How Hard Is It To Look At A View Like This All Day ?

    Really hard when you're sweating your bag off painting their $4,000,000 dream home...

 

The Things You See...

     I was out for a walk today when I saw this kid flying full speed down the steepest part of Lonsdale eating Oreo Cookie ice cream out of the container, with a spoon, like he was sitting on the couch... I don't look that relaxed when I'm on couch...

    Which reminded me of this other time I saw this skinny-ass kid of about 15 sitting on the sidewalk outside of the bakery eating a whole pumpkin pie like it was a do-nut... munchies anyone ?

Matt Good...

   A bunch of us are going to see Matthew Good at the Orpheum tonight. For all you south of the border bloggers (you know who you are, BD) he's a hometown boy that's had a modicum (maybe a bit more) of success in Canada... I'm not sure how well he's done in the States, but if you're not Bryan Adams (useless), probably not very good. I first saw Matt Goods open for The Who at GM place for their 1996 Quadrophenia tour. Not often I go to see the back up band but he was great. It seems as though people are either very passionate about him or can't stand him- he's a bit of a kook... probably why I've always been a fan...

.

I'm Totally Pissed...

I just spent two hours composing the most mind bending, life changing and ground breaking blog of all time and I lost it when I tried to upload a picture. It probably wasn't even that interesting but it took two hours and it's been a long day... so here's a picture of me in my cowboy suit instead... 

Totally Absent-Minded Hypocrisy...

    I tried to post this the other day and thought I lost it but Stephanie showed me how to retrieve my drafts... 



    I wasn't going to post today because I put in a long first shift on the, "around back I have some "hard dirty brown caulk to show you" job but I managed to do something so profoundly 'Honk If You're A Knob' I couldn't resist. 

   

    This morning I needed to stop by the paint store to pick up a cheque (I've been on a roll lately, people are actually phoning me to give me money).  Afterwards I walked to Tim Hortons to grab a coffee when I saw the lady that handles my banking waiting in the lineup. We smiled "Hi's" from across the room, or as much of a smile anybody can manage first thing in the morning. She blushed because she hadn't had a chance to put her make up on yet (women seem at their most vulnerable without the war paint) and was still wearing flip flops with her business suit... I sensed little embarrassment and a little "not feeling too professional" (I'm not sure if she's aware of it but she wears the hair pulled back and glasses hot business woman/secretary/teacher look, whatever that is... I've seen it on the intraweb). I walked by her as I was leaving and mumbled something like, "another day in the salt mines."and continued on to my bank (which is right next door) to make a deposit.

    After depositing the cheque in the ATM and marveling at the fact that I was actually showing a positive balance, I came up with the bright idea to wait for banker lady (?) to come to work . It's getting close to the time for me to renew my mortgage (which happens to be at another bank) and I wanted to ask her for some advice... and maybe flirt a little,  she's kind of cute.

   I should say here that 'bank lady'  is the most professional, diligent, capable and thorough person I have met in the years I have dealt with this institution. I also need to say that anybody that knows me or has read this blog knows that one of my biggest pet peeves is people coming up to me and asking for paint advice when I'm in my painting whites. 

    I won't go into any great detail here about the mortgage conversation but as we were talking I realized what I was doing and apologized for bothering her before work. She said, "No problem..." but what else could she say? That's exactly what I would have said but would have been thinking,"Blow it out your ass." (possibly my favorite saying) 

   I really didn't give this morning exchange a second reflection until 6:30 this evening when I was cleaning up at "Hard Brown Caulk". That's when the full impact hit, and the thought struck me that I had done the exact same thing to 'bank lady' that people do to me. I immediately called her voice mail and left another apology, explaining the above. As usual in life she probably hadn't give it a second thought but my feeling was, "What a knob..."

Control, the Ian Curtis Story...

I've got the flu,

and feel like poo.

Even Steven...

    My good pal Steve (see above photo and notice look of intelligence) and I went to see Dwight Yoakam at the Red Robinson Theatre in Coquitlam on Saturday night. It was a great show and it was cool because he's not on tour and decided to come to Vancouver and perform a one-off (a happening only once and not repeated). Fortunately we left North Van quite a bit early-the show started at 8:00 PM but we ventured out about 6:30... we wanted to check out the casino that is out there as well and gamble away $30 a buddy (I'll call him "Roman") handed me to bet on the Wheel of Fortune. The reason I said "fortunately" is that as we were just about to pull into the parking lot after the twenty minute drive when the dreaded thought hit me, "I forgot my ticket." I looked at Steve (he was driving) and gave him the bad news and apologized. I must be losing it because I've been to many concerts and sporting events and have never forgot my ticket. Maybe it was an oversight when I transferred the contents of Bacon Wallet to the more appropriate Cowboy Wallet for the show...

      Steve was great about it, not that he really had much choice. He made the drive back to my place, I grabbed the ticket (obviously... but the way I've started to forget things lately I can't be too sure) and after waiting in line for what seemed like an eternity for twelve vodka soda's (kidding) we got to our seats-which couldn't have been better, right on time. A great place to catch a show.

     We checked out the casino afterwards and I lost "Roman's" thirty bucks in what seemed like mere seconds (I've got my share of problems but gambling was never one of them, I just don't get it) and headed back to the Queens Cross for a drink. Here's where the universe kind of balanced out my boneheaded move from earlier. We had grabbed a couple of beers from the bar and I stopped to talk to the waitress for a sec. Steve walked ahead of me up the three steps that head out to the patio. To enter said patio you have to pass through a rather large sliding door which at the time was wide open. I was still conversing with the waitress when we watched Steve proceed to close the patio door and continue walking into it... that's right, he closed the patio door and walked right into it, head first. We lost it. You probably have to know Steve to really appreciate this, or have been there, but the evening kind of magically evened itself out and Steve's melon was OK... I think.   

Hi Ho Steverino And I Are Heading To Red Robinson Theatre to See Dwight Yoakam....

    Not a big fan of country music but I love (not literally) this guy...

My Blog Has Been Way Too Depressing...

     So here's a picture of a happier time when I had a new kitty and a pretty saaweet mullet...



     and a bee-yootiful sunset...



     and a sunrise...



      and a brand new sister...



      ah... the leather tie. Nice lid and moustache combo...



        My very first girlfriend I brought home from Penticton to meet the folks. They said they didn't mind if we slept together but it felt way too weird in my parents house so I slept on the couch for three days...



    and finally a shot of my Mom... I'm not sure who the kid is but those "trunks" are awesome...

If All Else Fails, Tell It To The Blog...

     There's been something I've been mulling over in my pea brain all day so I'm unsure how it's going to come out (like I ever do) and it started with the word 'nice'. At the job I just finished there was a nanny helping out because the couple had brought home a new born last week that had been delivered by C-section. They also had the cutest little Gerber Baby toddler that was about 18 months, not quite talking yet. The nanny would come in for an hour or two three or four days a week to give the mother a bit of a break and let her recover from the surgery. The nanny was young, maybe early twenties, quite attractive (if you're going to have a nanny, why not?), friendly, engaging, quick to smile and great with the kids. After talking to her for a bit I found out she had recently moved here from Alberta (that explains the friendliness factor) to teach grade one but discovered that the money was better nannying and it was way less stress than a room full of grade ones... she enjoyed focusing her attentions and it showed. I've never had kids but she was the type of person I wouldn't hesitate to leave them with.

    When she showed up today we chatted for a bit as I was cleaning up... then she returned to the toddler and I headed down the stairs to retrieve some more of my equipment. As I was walking down the stairs I was wondering what it might be like to be with somebody like that, sitting on the couch talking, raising a kid when the thought hit me like a bolt, "She's way too nice." It then occurred to me that I've never handled 'nice' very well. It makes me seize up inside and feel very uncomfortable... like being around somebody really attractive (can you say "blithering idiot") or finding out somebody really 'like' likes me (I have this friend...) I even feel mildly ill-at-ease as I write this, a raised pulse rate and a heaviness in my legs. 

     This thought triggered a memory of this woman I had dated a few years ago. We had probably been on half a dozen dates, I really liked her but quit seeing her because I felt she was way too nice for me. I'm not talking about that syrupy, insincere nice but just a genuinely nice person. This isn't to take anything away from any girlfriends I've had, they were all nice too, it just seems for me there's nice and then there's a whole other level of 'nice'. There's even a couple of women that live in my building that I've deemed way too nice (and I know- even the nicest of the nice have their moments).

     This whole line of thought caused me to reflect on past relationships/friendships and made me realize how incredibly difficult it has been for me to accept love, to allow myself to love and to allow people to 'be there' for me. To accept caring, nurturing and to reciprocate those feelings and actions. To find excuses (as opposed to reasons) to cut short one relationship after another. I know those qualities must be in there somewhere because they were very apparent when I was younger but have certainly disappeared with the passing of time. My sense of humour, alcohol and the fight or flight syndrome (always flight) became my defense mechanisms against the crushing feelings I experience when thrust into a situation of honest sharing and caring. I truly feel like an emotion cripple... can I get a parking pass for that ? (humour again).

     The last time I was in love I was beginning to deal with a health problem I have had since birth and trying to work out the relationship ( I hate that word but there doesn't seem to be a better one). I had been for some tests and after receiving the results (she was with me when I was notified of them) her and I returned to my apartment. She was holding me in her arms and I honestly couldn't tell you what was worse, finally trying to deal with this life long health issue or allowing her to console me, I was scared. I remember her saying to me, "You really are in a lot of pain." I was unsure of what she meant at the time, it seemed double edged but she walked out the door that day and as I heard her heels clicking down the hall I knew it was the end.

   I'm doubtful about where this will go from here but I've heard that awareness is the first step in healing... maybe....

Love What Kid Rock Has Done With This...

Maybe not so much the video but the song is great...

Records Are Made To Be Broken...

    Today is a bit of a sad day for me..... I have (had) two long standing records and one of them came crashing down... literally. I've been painting houses now for 18 years and have yet to spill any significant amount of paint... sure I've got the odd drip or two on the carpet or sidewalk but never anything like the third of a gallon I knocked over today.

    I was cutting in the top angle in the basement of this house today. It's a fairly big job, we've been on it a couple of weeks and everything was proceeding in business-like manner. I was standing on the third step of a 6 ft. stepladder when the homeowner showed up to see how the job is going (we're just about finished).When I left the step ladder to chat I made the cardinal painting mistake... I left the can somewhere it could be spilled, in this case the fold down tray you place the can on while painting. After our exchange he said, "I'll get out of your hair." He then headed upstairs and I picked up where I left off... preparing to make my next move of the ladder. 

    I'm not blaming anybody but the spill became a combination of things; a- I lost focus because I stopped to talk and 2- the tray on a 6 ft. step is just out of view, had it been a 4 ft. I'd have easily seen the can. Be that as it may when I started to move the ladder I heard the "bloop" of sloshing paint. The tray tilted backwards and for a split second the handle of the paint can got caught on said tray and time stood still. I reached for it but I was too late, it crashed to the carpet below creating a football shaped mess. I could have saved myself a lot of grief by having a drop sheet down and I usually do but when I'm cutting (as opposed to rolling)  I'll sometimes work without a net. 

    Fortunately I had a full container of rags in the truck and I started to sop up the mess, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to make sure the homeowner didn't reappear- not that there was much I could do if he did (there's some truth in what you don't know won't hurt you). With a bucket of water, a bucket of sweat and some elbow grease I got most of the paint up and luckily it was sort of beige like the carpet so it didn't show as badly as if it was say.... red.

    At this point though I was right out rags so I decided to go to the hardware store down the street to get a chamois, a sponge and some more rags just to be sure my clean up was complete. Here's where it got a little weird. There was this dude in the store (I could immediately tell he was a bit of a talker), he looked at me and said, "You're a painter right?" To which I muttered, "Yes." (still sweaty and shaken from my balls-up). He then asked me, " Do painters still use tarps?" I was shocked by the timing of his question given recent events but replied, "Of course they do, if they're professional."(I wanted to tell him what I was doing there but I bit my tongue). He started to explain that he had seen a paint job in a downtown hotel and there was paint splatter all over the tile and flooring-the painters had failed to use drop sheets, to which I replied with something like,"It's hard to get good help these days." 

    Long story short, I finished the clean up and used drop sheets the rest of the day and will continue to do so until the end of time... and oh yeah, the other unbroken record- I haven't thrown up since 1984... I better get some Gravol.  

Unbelievable...

   Another severed foot....this is starting to get really weird...

I Must Have Left My Cards In My Other Twenty Year Old Miata...

     I was at a funeral on Saturday and afterwards everyone was invited back to the Maplewood Pub (which is now called The Bridge Between... not sure about that name) for a few libations. It was a chance to get caught up with quite a few good friends I hadn't seen in a while, some from an old workplace and some from a of slo-pitch team I had played on. At one point there were four of us (two co-workers, one friend and myself) standing around yapping about old times when one of the women I was talking to asked the other for one of her business cards. Both had left careers in the service industry to become realtors. She fumbled around in a tiny little purse for a second, came up empty handed and said, "I must have left my cards in my other B.M.W." I couldn't believe it. I'm not usually one for conflict or calling people on their B.S. but fortunately the forth woman in the group was. She immediately replied, "Sally", I can't believe you said that!" "Sally" kind of mumbled and stammered for a second and said, "Well I meant my other car actually.... Busted.

      I don't want to come across as malicious here because I really like this person, we had worked together for three years, I enjoy her company and I'm glad for her success but seriously, "I must have left my cards in my other B.M.W?" I could care less if you have ten of them... how could anyone say anything as ostentatious ("ostentatious" actually seems quite pretentious) as that? Maybe you could mix that one up from time to time.... "I must have left my cards in my other mink coat, or other yacht, or other apartment in Yaletown... 

    Brenda there is something weird going on in my corner of the world, click here

 

    Got some new underwear... I never look like this when I put on Calvin Klein's...

    Sorry if I came across as pretentious with "Calvin Klein's" but they're the only underwear other than "Hugo Boss" that I can wear. Bought the black and grey, not white like on the box...

Ross The Intern...

   This guy is hilarious...

Why Do They Call it Golf ?

    Because F%@k and S&#t were already taken...


    Actually it wasn't that bad. Played hookey from work yesterday afternoon and went out to Gleneagles Golf Course to play a round of whack! - f%@k. It's a cool little nine hole course, quite picturesque. It's been there since 1927 and legend has it that Frank Sinatra used to sea plane members of the Rat Pack in and stay for a week at time. We were probably walking on some of their cigarette butts and Jack Daniels caps as we putted... miserably.

     On a sadder note a friend of ours, Ken, died a couple of week ago and his funeral is today. It's the shits because he spent many years building his dream home in Mexico. He finally completes his project and has a heart attack there... R.I.P. Ken...

Nachoooooooooo.....

       I'm not much of a basketball fan but I do enjoy watching the playoffs and the Lakers are playing the Celtics tonight... too lazy to blog... Go Lakers. I found this Mexican wrestling mask downtown one year... ees pretty dang exciting, uh?

I Made You A Tape...

    This guy has been helping me paint this week. Really nice guy, a decent painter and he is also a pretty good piano player... jazz. I feign a bit of interest and talk about the only three jazz players I know anything about (which isn't much), Miles Davis ( I actually don't mind Kind of Blue, Sketches of Spain and Doo Bop), Sonny Rollins ( Saxophone Colossus is a pretty good album and I think he played the sax solo on the Stones "Waiting on a Friend") and John Coltrane ( Love Supreme is supposed to be his love letter to God but to me it sounds like a screeching, wailing, fingernails on the blackboard mess but because it is supposed to be such a classic I've tried a few times to "get it", all to know avail. I wonder what God thinks).

   We  chat a bit about music and it turns out that he is quite a knowledgeable music fan... open to many forms but prefers to play jazz. I hit him with, "Jazz is for musicians who don't know how to write songs." He laughs and we talk a little more- I asked him if he has ever heard Jeff Buckley's Grace album. He hadn't- the reason I brought that one up is people rave about it but I found it to be an acquired taste... I hated it at first but the more I played it the more I grew to like it. I told him I'd burn him a copy and he'd do the same for me with some jazz.


 

    Now to the point... there is something cold and heartless about just "burning a disc." While iTunes is brilliant and it's easy to simply drag songs from your library into a playlist, it doesn't pack the same punch as actually taking the time to make somebody a tape like back in the day (not that I'd ever want to). Carefully picking out each song for that person (you needed to take the time to get a sense of their taste, unless they just wanted to hear some of yours) trying to get the timing right after each one and making sure you filled the whole side of the tape with music (if there wasn't much tape left I could always squeeze in a Ramones song). Carefully handwriting the song and band names on the cardboard insert and maybe adding a few of your own artistic touches (making sure to let the ink dry or it'll smudge when you stick it in the case). It meant something to give one and it meant even more to receive one... and if we were dating and I made you a tape that meant I was ready to take it to the next level. While it's appreciated, now all you ever get is one of these...

     Here you go... thanks. I find that I rarely even play these and never cherish them like the tapes of yesteryear... not that I ever saved any but now I wish I would have. Who knows, maybe somebody is listening to one of my mixed classics right now.... probably not. 

Watch This...

   You may want to check out Repulsion with Catherine Deneuve as well...

 

Observations of a Painting Contractor...

     I'll start with my favorite, I've probably witnessed this half a dozen times in the paint store. A young pregnant couple standing in front of the wall of paint swatches, the guy totally glazed over like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights, hands in his pockets, slightly hunched over...  possibly fearing the impending birth but more than likely stunned at the prospect of picking a color for the baby's room...

     Her, "What do you think?"

     Him, " I don't know." shrugging shoulders.

     Her, " It doesn't even seem like you care... you could take a little interest you know."

     He then sheepishly points to one of the many color chips and says....

     " I kind of like that one right there." To which she replies...

     "No, I don't like that one at all."  Perfect.

    I can give people three weeks notice that I'll be there to paint the inside of their house. All I ask is that they empty their shelves and cabinets of bric-a-brac, take pictures off the walls and move the smaller pieces of furniture, I'll move the bigger pieces. I can almost guarantee you the day that I show up to paint they're scrambling around that morning doing everything I asked them to do three weeks ago. But come to think of it who am I to talk? When I was a kid I'd be cramming to complete a book report in one night and Mom would ask me how long I had to do it. I'd tell her I just got it but it was actually three weeks prior. That may not be a very good analogy though. Come on people, work with me, you know I'm coming... get your place prepped...

   When you're forty feet up a ladder don't swing a stain loaded paint brush (part reflex action, part complete stupidity) at the wasp buzzing around your bare legs (I have shorts on) because that stain is going to fly everywhere. And on the odd chance you have covered everything up with drop sheets, if there is one square inch of exposed sidewalk the flying stain will land there...

     The product shown above is an excellent primer, sealer and stain blocker. A lady came into the paint store and I over heard her ask the girl behind the counter if they sold any of that "Klitz"... obviously she meant "Kilz"...

     And finally, if I'm painting the interior of a 5000 sq. ft. house and I have just painted a window sill (first one), if there is one fly in that house I guarantee you it will somehow land on that sill...

Gummo...

  Had to post this. One of the bizarrest (?) scenes in one of the strangest movies ever. Give this clip a chance...

There's No Such Thing As Bad Weather...

     I thought I heard on the radio today that Vancouver was voted the eighth most livable city in the world. I couldn't find anything on the interweb to support that fact but I did find out that Vancouver was voted the most livable city in the world for the fifth year in a row in August 2007 by Economist magazine. Somehow it seems only fitting that I'm doing this research on the bleakest, bleariest, blackest, bitterest most biting June Mondays that I can remember. Did I mention cold, rainy and windy ? This isn't June, it's June-uary. We do live in an incredibly beautiful part of the planet (when the sun is out) but this rain can let up any time. Lately a good forecast seems to be rain easing to showers... or a really good one would be a 40% chance of showers. And what's the difference between sunny with cloudy periods and cloudy with sunny periods? I realize we usually don't get any real summer weather until late July and early August (September's great except when the P.N.E starts) but this "spring" weather we've been having lately is wearing a little thin.

     I read in that stupid book "Don't Sweat The Small Stuff" a saying that went, "There's no such thing as bad weather just different forms of good weather." HUH??!!?? Tell me that when you're changing a flat tire on the Sea to Sky highway with the wind blowing icy cold rain in your face... where's this "global warming" of which they speak ?

      I don't know what kind of trees these are but they're kinda purdy. 

You Know When I Drink Alone, I Prefer To Be By Myself...

I saw George Thorogood in 1982 at the Kerrisdale Arena. Having never been one for the herb (it makes me totally paranoid and fearful) I partook that night and was exposed to the loudest blast of rock and roll I had ever heard in my life, I was freakin'. Eventually they turned it down a bit but I just remember it being an absolute ear splitting sonic assault...

Teen Angel...

    Mom and Dad took a good friend of mine Ian and I to see American Grafitti one Saturday night in 1973, it was a pretty big deal because up until that time I had primarily only viewed movies at matinees. I suppose it was the movie that sparked the 50's nostalgia craze of the 70's. The film turned out to be an instant favorite and Mom immediately bought the soundtrack which we proceeded to wear out on our "record player." I remember that movie was followed by another 50's movie, Lords of the Flatbush starring a young Sylvester Stallone and Henry Winkler which I think lead to his role as Fonzie on Happy Days. Watching those shows made the fifties seem like ancient history... literally the "olden days." Now in the new millenium the 70's seem to have taken hold to tickle peoples nostalgia bone.

    50's music became very popular as well with bands like Sha Na Na (which I never really cared for but managed to get their own TV show) and Vancouver favourites Teen Angel and the Rockin Rebels. They used to play the local bar scene and occasionally some of our 50's themed school dances (I also saw Trooper, Heart, Sweeney Todd and Bryan Adams before they hit it big). My buddy Ian and I loved Teen Angel so much we would have listened to them even if the the 50's hadn't become so popular... they could rock...

Restless, Irritable and Discontent...

     I've been growing increasingly tired with the way my life has been going (not going, actually) lately and I can't seem to snap out of it. Maybe it's depression, loneliness, anxiety, aging or some combination of the above but I  have run out of any sort of effort to do anything about it (a Kiwi friend of mine said it best when referencing work, "I'm out of "puff").  As I shared in a previous blog all my efforts for change or improvement ended back at me with little or no results. Makes me think of the lines from 'Rooster' and 'Man in the Box' by Alice in Chains... "Seems every path leads me to nowhere." and "I'm the man in the box... buried in my shit." I realize how pathetic that sounds but it's how I've been feeling. I have plenty of  friends and family that I can talk to but that brings to mind two things 1- I hate sounding like a complainer and burdening people  b- I've heard all of the advice that friends and family can give... and while I appreciate what they try to do but it usually falls on deaf ears(tell it to the interweb). 

       Quite a few years ago when I was feeling particularly crazed (and sober), I basically had to beg my doctor to send me to see a psychiatrist. She would tell me that I just needed to meet the right girl...huh?!!? That may be true but relationships tend to exacerbate my condition. She eventually gave in and made me an appointment to see a rather well known shrink at U.B.C.  We talked for a while and he told me I just needed to get a hobby... what th' ?!!? He said I should look in the phone book under sports and pick one- he sent me on my way after only 40 minutes. 

     My mind is super active and it tends to race or then I'll get complete tunnel vision and can only think about one thing. Quite a few years ago I became totally obsessed with tattoos... then  proceeded to get a dozen of them. I bought all the tattoo magazines, books... I was fascinated with them, particularly the old school ones. I'm a bit of a "thrower awayer" and now that I have these tattoos I find myself unable to stop thinking about them (almost obsessively) and I most certainly can't  throw them away... woops. I like the tattoos but the obsessive thinking about them can tend to drive me nuts...but if it wasn't them it would be something else. I used to do it trying to figure out God, I'd grind it over in my mind until I would literally scream.

    There was a saying I heard a few years ago when I was in "the program" and it was "restless, irritable and discontent." That pretty much sums up my insides today... I hardly ever feel happy,  hopeful or at ease unless I've had a couple of drinks. I realize this is no cure but it sure offers up an effective albeit temporary solution. My Dad once said, "It's not easy being me." I guess the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree.

     One last thing having brought up my Dad. When I working with him in the eighties installing railings I met a painter friend of his named Ron (hey I'm a painter now...). He was in his mid to late fifties and at lunch one day Ron began to talk. He explained how he had to quit drinking because he was up to a bottle a day. He said he had been quite an avid boater but had lost interest since he got sober. His kids were grown and out of the house and to quote him he said, "Is this it? A coke float and a new blade in my razor on Saturday night." I got a kick out of what he said and I sort of understood but not really. It turned out Ron had gone to see a shrink (Archie Bunker said, "Anybody who goes to see a psychiatrist ought to have their head examined.") and they started trying different drugs on him. Dad told me that one day at work Ron had asked him to feel his pulse rate in his neck and said it was racing upwards of 200 beats per minute. It's sad but Ron later died of a heart attack from the very drugs they were using to "cure" him.

      Maybe it comes down to accepting yourself as you are... but what the heck do you do when that seems unacceptable?

      

Eli The Accountant...

4:00 AM...

 scratching and clawing my way to the summit... the grail

 shaky ground, clutching desperately to the symbol... the representation

 to my right a murky concrete pool of stagnant holy water

 surface polluted with mosquitoes and maggots... squirming

confining, cramped, gripped with fear of the dizzy heights

the descent is made, rickety ladders and platforms... a baffling maze

hit the ground running, dark muddy trail along the edge of some black trees

in the immediate distance the edge of the forest a dog guarding

the entrance to the looming sunlit cemetery... chain link fence 

unable to see if the gates are open, aware of an approaching assailant

suddenly on a different road- oily gravel lane attacker violently bumps me repeatedly

dressed in black, wavy black hair, thick black eyebrows shield dead black eyes

holding gord downie feeling his pain, anger and anguish... finding it too much

wanting to scream and break the hold of this unbearable embrace 

but realizing it's me I'm holding- desperate to cry the tears that never appear

buried so deeply- unclear if they're even there at all... seeking release...

Lee Aaron and Basia Bulat....

   Canadian eighties rocker Lee Aaron was on the local TV show Urban Rush yesterday. While her musical tastes have leaned towards jazz (yuck) and adult contemporary (eww) the last few years, I remember her as Canada's Metal Queen... HOT.

 

    While I was on YouTube I found this video by Canadian Basia Bulat...

Three Words...

    DELUXE BACON WALLET...

First Day Of Grade Eight...

     First day school clothes...

    We moved from Burnaby to Port Moody when I was 12 and I had to start grade 8 at a completely new school with no friends (stings). Some kids a year younger than me that lived in my new neighborhood  informed me that the first couple of days or so are devoted to "initiating" the grade 8's. I was told this could involve anything from having 8's (and eyebrows, moustaches, beards etc.) drawn on your face with a felt pen, a possible beating, face washed with shoe polish or your head flushed in the toilet. (I had also saw kids having the misfortune of being locked in their lockers upside down and eggs broken over their heads). I was terrified all summer long of the dreaded first day of school. Port Moody Jr. Sec. went to grade 11 and I was pretty small, so that made the prospect of this day even more horrifying.

    On opening day I kind of hung outside the fence surrounding the school waiting for my chance to enter, while trying to go unnoticed (which was pretty much what I did throughout school anyway). I was witness to all manner of horrors but somehow managed to make it in unscathed other than one brief but scary incident. This "teenager" came up to me and I noticed he was carrying a small grey kitten. He proceeded to hand it to me and said, "Carry my cat, kid." I was scared shitless (for lack of a better term... actually there is no better term) and did exactly what was requested of me, feeling that complete compliance might reduce my chances of a beating. We walked about a half of a block (with him behind me) and then he abruptly told me to stop. He took the cat back, cuffed me across the back of the head and said, " You're a good grade 8, kid." I was so relieved because as scary as this was it seemed a damn sight better than having a tin of black shoe polish pressed right up your nose.

     I made into the school and took my seat in homeroom. There were a variety of kids with egg in their hair, felt pen and shoe polish on their faces and a couple of wet heads from the dreaded flush (I always wondered if they peed in the toilet first) but now comes the real point of this story, the rest was just filler. Right beside me was the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes upon. Her name was be Patricia Heison. I was completely taken by her beauty, long strawberry blond hair, deep brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Even though I had only been on the planet a mere twelve years I couldn't believe anybody could be that pretty. There was even something about the way she walked, clutching her books to her chest. She had certain grace about her and to this day I don't think I've seen anybody with better posture (might have been a dancer). It turned out later she was a straight A honor student as well. Patricia sat right beside me for the next year and I don't remember saying more than two words to her but every day I saw her I felt exactly like Charlie Brown and  the little red haired girl...

 

     

Would You Marry For The Money... Take A Lover In The Afternoon ?

     She can sing... and has some moves too...

   One of my favorite episodes of the Simpsons is the one where Bart isn't doing very well in school (which is most of them). He has this very important exam and failing it would mean being left back another year. He decides to really study this time because he absolutely has to pass this test. While he's hunkered down with his books the biggest snowfall of the year occurs- the school is closed and out of his window he can see all of the kids tobogganing, sledding, snowboarding, skating... basically having the times of their lives. The mayor even names it "The Best Day Ever." He almost caves in and heads outside to join in the festivities but somehow manages to summon all his willpower and remain committed to his homework. He's so proud of himself because he stayed the course but when he finally receives his test results he finds out he has a "D". It's actually heart-rending when he breaks down and cries,"But I really tried this time!" He put forth his absolute best effort and still ended up with a failing grade. (I think the teacher took pity on him and somehow managed to give him a pass). 

      How I can relate to that episode. Not that I'm feeling sorry for myself (well maybe a little) but like I posted in a previous blog, despite what I thought were my best efforts in every imaginable situation the results always seemed to end the same... not good (somebody call the waahmbulance). I'm just saying- even in situations that I felt I was really "trying to do the right thing" it ended badly (fate ? destiny?). I was just reminded  of the old saying," If it wasn't for bad luck I wouldn't have any." Or The Little River Band song lyric, "Have you heard about the lonesome loser, beaten by the Queen of Hearts every time..."

     I did really well in school until I hit the wall with grade eleven algebra. I swear I wanted to cry every time I entered that class. Numbers mixed with letters, brackets, parenthesis... I was totally frustrated, baffled and way out of my league... I couldn't grasp it no matter how I tried. I had these lofty dreams of becoming an architect, I loved drafting and was fairly good at it but when I saw the effort it took to try to understand algebra, I knew I was sunk with chemistry, biology and physics... I'm not sure if any of that made any sense but it did remind me of one last thing... this Peanuts cartoon... Lucy pulling the football away every year and Charlie Brown getting sucked in to try it one more time...

     One of my Dad's most famous quotes is, "You know what's good about banging your head against the wall ?.... It feels so good when you stop..."

    And I bought some "Bling Teeth"...

We've All Heard The Joke...

    But I have to post it anyway... What will be the only three things left on earth after the nuclear holocaust?

                  Rats...



           Cockroaches...



                  and Keith Richards...


             It's reported that Mr. Richards has been inundated with requests to donate his body when he dies so doctors can examine his immune system. The 64 year old Stone (no pun intended) spent most of the seventies addicted to heroin and still lives the rock 'n' roll lifestyle, says his survival is due to a high tolerance to toxic pollutants. Richards said, "Doctors all over the world want my body when it finally goes. Apparently, I do have an incredible immune system. I had Hepatitis C and cured it myself (more like even Hep. C didn't even want to live in there). Just by being me. I mean, I eat everything wrong. I shove terrible things inside me."

    That's coming from the same guy that when asked what the weirdest thing he had ever snorted was replied, "My father. I snorted my father. He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn't have cared... It went down pretty well, and I'm still alive." It turned out that afterwards he only said it as a joke and he couldn't believe people took it seriously  but I don't know...