Waxed Paper Chase

Reading about Grant Miller's horrible childhood ordeal by finger painting, I was reminded of a similar incident from my kindergarten days.

We were given old crayons. We were told to pick off any paper that might be left on them. I remember feeling a bit sad that some of these crayons might still be clinging to the hope that there was life left in their nubby little selves.

We were then told to use the blades of our scissors to run down the sides of the crayons to create shavings.

The teacher then described that when we had several colors of shavings, we would arrange them on pieces of paper.

She demonstrated that the paper would be folded in half and she would then help us use a hot iron to go over the sheet. We'd be left with a symmetrical design of sorts we could take home and cherish. Crayonblots.

Everyone seemed game for this but me. I let the teacher know immediately I was having no part of it. I thought it was stupid and I wasn't doing it. She spent some time trying to convince me but when she realized I meant what I said, she sent me to the corner.

The project proceeded. The rest of the kids made some truly amazing blobs of shit. When they were done, the teacher came over and said something like don't you wish you'd done one now? I told her to go fuck herself and that was that.

Flash forward a few years and I became obsessed with making candles. I'd melt down old ones to try and make new ones. My brothers enjoyed teasing me by calling me Parafino, a nickname I secretly loved because of it's Spiderman affiliation.

After ruining a few of my mother's pots including a double boiler she used to make boiled icing and other concoctions in, the folks brought me home my very own fully functional second hand stove which they set up in the basement for my candle making escapades.

I couldn't have been more than 12 years old and they bought me a stove. Wouldn't it have been easier to buy me a pot until the obsession turned to something else?

The candle making fun lasted a while and then I got really good at doing hot knives downstairs with my friends.

It's Not The Heat, It's The Stupidity

Everyone goes mental in the heat. It’s a fact.

The dog leapt over my head in bed three times last night. He only stuck the landing twice.

People have started baring more flesh than perhaps they should. You know who you are.

Someone set fire to a homeless person’s belongings under a bridge.

The air conditioning has been turned up so high at work that a sweater might need to be employed to stop the shaking.

And it’s only 8:40 a.m.

It’ll get worse. I know it.

The annual Humidity Festival has begun.

Face The Music

Give this a try. Upload a photo of yourself and it tells you which celebrities match your features. Most of my matches were hideous so I know it works!

http://www.myheritage.com/

From The Vaults

I get bored, I watch old movies. I never seem to focus on what I should. I sometimes write about them.

Last night, it was The Ghost And Mrs. Muir. I vaguely remember a television show of the same name that aired in the late 1960's which is shortly after when I first aired.

Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison play the title characters. George Sanders also pops round for a bit in the middle. But most compelling of all is a young Natalie Wood as Mrs. Muir's daughter.

Gene rents the seaside house that belonged to Cap'n Harrison who promptly begins to haunt her. Other stuff happens but every time there is a scene near the water you can't take your eyes off of Natalie Wood. Careful Natalie! Not too close to the water!

You know Christopher Walken's in a boat in the distance in at least one of those scenes.

The film was enjoyable but made little sense.

Bet She'll Have Nice Sideburns

So Angie and Brad have now produced the best baby ever to be born. And they named it after a Neil Diamond song.

I still haven't gotten over the fact that Angelina broke up with her brother.

Hot Child In The City

The revolution may be televised but it seems I’m not always watching.

Because I go on self imposed television news blackouts from time to time, I didn’t know why there seemed to be so many extra humans on my 8:15 to the city.

I arrived downtown and found myself queued up behind a bunch more than usual bleary eyeds for coffee.

After I got to work and declared myself awake, I read reports on the Internet that the fine workers of the Toronto Transit Commission are saying hell no, we will not be driving 700,000 of you to work this morning.

One of the reports stated the issue as management wanting 100 workers to switch from a day shift to a night shift permanently because it’s cheaper. Another report had some safety concerns cited. Some said they were locked out, others said the whole thing was an illegal action.

I just enjoyed the whole wildcat atmosphere created since usually we’re given fair warning about these things and everyone draws up lame ass contingency plans. No time this time.

This all coincided with ride your bike week or whatever that’s called. Do I even still own a bike?

Currently it’s 34 degrees Celsius with a humidex making it feel like 42. For the uninitiated, that’s 107.6 in dog years. I mean Fahrenheit.

Pinch Me!..................................Harder

I did it. I finally did it. Because I know I can trust you, I'll tell you what it is.

I've won the lottery!

Wait, wait. Not the one where you win millions of dollars.

And not the kind in the classic short story by Shirley Jackson.

But one of those lotteries sponsored by a hospital.

You know, all the money goes to a great cause?

No, not one of the cars or houses with property taxes more than my mortgage payment.

A smaller prize. Worth less than the cost of the ticket.

But still, nice enough. A Sony CD / Mp3 player!

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a bit disappointed but at least it's not big and yellow.

Once, many years ago, the Sony gods smiled down on me for the first time.

McDonald's was introducing a game (Monopoly I believe) with instant winner tabs on the drinks and french fry packaging.

I peeled a little tab off my fries and shoot, bang, glory hallellujah, I was a winner! A mountain of paperwork and a solemn oath sworn to foster an unhealthy obsession with electronics later and it was all mine.

A so large it could be seen from space brilliant yellow portable Sony Walkman. I was very excited.

That toy served me very well only to be replaced by a newer and sexier model a few years later. For all I know, the original's still whirring away in a landfill somewhere.

Good times.

To celebrate my good luck, I will listen to Lucky Number by Lene Lovich.

Most Worthwhile Music So Far This Morning

Rather than wash windows, I choose to revel in the fact that I have the best taste in the land.

My shuffling music player is helping me realize this and getting me to provide this important analysis:

Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings - This Land Is Your Land -- this makes me chair dance (some of my best work to date).

Tom Jones & Stereophonics - Mama Told Me Not To Come -- keeps the chair moving (I'm really glad I wrote this song)

Kate Bush - Kite -- whoa, some hot and sexy dog whistle singing Kate (why did your last cd suck so hard?)

Foo Fighters - Monkey Wrench -- what have we done with innocence? It wasn't me!

Solomon Burke - Soul Searchin' -- go watch Lightning In A Bottle if you don't believe me. Angelique Kidjo's opener stuns and cuts right through you.

Poe - Haunted -- ba da ba ba Come here Pretty please Can you tell me where I am

Magic Numbers - Long Legs -- back to the bopalicious

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Bang! -- O Karen, suckin and swallowin', yer a blazin'

Okay, now 4 shit songs in a row. It's a message.

See you suckas.

Things I'm All Caught Up On

The Sopranos.

That's it.

So I guess it's Thing I'm All Caught Up On

Things That Start With B!

C.V.

Dale what would you like to be when you grow up?

A Cautious Visionary

My Personal Dna Report

And you?

Take The Test

Drink Cart Jerry

While on a flight last week, I noticed Jerry Hall pushing a drink cart. She sneered at me, flicked her split ends in my general direction and headed for business class. Maybe it wasn't Jerry but she definitely looked a bit like last decade's model.

Jerry got me to thinking.

You know those boring video safety demos they always beg you to watch? Well, I'm not watching them. I'm too busy watching the other freaks on board.

But, maybe I would watch them if they used celebrities instead of soothing voices and freshly scrubbed humanotrons.

Imagine...

...Ted Kennedy showing you how to buckle and unbuckle your seat belt.

...Lauren Bacall looking relieved after the oxygen mask drops down in front of her and she takes in a nice deep breath.

...an artist's rendering of D.B. Cooper showing you where all the exits are.

You get the picture.

While thinking about this, I thought of the seat pocket flight cards in the film Fight Club and how much I loved that.

A quick search revealed this hilariousness -- Airtoons

The Bad Lieutenant

On Saturday night, I went to see The Lieutenant Of Inishmore at the Lyceum Theatre.

First of all, the Lyceum is an amazing venue, stunning and intimate. And tell me who doesn't like a little stunning intimacy now and then?

Of the plays Martin McDonagh has written, I've seen The Beauty Queen of Leenane, The Lonesome West and The Pillowman, all wonderful for different reasons.

I expected a home run right off the bat with Lieutenant but found the first act a bit wanting. Too slapsticky and repetitious I thought.

Intermission.

Act Two.

Hilarious, shocking, and wonderful by turn.

Way to go Martin.

There was one bit that I felt he'd stolen directly from my life but then again, no. Perhaps I'm more common than I expect I am.

This might explain why when the stewardess came to collect my empty coffee cup today, I sensed a bit of derision in her voice as she looked down at me, held out an open bag and said Trash.

Alphabet Man

It's never happened to me that I can recall. I got into a cab in New York City and the driver forgot to turn the meter on.

He was on his cell phone. Everyone in North America is on their cellphone. All the time. It's because they're curing cancer. And they're helping the flight attendant land the plane.

From hotel maids to extra executives, everyone's got the Star Trek communicator in their ear and they're making it safer for you and me.

It may sound cliche to say this cabbie couldn't speak English but I'm saying it anyway. Possibly he's just not that good at having two conversations at once. While he was looking at me and crinkling his forehead at my stated destination and directions, he just kept right on talking. And not turning on the meter.

So I let him yak it up, drive erratically and eventually end up where I told him I wanted to be. It wasn't til then that he looked at the meter, slapped himself in the forehead and kept right on talking. To someone else.

I threw a 10 at him and got out.

He's lucky I'm not connected.

What Balls

Even when I'm away from my computer, my bloggy little brain continues to whir and pop.

While walking across a certain bridge in a certain city, I happened upon a painted symbol telling me where to walk.

I thought of Holly and this piece she wrote. I wondered what might happen if I dared veer from the path. I wondered and left it at that.

First We Take Manhattan, Then We Take Brook-lyn

Ah, a long weekend here in friendly Canada. The Victoria Day weekend.

Still no use for the monarchy? Say what you will, Queen Victoria died for our sins so we might get a day off. Or something.

And is there really any better way to celebrate a Canadian holiday than by flying to America for some fun in glorious NYC?

I went with John and it was great. The weather was better than it was here, the theatre was great and hey, who doesn't like hotel life?

On Sunday morning, a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge was suggested. I said, okay but not before some brekkie.

From the hotel on 52nd at Madison we walked to the Red Flame on 44th between 5th and 6th because their breakfast is fast, great and no nonsense. From there, the plan was to hop in a cab that would take us toward the bridge, get out, walk across and then figure out the rest of the day.

Not everything goes as planned.

Breakfast went off without a hitch.

We then decided to start walking. We headed for Broadway and got caught up chatting and marvelling at the architecture and doing your standard people watching along the way.

We kept walking. And walking.

We ended up walking all the way to the bridge, across it and into Brooklyn.

We sat a while in the park there and talked a while. I called Tanya who had just been in NYC but was now back home. She was rude enough to not be around. After a little more relaxing, we went off again in search of a cab. First we found a Starbucks and then we found a cab.

It took a few good hours and about 5 or 6 miles of walking but the experience was worth it.

The cab ride back took about 15 minutes. I'm thinking of having wheels installed where my feet used to be. (This mapquest map shows the return trip by car and not the blister walk to and over the bridge.)

Speaking Of Kilimanjaro

From June 9, 2005

Blogomatic For The People

Because I've been known to be occasionally lazy, (yes me!), I've written nary a speck in the last while. Unless signing your name for room service counts?

So I've decided to throw in a guest Blog from Vicky. Vicky wrote a brilliant piece on her recent weekend descent into hell or rather her ascent and descent. Sandra asked Vicky along for her annual Chicks Hanging Off Mountains Invitational to be held in Lake Placid. Vicky's game for anything reasonable from what I can tell. Both are in great shape and my main point of interest in their weekend event was that they would be staying at Art Devlin's Olympic Motor Inn. I just like the way that sounds.

After reading her piece on the experience, I suggested that maybe I'd guest blog her. Vicky's proposal: Pretend it happened to you. Of course I simply couldn't do this because I'd never be found anywhere remotely near the activities discussed and people would finally have the proof that I'm a big fat liar, something I continually tell myself I'm not.

Bereft of material at present to wax on (say it with me: wax off) and without further ado, may I present --

Vicky Proves Nature To Be The Messy Brat That I've Always Suspected


Sandra and I may have different impressions of how the weekend went. As I said to that very fit group of ladies, it was a weekend of memorable meals, wonderful views, lots of laughs, enjoyable company, and not bad outlet shopping so my only complaint would be the activities I was forced to participate in.

When they said "hiking" I pictured some strenuous walking along rugged paths, not scrambling up and down the side of a mountain on my hands and knees over sheer rock at times, grabbing onto roots like Tarzan. They had such a fast pace that I found it hard to keep up and was on my own a lot of the way. I would have been comfortable at a more leisurely pace. When we got to the top I was asked if the view wasn't worth the effort and I tried not to burst her bubble but frankly the answer was no.

Parts of my body that I didn't even know I had were killing me. They were all sucking back Ibuprofen like it was M & M candy before the start of one "hike". What kind of fun are you planning to have where you are taking the painkiller before you even start to move? I should have know enough to run right then and there. Instead I ended up sweating, covered in mud and bug bites.

The first day I put on sunscreen but then was told I wouldn't need it. The second day I got burned, probably at the top of the peak. The thing is you work so hard to get to the top and then because I was the slow one I had the least amount of time to rest and enjoy the view before it was time to start back down. You can't stay too long at the top because there are bugs that pester you to death. There were hundreds of teeny little spiders crawling over everything the first day. I mean, really.

I just kept telling myself that I would never have to go through this again if I could just get through it. It was hours of literally willing one foot in front of the other without looking too far ahead because after rounding twenty bends just to see more sheer rock it gets very daunting. The second peak required constant rock hopping to get down. After two hours of jumping on rocks with my legs in a straddle position and trying not to twist my ankle for a fifth time I thought I would never be able to walk normally again. I feared I would look like some kind of Rumpelstiltskin troll trying to go into a decent restaurant to get my dinner and they would not let me in unless I could confirm this was a congenital abnormality.

I slipped at one point and fell on my bottom, into a nice mud puddle. My shoe got stuck in some intractable mud and while I hopped like a flamingo trying to extricate the shoe (it would not budge) Sandra was finally successful in retrieving the shoe. She had it in her hand and was passing it to me when she dropped it in the water so I had to put on the wet shoe and squelch my way along.

However, having accomplished the climbs I can say it does feel good to know I did it. The physical exertion did feel good after all but I really don't know if I could do it again. I guess that the next time I would at least know better what to expect so the mental strain would not be as bad. But this was a fast group. Even for the "walk" around Mirror Lake I found i had to work hard to keep up. I hardly had time to enjoy the view because I had to focus on breathing to keep up. That is not really my style. So I don't know if I would go again if asked but time does give perspective so who knows.

What do you say Dale? Have I persuaded you to take a jaunt there?

My resounding answer: No effing way man.

Move On Up A Little Higher

Because I don't spend all my time bashing fake homeless people, I draw your attention to this fine character's blog.

Andrew's had a decent life and by jove wants to give a little back. In honour of his 50th birthday in May 2007, he plans to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro and will try to raise 25,000 pounds for World Vision projects in Tanzania.

I eat that shit up. Check out Andrew's Kili50 Challenge

I would totally do something like this myself but can't imagine myself at 50 or having enough energy to do anything but beg for a handicap sticker for better parking opps by that time.

Blue List Group

What follows is my email to the Lonely Planet Blue List book and their reply.

I include this because it lets me pretend that I am writing. And when I am pretending to write, I pretend to be happier.

Places everyone, smile.

Oh, there were three choices of office to contact, one in the USA, one in the UK and one in Australia. I chose the Australia office simply because they had the best strange address:

Locked Bag 1, Footscray, Victoria, 3011

Hello Lonely Planet People,

I bought your Blue List book of 618 Things To Do
& Places To Go. 06-07.I'm enjoying leafing through it and
dreaming of some truly great vacations to come.

Being Canadian, I was happy to see the inclusion
of the Canadian Rocky Mountains
under Most Spectacular Natural Attractions.

A couple of minor items caught my eye
and I thought it best to bring them to your
attention.

British Columbia is spelled as I just spelled
it and not Colombia.Also we don't have state borders here but
provinical borders. And by provincial,
I mean from province, not from a lack
of refinement.

We're all rather polite and lovely you know.

Keep up the great work!

Dale Of The Provinces
=============
Dale,

Thanks for taking the time to let us know
about the British Columbia error, much
appreciated.

I will pass this onto the commissioning
editor so he is aware.I am glad you enjoyed Bluelist..It is great
for day dreaming..All the best Dale Of The Provinces..

Cheers,Nicole
=============
God I'm boring aren't I? Even Nicole thinks
so, I'm sure.

Ryan, Sodomy & The Lash

If Elliott gets voted off American Idol tonight, there will be nobody left to make Paula's ankles glisten as she slides around on that chair.

Here Paula, have some of mine.

Dale's Rules For The Homeless

1. Do not sit there pretending those highlights weren't professionally done.
2. If you have better shoes than me, use them to walk away.
3. Don't use all your daytime cellphone minutes up in front of me. And by the way, who does your calling plan? Mine sucks.
4. Please don't make cute signs such as Needs Money For Pot. We all need money for pot.
5. Don't be smoking cigarettes, those things cost a fortune. You could be spending that money on pot.
6. Have an act. If I'm not going to give you money, I would still like to be entertained.

And Dream Of Sheep

I know someone who has taken photographs of people only to have them kick off shortly after. It's happened often enough to be freaky and a talking point. His intention has never been to kill anyone but this hasn't stopped me from repeatedly asking him to shoot specific people.

This reminds me.

Of the culling poem that features in Chuck Palahniuk's novel Lullaby. Just reading the poem to someone or thinking of the words has the power to send them to their death.

Of my own power at merely mentioning someone only to have bad things happen to them. See here.

Sandra knows of my power. Just the other day, she asked me if there was anything I could do about Paris Hilton. Sure thing I said. I think it was just enough that Sandra mentioned her. And now this has happened.

Is there any way to stop me from simply ruling the world now?

If I Knew Now What I Knew At Eleven!

Read this if you dare:

Vicky Pollard strikes again?

Altogether Now

I sent this to The Globe And Mail today. This goes along with my previous post about how damned brilliant and annoying I can be.

While reading the Book section of The Globe and Mail weekend edition May 13, 2006, I enjoyed Laura Robinson's review of Sheldon Kennedy's book (page D4).

There was something at the end of the first paragraph that made me wonder. Ms. Robinson says "They knew we might put it altogether." I'm sure she meant all together didn't she?

At least in the Book section I'd expect some pretty good proofreading to be going on. But mistakes do happen and people point them out. Life goes on.

If ever you're looking for a new proofreader, hire me and pay me well. I'll go to town looking for just this sort of thing to save the paper from having to listen to people like me.

Thanks, Dale

The Loneliest Place On Earth

I can be very annoying. I know this. But as it is well intentioned and borne out of my brilliance, it's perfectly acceptable.

I was leafing through the Lonely Planet publication BLUE LIST 618 Things To Do & Places To Go. 06-07.

It's a nice dream book of sorts. It highlights some great places to travel and breaks down some cool categories such as Great Historical Journeys, Places Most Like In The Film, Most Remote Places on Earth and The World's Best Booze and Where To Drink It.

One category that caught my eye{ouch}was Most Spectacular Natural Attractions. It featured the Canadian Rocky Mountains which border British Columbia and Alberta, two of our lovely provinces.

British Columbia was spelled Colombia which is incorrect. The book also mentioned that the moutain range straddled the two state borders rather than the provincial borders.

I sent an email to let them know I like their book but to tell them I should be working for them and getting free trips and stuff as I noticed these two things.

I'll let you know how that all goes.

I Am The Frito Bandito

I know I have power. It's hard to measure and control but it's there.

I mentioned my dislike of Chris Daughtry on American Idol. The world gasped as he was sent packing.

I spoke of Rex Harrington and on opening night of Song & Dance, he fell and hurt himself. The show was already hurting.

I said something about you too. So look out.

Mornings Eleven

Correction - I was unable to complete the census online due to it crashing on me every few questions. I was pleased to find that putting pen to page still worked rather well even if it meant giving up on HAL's dulcet tones.

The Magic Numbers

My Favourite Number is Dale

I long ago gave up the notion that I'm not a number. I am. So are we all.

I'm filling out the 2006 Canadian census online.

They make it clear that all my information is confidential. To perhaps deflect from the fact that are 10 different identifier numbers used in the paperwork they sent me, they have the decency to keep using my name throughout the information gathering process.

Cue the HAL voice...Hello DALE, what is the language you speak most often at home?

This makes me feel special. Like maybe I'm unique, one of their prime numbers.

Thanks HAL, love you.

9901

Living In My Head

What an exhausting week.
Let's see what tricks this plays on me:

Manorexia

I keep seeing a guy at work who's very very thin looking and it got me to wondering if he has an eating disorder. He's always dressed in the latest fashions but it looks like maybe he's wearing a XXXS or something, very unusual.

This made me wonder a little about eating disorders in men and here I found some interesting stuff on the topic.

I wondered if in general eating disorders were as prevalent all over the world or if this was just a North American phenomenon? After looking around a bit, seems that it's not just N.A.

Luckily, the only food issue I seem to have is knowing when to say no to white chocolate macadamia nut cookies.

The Evolution Of Dancing (if the vid doesn't show up, click this title)

Can I Get A Witness?

I saw this quote on Creepy's site and immediately stole it. Feel free to steal it and not go to hell at the same time.

“Freedom of religion includes freedom from religion... Why don't we celebrate living, instead of worrying about damnation and sin?”

-- Ed Schempp, humanist, activist

Take A Hike

I've finally figured something out.

To get personal and intimate for a moment if I may, the inseam of my pants is 32 and has been for a long time.

A few weeks ago, I bought some new pants. As you can surely tell, mine is a life lived at breakneck speeds.

I bought 2 different pairs of pants. They were of 2 styles, 2 manufacturers, and no doubt, 2 different kids worked on them.

Being an off the rack kind of guy, I never try anything on at the store. Once home, I decided to try and figure out which hat would go best and so I slipped a pair on.

I noticed shortly after tripping that the length on these babies seemed overly long. Strange. The tag has my usual coordinates printed right there.

I decide it's an aberration. One of the kids was distracted while sewing that day.

The next pair, the same thing. Plus none of the hats were working for me either.

Could I be shrinking? When was the last time I bought pants? I can't remember. Nor can I remember ever hearing that your leg length is the first to go.

Recognizing in myself an element of laziness, I am not schlepping back to the store. I'm keeping them. They're not that long.

This leads me to the learning.

Like most humans, I hate change. As I continue to shrink and refuse to reevaluate my leg length, I will keep buying the same size and keep hiking my pants up to the point that I turn into one of those old men who has a belt just below his chest.

I could never figure out why this whole man pants thing existed. Now I know and I'm a more accepting person.

Today I think I'll shop for a nice comfy walking shoe.

Happy

I hate to repeat myself. I hate to repeat myself.

I'm not convinced that everyone I know has gone out and bought the Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins cd Rabbit Fur Coat.

They warn you about killers and thieves in the night
I worry about cancer and living right
But my mama never warned me about my own destructive appetite
Or the pitfalls of control
How it locks you in your grave
Looking for someone to be saved under my restraint

I'm not sure that passage will sell anyone but I thought it was great to hear something like that in the middle of a pop song. It definitely had an effect on me. It's much less a downer than it sounds.

Of Bored Dominatrices And Eating

I'm eating in a restaurant. I'm funny that way, put me in a restaurant and it's just something I'm comfortable doing.

Midway through my Oysters 1-1-1, I notice a tall woman dressed in a bright red pant suit and sporting a wide brimmed hat of the same colour enter the restaurant. She doesn't walk, she strides. She is wearing dark sunglasses that cover a good deal of her face.

She makes a couple of passes down the length of the section I'm seated in, rounds the corner through the bar area and exits the place.

I stop chewing long enough to process what I've just seen and notice a few other stymied patrons. I go back to the eating. After all, I am in a restaurant.

A couple of moments pass before the puss (glamour) returns to traipse through our midst once more. Stride one two, stride one two, stop, turn, beckon to someone just out of sight and hold.

A rather large and tall man in a below the knee bright red backless evening gown studded in sequins enters the frame. His hair is spiked up and he looks a very masculine gent. Except for the dress and matching choker.

He waits for her cue and then follows her into the restaurant, they do a walkabout around the tables and then go and sit at the bar.

They order a drink, she talks to a couple of people at the bar while he sits there. She leads him to the bathroom, they disappear, they come back, they finish their drink, one more tour around the joint and off they go.

A waiter regales the women at the table behind ours with tidbits about the odd couple.

He says that she's a local dominatrix who brings some of her clients here for a drink on occasion.
He says management doesn't mind this.

He says she has a small whip that she will use at times.

He says she is in complete control of her client and he likes that.

He says they never stay for long.

He thinks she's adorable.

Draw your own conclusions. I'm busy eating.

No Need To Eat Krahe

Just to prove that I can buy things
other than books, I picked up this
print on canvas by Rudi Hurzlmeier.

Would You Eat Here?

I would. And did. The fudge was delicious.

The funk however was girly shirts and cat related
doodads. The sign worked, it made me go in.

And look it up, Catawampus is a word. You learn something new
every second or third day.

Signs From God

I came upon this the other day on a path / walking trail.

I thought what the fuck is this supposed to mean?

Is it a rooster head or something? No quarter chickens on the path at any time? It stumped me until I lost my balance and fell right off my blades.

Canoodle CanIdol

I saw a young fellow and his mom get on my flight from B.C. to Toronto today. I overheard her mention to someone behind me that he was a finalist in something. I wasn't interested enough to strain to hear the whole conversation.

Then while waiting for luggage, I saw a Canadian Idol t-shirt wearing hipster meeting up and making off with them. So I'm guessing that the kid is a finalist in the singing competition.

Is this all I need to watch the show after my not so secret shame of getting involved with American Idol? We shall see.

Oh, Sandra

Sandra,

Guess who sat two rows behind me on my flight to Victoria ? Your husband! No, your other husband.

As you recently mentioned, you and your regular husband were out for dinner and the staff at the restaurant asked if your hubby was a celebrity. The person said something akin to Are you Rex Harri..., I mean Murphy?.

Rex Harrington for those of you not knowledgeable in the ways of Canadian celebrity is a well known ballet dancer. Rex Murphy is a well known Canadian warthog, I mean journalist. You can see why Sandra might be more excited at the prospect of her husband being mistaken for Rex the H as opposed to Rex the M. No matter, I'm sure they've both got their lovelier pointes.

Since I'm always in the thick of minor Canadian celebrity sightings, it got me to wondering. As I have seen Rex M. several times noting a proximity to our workplaces, maybe he recognizes me and this makes me a minor celebrity?

I couldn't be any less famous than him could I?

Well, I'm back from the coast again and glad of it. More later,

Dale

Luke, I Am Your Father

Has anybody else been driven to distraction this season by the sound of Tony Soprano’s laboured breathing in just about every scene?

Either this is meant to distract from the meandering the writers seem to be doing or it’s a testament to James Gandolfini’s acting chops. I hear he’s actually only really 5’7” and 160 pounds soaking wet. Riiiiight.

Speaking of breathing issues, there’s another character (everyday life) that I see with frequency.

He walks by and it’s clear that he’s not able to pull off the double threat of walking and breathing through his nose at the same time. That bottom lip is just a-flappin’.

There are no birdies and stars circling his head so he hasn’t just been clubbed or had a falling piano break over his head.

He’s a mouth breather.

The difference between this guy and Tony Soprano is that this guy ain’t getting his own show. I hope.

I Bet I Think This Song Is About Me

All this talk by Justacoolcat about the DMV and accompanying comments about license photos got me to thinking about my first passport photo. Thanks be to other bloggers for giving me story ideas or it would just be a bunch of empty space over here.

When I was planning an exciting life abroad, friends recommended a particular photographer to me who had a studio a few blocks from where I work. They said he was a miracle worker.

Now, I don't like to think of myself as the type of guy who needs a miracle but who am I to say? Everyone's had torch carrying villagers follow them around now and again haven't they?

I found my way to the studio time forgot in a little plaza-ette tucked away between a couple of office buildings. Without an address to search for, I probably never would have even noticed the place.

Walking in, I could see an old tyme camera, the kind that uses photographic plates, movable lights that looked large enough to light Norma Desmond and a single chair in front of a plain backdrop.

From a small door in the back came Mr. S. Diminutive and all a-tweed, he welcomed me in with a warm smile asking if I needed photographs taken.

I told him that friends had recommended him as the best and that I needed passport photos taken. He smiled, nodded and pointed to the chair. Sit sit, he said.

Next, I was given a complex set of instructions - lean forward a bit and look to the left, a little more to the left, now look up at me, rest your left elbow on your knee. Variant tweaks continued until all my settings were just so.

He darted behind the camera, slammed the photo plate down, said hold it hold it and then one old fashioned click and he whipped the plate back up and headed for the darkroom. He said he'd be a few minutes.

I now had time to notice that at the front of the store, there were brightly coloured glass bowls and vases that were for sale and looked like they must have originated perhaps on a different continent.

A few moments later, the door opened at the back again and I turned to see a frowning Mr. S. Uh oh, I thought, we're in for some retakes. I'm not the most photogenic person truth be told.

He looked down at the photos, back up at me, pursed his lips and said The man in these photographs is wanted. He paused to great effect. Wanted by Hollywood! And with that, he flipped the photographic paper around so I could behold his brilliant work.

I'm only being a little vain when I say that this photograph of me was stunning. I can say this because I am not stunning in real life. I am average. But here, for the first time, I was clock stoppingly handsome.

Never did I more proudly present my passport. It didn't matter where, I would just flip it open like I was a cop producing a badge. At McDonald's to the puzzled geriatric asking me if I wanted fries with that, at bars to bald double chinned bouncers, in crowded elevators, while grocery shopping, in bookstores, you get the picture. So to speak.

The passport has now expired and I have retired it with sadness.

I went back for a new one and damn, if he didn't make me feel all special and look great again.

Sadly, the creeps at the passport office put a whole bunch of new security features all over my face so now I just look the schlub that I am.

Poetry Slam

I'm not a huge fan of poetry although as someone who likes to write, I'm not sure why that is.

Without further doo doo or offense to the buttery and crispy Maya, allow me share something Holly recently posted about Bad Habits that was very compelling.

And if you play your links right, you'll get so tangled in the web that the web weaves, well, you'll be right back here or out having breakfast sausage.