A Fistful of T-Shirts

Sight Beyond Sight

2011-12-20T12:47:00.000-05:00

When I was in grade 2, I had built a time-machine out of a refrigerator box.

It was big, and had weathered a countless onslaught of action and adventure.

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.

For reasons that have been lost to the fog of time, I had skipped school in the afternoon.

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.

It was a girl that lived down the street. She was in kindergarten.

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.

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.

At that same moment the refrigerator box had transformed into a change-room.

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.

She was still in the refrigerator box.

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.

Lucky for me, in it's transformation from time-machine to change-room, the bullet holes were still intact...

Inadvertantly I had transformed the refrigerator box into my very own Sword of Omens.

Lessons

2011-08-06T22:55:00.001-04:00

Karate is not just a cool way to kick someone's ass. It is also steeped in ancient wisdom.

Instead of karate, I had decided to learn Krav Maga.

Krav Maga is a martial art steeped in vicious brutality.

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.

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.

Gloves and/or wrist wraps are important as well. They prevent blistered knuckles from the intense and endless strikes against the padded shields.

A helmet is used, primarily, during sparring sessions.

Shin guards are awesome. Checking another combatants kicks without them is one of the most painful things you will expereince.

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.

I love my cup.

What Krav Maga lacks in philosophical teachings, it more than makes up for in devastating self-defense techniques.

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.

The 70s

2011-07-18T12:56:00.001-04:00

I remember the 70s like any kid born in the 70s remembers them: With a fondness born of nostalgia.

There was a quality to that decade worthy of nostalgic reflection, for it was the last decade of true lawlessness.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Our dads.

Fear

2011-07-07T14:30:00.005-04:00

All spiders are poisonous.

From Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spider

"Spiders (order Araneae) are air-breathing arthropods that have eight legs, and chelicerae with fangs that inject venom."

I hate them.

My first part time job was at A&P - a now defunct grocery store chain.

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.

Parcel Pickup was where customers would go to pick up their groceries for easy loading.

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.

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.

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.

It was summer, and our shift was over at midnight.

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.

"Holy shit!" I said.

"Holy shit!" Rob echoed a moment later as he saw what I saw.

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.

Watching this hell-spawn weave more of its web, we knew what we had to do.

"Get the shovel." Rob said.

"Right." I said, and rushed back inside to get the rusty shovel we used as dust pan.

The weight of the shovel felt good. The stout wooden handle and metal blade would make short work of this beast.

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.

When I was certain I had it, I made some test swings.

The spider paused.

I was acutely aware of its eyes looking at me.

And I panicked.

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.

Clang!

The shovel blade rang off the bricks as it only partially connected with the light.

Rob bellowed a rousing HUZZAH, fists pumping the air.

Jubilation turned to horror.

"Holy shit!" Rob said.

"Holy shit!" I said.

The spider was still alive and going crazy. It was pulling a Hulk Hogan, shaking and jittering in its web.

"Hit it again!" Rob yelled pointing frantically at the angry spider. "They remember! Don't let it live!"

His fear was infectious and I swung the shovel again.

Clang!

My aim was even worse.

This time spider vanished. However, there was no smear, no remnants to confirm the kill. Only the tattered edges of the ruined web.

"Where did it go? Where did it GO?!" I was freaking out, my mind inches from the precipice of hysteria.

"I don't know! I DON'T KNOW!!" Rob shouted back, arms flailing.

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.

"OH MY GOD! It's on the shovel!" Rob yelled. And ran.

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.

Looking back to that night, I am still haunted by two questions:

One; What ever happened to the spider?

And two; I wonder what we looked like on the black and white CCTV security camera they had mounted outside Parcel Pickup?

Influence

2011-06-20T12:27:00.001-04:00

With Father's Day still fresh in my mind, I took a few seconds to contemplate what it means to be a dad.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

As a parent, there is no better feeling than knowing you are doing your job.

A few weeks ago, we took the kids to see Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. It was opening night, but we went to the earlier showing to avoid the evening crowds.

I was sitting next to my son.

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.

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...

Guys don't wear outfits! What the hell!?

The entire clip lasted about a minute, but the horror of what they showed will haunt me for the rest of my life.

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.

I had to know. So I asked.

Leaning in, I said, in the most neutral tone I could muster, "Would you wear something like that?"

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!"

My relief was palpable, like a fart that fills a room and makes it too warm to wear a sport blazer.

Smiling, I tossled his shaggy mop of hair and leaned back in my chair as the film started.

Contentment soothed me like the burn of a fine Scotch. I mentally notched for myself another victory.

Not on my watch.

Exceptions

2011-06-15T09:27:00.001-04:00

I never understood couples that have a need to dress the same.

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.

Of course, there are certain exceptions...

Ambition

2011-06-07T12:19:00.006-04:00

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.

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.

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.

All this, and so much more, was now locked away in my cavernous mind-vault.

In school, my grades were less than impressive.

Bordering on special needs.

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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.

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.

Dan was considered one of the cool kids and was pretty popular. He looked like Jeff Goldblum. But uglier.

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.

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.

How odd. Maybe he was bewitched?

He was cordial enough, but distant. There was an underlying sense of awkwardness as if he wasn't sure he knew me.

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...

... 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.

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.

Fortunately, humiliation never dampened my ambitions.

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.

That's right, Dan Rezo, you snooty, Jeff Goldblum-looking prick!

I'm a Dungeon Master now.

How about you?

Henchmen

2011-05-26T11:52:00.000-04:00

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.

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.

Starting my own criminal empire seemed easy enough; on paper.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I knew I could expoit this.

And I did.

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.

One day on our way home from school, I decided it was time to put things into motion. It was time to take action.

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.

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.

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.

But it was obvious from his lack of leaping-into-action, that he required more convincing.

I offered him a higher percentage of the take. Every man has a price, and I found his.

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.

It was over before it even started.

He didn't even reach the tiered candy rack.

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.

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!

By that time, however, I was already sprinting home.

Secret

2011-05-06T12:16:00.005-04:00

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.

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.

It was also something that was experienced with others.

It was the summer of '83. Return of the Jedi was a few months behind us, and we were now sailing into the doldrum of the long, hot days of summer.

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.

Being a weekday, his parents were at work.

He had a ColecoVision.

And an entire bookshelf full of games.

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?"

I've heard about these movies.

And was definitely interested.

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.

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.

I had hidden them in the crawlspace and in the following years had studied them with increasing frequency.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

On my bike ride home, I had plenty of time to analyse the experience and what I had learned.

I had no doubt that one day I would like to have sex with a girl.

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.

Oxymoron

2011-04-27T10:21:00.005-04:00

Christmas and Science do go together.

I'll show you.

Definitions lifted from Wikipedia... (additional commentary added in italics)

Fire is the rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products. For this experiment: A Christmas candle in the middle of the table. 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.

A metal is a chemical element that is a good conductor of both electricty and heat and forms cations and ionic bonds with non-metals. For this experiment: A nickel plated salad tong strategically placed directly over the candle flame.

Pain 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, For this experiment: my mother's burned hand as she grabbed the tongs when she went for the coleslaw, putting iodine on a cut, getting a stomach ache or cramp, and bumping the "funny bone".

Laughing 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. For this experiment: my father. It is in most cases a very pleasant sensation.

See? Christmas Science.

Flash Fiction

2011-04-25T14:16:00.000-04:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

All that was needed were the eggs.

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.

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.

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.

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.

He was also 3 years old.

And clumsy.

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.

It was a terrible mess, but my wife and I still laugh about it today.

It is a cherished memory.

So if there are any parents out there reading this post, heed my advice...

Never tell people cute stories about your kids. They're all just as lame as this one.

Sure, you may think your stories are cute and funny, but nobody else will.

Nobody gives a shit.

Don't tell them. Ever.

Technology

2011-04-18T09:39:00.001-04:00

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 scheißer videos.

He ordered it and it was shipped to him via Luftpost.

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.

Here is what the shirt is supposed to do:

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.

Technological wizardry!

I had little opportunity to test it and so it remained in my closet, lost amoungst the rest of the herd.

Finally, one evening while Bill and I were on Skype (he lives in Boston) we decided to test it out.

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.

Together we stared at it for minutes. The t-shirt, that is. But the image through the webcam showed nothing. No change.

I tried a variety of poses and angles.

It was a bust.

But I wouldn't give up that easily. I was pesistent. I refused to be out-witted by a t-shirt!

Finally, after some more jiggery-pokery, I managed to get it working;

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:

creepybastard@bysinisterdesign.com

Here is their website:

http://www.sebastianmerchel.de/artees.html

Smooth

2011-03-16T09:40:00.005-04:00

I met my wife when we were both 16.

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.

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.

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.

I was like a white Bill Cosby.

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.

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.

"What movie?" he sneered.

"Child's Play." I replied. Understanding the power of jealousy, I ignored his insolence.

"How much are tickets?" I asked.

"Five dollars." He sneered some more.

I paused.

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.

Taking the money from my pocket, I pushed the $10 bill through the small opening in the glass.

"One ticket, please."

That's 23 years ago.

Nemesis

2011-03-10T12:12:00.005-05:00

"Before all else, be armed." - Niccolo Machiavelli

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

How I longed to see the inner sanctum.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Of course, my vow would never come to fruition.

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.

About four houses down, I stopped. And turned. Why was I running? I didn't need to run. Brian wasn't home.

And the fort was empty.

Even though I hated him, I was still awed by his snow fort. This was my chance to see inside it.

With my heart thundering in my chest, I raced back and slipped into the fort.

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.

The walls were so thick that no light filtered through them. I could only make out the faintest of details.

Nemesis or not, his fort was perfection. And it was obvious that I was hopelessly outclassed by this maestro of military tactics.

Destroying the stockpile would prove fruitless. They would just re-arm, and I would surely be the prime suspect and suffer heinously.

Then it came to me. Subtle, yet satisfying.

I peed on his snowballs.

Yo Joe!

Rumble

2011-03-04T16:09:00.001-05:00

Fight like Apes!

This battle cry is still given voice whenever I find myself in a situation that requires a round or two of combat to resolve.

To date, I have only been in two serious fights.

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 my driving that was the problem. That in fact, it was his driving skills that were the problem.

The exchange went something like this;

Him: "Watch where you're going, fuck-head."
Me: "Fuck you."

There is just no reasoning with some people.

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.

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.

The exchange went something like this;

Me: "Fuck you."

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.

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.

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.

When they got tired of punching and kicking us, we quickly made our escape.

Is it that apes don't know how to fight? Or that I have no idea how to actually fight like an ape?

Either way, James still blames me.

Voltron

2011-02-25T09:58:00.000-05:00

Milwaukee Brewers baseball T-Shirt. Thread-bare. Two sizes, too small. Sleeves removed. Circa. 1979.

Levi's denim jacket. Frayed. Once adorned with Iron Maiden and Guns N Roses sew-on patches. Sleeves removed. Circa. 1987.

Johnny Cash belt buckle. Brushed pewter. Holds up my pants. No sleeves to remove. Circa. 2010.

Individually, they are Majestic Lions of Sex Appeal. Together, they form a giant, unstoppable Defender of Manliness!

Clever

2011-02-14T10:41:00.001-05:00

Batman is a very popular superhero. His abilities are honed from dedication and hard work.

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.

No, Bruce Wayne was smart. Cunning, even.

The reason I like Batman is because he had the foresight to acquire a chunk of Kryptonite... 'just in case'...

Which is what I tell my kids when they ask me why I pack them peanuts in their lunchbags.

Lies

2010-12-20T12:39:00.002-05:00

The 80s were rife with lies.

Lunch time was, and still is, the biggest meal of the day at my mom's house.

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.

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.

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;

"That's fake."

Then he would head out, leaving me stewing in my own indignation.

Wrestling fake? Nonsense!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Next, the roast chicken and potatoes; the lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden; and the beverages hit the table.

Digging into my chicken, I immediately noticed that something was awry.

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.

A moment of clarity hit me like a 9-volt on the tongue. It was a moment of revelation worthy of Columbo.

This wasn't chicken. This was rabbit! More specifically, my rabbits! The same ones that ran away when we were on vacation last month!

I could see the guilt of the conspiracy gleaming in their nervous eyes.

Except for my father's, of course. There was no guilt.

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."

He was right about that too.

It would seem that for every comforting lie, there was also a bitter truth.

Such A Night

2010-12-15T10:22:00.004-05:00

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.

Pairing up clothing and accessories is an art, much like bonsai tree shaping.

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.

A leather-ish tote-bag with tassels and tarnished bling hangs off my shoulder and is packed with myriad items of importance.

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).

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.

Simplification

2010-12-14T15:47:00.001-05:00

As a kid, visually, life looked exactly like this t-shirt.

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.

What else was there?

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.

I never understood why my parents were always so worried about stuff. There was always food in the fridge. I always had clothes and shoes. Toys always appeared under the tree at Christmas and birthday presents arrived along side the cake. The car always took us everywhere we needed to go.

Money was like a myth. No matter what, money was the thing that made everything else work. But when I wanted to buy the Hammerhead action figure, suddenly we never had any!

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.

The steel posts were Phase 1.

Phase 2 was going to be lengths of chain to further inconvenience the neighbor from opening the car door.

He didn't have time to get the chains done before the winter.

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.

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.

Curiosity overcame fear.

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.

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.

Calmly, almost leisurely, my dad rested his hand on the kid's toqued head...

... and pulled.

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.

That night I finally understood something about my dad.

He was Darth Vader.

Diabetes

2010-10-25T10:24:00.001-04:00

This shirt reminds me of Easter candy.

1978.

A couple of weeks after Easter.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was just sitting there on the dirt. It was one of those blue candy coated eggs with the milk chocolate center.

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.

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.

Biting into it, however, was not what I expected.

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.)

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.

Kicking dirt over the evidence, I hurried back into the house for a drink of pop.

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.

No wonder I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

Revenge

2010-10-22T12:36:00.003-04:00

Being a Catholic, I wasn't allowed to worship Cthulhu. It was frowned upon. Generally speaking, Catholics frown upon all idolatry. Except their own.

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.

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.

The novelty wore out instantly.

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.

Judas Priest. Ratt. Anthrax. Killer Dwarfs. Van Halen. AC DC. Metallica. Iron Maiden. KISS. Black Sabbath...

This was awesome! Thursday mornings now kicked ass!

Until the school pulled the plug on the music.

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'.

We (the small miniority of metal heads) demanded to have the thursday morning radio feature reinstated. It fell on deaf ears.

No.
End of story.
There was nothing we could do about it...

...except...

Since we couldn't use their equipment to spread the music, we did the next best thing.

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.

I installed four D-batteries; popped in Iron Maiden's Seventh Son of A Seventh Son, and cranked that bad mother UP!

Crude. Raw. Pirate Radio.

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 Housemartins fans running.

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.

I was in mid air-guitar when the music stopped. Just stopped.

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.

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 Iron Maiden was devil music. I even offered to let Mr. Jackass borrow my Iron Maiden casette for a few days, defying him to show me where the references to the devil were.

He said he would.

What? Really? I was shocked.

And delighted.

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.

None of that happened.

Early the following week I went to his home room during my afternoon spare to pick up my casette and accept his apology.

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.

Devil music.

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.

I was furious.

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!

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.

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!

Suppressing my laughter, I remained silent.

I would let her suffer humiliation at the hands of her classmates!

Cthulhu fhtagn, you idolatry hating sonsofbitches!

This kickass T-Shirt was designed by Toren Atkinson, most notibly from the kickass band The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets.

Check out his website: http://www.thickets.net/toren/

Vigilance

2010-10-05T15:10:00.002-04:00

Canadians are nice. That is the lie that ripples around the world.

I am not even sure how that rumour got started, but I assure you, there is evidence to the contrary.

Canadians are sonsofbitches.

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.

A few years after I got married and moved out, our longtime neighbor passed away. He lived alone and kept a tidy home.

Soon after, the new people moved in. They were a young couple without kids. They owned two doberman pincers.

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.

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.

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:

"Your dogs are shitting too close to my fence. The flies fly from the shit to my bbq. Clean it up."

Not only was this as polite a request as could be expected from him, it was also a warning.

Sadly, one that was not heeded.

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.

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.

The dobermans, curious, stood there and watched my dad.

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.

The dogs flinched. Something in their small, dog brains warned them of danger, albeit, far too late.

Fortunately for them, they were not the target.

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.

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.

Like a modern day Zorro, my father left his mark.

The message is clear:

Sonsofbitches, beware!

Semper Fi

2010-09-28T10:41:00.002-04:00

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."

A tear rolled down his old man cheek as he saluted me.

We parted ways, never to meet again.

Jerk

2010-09-27T14:31:00.000-04:00

Crazy people are everywhere.

Working as a security guard for the Hamilton Public Library for a few years put me smack in the middle of Crazy Land.

Should my life ever be in danger and my only chance was to run, to go to ground, I would be able to disappear amoung the dregs of society, those that make their home on the streets of the city. Such was the diligence of my powers of observation. I studied them; watched how they walked, how they scratched and how they mumbled; wiffed in their pungent scents and listened to the melodies of their belches, their coughs and their farts.

In seconds, I could transform myself into the most foulest of homeless person. My mimicry is nigh-perfect.

My shift started at 1700hrs, but I arrived early. I walked in the front door and was greeted with, "Good timing. The ambulance is on the way."

That was Grant. He was one of the three guards on duty.

"Oh?" says I, "What's going on?" My tone was one of amused curiosity.

Grant, grinning, shakes his head, "Tom's on the fifth floor."

I knew immediately that this was going to be good. Whenever someone opts not to divulge any details, that could only mean that any attempt to do so would be an injustice.

I ran up all five flights.

Tom was standing outside the men's washroom. He was turning patrons away, saying the washroom was closed and that they would need to use one on a different floor.

When he spotted me, he laughed.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Go in and see." He held the door open for me, "In the stall." he added as I crossed the threshold.

The stall door was closed which meant that it was locked. These doors tend to swing open on their own when unlocked.

Being tall, I only had to rise up slightly on my toes to peer over the top.

I burst out laughing.

There was a guy lying face down on the floor. He didn't have a shirt, and his pants and underwear were down around his ankles. Both of his hands were under him, cupping his balls. Beside him, crumpled against the wall, were several pages from a porn mag.

This kid jerked himself into unconsciousness in the men's bathroom of the Hamilton Public Library! How is that possible? Did he black out because he applied too much crushing force to his junk? Did he tumble off the bowl in an epileptic moment of climactic frenzy?

I was still laughing when the paramedics came in with their gurney and told me to get out.

Emergence

2010-09-23T15:39:00.000-04:00

"Hey! You know what's badass? A stormtrooper."

"You know what else is badass? A pirate."

Everyone, by nature of our uncontrolable, firing synapses, is a scientist. Our curiosity and lack of civic responsibility makes us pioneers of discovery.

When we take two separate things and mash them together, it is possible to create something better, and way more awesome than the sum of their individual parts.

My first canister of pepper spray was acquired when I was sixteen years old. Before this, I was content with burning ants and playing with my neighbors naked Barbies.

At sixteen I started working at A&P. Aside from aquiring a pay cheque, I also aquired new freinds - all of them of dubious character. Their collective life experiences opened up a vertible vista of possibilities.

Naturally I had to test the pepper spray. Initially I would depress the trigger for a fraction of a second, sending out a thin mist which I would attempt to inhale from a distance. I had visions of vomiting up my lungs and feeling my eyeballs melt like wax. Being a chickenshit hampered my progress. I needed an unwitting test subject.

My mom.

Now, I couldn't just walk up and pepper spray my own mother. That would have been diabolic. It could have also been misconstrued as a reprisal for my numerous and unjustified groundings, or a robbery attempt to fund one of my many hooligan activities.

Honestly tho, my main motivation was fear.

Fear of my father and his myriad methods of dishing out punishment. My dad's belt was thick leather, wide and well worn. He could lash it like a whip, and never miss. This was his most basic teaching tool. One of his more creative methods was to make me kneel on the linoleum in the corner. For hours.

No slouching. Back straight. Arms steepled straight up over my head.

As with anything unbearable, this particular torture, over time, became bearable. My body became accustomed to it. When my dad finally noticed that he was deploying the belt-whip with less frequency, he knew he had to increase the difficulty of the discipline. Otherwise, what good was it? Figuring that my knees have become numb to the linoleum, he added dried corn.

No.

An overt strike was definitely out of the question. I needed to be far, far more subtle.

Timing this was key.

We had one bathroom and eventually she would need to use it. This would be my test lab. Locking the door, I applied the pepper spray. Step one was to give the toilet seat a liberal dose. This part of the experiment was meant to determine if the effects of the pepper would act like itching powder. Step two was spraying the sink, faucet and knobs, ensuring that the pepper would make it to her hands and ultimately into her eyes. Once the lab was prepped, all that was left to do was wait.

I waited in my room, reading my comics.

Time dragged. I tried to be patient. Focusing on my reading, I still jumped at every sound. Each one a false alarm.

Finally she had to go.

I sat up in bed, comics completely forgotten.

I waited...

The flush. The running water in the sink.

Victory! ...wait...

No screaming. No cursing. No itching.

My moment of exhilaration burst like a popped balloon.

The experiment was a complete bust!

Now, it is possible that the pepper spray lost its potency while exposed to the air. It is also possible she was immune to pepper spray.

Regardless, the experiment failed.

This time.

Storyteller

2010-09-16T17:31:00.000-04:00

I love stories.

I love reading them. I love writing them. And, I love telling them.

Discipline through Fear.

This is my parenting technique. It is a very powerful tool that leaves the child educated without the bruises. Much like dispensing a beating with a bowling pin using a phone book filter.

In telling these stories, part of the reason they are successful is that you qualify them with personal experience. Kids are savvy enough to see right through the reciting of generic parables that are obviously outdated and simply regurgitated nonsense. It is important to update the stories so that they fit into the recognizable world the kids recognize. Above all, it is critical that you, or someone you know, suffered horribly in these stories.

It's never enough to just tell them something. They will always ask 'Why', and when they do, a fear-filled fable will set them on the straight and narrow.

Some of my favorites:

"It's only 233 days until Christmas. Santa is watching."

This one always strikes at the materialistic nature of kids. But it isn't always as effective as we would like. While greed is a strong motivator, attention deficit disorders are also on the rise.

"Brush your teeth or you are going to sleep in the basement. With the Witch."

I know this one works. Even when I haven't invoked her in months, and I ask the kids to run down to the basement to get me a beer, they freeze; eyes growing big like a fat-man with a gastro problem.

"1... 2... 3..."

I reached 3 once, and my belt came off. I have never made it to 3 since.

"You need to get A's on your report card. If you don't, Pasquale will come."

In my version, Pasquale is the ghoulish corpse of a dead school janitor that drags stupid kids down into the boiler room and eats them.

"Boys NEVER hug boys."

Not wanting to open THIS can of worms with an 8 year old, I simply lower my hand towards my Johnny Cash brushed-pewter belt buckle.

"Don't let the dog lick your mouth. You'll get dog-shit germs."

Great Grandma actually passed away in her sleep, of natural causes, but they don't have have to know that.

"Keep your bathing suit on when you play in the sprinkler. The squirrels are gathering in the trees!"

For some reason, with boys, this one works very well.

"Don't touch anything!"

When using public washrooms, this can never be stressed enough. It is most effective if followed up with:

"See that guy? The drunk with lice in his beard, holding up his piss-stained pants, and wearing one shoe? You don't want to be like that guy, do you?"

"Stop picking your bum."

The only thing you can do is make them smell their finger afterwards. This will either stop them, or it won't. As my wife often says... "You have to pick you battles".

So what happens when your kids find out all your stories are full of shit?

Well, I'm not sure yet.

But I have no doubt that it is only a matter of time before they find out the truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Faerie.

I am also certain that on that day, the school bus will pull up, and he will come running into the house, slamming the door, stomping up to us with a face twisted in rage, and shouting:

"You F^@#&* Lied!!"

Fickle Bastard

2010-09-14T10:29:00.000-04:00

I have been to Massachusetts; where I learned a valuable lesson.

Lobsters have livers.

This small, greenish lump, when not being used by a live lobster, is considered a delicacy. As a delicacy, the liver is given a more appetizing name.

Tomalley.

Being an avid drinker of hard liquor myself, I was extremely excited.

I had visions of bringing a lobster home in a bucket. I would keep it in the bathtub. In the evenings, sitting at the kitchen table, I would train it to drink. Oh, sure, there would be set backs. A one-pound lobster could produce 58/psi when squeezing with its claws. That is more than enough strength to shatter a shotglass. A tumbler, on the other hand, would be far to big to grip comfortably in one claw. The lobster COULD probably drink from one if it used both claws, but there is an unspoken etiquette regarding how many hands you should use when drinking whisky.

Sadly, this fantasy vaporized scant seconds after its inception.

First, because I was drunk.

And, second, because the lobster I wanted to take home, was already dead.

So much for my dream of having a crustacean for a drinking buddy...

Anyway, I had already tied on my plastic bib, complete with cartoon lobster, when dinner arrived. The plate barely hit the table before a Beavis and Butthead dialogue broke out between me and the lobster.

It was hysterical. I was in top form.

Lobster claws were carving air with karate chops. The meaty tail was flipping up to simulate flatulent release. Several times the lobster nearly leapt off the table demanding to know if the people at the surrounding tables were in some way threatening him!

Comedic genius!

Finally, when my near endless supply of comedy was thoroughly exhausted, I ate the lobster.

All of it.

That night I puked. Alot.

I am not a superstitious man by any stretch of the imagination. Common sense tells me that the vomiting was a product of a bad lobster, or just the tomalley, or even the bowl of room-temperature clam chowder I had as an appetizer. Hell, it could have been a combination of all of the above. The alcohol, I'm reasonably certain, played a significant role.

Regardless of that common sense, I have never again mocked my food, neither before, nor after consuming it.

Hubris

2010-09-10T10:48:00.000-04:00

Bottlenose Dolphins can reproduce every 2 to 6 years. Birthing takes place in shallow, warmer waters and once born, the calf will nurse for upto 12 months.

Not so with the 1971 Plymouth Road Runner.

Only 14,000 were ever born. That is all there will ever be.

Unlike their distant aquatic cousins, the '71 Road Runners are on their own the moment they roll out of the womb. There is no mother's teat to guzzle from. There is no pod to race with. They cannot mend themselves when injured. No red blood cells flow beneath their metal skins, knitting gashes and dents.

Courtship with others of it's kind does not exist. It cannot reproduce to keep the species going. Only through the kindness and love of strangers does it have any chance at all. Extinction is inevitable.

Dolphins are not so limited. They are clever and hardy and adaptive. Sure, thousands of dolphins die every year as greedy oil companies clumsily exploit fossil fuel resources beneath the sea bed. But those same dolphins also have the abililty to swim away. They can swim away and fuck and make more dolphins.

Dr Ian Malcolm said it best; "life... finds a way."

By railing against the oil companies, by searching for a new, renewable energy source, we are systematically and remorselessly murdering the American Muscle Car.

What gives us the right? Who do we think we are to decide which species gets to live and which species is left to die?

Rule Number One

2010-09-08T11:48:00.000-04:00

Recess was finished and we formed into our orderly little communist lines; girls on the right, boys on the left. The keeners had their spots at the front because they had been loitering by the doors a couple of minutes before the bell rang.

The normal kids - the ones that were more interested in playing King's Court or British Bulldog - lolligagged. A few of us, still intent on breaking the 'Wall Jump' record, had pushed the bounds of exceptable dillydallying.

I can't remember who held the current record at the time, but a few of us felt certain, that with 'just one more jump' we could surpass it.

Wall Jump wasn't really a game. It was more of an Olympic style competition.

St Luke's Elementary school was a single story, red brick building. About two-thirds of the way up the wall, a decorative line of verticle black bricks broke up the monotony of the wall.

The challenge was simple. A 'wall jumper' would run at the wall, timing his strides so that on his final stride he would plant his foot against the wall and push upwards. Extending his arm he would reach as high as possible to touch a spot well above the black line. A spotter, or spotters, would watch where he touched. They would count the rows of bricks above the black line to where he touched. The person who reached the highest row above the black line would be the guy to beat.

A tall guy had an advantage in the length of his arms and legs. But at that age coordination was also a factor, and the gangly nature of the tall guys made them slightly clumsy. The little guys were quicker and more adroit. A few were able to run up the wall two or three steps, climbing it, ninja-style.

Shoes were important. Sneakers with good traction on the soles would prevent face plants and slips (not uncommon amoung the tall kids). Wearing sneakers from Bi-Way was always a gamble.

We were never in a hurry to get back to class. Not like the keeners at the front of the line. What we were in a hurry for, was the washroom.

Inevitably, nature would call as we stood in line. The sadistic teachers knew we had to go. They prolonged our agony by demanding a greater and greater noise discipline before opening the doors, grinning fiendishly as we rushed the bathroom in a desperate struggle to be one of the first to use the facilities.

The boys bathroom had a typical two-stall, six-urinal configuration.

And they would always be at capacity during the after-recess rush.

I was using the last urinal in the row when the door burst open. One of the older kids (I was in grade 5, so the kid was probably in grade 7 or 8) decided he would bully his way in.

He made his way down the row, and by intent or by chance, I'm not sure which, selected me.

With an incoherent bellow, he grabbed my arm and yanked me away from the urinal.

I wasn't finsihed and my bladder was still mostly full. The way he pulled my arm, made me spin, rather than stagger straight back, which is what I assume he had expected to happen.

I was still peeing as I pivoted...

...and pissed all over his pants. The majority spattering his thigh and front pocket.

You never - Ever! - cross the streams.

Symbolism

2010-09-06T20:16:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time there was a happy monster named Godzilla. He did many happy things. Like destroying cities. He destroyed cities because that made him happy.

Once day, Mechagodzilla moved in and started destroying Godzilla's cities. Mechagodzilla wouldn't stop until all of the cities in the world were destroyed by him, and him alone.

This made Godzilla very, very cross.

In a titanic battle, Godzilla, with help from his most sincere and staunchly moral allies, defeated the materialistic mecha-monstrosity. The world was safe and happy once more.

The End.

Capitalism is dead!

Long live the American Box Office!

WWCND?

2010-09-02T10:55:00.000-04:00

Nowhere was the Star Wars vs Star Trek debate more ferociously fought than on the BBSes of the late 1980s and early 1990s.

The heated exchanges between Star Warriors and Trekkies was intense. You could see the rage flickering in the ASCII.

Each message board was it's own solar system. Hate filled packets zipped across phone lines like squadrons of attack fighters in a flame war for galactic bragging rights.

According to the Trekkie faction, the energy shield technology protecting the ships in the Star Trek Universe are far superior to the energy shield technology in the Star Wars Universe.

Poppycock!

Lasers are ineffectual against STU shields, while phasers are far superior and would punch through SWU shields like they were tissue paper.

Laughable!

STU shields are NOT immune to lasers. The lasers still drain the power from the shields, but at a greatly reduced effectivity.

A Galaxy Class Starship is dwarfed - Dwarfed! - by an Imperial Class Star Destroyer. With the scads of turbo laser batteries bristling from the wedge-shape capital ship, the sheer volume of lasers it can unleash in any given moment would overwhelm and obliterate a Galaxy Class Starship like the Enterprise in a parsec!

By the time a Federation ensign could input a firing solution, he, along with the entire vessel would be nothing but atomized space dust.

When I used this argument against one Trekkie on a BBS, the situation escalated rapidly. He was at a loss as how to counter my logic. I gleefully envisioned his flustered sputtering, his fingers clattering out the only rebuttal he could muster on his keyboard.

An ad hominen attack.

I'd been besmirched!

More words were exchanged. Threats uttered. The SysOp was involved, but his tin star held no authority in this lawless frontier messageboard.

It became obvious that this could only be settled one way:

Midnight. The Hamilton Cemetery. Come alone.

It was time for a good, old-fashioned , throw-down.

Of course, neither of us trusted the other to stick to the agreement.

So I lined up my posse. I wasn't a pussy or anything. And normally wouldn't need backup, but some of the threats referenced his martial arts background and his formidable skill with a hankyu. Which is the snooty, know-it-all, term for bow and arrow.

We arrived (early) to scout the grounds. It was dark and moonless and the deeper we crept into the cemetery, the further away from the street lights we got. He could be hiding anywhere in the dark.

Midnight came and went. No Trekkie Ninja. No Death by Hankyu.

We got back to our car at 12:03am and the whole ride home we cracked jokes about what a pussy the guy was for not showing up and worked on the put-downs we would post on the BBS once we got home.

Star Wars: 1
Star Trek: 0

Convergent Evolution

2010-09-01T09:08:00.000-04:00

From 1964 to 1966, Clint Eastwood gunned down 41 dirtbags.

When I first bought the double VHS of The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, I watched it 36 times in a row. Prior to our family owning a VHS player, I watched it on TV once a year. For 5 years. Curiously enough, bringing the total up to 41.

Synchronicity.

Footnotes

2010-08-31T11:02:00.000-04:00

Food City at Barton and Strathearne. As a kid, I remember going grocery shopping there. I don't recall the details clearly; such as the sights, the sounds and the smells; and there wasn't any real life-defining moments that involved that location; yet, it remains forever burned into the plasmic pixels of my hippocampus.

On occassion, Food City would have these special offers. I say on occassion as if I know. I don't. I am only guessing. And this special offer could have been their one-and-only. If it was, then it takes on a higher purpose.

They were selling encyclopedias. I am not sure why or which publication, but it was a damn fine set. Hardcover with (faux) gold-gilded page edges.

My parents bought them for me because they had some hope that I would consume these repositories of knowledge and achieve my (re: their) goals. That holy trinity of academia.

In the name of the doctor, the lawyer and the mechanical engineer.
Amen.

What actually became of the books, was far more typcial. They were a showpiece on a bookshelf, to impress company.

It wasn't until years later that Fate finally made it's big move.

My essay on Operation Barbarossa: The War on the Russian Front was due the next day in fourth period, and there was no time left to get to the library that night to research the topic.

Spotting that dusty collection of books, forgotten and ignored, for years, I decided to have a flip-thru.

I was stunned. It was all there! Every relevent detail I needed to know, laid out in perfectly bland, factually accurate paragraphs.

With so little time left, I wrote out everything. And I mean everything. Word for word. Indent for indent. I knew it was plagarism. But I had a cunning plan.

What I needed were additional quotes from another source, to make it LOOK like the entire essay WASN'T stolen, word for word, from an encyclopedia. So I searched my collection of cassettes and found my Iron Maiden, Piece of Mind album...

"You'll take my life, but I'll take yours too. You'll fire your musket, but I'll run you through."

I don't care what Mr Garbars said; Iron Maiden lyrics are TOO a legitimate and reliable footnote source for essays.

Conformity

2010-08-30T19:46:00.000-04:00

Notice the way this shirt laughs in the face of conformity?

How the artwork spills out beyond where a normal picture would sit, cleanly defined by boundaries?

Invisible boundaries, yes. But expected boundaries none-the-less.

Society will not like this one bit.

Hulk Smash!

2010-08-30T10:06:00.000-04:00

1988.

It was a time of burgeoning independence; of personal growth, exploration and self-expression. I wanted to grow my hair long, but my parents were born in the old country. Long hair was for hippies and fags, my dad would warn. So were earrings. And had I ever come home with any, it would have been promptly removed with a pair of pliers. The threat was as real as it was unveiled. Fortunately, my mom was more diplomatic and understood the subtle art of changing fashion. Thanks to her, I was able to negotiate a compromise. Short on top. Long in the back. Yes. That's right. I willfully talked my way into sporting THE quintessential rock-star-hair-cut!

While I make no excuses, I will say that on a mullet scale, mine was more of a Huey Lewis rather than a Billy Ray Cyrus...

The IROC z28 weighed in at roughly 3,500lbs. The Yugo, by comparison, was half that.

In a parking lot in Karlovac, Croatia visiting with family (parents, cousins twice-removed and an assortment of extended family), I met my nemesis.

In my favoite pair of tight acid washed jeans; white wicker shoes; a pastel t-shirt that was the color of wet Lima beans; and a bolero style spring jacket with elastic waist band, I did something retarded.

Who I was trying to impress, for the life of me, I will never remember.

Heaving up on the bumper of the tiny, beige-coloured Yugo, in some pointless show of teenage machismo, I strained my left pectoral muscle. It was excruciating and humiliating.

The injury wasn't lasting, but the laughter of family was.

Superman

2010-08-28T07:57:00.000-04:00

A man without a Superman t-shirt is not a man at all. He is merely a hollow, envious creature with dreams of one day owning a Superman t-shirt.

Welcome

2010-08-27T09:40:00.000-04:00

Wisdom is defined as a deep understanding. It is a comprehension. It is a means to achieve ones goals with a minimum waste of time and energy.

Wisdom is hard earned. An adage prolifically states that experience is a hard teacher. That, FIRST you get the test, THEN you learn the lesson.

Where does wisdom come from? Well, I decided to pose this question to Google. And, unsurprisingly, the answer led me right back to this blog.

So, gentle students of the cosmos, since you are here, you must be searching for wisdom. Your soul is a pixie stick, and I am the sugary powder that fills you.

Come. Be filled.