I'll Cut Me!

Standing in line at the bank machine this morning (I simply adore standing in any sort of line), a man and a woman were chatting behind me so of course, I had to listen in.

She said "I rode in with her on the train this morning and I thought I was going to have to slit my fucking wrists!'.

I turned and chuckled and she said to me "Too dramatic?" "No, I know just how you feel", I replied. "Oh, you must know her" and they went back to talking.

Proof that I'm not alone in the universe.

This also ties in nicely with Barbara's review of an interesting sounding film Wristcutters: A Love Story.

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This Is Not A Love Song (KBL Edition)

After being Korean Bagel Lady'd (thanks for the terminology Barbara), I realized there was a bit of information I'd forgotten to impart. While I'm still compiling documentary evidence of her henchwoman for Kim Jong Il status, I now at least know her name. She has a name ladies and gentlemen!

Back in the carefree days before she tried to poison me, I overheard someone at the counter say "Hi Joanne!" in the Bagel Lady's general direction. I asked if that was indeed her name and she verified it. I told her I'd expected something a little more exotic. She said "Well, my real name is Gin". Seeing her neckerchiefed helper working in the back, I said "So I guess you two are like Gin & Tonic then?". Her humourless "No" dashed my hopes of writing a buddy cop screenplay based on their adventures.

It wasn't until Coaster Punchman commented that if the Korean Bagel Lady and his nemesis Mama Gin met, they might cancel each other out that this fact returned to me. Reading that was like being struck with the force of, I'd say, four to six stale bagels. There are two Gins! Evil twin Gins perhaps separated at birth and by nation.

All this Gin flowing seems to support my view that evil grows in the dark, where the sun it never shines. If I was a man of prayer, I might say Saints preserve us! Instead, I'll just cling to to my belief that I'm tastier than her coffee will ever be.

Pick Flick

I was just attacked by the same blog interviewer as Splotchy, Barbara and Beckeye and let me tell you, it hurt so good. It's always nice to get the chance to talk about yourself because that just never happens in the blog world.

Here comes the awkward -- you can vote daily for the chance to let Splotchy, Barbara, Beckeye or me win piles of cash ($25, 15 or 10) but really, why would you even consider voting for them? None of them has promised to put a cake in everyone's Easy Bake have they? Have I? Well, never mind.

If you really loved me, you'd vote for me, and then you'd get that hair cut.

Snark du Soleil

As my trashy next door neighbors now seem to be busy roof repairing and swearing next door to Barbara's place, I've had to focus on other things, like the people that have moved in directly behind them.

Taking up residence is what may be a troupe of circus folk. On hearing the dulcet tones of something vaguely Russian-sounding being horked through the air, I knew I'd have to take a look. I noted several children playing happily in the yard while the womenfolk looked on at the two men erecting posts with steel bars between them.

After the posts had set, the men began swinging around them doing gymnastic tricks to everyone's delight but mine. I think I'll hold my welcome to the Brothers Rasputin until I can assess just how much they're going to annoy me.

Seeing them at play reminded me of the time Tanya treated me to a free show, no, not that kind, but a Cirque du Soleil production called Corteo. She and her husband Robert have followed the Cirque shows all over the world and proclaimed their brilliance for many years. Robert was washing his hair that night and so Tanya deemed me the Chosen One. I put on my finest red nose and off we went.

While I appreciated the music and sets, I remained confused throughout by the thread of the story and in the end, I proclaimed it all to be jugglers, acrobats and midgets, oh my!

While there was undoubtedly amazing talent and athletic ability on display, parts of the show disturbed me. Apart from the plodding giant they had walking around the stage, the thing that astounded me most was the segment in which a little person midget was harnessed to a group of helium balloons and sent sailing out over the audience cooing all the while like a creepy pixie.

The ringmaster urged the audience to hold their hands out flat and push her back up by the feet to keep her afloat. This spectacle went on for some time and all I could say to my gracious hostess was 'if she comes anywhere near me or touches me, I'm screaming and leaving'. Thankfully, Tanya supported me in my discomfort and no international incident did occur.

If these new neighbors come over asking to borrow a cup of balloons, I'm outta here.

Fake Blaze Of Glory

I once pondered whether an injury you sustained while playing a video game could be considered a sports injury. Barbara Bruederlin was kind enough to assure me that I was virtually an athlete.

A physical exam I had several years ago with my doctor brought up the fact that my heart rate seemed a bit low. My doctor posed the question ‘are you an athlete?’ to which I replied ‘Doc...you’ve seen me naked’. We both laughed, she a little longer than necessary.

I’ve never been much of a sportsman but still managed to get into trouble on the weekend. While playing Tiger Woods PGA Golf on the Nintendo Wii, I heard the crack of my club hitting the ball followed by another sound, me going arrgghowwwee (pronounced as it’s spelled) as something in my elbow gave way. I tried to keep playing but on the next swing, my cry got even harder to spell and I had to stop. I’ve decided that Tiger had me Nancy Kerrrigan’d because I was getting too good for my own, er, good.

To add insult to injury, I’ve now read that the American Medical Association is soon to vote on whether Internet and Video Game Addiction should be classified as a formal diagnosis. After the vote, the matter will go to the American Psychiatric Association to determine whether it should be called a mental disorder.

I'm waiting anxiously for the outcome as my permanent record's been a bit of a boring read lately.

How Soon Is Now?

Beckeye of The Pop Eye recently sent me a list of demands, alright, questions but she did demand that I answer them. I'm happy to do it and say that it hasn't been easy. She appeals to my vanity, my jackassery and puts me on the spot in ways only she could.


1. You've introduced me to some great bloggers: Johnny Yen, Barbara Bruederlin and X-Dell just to name a few. All of the folks I've found through your links are talented and entertaining writers, yet they also seem to worship you as some kind of blogGod - myself included. Are you actually the glue that holds all of Blogdom together? Or is Write Procrastinator really the glue, through whom I found you?

I'm more like the sticky stuff you find on the bottom of your shoe Beckeye and since even disorganized religion is suspect in my eyes, Write Procrastinator must be honoured and blamed for everything. I'm not worried about this charge because he can write his way out of anything! Just about every person on my list is responsible for casting a spell on me for which I'm grateful. They make blogging fun and worthwhile. Except for that one guy.

2. I noticed on your profile that your first-listed interest is Opera. Were you being sarcastic or do you really think that you're better than everyone else?

Clearly, I'm better than everyone else especially if I'm the only one in the room. Opera (cue the Endless Love music, My first love...) was introduced to me a few years ago in the form of some free tickets and there was no looking back, just up, at the Surtitles. I love culture in all its forms, even the petrie dish kind.

3. You're from Canada. Can you explain what was up with Nell's deviant relationship with Dudley Do-Right's horse? Is that something that goes on often in your part of the world?

At first I was puzzled by this question until the first image I found seemed to lend credence to your charge. I think it's got something to do with her name. Remember that whole Chicka, chicka, chickabee. / T'ee an me an t'ee an me thing? As Bubs recently pointed out, strange things happen in Canada and I refuse to take the blame for almost all of them.

4. Do you have a man crush on Coaster Punchman? Details, please.

Coaster Punchman was one of the first characters in the blog world (hi Chelene) that I wanted to see step off the page and into real life. As it turned out, he was as smart, devastatingly funny and charming in real life as I'd been led to believe on his blog (even though I suspect his partner Poor George actually writes his best material). Rather than a crush, I think of him more as my American Idol, only taller and more talented.*

5. You're given the task of writing the American Idol winner's schlocky single for next season. Without using any variations of the words "love," "dream," "amazing," or "blessed," what's the title? Give us a peek at the chorus while you're at it.

Writing the schlocky single is an unenviable task. Even if it doesn't turn out to be ultra-dreck (which it always does), legions of bloggers will be at the ready to call it dreck just the same.

I think my song title would be Flying On My Own (After A Big Corporate Push) and I'd insist on it being dedicated to everyone's favourite ghost in the machine, Clive Davis. It'd go a little something like this:

Flying On My Own (co-written by Carole Bayer Aspirin)

I'm spreading my wings
For the very first time,
How high will I go?
How far can I climb?

You were there from the start
To help me along
You're here with me now
And this is my song.

Flying on my own
Oh it feels so right
Flying on my own
Never thought I'd take flight.

Flying (stretch 2 syllable word into 18 - 22 syllable note here) on my own.

If possible, the actor singer should choke out a sob and cry one single tear at the end.


Bonus: The only question with me now is, "do I make you proud?"

You do make me proud each and every day Beckeye, when I first fell in love with you so many months ago, I wondered where it would all lead. Now I know. It leads to really friggin' hard questions. To prove my love, I'm going to send you the Taylor Hicks fan club information you've been begging me for. I think he'll be appearing in the back of a pick up truck somewhere in your area soon.


*I'm actually using Coaster Punchman to get to Poor George's cooking and then I'll drop him like a stone.