Monday, May 30, 2005

The Olfactory Horror Of An Englishman's Loo Posted by Hello

Why Limeys Are Fucked

I know there are a lot of Canadians who have ancestral heritage lying in the damp moors of Yorkshire. But, as most immigrants to this country the English have lost most of their heritage.
This is not a bad thing.
I think (being half English) that I have good hygiene, not that I have good hygiene based on being half English, I think it's more the Scottish side of me that counterbalances the obsessiveness of English Hygiene.
Have you ever been in a Home in England?
Furthermore, have you ever been in a Canadian home owned by someone who is originally from England?
These people are crazy about cleanliness.
It's like the bathing process was refined, fine tuned and then shot into hyper drive.
My friend Karen (Bless her citrus heart) was born in England, and moved over here at the age of three.
She is a clean person.
Freakishly clean.
I remember using the washroom at her parents home the last time I was there, and counting at least seven bath puffs and three loofahs. Does this spell insanity? Not typically, just a desire for variety.
It's the products they use to adorn these puffs and loofas.
If you go to an English gift exchange, everyone is going home with some sort of talcum, perfume, oil, bodywash or bathsalt. And it is guaranteed, whatever you end up with, it will smell like shit.
The reason for this!
Well, an Englishman loves to drink, and loves to smell fine scents. So, why not combine the two.
Most of the planning for English hygiene went into again, variety, as opposed to fine tuning, and here we are again, shot into overdrive.
It is not unusual for me to see a nice white glass bottle sitting on the ledge of Karen's bathtub that holds something like 'Rose Lavender Body Milk'.
Rose and Lavender for the scent, and milk, to remind the Englishman of drinking.
'Lotus Bloom Tea Bodyscrub'.
And a pattern surfaces.
'Lil O The Valley Cream'.
And now it is just obvious.
Why not just make 'Dandelion and a Pint Talcum'?
'Boddingtons (warm) and Mowed Lawn Body Mister'?
The funniest part is that most of the English folks who have left their native land and moved on over to this fine country have seen the err of their ways.
Karen herself will let these bottles sit until the next Christmas when she rotates inventory. Out with the old, in the with the, umm, same.
For a country so hell bent on a cream or sauce for every part of the male and female anatomy, seemingly, they've forgotten to chose wisely when organizing the variety of showertime choice.
Take it from yer neighbours, the French, they love the finer things, including a good piss up, but you don't see your French friends coming home from a Christmas exchange with 'Chardonnay Tulip Cologne' now do you?

Sunday, May 29, 2005


On Friday I went to Licks for the good ol' Homeburger Combo, complete with a side of 'guck' to dip my deep fried potatoes in.
It was dreamy. Moist, tender, warm, everything I long for in a hamburg.
I walked away from my dining experience not assuming to remember it in a few months, but with my tummy full and content about the money I had spent.
I was to work early Saturday, so I opted to stay home Friday, and it was a good thing I did. I felt pretty wiped out by 9 pm, and although out of character for me, I decided to crawl into bed, and call it a day.
I awoke at approximately 1 am.
I felt a sudden urge to use the washroom, and thought it was kind of odd, as these types of urges have never woken me up from a dead sleep.
'Hmm, do I feel kind of sick too?'
I got out of bed and made my way to the downstairs washroom, so as not to disturb my family with 'my nature'.
I grabbed a bucket just in case, my stomach was definitely, not right.
By 3 am, my slight 'urge to purge' had developed into a full on symphony of release.
So much so that at one point I looked up at the sky (or more accurately, the bathroom ceiling) and asked 'God' to take me if this was my time, and to cut the fucking dramatics.
The homeburger that had poisoned me kept coming to me in a fever induced hallucination. I could smell the meat again. I could taste the toxins. I think, I could even hear the Jezebel Cow laughing.
This lasted the entire night, and part of Saturday morning.
I slept. A lot.
I ate, nothing.
It was sunday afternoon before I could sit upright again.
As my new blog will attest to, 'God' did not take me.
'God' has given me another chance.
I want to embrace this and make a fresh start.
Not only have I purged myself of the poisonous bovine who tried to kill me but did not succeed, I have purged myself of my poor attitude.
I am a new man.
Well, my parents aren't just tree huggers who don't eat meat. They're avoiding a ton of possibilities that could lead to a 'food poisoning'.
Will I become a vegetarian? Hells no!
But, I will never eat at Licks again.
I'm not sure how many innocent cows I can save from that decision, but, I will do my part.
My stomach just cramped as a reminder that I need to do more than this.
So, I will also go back to church and reaquaint myself with the peace and fulfillment that one attains in a Christian lifestyle.
Good thing this is a blog, I was laughing before I even got that last sentence typed out.
Ahem, no, still no confirmation for this kid.
But, I will stop to smell the roses.
I will appreciate what I have.
I will not take things for granted anymore.
Ah fuck, you know I will!
See 'God' I told you, should've snuffed my flame when you had the chance. I am a lousy study!
What have I really taken away from this experience?
1) An excellent grasp on the discomfort of dehydration.
2) The ability to fend for myself. I shut myself in the basement to recover, and my parents left me there.
3) The goal of 'getting healthy' and not running any risks of getting sick for real.
4) A new scat fetish (just kidding).
5) The belief that it's good that cow was slaughtered, cause tomorrow when I'm feeling closer to 100% I would have gone and beats its ass.
6) A new NO 'LICKS' philosophy.
7) A sick appreciation for the poisoning. It has cut out one of my choices for a meal out. I am terrible when confronted with too many options. 1 down, 46 to go.

So maybe I don't want to go back to church, or build clean water wells in Sudan, but I didn't walk away from this void of any teachings. I had a shitty weekend (literally) and I learned from it. How many of us can say that about food poisoning.
*fucking twat cow*

Thursday, May 26, 2005

These are a few of my least favourite things

As I sit here, merely spitting on the month of June, I realize that the year is close to half over. I have done some brainstorming, and compiled a short list of a few minor attributes of 2005 that I think we could have done without.
They are as follows....
1) My Fabulous Gay Wedding;
Has this even aired yet? Please, open my mouth and fart in it, because I'm sure the aftertaste would be better than watching that annoying fag from 'Kids In The Hall' prance around and be all theatrical as a host to a gay wedding. Hmm, I think the best way to seal the vote is to AVOID taking a stereotype and making him the host of a gay union. Scott Thompson? Is that his name. Please, I'll spend 48 hours in a pool filled with piss if the network would just trash this show before it airs.
2) 'Napoleon Dynamite' T-Shirts;
Okay, the movie was a gas. I laughed hard, not as hard as 'Team America: World Police' but pretty fucking hard. I love the dance sequence, the older brother and his gal pal, the crazy uncle, and the lass with the berets. I made a friend buy it so I could borrow it. But, I don't want to see 'Vote Pedro' adorning white t-shirts with red piping all over the streets of Toronto. The movie isn't even old enough for that kind of shit to be cool. Wear one of those in 2015, then maybe you'll be cool. Until then, find yerself a nice 'Dukes Of Hazard' T-shirt and look mean when you're wearing it.
3) IPOD's;
Sorry, I know they are so functional and easy to use, but, I picture those lame silhouettes dancing to songs that really mean shit. That 'TECHNOLOGY' song? Hmm, here's an idea, FUCKING SLIT MY THROAT! Please, just because you haven;t heard it in constant rotation yet, doesn't mean it not coming, and doesn't mean that song isn't pure shit! Do you really want yer 'subdued' white earphones tying you to music that makes you a dork? Burn Ipod, burn.
4) Charity Bracelets;
I bought a 'save the children' bracelet from 7-11 for tsunami relief. I was so happy to adorn my naked arm with my new cobalt blue rubber band so that the whole world could see that I had done my part. I bought it with a pack of butts and some gum. Then I left the store and went back to work. I cracked open the cellophane packaging aching to get my support on my arm, and then I read the 'fine print'. 7-11 will donate 100% of the profits of bracelets sold to a maximum of $2.00 per bracelet. But those fuckers charged me $2.99 + tax. Slurpee sales must be down this year! Fuck the kids in the mud man, the employees need new red and green smocks!
5) Tom Cruise and 'Dawson's Creek Chick';
Okay, I'm not too interested in celebrity dating, in fact, usually I don't give a shit. But, Katie Holmes and Daddy Cruise? WTF? Never mind what would Jesus do...What the fuck would Jesus say? Katie Holmes said 'as a little girl she always dreamed of marrying Tom Cruise'. Yeah no shit, so the fuck did I. Too bad he was married twice and had 130 sexual partners before Katie Holmes sprouted her first pube.
6) Straight White Dumb Men;
So you've trained your toothless girlfriend into believing that 'fist-a-cuffs' are foreplay! You pissed on the aids memorial! You revel in the smell of your own farts! You think racial slang is reserved for 'the right crowd'! You have big balls, scrath them in public dude! Oh, and while yer at it, bend over and get fucked by all the women, gay people, visible minorities and sexual minorities who think you're a sist on the ass of roadkill. Oh yeah, and just because 'you're bitch' has 'nice tits' doesn't exempt you from the fact that you're an asshole!
7) The United States Of America;
Are you still there? OH....SHIT....You are!
8) Eminem;
Why are we still dealing with this shit. I liked him in the beginning. In the same way I liked 'Len' in the beginning, but let's let the one hit wonders have five hits, and then bury him. Aren't we sick of that fucking voice yet? How many more 'ho's' can he tap before the keg dries up?

Okay, I could go on, but I'm afraid it would tarnish my idea of the rest of the year! Jessica Simpson, keep it real! I know I will!

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Congrats to a great girl on a great trip! Posted by Hello


My friend Lisa (Lease) is currently travelling Europe, and at present she is doing it alone.
I think that takes a serious amount of balls.
I mean, imagine going to dinner and a movie alone? How many of us can even fathom doing that?
I can't!
wouldn't want to!
I think it takes a special type of people to take risks like that. To go and embark on something with yer backpack as your best friend.
My friend Lease is a special type of friend, I have always known that, and have always appreciated her in my life, as I do with all of my friends. I am fucking blessed with the group of people who I am lucky enough to have in my life.
And I don't say it enough.
Shit, I don't say it at all!
But tonight, in my small blog way, I am going to tell Lisa, that I love her and I am proud of her for all of her accomplishments.
For real Lease, I'm proud to call you my friend.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Camping Season

The glorious time of year when people pitch tents and sleep on the earth is upon us again. I am feeling nostaglic;
I have chosen to share some 'camping memories' with all ya'll!

1) I shimmied up a pine tree (one where the needles don't start till a fuckers jump up there) and I made my way about 12 feet from the ground. At the time is seemed much higher. I looked down when someone posed the question of how you'd get the drunk guy out of the tree should the need arise. I remember glancing down and thinking how far my friends looked from me.....And then falling. It kinda slowed there, like I was crashing to my death only instead of my life flashing before my eyes the world just kind of, slowed down. It was peaceful, maybe even kind of fun. When I landed the upper portion of my back was square on a wooden stool that Beth's dead grandfather had made for her. The same stool that "No one could touch, it was a symbol more than a stool". I heard the wood cracking as more of my weight was forced onto it. Sort of like dropping chop sticks at first, but then went on to full on "TIMBER" wood cracking in half sound. The lower portion of my body hit first, but surprisingly, the wood Gramps had chosen was soft, pliable even, and the top half of my body was only milliseconds to follow. I laid there at first, wondering if the throbbing pain between my shoulders would subside. I had no idea that I had landed on grandpa's stool, at that point it could have been one of my friends. Still, the tormenting pain in my upper back fought off all concern for what I had crushed/killed. Beth didn't even scream. For grandpa's stool I mean. It was pretty quiet, I could still hear the fire beside me crackling, I knew I wasn't deaf. Then (and I'm not sure what came first) I felt a wild slapping motion on the top of my head, and in my ears rang the words....'His hair's on fire'. That is a moment I will never forget. Not that I valued my hair like Michael Jackson, but I still wanted to be pretty at the end of my weekend getaway. The flames were squashed out before any of the heat had burned me. I had simply gotten a very fast brush cut on one part of my head. What happened? Well, the citronella candle that my head hit had thrown wax all over the folks who were too close by. Alex, I'm still sorry about yer new jean jacket. And the candle had tipped, my head just inside, but, instead of the wick going out, it raged on in the way candles do when you drain the wax from them. My best friend had apparently first said "Is his hair on fire" because she thought she smelled that funky roasted smell. Then pulled the candle away to see that yes in fact, my brown locks were smoldering, and proceeded to administer the appropriate thwacks that would save me from hanging out with 'David' fulltime. As awkward as it seems to use this as a fav memory, it's like it happened to someone else, I relive it like a movie where the main characters face is much different than the person who the story is based on. Really funny. Imagine of you were there, you'd still laugh at me for it. Oh, and Beth, total accident, sincere apologies.

2) ELORA GORGE For anyone who doesn't know Elora Gorge is a gorge in Elora, Ontario. Nuff with the geography lesson. So, obviously, there is a river that flows between two walls of southern ontarios version of a canyon. This campground is based on the idea that people wanna camp, and ride an inner-tube down a lazy river. Only, sadly, the river isn't that lazy, and for years there were tubing casualties. Now, it is strictly governed, one person per tube, and a life jacket and helmut on all riders. When we 'tubed' the park 'forbid' anyone in the gorge, but there was never any security and the fine folks at the front gate simply looked the other way when EVERY CAR drove in with four inner-tubes tied by the trunk. We didn't think that far ahead. We showed up with no tubes. Thankfully the farmer across the street sold them by the highway in all shapes and sizes. We were a group of about 9 tubing virgins. And when the nine virgins saw that each small tube cost 20 dollars we lost faith in the idea of 'gettin a ride in the gorge'. Then, like a massive rotten donut one of us spotted a huge answer to our problem sitting near the back of a pile of smaller tubes. This fucking inner-tube was so big it must have come off of the worlds largest tractor. At a mere 50 Canadian dollars, it was a steal. There was no way to tie it to the trunk of the car as the car fit in the radius of the tube, so we threw our arms in the air and carried it back to camp as if it were the coolest crowd surfer of all time.
Some of us threw on bathing suits or old shorts and made our way to the gorge. The water was a ways down, but we hiked until a feasible path down showed itself. The water was about 2 feet deep when we dropped the tube. The nine or so of us got balanced, all feet into the center of the tube and took our feet off of the river bed. The tube instantly started to turn, forcing the heaviest portion to the front and down as the 'gentle' current carried us downstream. Soon we didn't have to hold our legs up to avoid the bottom of the river, the water darkened and we could relax our lower appendages into the deepening water. The spin on the tube seemed to pick up and switch directions. I can remember my body actually jerking to one side when the current switched. I thought that it was strong, and wondered what would have happened if someone had fallen in. I didn't have to wait long.
My good friend Deanna slipped off the tube as if it were coated in vaseline. She didn't even make a noise, I think it's because it happened so fast. Like the water somehow got a grip on her feet, and pulled her in. Yanked her in, fast like and as if it were serious. We all looked into the dark water, white foam spun around and held us there, just turning in a circle. Someone yelled about Deanna. Then, she started to surface. I remember seeing her kind of brown and gritty as if she were in an old movie, and then start to get dark again. I knew she was going back down, so I stuck my hand into the water and grabbed anything I could. That turned out to be her hair, and I reefed her out of the water by that. She came back onto the tube, visibly shaken, but not willing to give up. About an hour later the inner tube came to a stop at a concrete bridge where the water flows below the surface, and let's riders know the finish line is there. At this point our massive tube held only my best friend Karen and I, everyone else had fallen along the way. The tally; Deanna almost drowned, a guy lost the ring his grandfather had given him, someone was taken to the hospital for stitches, and all tubing clothes were covered in mud, sand and blood. The part that makes it a favourite camping memory. We were young and invincible. After all that had happened not once did Karen and I ever think of taking the tube out of the water and walking back to camp. It was all about making it to the end.

3) Having sex with my highschool girlfriend during the day. Her head was hitting the top of the small dome tent and sending a rippling effect from the top of the tent to the ground. I'm not sure how long it lasted (I don't like to brag) but when it was over and we were relaxing in the afterglo, we could hear families laughing. People pointing and saying 'that tent right there, people were just having sex, the whole tent was moving'. And long laughs from the people who had watched. We hid in there for another long while, maybe even napped for fear of unzipping the tent and showing the audience who'd put on the show.

these are just a few from a list that is too long to write. But, thank you camping gods for giving us another season to 'PITCH TENT'.

please read

this is an article about a gay porn star that has become a pop star.
It's too funny.
The 'gay movement' may never be the same!


Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Inherently Anti-social

"I've dreamt of solitude, lost in the wilderness of the country side, my fellow man, a mere memory of what I walked away from."

What is it about cities and towns, suburbia as opposed to the 'big city'?
We buy houses in cities and those of us who can afford an added luxury purchase a cottage in a rural area. Less than rural, an area untouched. After all, the idea of a cottage is to escape the hustle of day to day life. To get somewhere quiet and peaceful, to hear the crickets chirp.
What about the people who buy their homes in areas such as this?
It's a double edged sword.
In a city you can grocery shop, go to the bank, take in a movie and go out to dinner, all without bumping into anyone you know.
In a small town, you cannot go to the corner store without seeing someone you know.
If the population is 500, chances are you know the cashier, the bagger, the guy smoking by the ice machine and the mechanic who waves from across the street.
So what is the draw?
Are we inherently drawn to other people, or inherently drawn to the idea of escaping other people?
Do I want to live in a big city because I feel the need to surround myself with people? As opposed to Erin who has bought a house in an area where the neighbours are fewer.
When I sit on my front porch in a suburban neighbourhood of Southern Ontario I see the houses like well defined cottages.
Small dwellings that house completely different people.
All packed in to an area that someone decided was going to become a community.
The old school dictionary that I rely upon defines a community as
A body of persons having common rights, interests, and priviledges, living in the same locality.
Well, aside from the obvious contradictions like the government funded housing 3 blocks away, what else falters in this definition?
How many of us know what our neighbours are interested in?
I assume, not too many.
So then, to build a permanent residence in a rural (untouched) area, are we then a part of an anti-community?
Do these people reject the notions of what it means to live in a city?
Or are they more independent, more willing to forge than to follow?
In actuality, we all live in cottage town, some of us just feel the need to have more neighbours, some of us shy away from that entirely.
I just wonder if there's something to be said about the hunters who drink beer and shoot deer during the appropriate season, compared to the kid in the Burgundy beret who reads his words against such behaviour at a coffee house in Toronto.
Are the hunters a modern version of that and their gathering ancestors, a more highly developed quota of the population that is still intouch with the idea of what is truly important. Survival and simplicity?
Have the people of the city become so enraptured with technology and the advancement of the human race that they have lost all recognition for respect of what has gotten us here?
It's funny, we're like ants, and as I think far too often, we're like 'THE SIMS' as we walk through life fighting for what we think is important. And the city kids make fun of the townies and the townies poke fun at the freaks, but, we're all just a version of one another. Some of us have purchased cottages in an area where we're surrounded by people, and some of us prefer a stove that burns wood.
Who is better than the other?
Neither is the PC answer.
We are simply functioning in a different mindset.
We hold different values and beliefs.
We have different ideas of what we want to wake up to on a Sunday morning.
in the end, it's all cottage country,
we all chose to live in this area or that, and the reasons we do it are as mysterious as the answers people actually give.
I wanted to be a fire fighter!
Well, you can't fight a house fire in an area that has 30 houses in an 2000 acre cross-section. You can, but, it's be like writing for a magazine that publishes 4 stories once every 27 years.
Communities (large cottage countries) are founded on an inability to be alone, or even in small groups. We create this idea that we need to rely upon one another as opposed to fending for ourselves.
It's true!
Imagine what the community you lived in right now was like 200 years ago.
We would all be rural, or rich.
Now, we're all rural, or urban, with the occasional cottage that turns the head of a well coiffed debutante.
Do I live where I live because I have replaced instinct with knowledge?
or because knowledge was always an upper story to the idea of instinctual behaviour?
See ya'll in cottage country!

Thursday, May 12, 2005

1/2 melon Posted by Hello

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Pretty Boy, with yer pretty boobs

Why did I once think that journalism was a good profession for me?
Since I am merely a woman trapped in a mans body, a stereotype on an already rejected minority.
I'm a bit fired up.....
Apparently, Sweedish researchers have discovered that the gay mans brain is much like a straight woman's brain.
We respond 'exactly' to the same scents!
Who Knew?
Gay men and straight women know what smells good.
But it goes beyond that, according to CTV News.
Straight women and gay men respond to the same 'pheromone.
We respond identically.
Well, thank god someone finally put out some research that backs 'nature' as opposed to 'nurture'.
to say that we share the same brains as women?
I think it's time to head back to the labs and reconsider what makes gay men gay, aside from 'responding' to a fucking scent!
Hmm, my brain is exactly like a woman's eh!
Damn, that must be why I always squeeze my fatty man boobs together and try to make my titties pretty in the mirror.
That also explains why every 28 days I wonder if I am going to begin my menstrual cycle.
I have always had an intense desire to get pregnant, and give birth!
Them Swedes are so on the ball!
How else can I explain finger banging my choda in hopes for a clitoral orgasm?
But wait....
what are we talking about here...that straight women and gay men both like cock?
Fuck me....those well funded Swedish 'meatballs' have really one 'upped global research on this one!
The one and ONLY gay man they interviewed on my local news station seemed to be living in Miami, and was 'tickled pink' to have some evidence that he didn't choose to be a queer!
Well fuck you buddy!
You're far too dumb to be gay!
I remember the exact moment I chose it. It was just before Christmas in 1985, I thought, "Hey, I need more of a challenge, from tomorrow on, I am going to be completely attracted to me".
Now my choice is vetoed by this new evidence that I was 'born gay'.
Fuck, now what am I going to tell my mom?
Maybe move beyond having gay men, straight men and straight women smell perfumes, then call me when you've 'uncovered' something.
Hell, maybe even look for something similar in the minds of gay men and lesbians.
Hell, gay women and straight men....
But fuck, I think I know already....
lesbians and straight men responded identically to the scent of petrol, saw dust and oatmeal.

Monday, May 09, 2005


Desideratum: n. desiterata, anything desired; a want, desire, or need generally felt and recognized.

Forgive my ignorance to detail here, but, In a church called Old Saint Paul's, located in Baltimore USA a piece of writing was discovered that was dated 1692.
This piece of work is called Desiterata.
Essentially it's a feel good piece of writing that lifts you up a bit and adds a little more perserverance to our personalities.
It was found in a church.
Therefore, I expected it to be riddled with references to God, and Christianity.
It's not.
At all.
In fact only one line in the entire writing (approx 325 words) even mentions his holiness.
The line is;
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be, and whatever your labors & aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
Be at peace with God whatever you conceive him to be. I find that exceptionally cool, however odd it may be that a Christian wrote it.
I've read and reread the piece over and over again, most of it has been regurgitated a million times over since this was written and has lost most of its effectiveness. But that one line catches me every time.
Whatever you perceive him to be.
I don't think it's written arrogantly. I don't think the author demeans anyone elses beliefs.
I think it's just to encompass free thought.
It's accepting.
It's all encompassing.
The rest of the writing is not all encompassing, and warns us to avoid loud and aggressive persons, as they are 'vexations to the spirit.'
But that one line.
'Be at peace with God whatever you perceive him to be', and found in a church!
That's too much.
It's funny that so much that Christianity teaches is based in good, yet it gets poisoned and twisted around, comes out dirty.
If there is a God, I perceive God to be a free thinker.
I think he likes everybody, even the loud and aggressive people (Christians).

Friday, May 06, 2005


I once had the gross misfortune of sharing a student house with musical theatre students.
They are always on stage.
There is no greater annoyance than living with people who self identify as actors, and not to be one yourself.
I credit them for giving me a slight knowledge of show tunes, and a love for a select few. BUT, aside from a catchy song or two, it was a fucking nightmare.
I once confronted one of the BFA students on some cruel things he was saying about me. I was angry. Livid, even.
I raised my voice and I shook the room and I pointed, cussed and snarled in the way only a scorned man can.
His response was to fall to the floor, fake convulsions and then be rescued by a helpful classmate (who had seen it all before) who knew to bring him a brown paper bag to ease his hyperventilation.
The BFA's saw 'MAN DOWN' and ran to his aid, I saw the most pathetic response to a confrontation ever, and, an easy kicking target. I had taken Tae Kwon Do for 5 years, and I saw all the areas he was leaving unprotected. In my head, well, I kicked each and every one of them.
It wasn't all bad.
Sometimes it was even fun, like when I had the house to myself, or, on Christmas vacation when I was in a different city.
I don't want to defame actors.
I'm sure the ones who actually make it have a more grounded appreciation of the art, but in my experience, young hopeful actors were the bain of my existance.
The girlfriend of one of the most offensive BFA's once told me two things that I have seen to be true.
(Two materialized)
1) I talk like I have marbles in my mouth.
2) I have the attention span of a retarded hamster.
I have seen myself on video, my mouth barely moves.
And as for the attention span, well, she may have been too generous.
I catch myself all the time 'drifting' when people are talking.
Sometimes even when I am interested in what they have to say I have to consciously fight off the desire to daydream.
I have to watch their lips move, and focus on the words they're using.
So, how can someone so closely associated and keen on such a fucked up group to hold as their social circle be so intuned with one of my biggest downfalls?
Was she clairvoyant?
Is she a medium I should still be consulting?
Should I have been an actor?
But I have to give her this.
My attention span sucks, it does now, and it always has.
If someone even uses a word I'm not fond of I tune them out entirely.
Honestly, sometimes I find myself in a heated conversation that I started, and have no idea what the last three points were of the people speaking.
Christ, even now........
I've lost it, forgot to concentrate!
I'm going to go for a smoke!

cigarette swirling over ashtray Posted by Hello

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Scouts Canada

I was a lousy Scout.
My scout leaders were my father, and Scouter Eric.
Scouter Eric once told my father that he would break me. File down my juvenile rebellion and mould me into a man.
Yeah, like my 'right of passage' would be determined by Jamborees and merit badges.
Scouter Eric was wrong.
Although, I did experiences some moments in Scouts Canada that are for ever burned into my head.
We had an annual camping trip that took place at the Haliburton Scout Reserve. This is where we refined our roasting campfire songs and learned what we all need to know about survival in the wilderness and the much needed teachings of canoeing and portaging.
This story focuses on the latter.
A day of paddling and carrying Fiberglas canoes around an area that hadn't been touched by the developed Canada that we know and love.
It sucked.
It was hot, the canoes were tiresome both on my shoulder and in the water.
As a kid, I made no attempt to mask my discontempt, everyone near me and in a surrounding area, yet undocumented, bore witness to my rant.
Where's the campfire, wiener roast and burnt marshmallows.
That's not what Scouts is about.
This is where boys learn to be men. This is where you eat stew comprised of swamp findings, where 'yer lucky it's beef and not squirrel'. This is where machismo collides with youth, and fireworks happen.
I'm half ass paddling, my older brother in the front, and another scout in the middle are carrying my weight.
I try, but don't give a shit!
We come upon a beaver damn. It's typical Canadiana style, middle of a river, yet not touching either bank.
As we had learned to do, we file out, one by one trusting beavers (as I never did again) to hold our weight, as we physically maneuver the boat over the mass of surprisingly well meshed together sticks and sediment.
I am not happy.
I see myself falling through. I can feel the cold water sticking my shirt to my chest. That annoyance one gets when something goes horribly wrong.
I urge my team to pick up the pace.
The boat makes it back into the water on the appropriate side of the dam and my brother files into the front of the boat, as myself and the scout hold it to steady.
Then, middle scout takes his turn.
I hold that boat like an epileptics tongue, it's not going anywhere.
My big brother;
'Okay, Ian, you push off as hard as you can to make sure we make it off the dam, then jump in'.
I see this as an opportunity. Slightly less gratifying as wrestling the bear to save the troop, yet, I will free us from the beavers.
I push with all my might, and am just about ready to throw myself into the boat when something stops me.
I see my brothers paddle, and that of middle scout, hoist into the air and break the water.
Their arms were like animated movies where it's not so feasible to see human movement that quick.
I stand up, stunned.
They had planned to leave me there. My pushing to prove something had in turn sealed my fate.
The arse end of the canoe that once had me dragging my fingers through the water and sitting comfortably in it was now disappearing up river.
I had a millisecond of self realization;
'I deserve this.'
It ended after that. Now my Canadiana adventure had turned to bad canuck programming and I was the loser cast in the part of 'crazed beaver lunch'.
I screamed, but I did not stomp.
I first used the F-word in radius of my fathers ears.
I was standing in my scouts approved shorts, my converse one stars, and a t-shirt, looking up river and firing out words that I thought could make a canoe freeze in spot.
My words failed me that day, it wasn't until my brother had reached the next portage, and had to account for my absence that he turned around and came back for me.
I'm still always the middle scout.
To this day!