Not Sure What To Call This

My neighbor told me recently that I have "used up more than nine lives." What do you suppose she meant by that? Was she calling me a pussy, or was she calling me not a pussy? By comparing me to a cat she was clearly calling me a pussy, but by saying I've had more than nine lives she was clearly saying that I am better than a cat. What's better than a cat? A dog. Was she calling me a dog? It's tough to say, but dogs don't have nine lives, so she couldn't have cryptically been calling me a dog. So what is better than a cat and a dog put together? I wish I knew the answer to that age old question, "Who would win in a fight, a dog or a monkey?" If I could say for sure that a monkey would win that fight, I could deduce that my neighbor was calling me a monkey, but I cannot on both counts. So what then, is better than a dog and cat put together with a boxing chimp? Obviously it's a shark, but since I can't breathe under water she surely wasn't calling me a shark.

On an unrelated subject, I went to the woodshed to get a shovel earlier. It was time to bury the little woodpecker at the base of the old walnut tree. Just as I was getting to the door of the shed though, a young buck bolted out right at me. I froze, and it veered away at the last second. It stopped about fifteen feet away and turned to face me. We stared at each other for at least a minute. I must admit I was afraid of the little guy. He had two six inch antlers sticking out of the top of his head, just enough to pierce a lung, or ventricle, and he looked like he was ready to use them. I backed down. I grabbed the shovel and took the long way to the walnut tree. Later I saw him chasing a young doe around the yard, and I'm pretty sure he was showing pink. For those of you who don't know their anatomy of the Animal Kingdom, that's a dog boner.

I think I just figured it out. Clearly the only thing better than a dog and cat put together with a boxing chimp, besides a shark, is a stag with a dog boner. So when she said that I have "used up more than nine lives" what she was really saying was "You my friend, are showing pink."

Strange Happenings Amidst the Walnut Tree

I was watching Die Hard With a Vengeance tonight when I heard a loud crack at one of the windows. I know that sound. It’s the sickening sound of beak and skull striking glass at high speed. I took the ice off my knee and went outside to have a look.
As I rounded the corner I found a woodpecker lying on its belly, its wings splayed out. I stopped, it wasn’t moving, but just as I took another step toward the bird it hopped up and flew away. It was erratic, but strong. I thought, “That doesn’t look like a bird that just hit a window” and then I looked down. Just ten feet away was the other woodpecker, flat on its back, talons up as if it were grasping an invisible branch. I knew as I approached that it hadn’t survived. Its lifeless eyes were a dead giveaway. Immediately the tragic scenario played out in my head.

Woodpeckers mate for life, and these two were always together. If you saw one, the other wasn’t far away. I used to sit and watch them play together, streaking over the field, chasing each other from tree to tree. It was a beautiful thing to behold. I can picture them now, in the middle of a game of bird chase, careening over the yard, until “Crack!” The first bird probably never even blinked. What would it be like to watch your true love struck down right before your eyes? I may have reacted in a similar fashion, dumbstruck, staring in disbelief, not making a sound. “What is the other one going to do now?” I thought. Its partner, its life partner, is gone. Never again will it play chase over the field. Never again will it share a juicy carpenter ant with its best friend. Everything it lived for was taken from it in an instant.

I knelt down beside the dead woodpecker and blew on its feathers, hoping to rouse it, knowing it was hopeless. I waited a few minutes, hoping it would come to, knowing it was hopeless. Then I gently picked it up and carried it onto the porch where I could see it, where it would be safe from the cat, just in case. I came inside to write a story.

Twenty minutes later I was only three sentences in, mostly because I kept looking up to see if the woodpecker had somehow come back to life and flown away, when I heard the sickening sound of beak and skull striking glass at speed. “It killed itself!” I exclaimed out loud and rushed out to see if it was true, but in the minute that it took me to get there, whatever had hit that window was gone. I searched and searched, but could find nothing. Perplexed, I looked around. All of a sudden out of the walnut tree flew a different kind of bird. It was about the same size as the woodpeckers, but all brown. This struck me as odd, because I can’t remember ever seeing another kind of bird in that tree. Then out flew the other woodpecker, chasing it. “Murder…” I thought, “…the little buggar found a sexy new bird, and he killed his mate to be with her.” But then two robins flew out of the tree from the other side and started fighting, or foreplay, I couldn’t be sure. Then yet another bird flew out. This one was smaller, with a hint of blue perhaps. Something strange was happening. As I watched the two robins still going at each other, my other senses began tuning in to my surroundings. There were a lot of birds out. Everywhere I looked there were robins. In the trees, on the clothesline, the picnic table, one even flew down, caught a bug in the grass, and landed on a bench just ten feet away from me. It sat there defiantly, watching me watch it eat. I could hear birds chirping excitedly all around, and in the distance I could make out an eagle calling. Something very strange was happening. The hairs on my arms began to stand. I stood outside for a long time, listening and watching, but not a bird stirred. They were everywhere, but motionless. After a while nothing was happening, so I went back inside, to find the cat with its face pressed up against the window. When it heard me it turned and ran for the door. Even it knew something was up.

As it got darker things settled down. Most of the birds have flown off, but I can’t help wondering if they wanted something. Perhaps they only wanted to pay their last respects. I’m tempted to bring the dead woodpecker back out into the grass so they can say goodbye. I’ve seen TV shows with elephants clearly grieving over the loss of a member of their herd. I wonder of it’s the same with birds. Maybe this woodpecker was a pillar of the community. Perhaps the two of them were loved by all, and it was a heartbreaking moment for the entire neighborhood. But, maybe it was a turf war. What if those robins were up to no good? Maybe they wanted the carpenter ant score to themselves, and when the woodpeckers wouldn’t leave town, they rubbed one out. I’m going to keep an eye on those robins from now on, shady bastards. Maybe that brown bird showed up just in time to talk some sense into the lone woodpecker. Maybe he was making a stand, surrounded by blood thirsty robins. Perhaps this was to be his Alamo. He had nothing left to lose. But at the last minute a voice of reason on mottled brown wings convinced him to abandon his post and live to fight another day. They could now be plotting revenge while the gang of robins feasts on its ill-gotten spoils. I think now I won’t produce the woodpecker’s corpse. I wouldn’t want that dastardly band of tree pirates to get their claws on it. I think tomorrow I am going to bury it at the base of the old walnut tree, so that in death it may nourish that which it helped destroy. It seems a fitting end, akin to the philosophy of the Circle of Life.

Rest in Peace little woodpecker.

Lessons Learned

I’m going back to work on Tuesday for the first time since my harrowing, near fatal experience of just over a week ago. It got me thinking again, about the whole thing, and about if I learned anything from the incident. I believe I did:

1. I cannot fly (though apparently I can float short distances).
2. I cannot die.

I’m sure there are other lessons learned swirling around in there; don’t drink yourself crazy, don’t stand up in the back of a truck, chicks dig guys with scabs and a limp, but those two are the ones that jumped out at me. Two are the ones…I might still have a concussion.

Moral Dilemmas

I am stuck in a moral dilemma. A few days ago there was a mouse in my house. She was a very cute little thing, and I did not want to kill her (I’ve decided to call the mouse a her based on the title of the book Of Mice and Men. It suggests that mice and men are two separate things, therefore we can assume, based solely on this book title, that there are no male mice. If it was called Of Mice are Men obviously I would call her a him). I spent a few days devising ways to trap the mouse without hurting it so that I could release it in the wild, but eventually just caught it eating the crumbs in my toaster. I put it in a wooden box which it quickly escaped from, then caught it in a canvas bag and before it could chew through, transferred it to a bucket with a Frisbee for a lid, and a gardening book for weight (thanks Gina). I named her Minnie, after the rodent-looking actress of the same name, and drove her far away. I released her in the woods where she could frolic free of Man’s murderous ways, or be eaten by a barn owl. Either way my conscience is clear.

Today I was working on my idiosyncratic sewer. There is something wrong between the toilet and the tank. For some reason the poops do not want to go where they should. I started at the way station beside the house, took apart the box surrounding it, and that is when I discovered the bumblebee nest. It must have been a ridiculous sight to see, me still hobbled from my brush with death, scrambling up a prickle covered embankment with a swarm of bumblebees in lazy pursuit. When I got to the top I looked back to see them merely flying around in circles, as if unsure what to do. Bumblebees are definitely the morons of the Apoidea superfamily.

(On a sidenote, it occurred to me that I didn’t even know if bumblebees could sting, which added an element of ridiculousness to my panicked escape. I even came inside to look it up on the internet and was relieved to find that they do in fact sting. I also learned that they have barbless stings ((and that their stingers are actually called stings)), which means they can sting more than once. Turns out it was prudent to throw caution to the wind. Just try laughing at me now.)

This brings me to my dilemma. I have to fix the sewer, but how do I do that with a colony of bees flying around with nature’s automatic weapon sticking out of their asses? The easy answer is nuke the colony. In the grand scheme of things, what is one less colony of bumblebees? Sure, they bumble, but what good is that doing me? Then I remembered that cute little mouse. I went to all that effort to not kill one living thing (and let’s face it, what’s one less mouse?), so how can I, only days later, destroy an entire civilization, to put it melodramatically, just so I can take a poop (which by the way I have been holding for two days). It seems very wrong to me. I suppose I could fashion a beekeeper’s suit from a few pairs of old coveralls and snowboarding gear, but if they get in somehow I’ll essentially be wearing a suit made of bees, like those gloves they make in South America with the bullet ants woven right in. I do not relish the thought of scrambling up that bank, while desperately stripping my clothes off, and being stung repeatedly by a moronic swarm of tiny flying cows. I would surely win a Darwin award if that were to happen.

In a bitter twist of irony (it always is bitter, isn’t it?), not killing that mouse to keep a clear conscience has put me in a situation where I can’t kill a society of bees with a clear conscience. If only I could go back and kill that mouse. I hate irony. What to do…

I’m going to think on this while I mow the lawns, after I go to the neighbor’s to poop. Any suggestions would be quite welcome. I didn’t get any suggestions on The Great Walnut Tree War by the way, http://runawaytypewriter.blogspot.com/2007/05/great-walnut-tree-war.html, and my tree is still dying of insects and birds, while looking like an arboreal fairy. Where are you people when I need you?

Alter Reality

I once tried to forget the number 13. I would consciously skip it every time I counted anything in the hopes that it would eventually drop from my consciousness. I tried to train my mind to forget something that has always been, but I couldn't do it in the end. It’s hard to forget the things we’ve been told all our lives. It’s not even something most people think about. Would you ever question whether a kitten is soft? Or that balls are round? Of course you wouldn’t, because you know these things to be True. But what is Truth? How can we really know what is and what isn’t? Throughout history countless beliefs have become disbeliefs, and for what reason? Because somebody chose to disbelieve them, and everybody eventually followed. What if in twenty years we discover that kittens really aren’t soft? What if we discover they aren’t even kittens? We should question their very existence. Take some time and look around at the things you see every day but never see. Look at the things that don’t even register in your mind and think about why that is. We take everything around us for granted, never thinking about why they are. They just are, so we believe. Disbelieve.

People need to think for themselves more. Forget what you’ve been told. Forget that ice is cold and flowers are pretty. Let your mind escape the confines of the reality that was created for it by somebody else. Open it up. Let it create its own reality. There are ways to practice this. Somebody once told me about a game that they’d play where they would point at things and call them whatever came to mind, but never what they actually were. It messes with your mind. It helps open channels to different parts of your brain that lay dormant most of the time. It wakens the imagination. Try it right now. Point at something in front of you and call it something else out loud. Call it anything. Make up your own language and think in it to yourself. Use it to talk to people. One day you might find somebody who talks back. The more we bend our reality the more reality becomes bent. The Global Consciousness dictates that the more you think something, the more other people are going to think it. It changes reality through telepathic osmosis. It’s like Wikipedia for the mind. So don’t believe what you hear or see. Believe what you feel. Question what you know. Make a mockery of Truth. We need to break out of our monotone thought processes. Let’s think in Techni-colour, but call all the colours by different names.

Let’s wonder like we did when we were kids.

Gina and the Whale

Now the word of the Lord of Rock came unto Gina, saying, “Arise, go to Vancouver, that great city, and cry against it; for their wicked lack of Rock is come up before me.” And Gina did arise, and she did go to Vancouver, but it was not as simple as that. Gina did pack her guitar and board the ferry, and the ferry did embark on the short journey to the mainland, but a Great Fog did also arise, and the instruments failed, and the Captain did become lost. The ferry ran aground and Gina, and her guitar, were thrown into the sea. Now the Lord of Rock had prepared a great Whale to swallow up Gina, and Gina was in the belly of the Whale three days and three nights. They spoke of many things, Gina and the Whale, but mostly, they spoke of Rock. The Whale did play bass, and the two did jam day and night. Gina learned many things from the Whale, about rythm, and those cool fish shaped noise making things. You know the things. You play their ribs with a stick. The Lord of Rock did hear their sessions and knew that Gina was ready, and the Lord of Rock spake unto the Whale, and it vomited out Gina upon the dry land. Gina arose and did clean herself up, and she did smell very good, because everybody knows that perfume is made from whale vomit. She did hail a cab, and a cab did come, and it was driven by a Rasta. Now Vancouver was an exceeding great city of three days journey, and in that time Gina and the Rasta spoke of many things, but mostly, they spoke of Reggae. The Rasta did sing, and the two did jam. Gina learned many things from the Rasta, about melody, and herb. You know the stuff. You smoke it. And the cab did arrive at Gina’s stop, and she did get out, and the cab did drive away in a cloud of smoke and Bob Marley, leaving Gina on the street with her guitar, and she cried, and said, “Yet forty days, and Vancouver shall be overthrown by my Rock” and let her guitar and her voice sing out across the city. So the people of Vancouver believed Gina, and proclaimed a festival that she did headline. Word came unto the Mayor of Vancouver, and he arose from his desk, and he caused it to be proclaimed and published through Vancouver by the decree of the Mayor and his Council, saying, “Let no Man, Woman, or child, listen to inferior Rock again.” And the people did rejoice, and they did arise and attend the festival, and Gina did Rock. And the Lord of Rock had prepared great Record Producers, and they did fawn over Gina, and she did sign with a nice little Independent Label. And the Independent Label did produce her music, and the people of the World did hear it and rejoice, and they danced in the streets, for it really did Rock. And the Lord of Rock smiled upon Gina, and they did jam, because the Lord of Rock is a sweet drummer.

-Excerpt from The Gospel of Gina - to learn more, go to myspace.com/thoughtcrimeriot


Obviously I paraphrased, or is it plagiarized? Either way I shall not repent.

Legend

I love George Bush. That’s right, I said it. I love George Bush. I love George Bush, and I can tell you why. He is a brilliant comedic tactician, his timing flawless. He combines Chevy Chase-esque physical comedy with a bumbling linguistic ineptitude that is only rivaled by Ricky from Trailer Park Boys, and he even throws in the occasional Bill Murray slur for good measure. Who can forget when he ran over the police officer while riding his bike in Scotland? Or when he implied the Queen was alive in the 1700s? Zing! George Bush truly is a modern day John Belushi, complete with the alcoholism.

Here’s a little highlight reel of some of his best moments. I’ve watched it five times already.

An Attempt at Stream of Consciousness

It’s nice today. My nose is runny. I’m listening to music on an orange chair with the sun to my left. I’m trying to take this seriously. Experimental writing. I was told to write whatever I think to get to know myself. My computer is often too slow for my brain. That’s weird, because my brain is often too slow for most things. Didn’t sleep last night. I’m about to be on coffee number three. Caffeine induced lucidity. How can tonight promise great excitement if I’m too tired to notice? The fortune cookie promised. Lottery ticket stuck to the fridge with a stolen drum magnet. That’s exciting. If I win I’m taking writing lessons from Jack Black, or Jack White. The colour isn’t important, it’s the content that matters. If I win I’ll pay somebody to sleep for me. Then I won’t have to worry. Just tell me what I dreamt about. I hope it’s a fight between a dog and a monkey. Maybe I have flesh eating disease in my head. Could my brain be slowly eaten away by an unknown contagion? I am feeling a little light-headed. Maybe that’s just because my feet are so heavy. Why is the sun always up during the day? Doesn’t it know that’s when I do my best sleeping? If I win the lottery I’m giving the sun a day off. It deserves it, even though it is a little lazy in winter. Even the sun gets SAD. Maybe that’s why people always draw a happy face on it. I wish somebody would draw a happy face on me. Draw my eyes closed while you’re at it. And give my eyelids little motion lines so I’m in REM. If only life was as simple as drawing a cartoon of one’s self. I would go shopping on paper right now. I could use some chips. Fuck I’m boring. Is this really what’s in my head? I wish I could break it open and look. Strain out the brains and see what I’m really thinking. Stream of consciousness doesn’t make any sense.

Hitting Cars

Life’s many paths do not all go in different directions. Some can be parallel, some can run roughly the same way, and some, no matter how different they may be, will come together briefly and get muddled in the crossroads. This past weekend was on of those crossroads. I had gotten myself off of the path of self destruction I was tumbling down. I had found a new, more positive path, and was beginning to do very well, but Fate can be funny. Some times Fate thinks it’s necessary to remind you of what you’re leaving behind, lest you forget. Some times Fate thinks it’s necessary to throw you into a bad situation, or a car, to teach you a lesson. This was one of those times:


The weekend started innocently enough. I got home from work, had a shower, and started doing some dishes. I was on the pots and pans when the phone rang. It was Offshore.
“What are you doing?”
“Some dishes, what’s up?”
“I want to show you something. Meet me at the marina.”
I knew what it was going to be. Offshore had a new toy. I left the pots in the sink, and walking up to the dock I found him parking a brand new boat. A very sweet brand new boat. After a quick jog to the beer store we were on the water. I got drunk fast, it must have been the altitude. We spent a few hours in the boat, went back to Offshore’s for a while, and then to a keg party. That was where my weekend started spiraling. I used to be pretty self destructive. I did some stupid things without regard for life or limb, and have paid the price physically. I think this past weekend was a throwback to that, though I have no idea why it occurred. At the party I decided it was a good idea to try long boarding, even though I have never skated before. I took a long board out to the road to try to ride it to the bottom of the hill. I didn’t make it far. A speed wobble is a difficult thing to get out of if you don’t even know what it is. I quit after a few tries, once I had road rash all up one arm and was pretty sure I’d separated a shoulder. I woke up early Saturday morning on Offshore’s couch, a little sore, and went home to get a few hours sleep in my own bed. I needed real rest, because the plan for Saturday was to go to Victoria for Toneberg’s mock stag. The spiral continued out of control.

Partying on Shelley Street is often a bit of a mosh pit, and since this one was a mock stag, it was kicked up a notch. A mock stag is much like a real stag, the only difference being that nobody is actually getting married…we think. It was out of control before it started. The drinking began around 4pm and at 6 I wanted to go to a hockey game. Unfortunately for us a sober driver showed up just in time. After much deliberation Fate decided we should take the Suzuki Samurai, all 9 of us. It was cramped to say the least, arms and legs hanging out everywhere. We made it to the game and halfway back before we were stopped by the cops, but in true X A-Lister’s form, we did not go quietly. One person yelling “Scatter!” was all that was needed to send seven guys running in every direction through a residential neighborhood. Three even got away, one of those being Catfish who instead of going home decided to hide in a tree house and make bird calls while the cops grilled us. Our driver was still sober and passed two breathalyzers, two because the cop refused to believe we were smart enough to have a designated driver. We spent about an hour with three police officers while the whole neighborhood crowded around or watched out their windows and took pictures. They ran all our names through the system, and we learned that Kwa Benna is a victim of identity theft. Somebody has been arrested three times in Comox for petty thefts using a driver’s licence with Kwa’s name and number on it. Apparently they reported his licence stolen and were issued a new one with their picture. Kudos to the BC government for that one. Whoever did it is at large, and the cops weren’t sure if they should let Kwa go in case he actually was the criminal. In the end though, they let us all leave with a very stern warning that we were not to go outside for the rest of the night (it was barely evening at that point) or we would be arrested and thrown in the drunk tank. In hindsight we should have heeded that warning.

Back at Shelley Street the festivities continued. Beers, Caesars, and a little Cacique thrown in for good measure found us having a full contact two on two soccer tournament in the kitchen. Shelley Street kitchen ball is always a disaster in the making. I was partnered with Monster Mck and when it was our turn we came out fighting, but obviously not hard enough. I remember slamming J-Tyme into a railing and then being blinded by an explosion of light, as if a flash grenade had gone off in my face. I don’t remember seeing Salty coming. As I was opening my eyes I can clearly remember Kwa saying, “He’s really hurt guys,” and when my vision cleared I found myself on the floor at the base of a shiny white dishwasher. I couldn’t figure out how I got there. They helped me up and I felt the back of my head where it had struck that white metal object. “Probably have a pretty good concussion” I thought, “and the only cure for that is to try to forget it happened.” The night continued on, ever spiraling.

After a while some of the guys wanted to go out. We scattered again. Some guys went downtown, some went home, and I found myself in a bar, with security like an airport, with Catfish, Monster Mck, Party Mark 2, and Zed Spread. The drinks kept coming. We closed the place and went to a house for a while but it sucked, so we decided to go for McDonald’s. As we were walking out of there I was hit by a headache that was so bad I had to sit down. All I could do was grip my head, grit my teeth, and wait for it to go away. When it finally did I got up and broke a board with nails sticking out across Party Mark 2’s back. Then we got in a truck and drove away, with Catfish and I riding in the bed. We’ve almost hit bottom…

I still have a hard time piecing together the events that followed. There is a gap of five or six seconds in my memory. I can remember a beer bottle being dropped out the back window into the bed of the truck. I can remember picking it up and then starting to stand to do something with it. I remember darkness, the sound of glass shattering, and for a split second feeling like I was in a rock tumbler. I could hear the screech of tires skidding to a stop and frantic voices yelling. I heard doors slam, and footsteps quickly coming towards me. I opened my eyes, or my vision cleared again, and found myself on the road at the base of a shiny white car. I couldn’t figure out how I got there.

“…where’s the truck? What the hell am I doing here...?”

I couldn’t feel any pain, but I could tell from the way the guys were talking to me that something was very wrong. Then it struck me, like I had struck that car, “Fuck me, I fell out of the truck.” Somebody was holding my hand. They were talking to me, telling me I was going to be okay, asking if I was okay. They wanted to help me up, to get me back in the truck, but I told them, “Do not touch me.” I was starting to think clearer and didn’t want to move unless I was sure I could. I moved my arms, they seemed ok. I moved my legs and they worked ok, although there was an intense shooting pain in one. Then I shifted my torso, only slightly at first, carefully, just in case I had some internal injuries, but I felt okay there too. “I think you can help me up now.” Two of the guys pulled me up and put my arms around their necks. I knew right away my knee was destroyed. My foot hurt a lot too, like there was a bone broken in there somewhere. I couldn’t really put any weight on it so we five legged walked to the truck, and put me in the front this time. Then we went to McDonald’s where we had another run in with the cops, but that is another story entirely, and not necessarily mine to tell. From McDonald’s, Catfish and I went back to Shelley Street. He took good care of me, made me sleep in his bed so he could keep an eye on me, and even gave me underwear because I wasn’t wearing any (though I suspect that was as much for him as me). The next day I came home to rest and recover, and try to figure out just what went wrong.

I still don’t really know what happened Saturday night. Nobody seems very sure. Party Mark 2 was looking back when I went out and he claims it looked like I just floated up and out of the truck as if I had wings. It was as though a higher power recognized that I had stepped back onto a path I had only recently escaped and decided to do something about it. An invisible hand reached down, plucked me out of the truck, and unceremoniously slammed me into a parked car (a car that looked exactly like the dishwasher from earlier in the night. Is there something to that?). In all the uncertainty about what exactly transpired we can all agree on one thing; we were probably doing about fifty or sixty kilometers an hour when I hit that car. We weren’t speeding, but we weren’t exactly wasting any time either. We were just driving down the road as if everything was okay, completely unaware that there were other plans for me.

If I can draw a conclusion from all of this, what should it be? I don’t think I’m back on the wrong path, but maybe I’m at a time in my life where two paths have converged, and it’s up to me to decide which one to follow when they split again. For now at least I’m going to stick to the slow lane and take some time to think. That way I’ll have time to read the signs and to take the right exit, or at least not the wrong one. Or maybe I should just stick to country roads completely.

Sleepy Time

I am too tired to write tonight. I am too tired to do much of anything. I am addicted to a book and haven't been sleeping much. Isn't it ironic that beating insomnia allowed me to do more of the things I used to love, and in doing them I am staying up way too late and am too tired to do some of the things that I love? I was late for work this morning because of this damn book. It was supposed to help me dream, but instead it is not letting me sleep. I guess I never did grasp the concept of moderation. I am always all in (which explains my collection of ice packs and tensor bandages), unless all in is sleeping, in which case I fold. Wait, would folding be sleeping or not sleeping? I'm so tired I don't even understand my own allegory. I need to quit my job already so I can start reading during the day again. It’s the only way I’ll get any sleep. What do you think Ted Nugent? Would you understand if I quit to read? You can handle your house by yourself eh? Just call me when you need me to lift something for you, I'll leave my phone on. I’ll be on my hammock. Do you say “on the hammock” or “in the hammock?” I think in my hammock’s case it would be in the hammock. It’s like a giant rope blanket with loops. It’s like a spider web burrito. It’s like being a joey in its mother’s pouch. When I get out I feel like a caterpillar molting. I was once diagnosed with Post Hammock Syndrome. It was depressing. I just wanted to be in my hammock’s loving embrace. When I’m lonely it holds me tight and rocks me to sleep. I can almost hear it whispering in my ear, “Sshh, I’m here. Sleep tight little one…” So sleepy......

Inspiring Thoughts From Way Back When

I was going through some of my old writing tonight. I do that once in a while for inspiration, because I’m pretty much the best writer out there. Tonight was different though. It was the first time I’ve read my old stuff since stumbling upon what I like to call My Renaissance, or my new perspective. Looking back with a fresh point of view I realized, I was angry back then, back in what I like to call The Dark Ages. I was sad too. Just check this out:


“The landscape of my heart is barren, drought stricken. It hasn't rained love for weeks. My heart is withering. Soon it will die. There was a time it was an oasis, overflowing with love. All in its vicinity flourished. But soon, the source of its prosperity dried up, or went elsewhere. Like a meandering river, the source of my love eroded away the banks of my heart and found a new course, leaving me to a fate of emotional desolation. Now all the happiness sustained by the oasis of my heart is diminishing. I am dead inside. My love has been spurned by that which made it glorious, and now wastes away, roots and all.”


That’s some heavy stuff eh? And check this one out:


“There are two me’s, and they’re becoming more and more distinct. One me has slowly been pushing the other me deeper inside. The other me, the original me, has been fighting for its identity, but it’s been a losing battle. Slowly it’s being weeded out.

The original me, the happy me, wants to come back. It loves living. It has fun. It will do anything. You want to hang out? It will. You don’t? That’s cool too. The original me is carefree. It gets up in the morning looking forward to the day. It goes to work. It laughs. It jokes. It makes penises and vaginas out of wood. It smiles. It makes others smile because it’s always happy. It looks forward to the future.

The other me. The lonely me. The angry me. The don’t bother me. It doesn’t want to have fun. It doesn’t want to hang out. Don’t call it. It hates you. It hates everything. It doesn’t want to get up. Why should it face another day? Why should it do anything? It goes to work. It hates work. It’s silent. It broods. Don’t talk to it. Let it go about its business in peace. It makes penises and vaginas out of wood. It frowns. It makes others frown. Why should they be happy? It just wants an end.

I’m not sure what to do about this alternate me. It’s a bad me. An evil entity. It needs to be exorcised. It needs to be put in its place. But it’s strong. Its grip is strong. It doesn’t want to go away. It wants to fester. It wants to consume me. It wants to be me. The only me. It wants to rule me with hate and self loathing. It’s a war within me betwixt good and evil. I side with good, but good is not strong. Good has weaknesses. Evil feeds on weakness. Good needs allies. Evil needs only itself. Alone, in its hermitage, it plots. It schemes. Good is content to enjoy life. It doesn’t plot. It has no schemes. It is outmatched. Outwitted. Nearly out of time. Good’s doom is impending. Evil’s victory, imminent.”


What a lunatic! I guess somehow Good did win, an important battle at least. Evil is the one withering now, under the Sun that shines inside me. I’m full of Love and Happiness, and all that sickening stuff again. Actually I’m making myself a little sick right now. It’s either all this positivity or the chicken alfredo casserole I just ate. It was a little much. I’ve decided to burn all the sad, depressing, angry, violent, hateful, spiteful stuff I wrote in a giant bonfire that can be seen for miles around. People will look out their windows to see the sky lit up, as if the Northern Lights were out in full force, or it was the first wave of some fiendish alien invasion. Children will run to their parents crying, “What is that Mommy? What is that Daddy? Are we going to die?” But their parents will pat them on the heads, shaking their own, and say, “Fear not little Suzy (or whatever), it’s only old man Huntley on the hill, burning paper and ink to celebrate his new lust for life. Then they’ll look at each other and smile while thinking, “I fucking hate you. Why can’t I be free of your torment? Free to frolic around bonfires naked but for a robe?” Then they will go to bed together, but separate.

Author’s note; I will of course only be burning copies, and keeping the originals, because as heart wrenching as all of this stuff is, it’s really bloody good.

Pedal Across America

I have this idea where I’ll take a stationary bike and fasten it down in the back of a pickup truck. I’ll get my buddy to drive me around while I pretend to ride. Then I’ll start a pledge drive to raise money for a charity like Breast Cancer Research, AIDS in Africa, or Mothers Against Drunk Riding. I’ll call it “Pedal Across America.” I’ll claim to be pedaling my bike across the continent to raise money for my cause. I could probably get U2 to ride in a truck behind me playing music, if I chose the AIDS one. It'll be a windfall. People love to pay money so other people will inflict pain and hardship upon themselves to help some other people who are less fortunate than themselves. I’ll make a promotional video showing myself training for the ride on a stationary bike. The very same stationary bike I’ll ride across America!! Nobody will actually think it’s the real bike, and if there’s ever a backlash I can say, “Look, I showed you the bike.” I can’t imagine there will be any backlash though. I think people will feel like they’ve been had, but in a good way. At the end of the day all the money will still be going to charity, except for the gas money, a little food money, and a small entertainment budget. After that all the money will be going to charity. I think when people look back on it they’ll laugh. They’ll see an ordinary guy doing something extraordinarily not very extraordinary for a good cause and know they helped. It could turn out to be one the greatest events of all time, after the original Woodstock, and just before Super Bowl III where an unproven Joe Namath guaranteed victory and led the New York Jets past the heavily favoured Baltimore Colts in a thriller. It could really put my name on the map. I’d be a celebrity, going on talk shows and doing cameos. I’d probably get a spot on David Letterman where I’d drag race a funny car down Broadway on my stationary bike. After the charity drive of course I’d keep any residuals, buy a place in Beverly Hills, and become an actor like that guy from Doogie Howser who doesn’t really do anything but seems to pop up every once in a while. He must still go to sweet Hollywood parties. I’ll write screenplays and ambush actors and directors in their favorite eateries. One day maybe I’ll convince the Farrelly brothers to produce my movie about a guy who goes to space bringing nothing but a spacesuit with an amp for a jet pack, a guitar, and a case of frozen burritos. It’s called, “Astro Boy Jimmy Page and the Guitar that Saved the World.” It’s about a guy who’s fed up with a world full of sorrow, so he leaves everything behind to travel the universe in search of a place where he can sit in peace, play guitar, and enjoy a beef and bean burrito. He finds love and discovers that the planet Earth is doomed to extinction due to a deadly virus, and only he can save it. He does nothing and let’s everybody die, then goes back and vanquishes the evil virus and begins humanity anew. In a strange twist, none of the animals are killed and he befriends them relying solely on the sultry tones of his electric guitar. New mankind flourishes, instilled with a love for nature, peace, and really good Mexican food. Later, content that he has set humankind on the right path, Jimmy Page decides to leave again and spend his last years in space. He says goodbye to Earth and rockets toward the stars upon his magic guitar, letting it wail, F sharp, the note of space love. Fade to black. Any self respecting Hollywood mogul would be a fool to refuse a script like this one. It will be my ticket to true acceptance in the movie world. Hot, high profile actresses will throw themselves at my feet begging me to teach them how to make space love, but I will throw them out, because they’re the same bitches who laughed at me when I was trying to pick up chicks on my stationary bike.

Addendum to May Long Tourney - Day 1

I've added some pictures to the first installment of the epic May Long series. Scroll on down, they're worth a look.

Adventures Can Sneak Up On You

A couple of nights ago I got a message from an old friend saying she had a book I should read. She was wondering how to get it to me. I was in one of those moods so I replied, “Leave it behind the third girder from the left under Booth Canal Bridge. I'll pick it up when the moon is full.” From there our conversation in message format went like this:

“Seriously????????”

“Probably. Why not? It's worth a try.”

“Alright then, when the owl hoots at dusk, the day of the full moon, you'll know it's there.”

I promptly forgot about it, because honestly, I forget about things a lot, but then last night as I was wasting time on the computer, rebelling against going to bed at a decent hour for work, I received this message:

“Did you get it?”

“Get what?” I thought. Then it dawned on me, “Is it a full moon?”

I ran outside, and there it was, a gigantic orb of white light. Excitement surged through me like an adrenaline rush. The game was afoot. At this point a lot of people would have dashed off without a thought, in whatever they happened to be wearing at the time, to find their prize under the bridge. Many have perished on spontaneous, ill-prepared adventures, but not I. I have read The Hobbit. Three times. I once had to hole up unexpectedly over night in the bushes outside a bank, and were it not for the juice boxes and granola bars I had stowed in my pockets before leaving for that particular adventure, I could still be there, pushing up daisies. I know how to go on an adventure.

I calmly went back into the house to prepare. Supplies are important on any adventure. You never know what you might face, so you have to prepare for any eventuality. Common sense dictates that you can rule out certain possibilities depending on your particular adventure. For instance, if you are going to be venturing under a bridge at night you need not worry about giant eagles. But be careful not to under-prepare! A few extra supplies, just in case, can be the difference between telling the story, and having the story told about you. Heading under said bridge without any kind of troll kit would be foolhardy, though truth be told in this case I was quite foolhardy, as I seem to have misplaced my troll kit. I only risked it because I could not bear the thought of a troll’s vile fingers all over my book. Trolls cannot read a word, but they like to pretend they can, even if nobody is watching. I was very careful in my approach, just in case something foul lurked in the darkness.
Back to my preparations; I found my old adventure satchel and filled it with the usual necessities. The following is a list of what I brought last night. It is a very bare minimum, but I needed to travel light:

- A notebook and pen. Notebooks are handy for many reasons. In this case I left a thank
you note along with a bag of gold candies, but they can also come in handy in situations
of imminent death, if you’d like to say goodbye to anybody. Just remember not to leave
the note in your pocket if you are to be swallowed by a ravenous beast.
- A backup pen.
- A torch, in this case a wind-up flashlight
- A multi-tool
- A medium length to long knife, folding or otherwise. It is always wise to carry a weapon that is
easy to use, like a short sword, and readily accessible.
- Duct tape. You never know.
- Matches, and if available, tinder. (no tinder last night)
- Granola bars (my favorite), but any healthy snack will do. Noisy packaging could cause problems when trying to avoid detection. I often repack my granola bars in quieter plastic bags.
- Juice boxes.
- A bandana or two. I always use one to hold my hair back, it is very difficult to fight
effectively with one’s hair in the way. A backup is always a good idea for binding
wounds.
- A bag of candy. Can be used to lure out forest sprites. When captured, forest sprites can
often be persuaded to grant a favour.
- Dark clothing for slinking around at night, clothing to suit the terrain by daylight.
- Last night I also brought a handful of coloured stones. It was on a whim, and they did not
come in handy, but were light enough and small enough that I would bring them again.
Anything that can be traded is a good idea, sisters excluded.

I think that sums up my supplies from last night, and anything I may have forgotten was inconsequential.

Back to the story; I donned my nightwear, packed my bag, and cautiously headed out into the night. It was quiet, the only sounds were the gentle rustlings of leaves in the wind. I set a fast pace because I was very familiar with the territory. It is after all my old haunting grounds. I knew by the position of the moon that the tide would be in, but if sea water was my only hindrance this would be a good night. After carefully appraising the situation and deciding that there were in fact no trolls, I was able to swing myself down from an outrigger and onto a tiny patch of mud under the bridge. I wound up the torch and searched between every girder. No book. I checked twice to be sure and decided it must be on the other side. I also decided it was a good idea to climb back out and walk across the bridge to search the opposite side. Swimming in darkened waters is never a good idea, but especially on this type of an adventure. The foul things seem to have a natural attraction to adventure, and always pop up at the worst times. I clawed my way back up, crossed the bridge, and climbed down the bank on the other side. There was no dry land on this side. By torchlight (note, wind-up flashlights are handy in that they will never fully die, but they are noisy while being wound, and I felt very exposed standing at the water’s edge cranking this noisy little bugger) I found that the water was only knee deep for a couple of feet, too shallow for anything extremely dangerous to sneak up, barring tentacles, so I waded in. It turned out the only creatures to worry about down there were crabs the size of football helmets, but they were quite harmless, and my only worry was crushing one as I walked. Again I searched between every girder and found nothing. I was getting quite perturbed. “Is it a trap?” I thought. I never verified the source of the messages. I just assumed the person was who she said she was. “I’d better get out of here” I thought, so quietly, very quietly, I snuck back out from under the bridge and climbed the bank. Before leaving the brush I let my eyes adjust to the moonlight and looked around. I couldn’t see movement in any direction. “If this isn’t a trap, what the hell is it?” I took another look at the bridge. A row of girders ran in each direction, one on top of the other, with the decking running right on top of those. But I had searched between all of the girders. There was nowhere else….unless…a closer look revealed the top row of girders ran out beyond the sides of the bridge. I went to the side, peered over, and there, on top of the third girder on the left, was my prize. I snatched it up, wrapped it in my extra bandana, and stowed it away in my satchel. I was feeling extremely exposed now that I possessed the treasure (it was also nearing midnight), so I wrote a quick thank you note, stuck it in the bag of gold candy, and taped it all to the girder. With everything back in my satchel (except the folding knife), and my hands free, I beat a hasty retreat back to my house to have a hot drink and cool down…and wash my feet.

There is always a feeling of euphoria after successfully completing an adventure. I couldn’t wait to see what I had, but I kept my excitement and curiosity in check long enough to put away my adventure kit and make a mug of hot chocolate. I then sat down to investigate what I had wrapped up in my satchel. It was a paperback book entitled Under The Skin, and there was a note in it that read, “Maybe this will help you dream." I knew right away this was a good prize, well worth wading in a canal, under a bridge, under a full moon. But then again, adventures always are.