411698901712011-06-15T09:27:00.001-04:002011-06-15T09:38:27.380-04:00Exceptions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSewv6Qun8IN2fmyWSLXiGCjkpc4Bp-HuVm4hispsoqSTQ4luVrYBioKYMx1ti20aKxmJ6cWD7LX26wtnB3xnZrEo95PrsOg7RTrppBWCEev0jzpEqnyeX2sdTsl_pCUrW_YS7HCaXuXkX/s1600/affots033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSewv6Qun8IN2fmyWSLXiGCjkpc4Bp-HuVm4hispsoqSTQ4luVrYBioKYMx1ti20aKxmJ6cWD7LX26wtnB3xnZrEo95PrsOg7RTrppBWCEev0jzpEqnyeX2sdTsl_pCUrW_YS7HCaXuXkX/s320/affots033.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I never understood couples that have a need to dress the same.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's hard enough to find clothes that I like, without the added pressure of finding clothes that both of us like, AND that are androgynous enough to pass as both men's AND women's apparel.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, there are certain exceptions...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Xe9CyMRshhEo5JTwCU1VNoO6aN3Ukl7mMDKEySd35dKwgSxuwErxPumy6pPfoUD-yre6Xpx-m_q52b4nRjqdzMfZuvxhdbESjrpnJ4E527QAERSi4did-ugBoLggWZ__uVuf-_iOupo7/s1600/affots033b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Xe9CyMRshhEo5JTwCU1VNoO6aN3Ukl7mMDKEySd35dKwgSxuwErxPumy6pPfoUD-yre6Xpx-m_q52b4nRjqdzMfZuvxhdbESjrpnJ4E527QAERSi4did-ugBoLggWZ__uVuf-_iOupo7/s320/affots033b.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-39856986775176857622011-06-07T12:19:00.006-04:002011-06-10T09:39:02.649-04:00Ambition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wzx9NaoJevomh45UvqofDlOkyqXNGph4wYxj46npNp7RTKRqt7tkg8lUUXja_CTTBxIYjVDAwuVsP23t9TVVi-bzQDr9xQl0aL3j9qsSlzFy6SsXygfn1YNx-uMs91c8YplAJ0H5sziN/s1600/affots041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wzx9NaoJevomh45UvqofDlOkyqXNGph4wYxj46npNp7RTKRqt7tkg8lUUXja_CTTBxIYjVDAwuVsP23t9TVVi-bzQDr9xQl0aL3j9qsSlzFy6SsXygfn1YNx-uMs91c8YplAJ0H5sziN/s320/affots041.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was first introduced to the realms of Dungeons & Dragons when I was in grade 6. My friend was into it and he indoctrinated me into the cult during Mr. Horvath's homeroom class.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the following months, to the detriment of my grades, I buried myself in this mystical, magical, mysterious realm of monsters, magic and mayhem. I read through the manuals that came in the basic box set as if they were some ancient and sinister tome, hiding my activities by reading-lamp in the wee hours of the night.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I commited every detail to memory. Nothing remained hidden from me; not the long lived woodsy elves; nor the deep dwelling dwarves; nor the halflings and gnomes and orcs and trolls and hill giants and dragons. The ways of the magic-users, who hurled bolts of lightning and balls of fire were laid bare. Clerics who healed with divine providence became common place. Fighters that gleefully carved their way through foes with meat chopping battle axes, and thieves who used stealth to rob from friend and foe alike, and I, had become fast friends.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All this, and so much more, was now locked away in my cavernous mind-vault.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In school, my grades were less than impressive. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Bordering on special needs. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But ask me how many experience points it takes a first level paladin to advance to a second level paladin, and I could recite it my memory.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We would play on the weekends at Jean-Louis's house, using pre-generated characters that were provided with the AD&D modules which we were piting ourselves against.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The colourless days that made up the week between game days were filled with a pensive, nervous energy. Only Christmas and its promises of a new set of dice was more important than game day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">During class we discussed rules and monster stats. Which spells our spellcasters should memorize and if the druid was a superior caster to a cleric due to its natural affinity for surviving in the wilderness (seeing as most of our adventures took us across miles upon miles of unexplored woodlands filled with razor-toothed death!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was on one of our non-game weekends, as I was walking down the street, heading to the stripmall, that I ran into a fellow D&D adventurer - Dan Rezo. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My original plan was to hit the variety store for a pack of Big League Chew, a fistful of pixie sticks and a can of Cream Soda, and then off to the creek to throw rocks at stuff.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Dan was considered one of the cool kids and was pretty popular. He looked like Jeff Goldblum. But uglier.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He was chatting up some girl that I didn't recognize. They smiled at one another and chatted politely, as if she didn't notice how ugly he was.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I hailed him from a distance in the same manner our character-companions had done upon their first meeting at the Green Dragon Inn in the fair homlet of Bessalgrove so many moons ago. I was met with a cool, less-than-friendly reception.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How odd. Maybe he was bewitched?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He was cordial enough, but distant. There was an underlying sense of awkwardness as if he wasn't sure he knew me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Oblivious to my breach of social etiquette, I blurted out my totally awesome idea on how our adventuring party could set a pit trap, and line it with sharpened sticks, and lure an ogre into it, and then when it tries to pull itself off the spikes, my druid would cast a Warp Wood spell on the spikes which would bend and twist the wood, effectively pinning it in place, and...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">... and he was no longer paying attention. He had turned his back to me and continued his conversation with the girl, leaving me talking to myself, about my totally awesome idea.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I waited a moment to see if he would remember I was still there. When he didn't, I excused myself, citing some important meeting I was running late for, and dashed off down the sidewalk.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Fortunately, humiliation never dampened my ambitions. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not only have I had sex since then. With a girl. I had also moved up the ranks from being just a player, to the vaunted role of Dungeon Master.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That's right, Dan Rezo, you snooty, Jeff Goldblum-looking prick!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm a Dungeon Master now.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How about you?</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-3550185909141496062011-05-26T11:52:00.000-04:002011-05-26T11:52:25.107-04:00Henchmen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSa7wdG4E0zyhUcsLj2VeS_eyK22SvDrcJI0Ai9ezCWma380hsiXoiNGMz_zGjSWKWZfN2JNXkFBqgtXIcN5ba0BpTRka4nt_-DPYEL0DwqygJPA4_fzUKRdpCDQaNGhu82RwrVkjezp_d/s1600/affots032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSa7wdG4E0zyhUcsLj2VeS_eyK22SvDrcJI0Ai9ezCWma380hsiXoiNGMz_zGjSWKWZfN2JNXkFBqgtXIcN5ba0BpTRka4nt_-DPYEL0DwqygJPA4_fzUKRdpCDQaNGhu82RwrVkjezp_d/s320/affots032.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As a kid I had always day dreamed of ruling a powerful criminal empire like Cobra. Or S.P.E.C.T.R.E. Or the Legion of Doom. Or the Hart Foundation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, at that age, I never grasped how incompetant the minions were. I mean, I did, but I always gave the hero the credit for being so awesome, that he outclassed even the elite henchmen.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Starting my own criminal empire seemed easy enough; on paper. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The pen-drawn cross section of my underground fortress - complete with elevator shafts, hangars for my jet fighters, missile silos and kennels for my genetically enhanced St Bernards (exactly like Cujo, only they were under my complete control!) - was tacked up on the wall above my desk amid a veritable wallpapering of Clint Eastwood, The Punisher and Iron Maiden posters.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I would study these plans constantly, easily distracted from my homework. My weekends were spent scouting the ravine near my home for a suitable location to start construction of my secret base.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It didn't take long to figure out that me and my dad's shovel weren't going to be enough to build it. I needed to start smaller.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Brian, my neighbor from across the street, was 7 and I was 9. Age difference alone made me a role model and someone he could look up to. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I knew I could expoit this.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I did.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However, one fanatically loyal minion wouldn't be enough. My Empire of Evil needed resources to hire more henchmen and to finance the lair. Robbing a bank was definitely on my short list, but I would need to work my way up to that. Once again I would need to start small.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One day on our way home from school, I decided it was time to put things into motion. It was time to take action.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Avondale variety store would be our training ground. It would test us and hone the skills we would need to tackle the banks and national gold reserves later on.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Brian and I stood outside the store, casing it with narrowed eyes and intense expressions of concentation. We watched customers come and go, looking for patterns we could exploit. There were none. And we couldn't wait forever. My mom was expecting me home soon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It a moment of spontaneity I turned to Brian and explained my plan as quickly and concisely as I could. My voice was squeeky and high pitched from my excitement. He nodded, seemingly absorbing the details like a sponge in hot water.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But it was obvious from his lack of leaping-into-action, that he required more convincing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I offered him a higher percentage of the take. Every man has a price, and I found his.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He went into the store while I stayed where I was. Watching his progress through the large plate glass windows, I saw the plan crumble before my very eyes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was over before it even started. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He didn't even reach the tiered candy rack.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The store owner marked Brian as a shoplifter the moment he stepped through the door. I watched in dismay as the owner jumped over the counter and nabbed my young cohort red-handed. Brian was shaken like a puppy in a burlap sack. I could see him yelling. Spittle flew from the owners mouth as he vented a tirade of profanity and, no doubt, death threats and the young thief.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Brian's will broke instantly. Turning rat in less time than it takes to blink an eye. He was bawling, pointing frantically out the window towards me, obviously heaping all blame of his incompetence unto me!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By that time, however, I was already sprinting home.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-33515920813101432792011-05-06T12:16:00.005-04:002011-05-07T11:55:55.052-04:00Secret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjew5SQ5wZgl5oRQt6QcW6DB1qXh81MSmaNNBIoWvf4yR7QErNovfPXyjTu5RYOBAt7JKyqTturP8JKxM44Hhyphenhyphen71yFnfbp0dn2WqDsT5dpRbIwPaCJ9_VZHbZ38xMm2t0KyqRjFGisCnOaF/s1600/affots028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjew5SQ5wZgl5oRQt6QcW6DB1qXh81MSmaNNBIoWvf4yR7QErNovfPXyjTu5RYOBAt7JKyqTturP8JKxM44Hhyphenhyphen71yFnfbp0dn2WqDsT5dpRbIwPaCJ9_VZHbZ38xMm2t0KyqRjFGisCnOaF/s320/affots028.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back before DVDs and the Internet, watching porn was all about finding your dad's stash of VHS cassette tapes and playing it when your parents weren't around.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These early forays into the world of adult entertainment were what shaped our impressionable, adolescent minds. It set our expectations and cultivated our fetishes; both good and weird.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was also something that was experienced with others.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was the summer of '83. <i>Return of the Jedi</i> was a few months behind us, and we were now sailing into the doldrum of the long, hot days of summer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Jason and Patrick and I were hanging out over at Jason's house, enjoying the comforts of an air-conditioned rec room, drinking iced tea from his mother's fancy glasses - the tall skinny ones that are used for entertaining guests at a patio party, and munching on oreos and big puffy cheese snacks. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Being a weekday, his parents were at work.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He had a <i>ColecoVision</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And an entire bookshelf full of games. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We spent the morning working our way through the vast collection. It was just after lunch, being nauseous from the cheese puffs and completely jaded with video games, when Jason says. "Do you guys want to watch a prono movie?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've heard about these movies.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And was definitely interested. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Up until this point, my only exposure to sex were these black & white hardcover books. They were an artsy collection of photographs of naked women. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Years earlier, before puberty, I had stumbled across the books in a box and had coloured them up with typical child-like abandon. Crayon poo and pee marked the women's privates.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had hidden them in the crawlspace and in the following years had studied them with increasing frequency.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So there we were, my first porno movie in Jason's rec room. It was an unmarked, non-descript Beta Cassette tape straight from his dad's private collection. In complete silence - each one of us sitting at even intervals around the room, covering our laps with sofa cushions - we watched.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The washed-out, 60s footage was occassionally interrupted by a flaw in the well-worn tape, causing a white line to race across the screen. I paid it no heed, having eyes only for the forbidden fruit laid bare and let it seep into my eager and inquisitve mind.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We watched the entire film without fast-forwarding, studying it, commiting it to memory in preparation for real sex. Occassionally someone needed to make adjustment to their lap cushions, but no one made a point of noticing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When the credits finally rolled, we didn't bother discussing it. It was an unspoken rule that we all just knew. We waited until we no longer needed the cushions in our laps and could stand up without it being embarasing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Jason took the cassette back to it's secret location and the conversation returned to something we had been talking about earlier that morning, filing away this event and never revisiting it again. Finishing off the afternoon with some Joe Louie's and a can of Pepsi, we called it a day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On my bike ride home, I had plenty of time to analyse the experience and what I had learned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had no doubt that one day I would like to have sex with a girl. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But as far as learning experiences go, I was pretty certain that a movie about people fucking chickens and horses wasn't going to be of much help.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-45591798713814953552011-04-27T10:21:00.005-04:002011-04-27T13:59:25.761-04:00Oxymoron<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzdTMkfMykXqlS5ATXCxbCzn3hp3sEpWE_kgnsyg8fPmz8ppqNFnR6e3oZe9nc1Hc5lXA21LADzNQ7LngCrmFA5PYbTrZG1gLVesZF9zvHpOxFtPijI5EJXsS-LoWjCpw82pH-zRsnKyv/s1600/affots039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzdTMkfMykXqlS5ATXCxbCzn3hp3sEpWE_kgnsyg8fPmz8ppqNFnR6e3oZe9nc1Hc5lXA21LADzNQ7LngCrmFA5PYbTrZG1gLVesZF9zvHpOxFtPijI5EJXsS-LoWjCpw82pH-zRsnKyv/s320/affots039.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Christmas and Science <em>do</em> go together. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'll show you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><strong>Definitions</strong> lifted from Wikipedia... (<em><span style="color: cyan;">additional commentary added in italics</span></em>)<br />
<br />
<strong>Fire</strong> is the rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products. <span style="color: cyan;"><em>For this experiment:</em> <em>A Christmas candle in the middle of the table</em>.</span> The flame is the visible portion of the fire and consists of glowing hot gases. If hot enough, the gases may become ionized to produce plasma. Depending on the substances alight, and any impurities outside, the color of the flame and the fire's intensity might vary.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A <strong>metal</strong> is a chemical element that is a good conductor of both electricty and heat and forms cations and ionic bonds with non-metals. <span style="color: cyan;"><em>For this experiment:</em> <em>A nickel plated salad tong strategically placed directly over the candle flame.</em></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Pain</strong> is "an unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with actual or potential tissue damage, or described in terms of such damage." It is the feeling common to such experiences as stubbing a toe, burning a finger, <span style="color: cyan;"><em>For this experiment: my mother's burned hand as she grabbed the tongs when she went for the coleslaw</em>,</span> putting iodine on a cut, getting a stomach ache or cramp, and bumping the "funny bone".</div><br />
<strong>Laughing</strong> is a reaction to certain stimuli, fundamentally stress, which serves as an emotional balancing mechanism. Traditionally, it's considered a visual expression of happiness, or an inward feeling of joy. It may ensue from hearing a joke, being tickled, or other stimuli. <em><span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: cyan;">For this experiment: my father</span>.</span></em> It is in most cases a very pleasant sensation.<br />
<br />
See? Christmas Science.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-38914147486251623122011-04-25T14:16:00.000-04:002011-04-25T14:16:34.810-04:00Flash Fiction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6m19355lj3ZqJUAytkdcFHKPQd3X_jb0vwl2OIwtZZ5a3LyXwIDCqx48FcDzTzOm_2_4qnkuDU4b7U0QgCl9pQs71w4qtAJXTF7qDi5PJ2AkiHLaOzEndEtFQOEFSr8s2wPuHzWZcZn53/s1600/affots042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236px" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6m19355lj3ZqJUAytkdcFHKPQd3X_jb0vwl2OIwtZZ5a3LyXwIDCqx48FcDzTzOm_2_4qnkuDU4b7U0QgCl9pQs71w4qtAJXTF7qDi5PJ2AkiHLaOzEndEtFQOEFSr8s2wPuHzWZcZn53/s320/affots042.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was Easter, 2006, and my son was 3 years old. Being Easter my wife had bought a couple extra cartons of eggs, as we would need them for colouring.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was sitting in the living room, relaxing, with a clear line of sight to the kitchen. I was watching the two of them gather the needed components to begin the Easter egg-making process.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The island in our kitchen was covered in a single layer of newspaper. It was a desperate, yet futile, attempt to prevent the boy from making a mess on the countertop.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Several glasses, half-filled with water in typical Easter shades were arranged in a semi circle around the designated work area. Paper towels, spoons and stickers were laid out and ready.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All that was needed were the eggs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Together they made their way to the fridge. She got out one full carton of eggs and smiling, she handed it carefully to my son. She prefaced the hand-off with the necessary cautions reserved for all things fragile, messy and expensive.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">His little hands shot out like two deadly vipers, snaring the carton. She was caught completely off guard, and in that moment of stunned surprise, he bolted. It was exactly what I would imagine Wally West would have looked like in slow-motion. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was immediately apparant that this scheme was only conceived moments earlier. Most likely as inspiration to my wife's warnings for being careful. He turned and ran as fast as he could straight into the living room and directly towards me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">His laughter was chaotically mad with mischief. He had pulled a fast one on his mother and he was giddy with excitement and that feeling of victory you get when a daring plan comes together.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He was also 3 years old. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And clumsy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Half way into the living room, he stumbled and tripped. The egg carton crashed into the carpet and all the eggs where jarred loose, several ruptured upon impact.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was a terrible mess, but my wife and I still laugh about it today. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is a cherished memory.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So if there are any parents out there reading this post, heed my advice...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Never tell people cute stories about your kids. They're all just as lame as this one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sure, you may think your stories are cute and funny, but nobody else will. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Nobody gives a shit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Don't tell them. Ever.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-66094714280754123762011-04-18T09:39:00.001-04:002011-04-18T11:27:56.755-04:00Technology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NPRqEjAJ7c8HPJGAwItNYy7dWfU_gGKYsZLzS19AZi3r3NR-Y7aLs3YiMpteXFOoU3bKEB5csp1fLDVRHbTGpJQsKdij16vuAIfJv7RE-zz_s0RxhsztRS8bfX1ZOX9drumtd7bgUh37/s1600/affots036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NPRqEjAJ7c8HPJGAwItNYy7dWfU_gGKYsZLzS19AZi3r3NR-Y7aLs3YiMpteXFOoU3bKEB5csp1fLDVRHbTGpJQsKdij16vuAIfJv7RE-zz_s0RxhsztRS8bfX1ZOX9drumtd7bgUh37/s320/affots036.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My friend Bill, who enjoys this blog, found a website from Germany that sells the above pictured t-shirt. He assures me that he didn't stumble across it during a failed search for <em>scheißer </em>videos.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He ordered it and it was shipped to him via Luftpost.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had the t-shirt in my closet, waiting to test it out for months. Yes, test it. For you see, dear readers, this isn't just your typical run-of-the-mill t-shirt. It has powers. Powers that could only come from pragmatic German ingenuity.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here is what the shirt is supposed to do:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You put it on. Sit in front of your computer. Turn on your webcam and, somehow, whatever you are watching on your monitor is projected into the frame of the TV on the t-shirt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Technological wizardry!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had little opportunity to test it and so it remained in my closet, lost amoungst the rest of the herd.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally, one evening while Bill and I were on Skype (he lives in Boston) we decided to test it out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I took off the t-shirt I was currently wearing, very suggestively, and put on the TV one. All the while Bill pretended to avert his eyes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Together we stared at it for minutes. The t-shirt, that is. But the image through the webcam showed nothing. No change. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I tried a variety of poses and angles.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was a bust.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But I wouldn't give up that easily. I was pesistent. I refused to be out-witted by a t-shirt! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally, after some more jiggery-pokery, I managed to get it working;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1BRsmdr2H3TDnd7q2xSc_4_My8ASuz5u113wi3R_lJchGn7wvKmH1sX9HhiDT-roWgrVj8bRt7vJK-umjqmd4mDg0rBqlIwm02CyiP8Wsx3D16NV3krJ53uRcKevmv70NLTirCqnIk6U/s1600/affots036b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1BRsmdr2H3TDnd7q2xSc_4_My8ASuz5u113wi3R_lJchGn7wvKmH1sX9HhiDT-roWgrVj8bRt7vJK-umjqmd4mDg0rBqlIwm02CyiP8Wsx3D16NV3krJ53uRcKevmv70NLTirCqnIk6U/s320/affots036b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If anyone has this same t-shirt and has figured out how it works. Let me know. There is a very good chance that I have no idea what I am doing:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="mailto:creepybastard@bysinisterdesign.com">creepybastard@bysinisterdesign.com</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here is their website:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.sebastianmerchel.de/artees.html">http://www.sebastianmerchel.de/artees.html</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-79031455493659886052011-03-16T09:40:00.005-04:002011-03-16T12:34:23.912-04:00Smooth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguzCznUbJ0qQ2f8EzgCHRrtzG_fKubwWPxZ3hyphenhyphenmxMUcUhTYLXw1hchNrnuiJqmqUpXZCeVnHUX7d54o_-jgRdh8y-FoIbTojaeCqrG2xJZMnl8_QUktq5BKet7k70f0auYhMEwWA-LugcU/s1600/FFoTS+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguzCznUbJ0qQ2f8EzgCHRrtzG_fKubwWPxZ3hyphenhyphenmxMUcUhTYLXw1hchNrnuiJqmqUpXZCeVnHUX7d54o_-jgRdh8y-FoIbTojaeCqrG2xJZMnl8_QUktq5BKet7k70f0auYhMEwWA-LugcU/s320/FFoTS+025.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I met my wife when we were both 16.<br />
<br />
On our very first date, I took her to see Child's Play at Fiesta Mall. It was a dingy little mall, but it had character. And beneath the glow from the Bargain Harold's, Christian book store and the Cinema signs, one could see it's future spelled out amidst the grime. It read - flea market.<br />
<br />
Being grateful that I was going on a date with a girl, my father had given me some money and the use of the car. It was a Mazda GLC. The driver's seat was propped up with a couple of pieces of 2X4 so it wouldn't plunge through the gap in the floor.<br />
<br />
It was November and I wore my coolest sweater. It was black and red with an incongrous collage of images. There was a checker board pattern, some Xs and Os and Moose Heads. It was also thick and warm and I had no need to wear a jacket.<br />
<br />
I was like a white Bill Cosby.<br />
<br />
So far so good. Everything was going according to plan. I had the car - which I was certain we would use to make-out in after the movie, and I was looking super-good in my sweater. <br />
<br />
The ticket booth was in the mall and we filtered into the relatively short line, cracking jokes and making small talk. When it was our turn, I sauntered up to the window. It was immediately evident that the ticket guy was envious of my sweater just by the way he sneered at me. <br />
<br />
"What movie?" he sneered.<br />
<br />
"Child's Play." I replied. Understanding the power of jealousy, I ignored his insolence.<br />
<br />
"How much are tickets?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Five dollars." He sneered some more.<br />
<br />
I paused.<br />
<br />
It took me a moment to do the calculations. After buying the tickets, I wouldn't have enough money for a large buttery popcorn and a rootbeer. With only ten-dollars, I realized sacrifices had to be made.<br />
<br />
Taking the money from my pocket, I pushed the $10 bill through the small opening in the glass.<br />
<br />
"One ticket, please."<br />
<br />
That's 23 years ago.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-87297820821087644362011-03-10T12:12:00.005-05:002011-03-10T13:50:36.232-05:00Nemesis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiQv1rByDF2Z42d1Zlm-FkMEBuoNSkJHERfYJpjrogAOn_LnZ-myI51BtkA2aBHhVfnZnbgzAyCQ2YKz56QkLfoQS-D61tb9XPGoxfhyphenhyphenjyrOwM7LlRx-nznD-zuKcLy8lFj3-EifpD6RL/s1600/FFoTS+023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiQv1rByDF2Z42d1Zlm-FkMEBuoNSkJHERfYJpjrogAOn_LnZ-myI51BtkA2aBHhVfnZnbgzAyCQ2YKz56QkLfoQS-D61tb9XPGoxfhyphenhyphenjyrOwM7LlRx-nznD-zuKcLy8lFj3-EifpD6RL/s320/FFoTS+023.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em>"Before all else, be armed." - Niccolo Machiavelli</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Puberty was unkind to me, as it is to most. I was tall, skinny and boney, and socially awkward. Whatever cuteness I had as a child, vapourized, and I was left uglified by forces beyond my control. And this made me an easy target.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On a good day, my walk to school would take me 15 minutes. If I dilly-dallied, it would take me closer to 20-25 minutes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My route took me along the main road. It was the most direct path and any other option would take me well beyond 30 minutes travel time</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There was this bully that lived right along the way. He didn't go to my school, so I didn't know him. His name was Brian. I knew this much because I heard his minions say his name often.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Every year he would build this awesome snow fort in his front yard and I would marvel at it every single day. It was a fortress of frozen water. The walls - in my mind - where 10 feet thick. There was an entrance at the back, away from spying eyes and an escape route just over by the hedges, which was difficult to see, but my daily scrutiny of this bastion made me familiar with every detail. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How I longed to see the inner sanctum.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was certain there was an armoury within, stocked with every variation of snow-packed ammo that could only have been conceived by the mischevious minds of boys.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For some reason, Brian disliked me. I don't remember why or when the feud actually started, but he would make certain to torment me everyday.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Crossing the street wouldn't help. He would spot me, grab a clutch of snowballs, run after me and pelt me mercilessly. All the while his minions would chortle as they cheered him on and packed more snowballs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The sting of the ice shards on my cheek and doubling over as one struck me in the balls was by now a familiar sensation. All I could do was run and vow to fight back tomorrow, when my balls stopped aching.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, my vow would never come to fruition.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Until one day when Brian wasn't there. I found myself unmolested as I passed by his house. Conditioned by fear, I found myself running even when there was no physical danger.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">About four houses down, I stopped. And turned. Why was I running? I didn't need to run. Brian wasn't home.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And the fort was empty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even though I hated him, I was still awed by his snow fort. This was my chance to see inside it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With my heart thundering in my chest, I raced back and slipped into the fort.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was all that I imagined it would be. It was spacious enough to almost-stand-up in, and was segmented into three different rooms. The room I entered into was the vestibule. To the left was the room with the escape tunnel, and to the right was a dark room that housed the fort's ammunition.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The walls were so thick that no light filtered through them. I could only make out the faintest of details.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Nemesis or not, his fort was perfection. And it was obvious that I was hopelessly outclassed by this maestro of military tactics.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Destroying the stockpile would prove fruitless. They would just re-arm, and I would surely be the prime suspect and suffer heinously.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then it came to me. Subtle, yet satisfying.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I peed on his snowballs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em>Yo Joe!</em></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-19030932646930341122011-03-04T16:09:00.001-05:002011-03-04T17:58:35.183-05:00Rumble<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjQblD3GEuxL-l0JvWvmBnK565SgGNYgiWLSfYOzwG_tzXM3wS1Kme9SE7pAtyhRYGWWJn1XJAeSodahsekA9Uxa_sjW-Cw2qassCliC67wZvRiBi34N89MNfCzt0slAxo16wW0IJii3n/s1600/FFoTS+022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjQblD3GEuxL-l0JvWvmBnK565SgGNYgiWLSfYOzwG_tzXM3wS1Kme9SE7pAtyhRYGWWJn1XJAeSodahsekA9Uxa_sjW-Cw2qassCliC67wZvRiBi34N89MNfCzt0slAxo16wW0IJii3n/s320/FFoTS+022.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Fight like Apes!<br />
<br />
This battle cry is still given voice whenever I find myself in a situation that requires a round or two of combat to resolve.<br />
<br />
To date, I have only been in two serious fights.<br />
<br />
The first was with some prick in a parking lot that didn't like my driving. I calmly tried to explain to him that it wasn't <em>my</em> driving that was the problem. That in fact, it was <em>his</em> driving skills that were the problem.<br />
<br />
The exchange went something like this;<br />
<br />
Him: "Watch where you're going, fuck-head."<br />
Me: "Fuck you."<br />
<br />
There is just no reasoning with some people.<br />
<br />
We got out of our cars and he proceeded to punch me in the face. Just as I was about to respond with what would surely have been a deadly hail of knuckle sandwiches, he ran away; Unscathed.<br />
<br />
The second fight was a bit more extreme. My oldest and most trusted friend James, and I were going to a Bishop Ryan football game. There we encountered a few punks that wouldn't move out of the way as we tried to drive out of the parking lot.<br />
<br />
The exchange went something like this;<br />
<br />
Me: "Fuck you."<br />
<br />
I asked James to pull over; Which he did. Under protest (duly noted). But it was only a couple of punks, and I was only intending to intimidate them anyway.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure how, but two punks suddenly multiplied into a mob of 20. This was... unexpected. And disheartening. Yet, I had commited to this play, and had no other choice but to carry through with my bluff.<br />
<br />
Within moments I was surrounded and savagely pummeled. Fortunately for me, James rushed to my aid and distracted half of them. Now we were both being beaten up, BUT at least it was only from half of them and not the whole gang.<br />
<br />
When they got tired of punching and kicking us, we quickly made our escape.<br />
<br />
Is it that apes don't know how to fight? Or that I have no idea how to actually fight like an ape?<br />
<br />
Either way, James still blames me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-50906221269472932312011-02-25T09:58:00.000-05:002011-02-25T09:58:22.687-05:00Voltron<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCre3-lNgAt4nkiwagbZipHoL2Yhbu-M0bFWwxQKWUI6sjX_E7m4eR36PW3xQSQENedKciZs-25Dv4sE3_zeELW-M-UkJeNPRT9jbhRBmCYMF-dq2sb3wiWeFbJz6K8_K-1h7brQHEcSA/s1600/FFoTS+024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCre3-lNgAt4nkiwagbZipHoL2Yhbu-M0bFWwxQKWUI6sjX_E7m4eR36PW3xQSQENedKciZs-25Dv4sE3_zeELW-M-UkJeNPRT9jbhRBmCYMF-dq2sb3wiWeFbJz6K8_K-1h7brQHEcSA/s320/FFoTS+024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Milwaukee Brewers baseball T-Shirt. Thread-bare. Two sizes, too small. Sleeves removed. Circa. 1979.<br />
<br />
Levi's denim jacket. Frayed. Once adorned with Iron Maiden and Guns N Roses sew-on patches. Sleeves removed. Circa. 1987.<br />
<br />
Johnny Cash belt buckle. Brushed pewter. Holds up my pants. No sleeves to remove. Circa. 2010.<br />
<br />
Individually, they are Majestic Lions of Sex Appeal. Together, they form a giant, unstoppable Defender of Manliness!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-51130008188265346972011-02-14T10:41:00.001-05:002011-02-14T10:54:09.015-05:00Clever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uiaZHPOd0LMglDMORi9fod8Et6CZzaAWVbwXLmWO7BOQhuuza3e4ptOJA5oBmQ-TIa2veIsyxZstBf8Fu07Ya428pY0Kaprip89qpfCam7rbFhQ64TSc2GdYyXRsI_O83fHoJzpewXiB/s1600/FFoTS+021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uiaZHPOd0LMglDMORi9fod8Et6CZzaAWVbwXLmWO7BOQhuuza3e4ptOJA5oBmQ-TIa2veIsyxZstBf8Fu07Ya428pY0Kaprip89qpfCam7rbFhQ64TSc2GdYyXRsI_O83fHoJzpewXiB/s320/FFoTS+021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Batman is a very popular superhero. His abilities are honed from dedication and hard work. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Unlike Hal Jordan, he didn't have a power ring. Unlike Clark Kent, he wasn't a Superman. Unlike Diana Prince, he didn't have jubblies that distracted her foes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">No, Bruce Wayne was smart. Cunning, even.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The reason I like Batman is because he had the foresight to acquire a chunk of Kryptonite... 'just in case'...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Which is what I tell my kids when they ask me why I pack them peanuts in their lunchbags.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-3932040706384737722010-12-20T12:39:00.002-05:002011-01-03T09:24:49.708-05:00Lies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nzEebhUopONZtSDdCwNOdOhNhomB3G93tUEe-Z0iiOp0qOsfOgM-R_j7Y1s9-ZjOBylzDi1j4qT5cQAHojCSWuKwe1QnTjl_7NtXfmxNlHvJ2e0JLJYKjel94YWSF_1nIf8VOn970ba_/s1600/FFoTS+020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nzEebhUopONZtSDdCwNOdOhNhomB3G93tUEe-Z0iiOp0qOsfOgM-R_j7Y1s9-ZjOBylzDi1j4qT5cQAHojCSWuKwe1QnTjl_7NtXfmxNlHvJ2e0JLJYKjel94YWSF_1nIf8VOn970ba_/s320/FFoTS+020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The 80s were rife with lies.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Lunch time was, and still is, the biggest meal of the day at my mom's house. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My mom would slave all morning, preparing the soup, roasting the potatoes and the chicken in the large black roasting pan. The giblets - like delicious treasures - were hidden amoung the potatoes, waiting for me and my father to find them like a pair a pan-handlers sifting through river silt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Inevitably, my father would head out to fetch my grandfather and I would make my way to the living room to watch this weeks episode of the WWF.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the way out, my dad would stop and stand there for a minute watching as Hulk Hogan nailed Jake the Snake with a series of haymakers. Any second now he would repeat his weekly contribution of wisdom;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"That's fake."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then he would head out, leaving me stewing in my own indignation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wrestling fake? Nonsense!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Who the hell could fake that? Hogan had 24 inch pythons! I saw blood - Blood! - splatter from gashed open brows! Fake? Bah! He had no idea what he was talking about.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, it turned out that he was right after all. I think I hated that even more than being lied to, but only marginally. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Soon, the Piper's Pit was on and all such misinformation was forgotten. My mind returned to its blissfully naive center and remained thus until lunch was served.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My father returned with my grandfather and we were all in our places around the kitchen table. The steaming pot of soup was laddled out into soup bowls and no one dared interupt the slurping.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Next, the roast chicken and potatoes; the lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden; and the beverages hit the table.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Digging into my chicken, I immediately noticed that something was awry.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I knew what chicken tasted like, just like I knew that Cowboy Bob Orton's arm wasn't really broken. Upon closer scrutiny I also noted that the chicken didn't look like chicken either.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A moment of clarity hit me like a 9-volt on the tongue. It was a moment of revelation worthy of Columbo.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This wasn't chicken. This was rabbit! More specifically, my rabbits! The same ones that ran away when we were on vacation last month!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I could see the guilt of the conspiracy gleaming in their nervous eyes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Except for my father's, of course. There was no guilt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A distinctly bunny-shaped leg was gripped in his greasy fingers as he looked at me. He was chewing on my first pet! I could hear their little screams with each gnashing bite as he said to me, "Eat. Rabbit is good."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He was right about that too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It would seem that for every comforting lie, there was also a bitter truth. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-218861936617438622010-12-15T10:22:00.004-05:002010-12-15T16:23:04.357-05:00Such A Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQzlq_HSCLyGohaXuRLNAg-sOy3Amx9kgBYpe59tfCNsndS8jLxVLY6sRWJRMn8RjJ_KMAHPZGrglGGHfZ6_W1-xEIXe5fbWkxwcw13mDHkVlSlMla2MeGeO1tS6DN2pB-nCB16nBUUwC/s1600/FFoTS+019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQzlq_HSCLyGohaXuRLNAg-sOy3Amx9kgBYpe59tfCNsndS8jLxVLY6sRWJRMn8RjJ_KMAHPZGrglGGHfZ6_W1-xEIXe5fbWkxwcw13mDHkVlSlMla2MeGeO1tS6DN2pB-nCB16nBUUwC/s320/FFoTS+019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Every now and then I need to get out of the house and blow off some steam. There is a section in my closet dedicated to outfits just for such a night.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Pairing up clothing and accessories is an art, much like bonsai tree shaping.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This t-shirt clearly defines me as a fan. It is extra-large so that it drapes neatly over my gunt, deftly masking the unsightly elastic waist band of my sweat pants. My white, cushy, velcro straped sneakers allow for maximum comfort and maximum speed, should there be a need to overtake someone in the buffet line.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A leather-ish tote-bag with tassels and tarnished bling hangs off my shoulder and is packed with myriad items of importance.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There's a collection of clown-hued makeup to maintain my garish visage in case the meat sweats threaten to wash away the thick application caked on earlier in the night. A zip lock bag of rollies and a half-filled Bick battles for space beside the orange and blue bingo dabbers, cellphone, napkins (with buns from the buffet wrapped up inside) and a keychain collection that could choke a hippo. A wallet with dozens of credit and department store cards, wallet-size Walmart Christmas pictures of my kids and spending money (including a 'secret' stash that I can spend and not have to fess up to losing to the slots).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you're out on the town one Saturday Night, and you see me in this t-shirt, chances are I am celebrating a special occassion.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-86593053359975865772010-12-14T15:47:00.001-05:002010-12-14T16:16:54.494-05:00Simplification<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIeqrVvsQu9iTqyEUJTrTUebWi250AwyIuHAxtA8phL2_DpFU9eb_oW5LWO3NLTmJS1tAtU6RBSXcUI86d6tYUlnUvii-LLNRnRDIlcF0bS8bmmqnfN9gornGz4kq2h6HDMzLh1hR1IJL/s1600/FFoTS+018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIeqrVvsQu9iTqyEUJTrTUebWi250AwyIuHAxtA8phL2_DpFU9eb_oW5LWO3NLTmJS1tAtU6RBSXcUI86d6tYUlnUvii-LLNRnRDIlcF0bS8bmmqnfN9gornGz4kq2h6HDMzLh1hR1IJL/s320/FFoTS+018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As a kid, visually, life looked <em>exactly</em> like this t-shirt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Star Wars was the only thing that made sense. It defined who I was. It would shape me into the person I would become. Everything else was like the flying, meaningless-jumble of chinese characters. Everything was defined by how it resembled - or reminded me of - Star Wars.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What else was there?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had no concept of why people did things. It wasn't that I was a idiot or anything, I just never cluttered my mind with minutia that would take care of itself. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I never understood why my parents were always so worried about stuff. There was <u>always</u> food in the fridge. I <u>always</u> had clothes and shoes. Toys <u>always</u> appeared under the tree at Christmas and birthday presents arrived along side the cake. The car <u>always</u> took us everywhere we needed to go.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Money was like a myth. No matter what, money was the thing that made everything else work. But when I wanted to buy the <em>Hammerhead</em> action figure, suddenly we <u>never</u> had any!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One summer, my dad had put up a row of steel posts between our lawn and the neighbor's driveway. He was fed up with the neighbor constantly getting out of his car and stepping on the grass. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The steel posts were Phase 1. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Phase 2 was going to be lengths of chain to further inconvenience the neighbor from opening the car door.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He didn't have time to get the chains done before the winter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back then winters were darker, colder, longer and snowier. The neighbor's kid was outside playing on his driveway, digging a tunnel in the accumulating snow bank that had gathered around one of the steel posts. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We were heading out that evening, probably to visit my grandfather, when we heard this god-awful wailing. We were just about to leave the house when my dad stepped out onto the porch. He stood there in the cold, staring across the front yard. I tried to see what he was looking at, but the lights in the foyer were on, making it near impossible to see out the fogged glass of the storm door.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Curiosity overcame fear. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Normally I wouldn't be so foolish as to open the door and allow the copious heaps of mythological money to get sucked out into the darkness, to vanish with the escaping heat, but I sensed my dad was too preoccupied to notice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Poking my head out, I watched as he strolled down our driveway, then along the sidewalk and back up the neighbor's driveway. He loomed over the still-shrieking kid, who had managed to get his tongue stuck to the post.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Calmly, almost leisurely, my dad rested his hand on the kid's toqued head...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">... and pulled.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Without a word, my dad turned and walked back. He told us to get in the car as if nothing unusual had just occured, grumbling that it had been idling in the driveway for far too long, and was apparantly devouring more of his fictional money.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That night I finally understood something about my dad.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He was Darth Vader.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-31977625925562408212010-10-25T10:24:00.001-04:002010-10-25T10:26:05.344-04:00Diabetes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUfFjiTomhpi4LD0xvI9PlQz4Zhq9dO54hEXjoa9r39mx5m8uKadbZi1NKM2SOUnN8aY57Yr5C6egiDmizqcimKZO8e_gk4BqALNinIQHW-nkFhWElzZW43WH8GgX21dzreX7cvI7PioM/s1600/FFoTS+017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUfFjiTomhpi4LD0xvI9PlQz4Zhq9dO54hEXjoa9r39mx5m8uKadbZi1NKM2SOUnN8aY57Yr5C6egiDmizqcimKZO8e_gk4BqALNinIQHW-nkFhWElzZW43WH8GgX21dzreX7cvI7PioM/s320/FFoTS+017.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This shirt reminds me of Easter candy.<br />
<br />
1978.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks after Easter.<br />
<br />
My grandmother lived in a small house in Hamilton. The lot was narrow, but it was well over 200 feet from the sidewalk to the back fence. Nearly the entire backyard was her garden. She also had two pear trees, one of which was growing in the middle of the garden.<br />
<br />
I disliked the inside of my grandmother's house because it smelled like her - rendered duck fat - and spent as little time as possible in there.<br />
<br />
Being six, playing outside was way more fun anyway - climbing trees; throwing chunks of dirt like hand grenades at the neighbour's shed; battling imaginary foes with stick swords.<br />
<br />
The garden had recently been tilled in preparation for the planting that would start in a week or so, and that is where I stumbled across the Easter candy. <br />
<br />
It was just sitting there on the dirt. It was one of those blue candy coated eggs with the milk chocolate center.<br />
<br />
There was no question that I was well within the rights of the finders/keepers rule, but still snatched it up quickly in case one of the other neighborhood hooligans would show up to lay claim to it. Which was entirely possible, because someone had to have dropped it here in the first place.<br />
<br />
Giving it a once over to make sure it was still good, I wiped it off on my pants and popped it into my mouth.<br />
<br />
Biting into it, however, was not what I expected.<br />
<br />
It wasn't one of those blue candy coated eggs with the milk chocolate center after all. It was a real egg. (later on I found out it was actually a robin's egg.)<br />
<br />
Horrified, I spat out the slimy yolk and slivers of shell. I ran to the garden hose and rinced out my mouth, making sure to clean the egg drool off my lips and chin.<br />
<br />
Kicking dirt over the evidence, I hurried back into the house for a drink of pop.<br />
<br />
At the time, biting into a bird's egg was pretty traumatic, but in retrospect, that wasn't the weirdest part. The fact that I found a piece of candy in my grandmother's garden and thought nothing about just eating it was, in the long run, the bigger issue.<br />
<br />
No wonder I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-67129382099597799162010-10-22T12:36:00.003-04:002010-10-25T08:44:47.994-04:00Revenge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6m3oJ17fyQyLsk2c-xjYiyQZ-ROPYuoPKTM3_HmTbB0i04fcCwaXtwF7RgGWHWgRrTbz53IvvW8o00W1BD9GprISd63RKYsLku_dnmhybVse4bEtcAa1jeJUZQ-6NuJbW-xz_tg28-2O/s1600/FFoTS+016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6m3oJ17fyQyLsk2c-xjYiyQZ-ROPYuoPKTM3_HmTbB0i04fcCwaXtwF7RgGWHWgRrTbz53IvvW8o00W1BD9GprISd63RKYsLku_dnmhybVse4bEtcAa1jeJUZQ-6NuJbW-xz_tg28-2O/s320/FFoTS+016.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Being a Catholic, I wasn't allowed to worship Cthulhu. It was frowned upon. Generally speaking, Catholics frown upon all idolatry. Except their own.<br />
<br />
It was my last year at Bishop Ryan High School, and my disenchantment with religion was complete. Honestly, I only went through the motions anyway. But with adolescence waning, and adulthood creeping ever nearer with each newly sprouted pube, I was able to cast off the last vestiges of authority they attempted to exert over me.<br />
<br />
Someone had come up with the concept of a morning radio program for the morning annoucements. Everyday, groups of journalistic minded students would be responsible for the content. Somedays there would be news reports. Not interesting shit like world news, no. Rather it was community based news and school events and some other lame Catholic shit.<br />
<br />
The novelty wore out instantly.<br />
<br />
Then a group of rebels - heroes, I call them - decided enough was enough! They took over the thrusday morning program, and pumped out glorious, heart-pounding, head-banging heavy metal riffs.<br />
<br />
<em>Judas Priest. Ratt. Anthrax. Killer Dwarfs. Van Halen. AC DC. Metallica. Iron Maiden. KISS. Black Sabbath...</em><br />
<br />
This was awesome! Thursday mornings now kicked ass!<br />
<br />
Until the school pulled the plug on the music.<br />
<br />
Why? Oh, we asked. I don't know why we bothered, or were surprised, because the answer was the same we heard time and again when applied to anything THEY deemed 'inappropriate'.<br />
<br />
We (the small miniority of metal heads) demanded to have the thursday morning radio feature reinstated. It fell on deaf ears. <br />
<br />
No. <br />
End of story. <br />
There was nothing we could do about it...<br />
<br />
...except...<br />
<br />
Since we couldn't use their equipment to spread the music, we did the next best thing.<br />
<br />
I brought in my old ghetto blaster from home and set it up inside my locker. It was big and bulky and too wide to fit in the narrow confines of the locker properly, but the speakers were detachable, and I was able to tie it up with string and mount it on the top shelf and to the built in coat hooks.<br />
<br />
I installed four D-batteries; popped in <em>Iron Maiden's Seventh Son of A Seventh Son</em>, and cranked that bad mother UP!<br />
<br />
Crude. Raw. Pirate Radio.<br />
<br />
Awesomeness had returned! The hallway where my locker was situated was packed with head bangers. The smell of freshly smoked cigarettes coming off the damp jean jackets was pungent, and everyone was belting out screeching, off-key vocals that terrified the minor-niners and sent the <em>Housemartins</em> fans running.<br />
<br />
The euphoria of the moment was grand. I would like to think it was because we stuck it to the man. It was a small, petty, meaningless victory, but it was ours. And we would enjoy it.<br />
<br />
I was in mid air-guitar when the music stopped. Just stopped.<br />
<br />
A chorus of groans rushed in to fill the silence like an ocean tide flooding a sand castle moat. I turned, and to my dismay, the head of the Religion Department (I can't remember his name! I wish I could because he was such a Jackass) had turned off the radio, and, figuring me as the ringleader, dragged me off to the principals office. <br />
<br />
Sitting there before the principal and Mr. Jackass, I stoically weathered the beratement for the remainder of the afternoon. I tried to argue against their ignorant view that <em>Iron Maiden</em> was devil music. I even offered to let Mr. Jackass borrow my <em>Iron Maiden</em> casette for a few days, defying him to show me where the references to the devil were.<br />
<br />
He said he would.<br />
<br />
What? Really? I was shocked.<br />
<br />
And delighted.<br />
<br />
Discourse. Debate. A chance to prove the bastards wrong! I daydreamed of a public apology over the intercom system on thursday morning, just before the reinstatement of the music program.<br />
<br />
None of that happened.<br />
<br />
Early the following week I went to his home room during my afternoon spare to pick up my casette and accept his apology.<br />
<br />
To my chagrin, it turned out that he didn't listen to the album. He didn't even read the lyrics and his stance remained unchanged. <br />
<br />
Devil music.<br />
<br />
So, the ban on heavy metal was still in place, and to top it off, now there was also a ban on pirate locker radio.<br />
<br />
I was furious.<br />
<br />
Deciding, to hell with the rules! I was going to loiter in the hallways during class and not go to the cafeteria as mandated to all students on spares!<br />
<br />
Hanging around the water fountain outside the washrooms, racking my brain for a way to get back at these hypocrites, serendipity delivered to me a platter of cold satisfaction in the form a grade nine girl.<br />
<br />
She came out of the girls washroom and was headed back to class. As she walked away down the hallway I noticed that she had inadvertantly tucked her school shirt and kilt into her underwear!<br />
<br />
Suppressing my laughter, I remained silent. <br />
<br />
I would let her suffer humiliation at the hands of her classmates!<br />
<br />
Cthulhu fhtagn, you idolatry hating sonsofbitches!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydL7DAFHy9v2b_PpC9AfyLH7rqoqWh8Gn5obhpBuku6GfEQ4k9jslkycMPuXUR6qMiey9tRPSnG_goYj3lornWzYvSUiiysC3akib4UjUKuGd4T-yxWrM3lvAd5kJofU6tJeDjyKDFITs/s1600/FFoTS+016b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydL7DAFHy9v2b_PpC9AfyLH7rqoqWh8Gn5obhpBuku6GfEQ4k9jslkycMPuXUR6qMiey9tRPSnG_goYj3lornWzYvSUiiysC3akib4UjUKuGd4T-yxWrM3lvAd5kJofU6tJeDjyKDFITs/s320/FFoTS+016b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This kickass T-Shirt was designed by Toren Atkinson, most notibly from the kickass band <em>The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Check out his website: <a href="http://www.thickets.net/toren/">http://www.thickets.net/toren/</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-39850156986723886102010-10-05T15:10:00.002-04:002010-10-05T15:28:35.959-04:00Vigilance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_OEor1mCQp1EpCflYhjNY09UO-xirEAcgKQhmewLBDcsQTTI2FsCYaaBZ8TqRueJXCIAM9MxOoJqd2ebU1zJkViZUB_FPzP0aq7fXOR19w48RueQ1wUi3MnNXVnf0iKdmlSCDZV1gC88/s1600/FFoTS+015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_OEor1mCQp1EpCflYhjNY09UO-xirEAcgKQhmewLBDcsQTTI2FsCYaaBZ8TqRueJXCIAM9MxOoJqd2ebU1zJkViZUB_FPzP0aq7fXOR19w48RueQ1wUi3MnNXVnf0iKdmlSCDZV1gC88/s320/FFoTS+015.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Canadians are nice. That is the lie that ripples around the world.<br />
<br />
I am not even sure how that rumour got started, but I assure you, there is evidence to the contrary.<br />
<br />
Canadians are sonsofbitches.<br />
<br />
My parents lived in a nice brick bungalow in a nice part of Hamilton, Ontario. At least, it was nice when I was growing up.<br />
<br />
A few years after I got married and moved out, our longtime neighbor passed away. He lived alone and kept a tidy home.<br />
<br />
Soon after, the new people moved in. They were a young couple without kids. They owned two doberman pincers.<br />
<br />
My parents kept an immaculate home. Inside, my mother cleaned non-stop. A speck of dirt barely had time to land before it was swept up. Outside, the lawn was always cut, the trees were trimmed, and the patio was hosed down daily. All the yards were parceled off with frost-wire fencing so that everyone knew what everyone elses underwear looked liked on the clothes lines.<br />
<br />
In only a few short weeks the neglect over in the new neighbor's yard was noticable. The grass was tall and wild and missing in clumps where the dogs had gouged and shat and pissed it to death.<br />
<br />
During the summer the stink of sun-melted dogshit infuriated my father the most. As politely as he could, he asked the neighbor if he could kindly clean up after his dogs. The verbage went something like this:<br />
<br />
"Your dogs are shitting too close to my fence. The flies fly from the shit to my bbq. Clean it up."<br />
<br />
Not only was this as polite a request as could be expected from him, it was also a warning. <br />
<br />
Sadly, one that was not heeded.<br />
<br />
A day later and the shit was still there. He was certain that his request was communicated clearly. But in case it wasn't clear enough, my dad decided to remind them a second time.<br />
<br />
Taking a long-handled shovel out of the shed, he reached over into the neighbors yard and deftly scooped up the nearest pile. It was a large, soft deposit, the color of turkey gravy.<br />
<br />
The dobermans, curious, stood there and watched my dad.<br />
<br />
With uncanny skill he spun the shovel without dropping any. Like a fisherman preparing to cast a fly rod, he aimed his make-shift catapult... aka... crap-a-pult, and lauched the payload.<br />
<br />
The dogs flinched. Something in their small, dog brains warned them of danger, albeit, far too late.<br />
<br />
Fortunately for them, they were not the target.<br />
<br />
The greasy shit arced through the air towards the back of the house. The angle was perfect. The height was perfect. The consistency of the shit was perfect.<br />
<br />
It slapped wetly against the bedroom window, smearing a fat line across the entire width of the screen. In that sweltering July heat, it would bake quickly, setting hard into all the tiny holes.<br />
<br />
Like a modern day Zorro, my father left his mark.<br />
<br />
The message is clear: <br />
<br />
Sonsofbitches, beware!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267711901914305708.post-38061544580740961532010-09-28T10:41:00.002-04:002010-09-29T09:35:45.839-04:00Semper Fi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIVqy4uDad37-glJx_dDEF5nDMxvKdKJIxrV_TQCowhNHczM-CBTLc6ZR1zSUfsctOTYFpeN9eO5SIQauCu7bTgVDnEAWrXEiz_Lz7cXs6Wqm9bwSt894bhlb7wZramlMKWlE2DwEU5jl/s1600/FFoTS+014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIVqy4uDad37-glJx_dDEF5nDMxvKdKJIxrV_TQCowhNHczM-CBTLc6ZR1zSUfsctOTYFpeN9eO5SIQauCu7bTgVDnEAWrXEiz_Lz7cXs6Wqm9bwSt894bhlb7wZramlMKWlE2DwEU5jl/s320/FFoTS+014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="photocaption"><div class="photocaption_text">I was in a mall in Florida, wearing this t-shirt. A Vietnam vet came up to me and asked me if I was in the service. Not wanting to look like a poser, yet not wanting to lie to a man that survived at least one tour in the jungles of 'Nam, AND not knowing if he was suffering from any side-effects of Agent Orange, I simply nodded once and said; "We are all in God's Army." </div><div class="photocaption_text"></div><div class="photocaption_text">A tear rolled down his old man cheek as he saluted me.</div><div class="photocaption_text"></div><div class="photocaption_text">We parted ways, never to meet again.</div><div class="photocaption_edit" style="display: none;"></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03527553837671265643noreply@blogger.com2