Roasted Baby Hippo

During my undergrad, we joked that the "Hip of Beef" served in the cafeteria was really "Hip of Beast" or Hip o' Beast." I have learned that this curious label is ubiquitous. Students far and wide use an identical nomenclature. Hilarious. But, enough of that.

Imagine being served a plate upon which stood a tiny roasted hippopotamus! It measured no longer than seven inches from tip to tail with, perhaps, a two inch inseam. As for height, well, I would guess six inches at most. Nothing else was on the plate, just a tiny hippo that was able to stand, despite having been roasted. No veggies, no potatoes, no rice: just a tiny semi-aquatic even-toed ungulate.

Now, I am not one to panic at the prospect of undercooked food, but my hippo looked a bit rare. The hippo served to C, beside me, looked similarly undercooked, but C did not seem to mind. She prodded it with knife and fork, looking for convenient points of cleavage, and I believe she found one, though the caudal.

Rewards offered for dream-interpretation.

A Play in Two Acts

SCENE ONE

(Thursday, July 3rd, 2008. Zydeco Fish, wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans, sits in his office. He reluctantly picks up his black office telephone and dials the phone.)

RECEPTIONIST

Good morning, [states name of company]. May I help you?

ZYDECO FISH

Hello. I am calling from _____ in Toronto. We ordered some _____ from you some time last year, and we need to re-order.

RECEPTIONIST

Thank you. I will have to transfer your call.

ZYDECO FISH

OK. Thank you.

(Zydeco Fish shifts is his chair, listening to the sounds of the phone being transferred. He glances at the clock and looks visibly disturbed that it is still morning. He picks up the apple on his desk and puts it down again.)

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

Hello?

ZYDECO FISH

Hello. I am calling from _____ in Toronto. We ordered some _____ from your company some time last year, and we need to order some more.

RECEPTIONIST

Oh, I am sorry. That didn't work. Let me try transferring you again.

ZYDECO FISH

OK. Thank you.

(Zydeco Fish rolls his eyes, shifts is his chair, listening to the sounds of the phone being transferred. He picks up the nectarine and examines it. He puts it back down, and looks up at the clock. He watches a colleague sit down at the scanner just outside of his office.)

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

Hello?

ZYDECO FISH

Hello. I am calling from _____ in Toronto. We ordered some _____ from you some time last year, and we need to make a new order.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

I'm sorry but I have no idea what you are talking about.

ZYDECO FISH

Oh, I guess I was transferred to the wrong person. I will call her back. Goodbye.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

Goodbye

(Zydeco Fish presses the release button on the phone and redials. He slouches a bit in his chair.)

RECEPTIONIST

Good morning, [states name of company]. May I help you?

ZYDECO FISH

Oh, hi. I just spoke with you a moment ago and you transferred me to someone who has no idea what I am talking about.

RECEPTIONIST

Oh, well, let me try again.

ZYDECO FISH

OK. Thanks.

(Zydeco Fish shifts is his chair, listening to the sound of the receptionist shuffle paper or drop something. He hears the familiar noise of the phone being transferred again. He brushes a couple of random hairs from his t-shirt. He toggles to his Flickr account to see if there are any new comments. He refreshes his email window. He clicks on Scrabulous in Facebook, but his two opponents haven't taken their turns yet.)

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

Hello?

ZYDECO FISH

Hello. I am calling from _____ in Toronto. We ordered some _____ from you some time last year, and we need to order a new batch.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

I'm sorry but I have no idea what you are talking about.

ZYDECO FISH

Really?

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

This is the Human Resources Department.

ZYDECO FISH

It is? Your receptionist transferred me to you. Why would she do that?

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

I have no idea.

ZYDECO FISH

I guess I will just call her back.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

Sorry about that.

ZYDECO FISH

No problem. Goodbye.

(Zydeco Fish presses the release button on his phone and redials. As he waits, he types www.msnbc.com and clicks on the Tech and Science link. He opens the article about Voyager 2, launched 30 years ago, which has reached the Termination Shock.)

RECEPTIONIST

Good morning, [states name of company]. May I help you?

ZYDECO FISH

Hi. I have spoken with you a couple of times just now, trying to order some ____. No one seems to have any idea what I am talking about. The last time, you transferred me to the Human Resources Department and the person I spoke with couldn't figure out why.

RECEPTIONIST

I thought that she would know who you should be speaking with. I am just filling in today. Can I put you on hold for a moment?

ZYDECO FISH

Why not?

(Zydeco Fish waits. He looks at the clock. The red voice mail light on his phone has lit up.)

RECEPTIONIST

OK. Let me transfer you.

ZYDECO FISH

Thank you.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

Hello?

ZYDECO FISH

Oh, hello. I am calling from _____ in Toronto. We ordered some _____ from you some time last year, and we need to order more.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

I'm sorry, but I don't know what you are talking about. Where are you trying to call?

ZYDECO FISH

Mississauga...from Toronto.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

But where in Mississauga.

ZYDECO FISH

Your office at ____ ____ Parkway.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

But, you are speaking with someone in Halifax right now.

ZYDECO FISH

That's odd. Your receptionist transferred me to you.

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

We don't have a receptionist.

ZYDECO FISH

You don't have a receptionist? Then who transferred me to you?

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

I don't know.

ZYDECO FISH

So, you can't help me?

UNIDENTIFIED PERSON

No. I have no idea who you should be speaking with.

ZYDECO FISH

Alright. Thanks for your help.

(Zydeco Fish hangs up the phone, picks up the apple and takes a bite. He looks disappointed with the apple.)

ACT TWO

(Friday, July 4th, 2008. Zydeco Fish, wearing a brownish t-shirt and blue jeans, sits in his office. He reluctantly picks up his black office telephone and dials the phone.)

RECEPTIONIST

Good morning, [states name of company]. May I help you?

ZYDECO FISH

Hi. I called yesterday trying to order some _____. I was never able to speak with anyone who could help me.

RECEPTIONIST

I don't know who to transfer you to. I can't help you.

ZYDECO FISH

Does your company sell ____?

RECEPTIONIST

I really don't know.

ZYDECO FISH

Wow, this is a very strange company.

RECEPTIONIST

Can I help you with anything else?

ZYDECO FISH

You haven't helped me with this.

RECEPTIONIST

I'm sorry. I have no information about this.

ZYDECO FISH

Alright... Goodbye.

(Zydeco Fish hangs up without waiting for a reply.)

FADE OUT:

THE END

Ringo has a Really Big Nose

My daughter, almost 7 years old, has a growing fondness for the Beatles, largely because she recently watched Help! She loved the madcap adventures of the four motley gentlemen from Liverpool very much. But, I now have a suspicion that she thinks Ringo is called Ringo because he was in possession of the sacrificial ring in that film.

We sat down and had a look at some Beatles clips on Youtube and had a wide ranging discussion of all things Beatles. Mostly, she wanted to know who sang what and why didn't Ringo sing more songs. That is not a complex question, but diplomacy won out in the end. I didn't want to slight Ringo in any way. But, then she said that Ringo is a really good drummer, perhaps the best she's ever heard, aside from the drummer in the Doodlebops, perhaps.

I resisted the urge to pass on my favourite John Lennon quote, which was his reply to an interviewer's question as to whether Ringo is the best drummer in the world.

John said: "He's not even the best drummer in the Beatles." Oh, so cutting and so true.

My daughter went on to ask:

"Why does George look depressed?" Hmmm, does he? I thought she would have said something about his ears.

"Why was John shot?" Now that is a tough question, and I really didn't answer it very well. I hardly knew what to say. I remember that day as clearly as it was yesterday, but I am not sure anyone could really answer that question, especially when the person asking is so young and innocent.

I wondered if she was so fond of Ringo because she knows that John and George are dead. Perhaps she is subconsciously aware of the McCartney-Mills fiasco, and so Ringo appears to be the least damaged, but then we did a quick Google image search and she read a caption beneath a photo of Ringo and said "Ringo had a second wife?" Maybe the infatuation died there, because she followed that with "Ringo has a really big nose!"

George W. Bush vs. Dan Quayle

It's really amazing how my mind wanders when I am cycling. Some of my best ideas occur while cruising the streets. Here's an example from yesterday.

Somewhere on Bloor Street, I concluded that George W. Bush could take Dan Quayle in a wrestling match, but only if it were Greco-Roman style. In the WWE format, I predicted Dan would prevail, probably because he would bring out a chair and break it over Dubya's head. And, that made me wonder about other combative events:

Boxing - I'd put my money on Dubya. Single-mindedness is key, and Georgie has that in spades.

Pistols at Dawn - Bush, probably because Dan would run away and most likely trip and fall in the dirt.

Fencing - Quayle, because I think he has a touch of flamboyance that would suit this sport well and I think he is probably very light on his toes.

Kick Boxing - I'd predict a draw.

Judo (or other martial art) - Bush. In fact, I'd wager that George could split timber (and possibly concrete blocks) with his forehead.

Oration Contests - Like kick boxing, I predict a tie. I mean, who could decide between:

"Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."
- The Quaylster

and

"Too many OB-GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all across this country."
- Dubya

Endings/Beginnings, part four (see parts one and two and three)

Some of you will remember the short piece I wrote about one of my brothers a couple of years ago. It is difficult to add to that, but I could begin with the fact that he is now collecting a disability pension and doing some under-the-table taxi dispatching work. He has unpaid bills all over town, but people are still civil to him. After all, he is a celebrity, if a minor one. How many people can say that they know a man who weighs 400 pounds?

The most amazing thing about my brother is that he is still alive. He should be dead. Somehow, his body remembers to function. His heart still goes and his lungs, battered by thousands of cigarettes, still work. He continues to use the cane, but now he has a reason. In high school, he walked with one frequently, arguing that it relived the pain of ambulating with hemorrhoids. His wife, the one he married after the mother of his children was imprisoned and the kids swept away into foster care (it never crossed his mind to take them in and be a father to them) has been placed in long term care with early-onset Alzheimer's. She is in her fifties.

I suppose I should point put that she is much older than he. If you ask me, his attraction to this woman was based solely on the fact that she had daughters that were nearly his age. It was another thing that made him freakish, another thing for people to talk about behind his back. He had no other way of making any sort of impact, so he went for freakish acts, like force-feeding himself into obesity and, if he can manage it, an early death. Some day, he will be found prostate on the ground in his motel room, a half-eaten doughnut protruding from his mouth.

Yes, I see a bad end for my brother, but I believe that he hopes he will look down on his enormous body from above, just as we normal people believe that one day we might observe our own funerals, and delight in the fact that he lived out his childhood fantasy and become the man in the wicker chair.

Endings/Beginnings, part two (read part one)

My father took refuge in his darkened room after my mother was taken away to the psychiatric hospital. Later, we ate in silence in the dim dining room and I remember struggling to see the food on my plate. Perhaps he did not want me to see his face. Days later, my mother returned, for a short time, long enough to celebrate Christmas, and then she fled in my dad's car, heading north to the cottage. She stayed there until the money dried up and the car, neglected and abused, died a slow death, but not before her boyfriend stole it and abandoned it in Rexdale.

My dad is no philosopher, though I think he wishes he was. He has opinions. He offers advice, in a fatherly way. But, it's easy to reject advice when it is steeped in conservative dogma and dispensed far too rigidly. Occasionally, the advice is offered up almost as a plea. "Don't work in a factory," he once advised. That was good advice, but I am sure he felt it might be unavoidable for me, the fourth child in a working class family raised in a small town where the majority of the work is the endless tedium of the factory, the only antidote being cases of beer and liquor.

My mother did not return. She found her way into her mother's house, perhaps the only one who would offer her shelter. Ten years on, she works on an endless stream of seek-a-word puzzles and juvenile crosswords while smoking a chain of cigarettes. Her hair is gray-yellow, a shocking change from the deep black she died it for most of her life.

After some time, my father began to speak with mercenary zeal about dating and meeting someone. He announced that he would not be alone by the same time next year. He was confident. He practised driving to a few restaurants in a neighbouring city, something he had never done before. He has been married to his second wife for 18 years now.

Years later, when A. and I split, turning away from an ill-advised union of the young and the younger (I was the younger), my dad had no advice; instead, he blamed himself and I have never been able to figure out why.

To be continued ...

Technorati Tags: family, dad, relationships, endings, beginnings

He'll be Dead Soon

Look at this face, if you can. I know it's hideous, distorted from a permanent sneer, from a rage brought on by the fact that the world is filled with people he hates. They don't share his racist, homophobic, sexist, and fascist views. He's angry that he has been crippled with impotence, that he smells like an old person, that he is rotting from the inside out. The good news is that this coward will be dead soon. He's half dead now.

Meet John Leonard Spencer, sometimes known as Leslie John Bowyer or Christopher Leslie Bowyer or Les Bowyer. He is the person behind dailygaggle[dot]blogspot[dot]com. He's also the moron I wrote about in this post.

This is the man who has been posting anonymous comments on my blog. It's easy to slander people when one can hide behind a fake name. I deleted most of asinine comments, but some are still there.

Here's an example of the hateful garbage he writes. In my post about Facebook, I left a comment that said:

"Oddly, half of the librarians here are on Facebook..."

His reply was: "And the other half faggots"

This gives you a good idea of this man's values. If he hates you, and he hates everyone, he hurls anti-gay insults. John Leonard Spencer called me a c&#% sucker. It's obvious that he hates himself. I think he should just come out of the closet. What do you say, Leslie?

Johnny has written a book called Waving Goodbye to a Thousand Flies and, because he could not find anyone stupid enough to publish it, he did so himself, via Tafford Publishing, a vanity press that lets any incompetent, uneducated, imbecilic, moronic person publish any drivel they want, as long as they pay for it. He must have saved his cash from his years working as a rent boy. To complete the vain cycle, he comments here and there under the name Leslie Bowyer, to drum up interest in his book. Of his own book, he once said: "I found the book Wholesomly [sic] interesting with few dull moments." It's fraudulent and desperate.

Here's what the reviewers are saying about John Leonard Spencer's book, Waving Goodbye to a Thousand Flies:

"Never have I seen such awful writing. Spencer is a man preoccupied with himself, probably from an early age, when he developed an addiction to masturbation and a love of phallus-shaped vegetables."

"If we judged books by how conceited the author is, Spencer deserves a A+"

"The errors of syntax overwhelm the book. It is difficult to read a book that is so laden with obtuse remarks, and so lacking in any kind of coherent structure."

"A Dog of a book."

"Two thumbs down, way down."

"The publisher should be executed."

"Waving Goodbye to a Thousand Flies is obviously written by a man that has spent most of his life masturbating with chronic frequency. It's clear that he is now impotent, but he has fond memories of bashing the bishop and shoving foreign objects up his rectum."

"Spencer gives credit to Freud's theory of the Oedipus complex, except that he never outgrew it. Spencer is a mommy's boy."

I'm not the only one he has felt the need to pester: he has been trolling tshsmom's site too. He is like an adolescent school boy, desperate for attention.

Beware of this loser. Too bad Blogger won't let us block by IP address.

Host Name 218-215-2-161.people.net.au
IP Address 218.215.2.161
Country Australia
Region New South Wales
City Sydney
ISP Swiftel Communications

Technorati Tags: trolls, John Leonard Spencer, Leslie John Bowyer, Christopher Leslie Bowyer, assholes, losers, homophobes, racists, sexists, fascists

Tube Quest

My most recent flat tire arrived with a satisfying pop, a small explosion of air bursting through my rubber tube at Bloor and Bay late at night. A few people looked, perhaps thinking that a gun had been fired. I walked my bike home, thankful that it was not minus 40 degrees with the wind chill, as it is today. The boots weren't right for walking, and my feet felt a bit sore when I finally removed them at home.

There are lots of nice bike shops in Toronto, but all of them were closed for some sort of bike show at the Exhibition. So, I was forced to go to a run-down place that reminded me of my youth. There was a chap on the outskirts of the small town that I am from who had what can only be described as stockpiles of crap. The man had everything from bicycles parts to old records, bits of steel, dismembered parts of electrical devices, topiary, stuffed foxes, fish mounted on old pieces of wood, tackle, knives, probably bullets and grenades, bits of planes, tanks, anti-aircraft weapons, and what appeared to be robots or parts of them. He also had odd mechanical devices that few had ever seen before, and fewer knew how to operate. But, this guy could fix anything, from a radio to a flux capacitor.

A blast of smoke hit me when I opened the door to the bike shop. I was transported back to my days as a bartender at a hotel in my hometown. The place was so smoky, I had red eyes well before last call. I worried that I was getting cancer in two ways: from the smoke I breathed in, and from the smoke that soaked inexorably into my skin. I worried that I might break out into lesions.

The bike shop was dark and dingy, but I could see some flickering light at the back. My boots thudded on the plywood floor, as I made my way back, through a darkened nave filled with bikes then, up a small ramp, a few feet more to the counter looking more like a smoky altar in the poltergeist-like glow of a small TV. It would have been oddly appropriate if the TV had been broadcasting old Jerry Falwell sermons or the 700 Club. Two guys sat on lawn chairs, smoking. Beside them, at least two dozen empty beer cans - the 500 ml variety - covered the floor. These men looked as though they had just returned from 39 days on Survivor.

"It's been a day of cigarettes and beer and TV," one of them grunted, as he stood up. At least he stood up, I thought. They had no ashtrays, so the ashes and butts piled up on the floor, among the cans.

"I need a tube," I said, almost coughing from the smoke.

"What size?"

"26 by 1.95," I replied. He ducked behind the counter and came up with the goods.

"5 bucks," he said, but he didn't ring anything in, did not touch the cash register. In fact, I don't recall a cash register of any sort. I wondered if I could have paid him in beer.

I handed him a $5 bill. "Oh, you're rich," he said, far too gleefully for a man who had been smoking and drinking all day and watching a TV with a pinkish hue.

The other guy said nothing, barely moved. I was certain I could have given him a light push and he would have tumbled over into a pile on the floor.

Later, I installed the new tube and realized that I also need a new tire, as mine had a hole in it. I decided to go to a different shop.

Technorati Tags: cycling, bikes, stores, drinking

The Conference Review

I wish I had taken a photo of the carpeting at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre. It is the ugliest, most disgusting, and nauseating carpet I have ever seen. I have to think it was some sort of sick joke. There are two varieties: the first in the open areas, although ugly, retains some dignity in it's restrained geometry. In the meeting rooms, all hell breaks loose. I still haven't determined if the design is supposed to resemble a plant - perhaps a pea pod - or a pupal casing.

Late Friday, after the AGM for a division I am a member of (or, of which I am a member), I headed to the reception, a few minutes late. I asked a colleague when the food was coming, as all I could see were lengths of empty tables, laid out with white hotel table cloths. "Oh", he said, "the food is gone already." In the twenty minutes that had expired, while I lingered over the last half a glass of wine and chatted with friends and colleagues, hundreds of librarians had devoured all of the food. In the distance, I saw a man, dressed in white wielding a knife, presiding over a hunk of beef the size of a Smart car. I thought it might have been a mirage.

I gravitated to him, found a plate, and he hacked off a piece of bloody beef. I declined the bread roll, as I cannot eat wheat, and looked for cutlery. Finding only a fork, I attempted to cut the flesh with the blunt side of the implement. Failing in that task, I picked up the bloody meat with my hands and ripped at it with my teeth. I was thankful for the dim light, for I think I looked like a lion gnawing on the belly of some unfortunate ungulate. I wiped away the juices flowing down my chin, took a sip of wine, and reflected on the fact that I used to be a vegetarian. How things change.

Listening to: Beck - The Information.

Technorati Tags: conferences, carpet, food

The End of Bathing

This is about my mother. She is fragile, in her late 60s, vacant - the doctor said so. He said she was empty, but the meaning is the same. She stares a lot, says little, except when she remembers to take her pills. On those days, she speaks with hypermania. It's a challenge to keep up.

Her red skin is contoured with blue veins, just like her father's. She wears a red and blue map on her face. Her grey hair is tinged with yellow from 50 years of cigarettes, 50 years of exhaling into emptiness. I remember her portrait softened by smoke, stinking of stale tobacco. She is old now, older than her years.

She found her way into the bathtub, managed to lower herself with her frail arms. Bathing is out-of-fashion in the house she shares with her mother. They prefer to stand over the sink and sponge bathe. Installing a shower is too expensive, not that there is any shortage of money. The bank accounts are full, the house paid, but my grandmother still buys her clothes from thrift shops and lawn sales as though it is 1935.

I try not to picture it - my mother clawing at the side of the white enamel, failing to achieve any kind of grip, her feet finding no purchase in the slick tub. She calls for help from her 87 year old mother. Maybe she can lift her out, but my grandmother is too weak herself, with her two plastic knees and two plastic hips. She looks as strong as ever, kind of like an ox or a streetcar. She is thick, heavy, with fingers that point in all directions of space at once, thanks to her arthritis.

The next thing to do is call to the neighbour to free my mother. I am reminded of that old folk tale, the Enormous Potato. They will form a chain: my grandmother, the neighbour all pulling. Soon, there will be a dog, a cat, and a mouse all lending a hand. Instead, the neighbour fails and they resort to contacting Emergency Services. Someone dials 911. An ambulance arrives with two paramedics. They hoist her from the tub, leave the stretcher by the door, and retreat to talk about that one with their colleagues. This is the one about the woman who couldn't get out of the bathtub. It's not an urban legend.

Technorati Tags: mother, grandmother, bathing, bathtub, 911, emergency, trapped

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Answers, Part 1

Liz, from Library Tavern asks: "If you were a nut, what kind would you be?"

Well, that's a tough one. If you had asked me what my favourite nut is, I would probably have said the almond. You know, if you split in half just right with your teeth, you will notice that they are delightfully smooth on the tongue. I am also a fan of almond butter, despite the hefty price. What kind of nut would I be is a far more difficult question.

I like cashews, but they are not nuts: they are seeds, although some people persist in arguing that they are nuts. Anyway, I don't think I would like that kidney shape. I can rule out the coconut - not a true nut either - and the peanut, for it is far too common (not to mention that it is not a true nut either). Walnuts are over-rated and bitter and the Brazil nut is far too much work to get into.

I considered the filbert and the hazelnut (close nut relatives). In the end, I would have to choose the pistachio.

Why? Well, just read this sentence from the Wikipedia entry: "When the fruit ripens, the shells split open partially. This happens with an audible pop, and legend has it that lovers who stand under a pistachio tree at night and hear the nuts popping open will have good luck."

That is cool.

By the way, if you want to ask me a question, do it here.

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An Open Letter to Jacob Richler

Dear Mr. Richler,

I deleted the first letter I wrote to you because it was filled with profanity. The letter was excessive and most probably cathartic at the same time. I am sure I can get through this letter with far fewer expletives.

I read with great interest your attack on cyclists in yesterday's National Post (p. A10). If I understand you correctly, you are pissed off because you got a parking ticket and now you think that the law should come down on all cycling "freeloaders" because we use roads "built on the hard-working backs of motorists, and who get around without contributing gas taxes, or helping the local automobile industry or anything useful at all." Mr. Richler, many cyclists own cars as well as bikes, and we pay our fair share of taxes.

I pay a huge amount of taxes: I pay property taxes, sales taxes, and income taxes. I support the local bicycle industry and my local bicycle repair shops too. I do this while not polluting the air with exhaust fumes, or by supporting the environmentally-damaging petroleum industry, and the wars waged on its behalf. Your statement that cyclists don't contribute "anything useful at all" is both ridiculous and ignorant.

Your run-in with that cyclist on Yonge Street is regrettable, but would it be fair to characterize all automobile drivers by the behaviour of a few? There are some cyclists who ignore the rules of the road, and who ride dangerously. I have no problem with fines for dangerous cycling. The tone of your opinion piece is negative to all cyclists. You refer to bicycles as "monsters on two wheels." Clearly, you have no respect for any cyclist and, despite what you claim, it is obvious that you hate them.

The next time you get a parking ticket, just remember that the parking laws are there for a good reason: that is, so you can have a place to park. If everyone was permitted to park wherever they wanted, there would be SUVs on the sidewalks in front of Starbucks all across the city.

I suggest that you park your car for a few weeks and try to navigate the streets of Toronto by bicycle. (I would have suggested that you try the TTC, but I remembered that you hate the TTC. And, I also recall that you hate the Green Bin program as well. What is it with you and progess?). Anyway, get on a bike and you will quickly learn that the streets of Toronto are very dangerous to cyclists. I'd like to read a column about how well you did on a two wheeled monster when surrounded by a sea of 2000 pound automobiles.

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The Paranoid Side Step

Although it really requires an in-person demonstration (no, I will not be demonstrating it), I will attempt to describe the complex manoeuvres of the Paranoid Side Step. Imagine a teenage boy, part way through high school, attending a high school dance in the mid-1980s. No, this is not me. He might be wearing white high top running shoes with laces untied, jeans, and a t-shirt. His hair is long enough to cover the ears, but not so long as to be too hippie-ish. He spends most of the dance hanging out in the shadowy fringes talking to his male friends. When a slow dance comes on, he circles the high school gymnasium looking, but not too obviously, for someone to ask for a slow dance. The song might be Babe or Stairway to Heaven. He may or may not have success. Eye contact might be accomplished and then lost quickly. In 10% of the cases, he may end up in a tight embrace with a girl he knows or does not know. He is unsure if she is taking pity on him.

The bravest of the boys take a turn at fast dancing (the opposite of the slow dance). Well, they are either brave or gay or latently gay (not that there's anything wrong with that). The more macho guys quit the dance floor when the back-to-back slow numbers end. But, in later years, these macho guys realize that if they want to get chicks, they have to dance the way of the ladies. And so, with reluctance, they take to the dance floor and adopt a rather interesting dance style that I call the Paranoid Side Step.

Dance styles come and go, and it is possible that in the high schools of today, the Paranoid Side Step is a thing of the past. But, in my high school days, it was the dance adopted by most guys (except for the gay and the almost gay: they were far too fabulous on their feet).

Perhaps you should try this on your own. Stand with your feet parallel, about ten inches apart. Hold your arms close to your side so as to keep any motion of the upper limbs to a minimum. Wildly flailing arms and any sort of jauntiness could be trouble for the adolescent boy. Now, slowly bring one foot and place it beside the other and then put it back where it was. Do the same with foot number two. Repeat.

As you do this, keep your arms to your side and your head on a slight downward incline. Without turning your head, have a good look around you, just to make sure that no one is actually watching you. To do this, you need to dart your eyes right and then left without moving your head. You don’t want to let on that you care that people are watching you: you just want to give the appearance of nonchalance and that you are only doing this for points with the ladies. Of course, it would be better if you could avoid looking around with those darting eyes that make you look quite paranoid. But, for some reason, you cannot stop looking.

This, ladies and gentleman, is the paranoid side step.

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I Have to Ask Myself

Were my parents on drugs? Why else would they choose a tree that looks like this monstrosity? I remember the day we got this tree very well. I scratched my head then, and I scratch it now. It makes no sense. I know it wasn't the last tree on the lot. Why they didn't prune the bastard, I have no idea.

I'd like to know if there is some sort of rate-my-Christmas tree website, 'cause this would surely win in the ugly category.

I have decided that I either have to stop looking at old photos, or come to terms with the fact that my family is full of weirdos.

By the way, the cage at the upper left was home to the two dead budgies.

I'll pass on the opportunity to comment on the interior decorating.

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Troublesome Turd (a true story)

Imagine my mother (if you can), hair in curlers, wielding a plunger like some sort of impromptu shepherd's staff, rounding up her four children and herding them into the bathroom for a bizarre family meeting. There we stood around the toilet, five of us looking down into the bowl at the most enormous "dropping" I had ever seen. It was impressive. As someone who loved the Guinness Book of World Records, my immediate thought was to call up those guys and have them bring either a ruler or a scale to get the stats on that baby. I was sure we would be famous very soon. I was almost going to suggest that mother get her camera, but I realized that she was angry.

She was angry, not because the culprit didn't flush the toilet after doing his/her business, but because it was so big, it wouldn't go down the toilet. She proved her point by repeatedly flushing the toilet. It spun around and around and never went anywhere. She aimed the plunger at each of us, demanding to know who did it. Who dropped that huge turd that was far too big to flush? I wondered if she was going to hack at it with something as we watched, but she just kept demanding to know who did it.

My eldest brother, I suppose because he was the eldest and a boy, got the blame, despite his protestations. From that day, I viewed my brother as some sort of super pooper (wasn't that an ABBA song?) We were released from the smelly room and I gather my mother used the plunger to batter that turd into small enough pieces that it would go down. I was left thinking that she was a bit unfair to us. After all, who among us can regulate the size of our movements? I'd wager that few of us can, and ever fewer would admit to having the talent.

About five years ago, my sister made a confession to me. She said, somewhat gleefully and through bursts of laughter, that she was the one who did it. With one sentence, she turned everything upside down. She destroyed that image of my brother as a mythical pooper and she made me re-evaluate girls. It took me a while to process the information. I thought she should tell my mother, but then she has probably forgotten about the whole thing by now.

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Restaurant Review (I know it might seem weird not to include the name of the restaurant, but my dining experience was very personal, and probably others would have a far different and much better meal).

The wooden soup spoons used at ____ are a triumph of form and function and may well be the perfect utensil. It should have been a pleasure to dine with such a lightweight and delicate wooden instrument, even though I strongly believe that soup, on its own, is not a meal, except in Chinatown where one often discovers half a duck—bones and all—swimming in enormous bowls. Eating such a soup with a pair of chopsticks and a ceramic spoon is no small victory, and well worth it, as it is very filling. My soup at ____ failed to quench my appetite on any level, although the challenge of eating the noodle parts with chopsticks was no less real.

Mr. J's and Mr S’s ____ occupies a large, open, and beautiful space on a trendy section of ____ Street East close to _____. The exposed brick walls of this 19^th century building project an inviting warmth over a floor filled with square tables, perfectly complimented by low cubical lighting fixtures. Sitting in ____ should be a delightful experience, but the backless stools inflicted on the diners are cruel and inhumane and probably contravene even the Geneva Convention. I would have preferred to stand or sit on the floor, without shoes, in the traditional Japanese style.

On the other hand, the staff was very attentive, but that may have had something to do with the fact that the words “Toronto Star” were dropped early. Or, it could have been the knowledge that we were all students in a reviewing class. In any event, only once before has a chef made a trip to my table to inquire about my meal. In St. Lucia, the chef, a sous-chefs, and a waiter crowded around our table, each in turn prodding my fish fillet with various sharp objects in an attempt to determine if the fish was, as I claimed, breaded, and, therefore, not what I had ordered. At ____, when Chef S. made the trek to my table, all I could manage was that it was okay. It was okay, not spectacular, not delicious, far from perfect, but, mercifully, gluten-free.

Prior to the meal, I grew hungrier and hungrier watching others devour appetizers while taking copious notes—careful not to confuse the Tskune ($5.00) with the Negima Yakitori ($5.75) or the delicious-looking Duck Gyoza ($6.50) with the Pork Gyoza ($4.75) or the Shrimp Dumplings ($6.00). I looked forward to the special meal awaiting me. The waiter had already reviewed the menu with me, suggesting the ____ Beef, grilled top sirloin ($13.75), or the Cha Han ($9.25), both quite delicious-sounding. Instead of these meaty dishes, I learned that the chef had taken a keen interest in feeding me a special item, which turned out to be a small bowl of unnamed soup at an unknown price. I decided that it is probably a mistake to serve a dish with no name, for it affords the diner (or the reviewer) an opportunity to assign one. I might apply the name Pond Soba to the dish served to me.

The tepid soup, bland beyond all imagination, achieved only partial salvation by means of a few niblets of corn and three or four snow peas, all crunchy and quite delightful. In contrast to the soup, these bits of vegetables were an explosion of flavour. Soba noodles, gluten-free, but decidedly boring, lurked at the bottom of a concoction of shiitake mushrooms (the plural form of the word mushroom being an extreme exaggeration) and a cloudy stock, tasting what I imagine warmed up pond water would taste like. I wouldn’t have been too surprised to discover a fish hiding in the tangle of noodles. I was still hungry at the end of the meal, and ran out to get something else to eat, something delicious and extremely succulent.

I keep a list of restaurants that can provide a gluten-free meal. I may add ____ to the list, not because the food was great, but simply because they were able to produce a meal that matched my dietary restrictions. But, if I ever go back, it will only be to sneak away one of those awesome spoons.

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A 50-year-old Letter (saved by my mother)

Another item in the box was a letter sent by my Great Uncle to my Grandparents. I can't resist transcribing part of it and adding a few comments. Please note the odd syntax and grammar.

Dear M___ & M___,

Just a few lines to find out how you people are it appears we never write unless something happens. anyhow we got burnt out not a thing left except the clothes on our back.

"[W]e never write unless something happens." Truer words were never spoken, and he proves his point by disclosing that they had just lost everything in a fire. More:

We,er staying with J___ & B___. Just how the fire started we don't know We were heating with a gas circulator heater installed by the gas co. Everybody are feeling quite well at present now.

So, despite the fact that they were lost everything in a fire, they are all fine and dandy. What strong stock are these folk.

We don't know what we,er going to do yet wheather we build or Buy we owned our own place & had some insurance but always lose a lot more than you put in a home Please let Dad know. Write soon.

I guess he was saving postage by not writing two letters. His dad will have to find out via his brother.

W___ had a 8 1/2 pound Boy doing Well as far as we know,

And then the letter ends, with that hanging comma. It's kinda cool, and reminds me of Ulysses, which really doesn't have an ending, as far as I know,

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Portrait of my Other Brother as a Middle Aged Man

At last, a sort of sequel to Portrait of my Other Brother as a Young Man.

The second time someone aimed a gun at my brother, he was lucky. His girlfriend had terrible aim and took out a window instead. That incident always reminds me of the rumours about my grade 8 science teacher who, either in a drunken stupor or a fit of impotent rage, shot his piano with an elephant gun. A few years earlier, my brother had been shot in the leg by an American hunter he was guiding through a northern Ontario forest in search of game.

So, a gunshot wound was added to a list of injuries that included a broken syringe in the palm of his hand, a spine in ruins from years and years of heavy lifting for a rail company, and dozens of bruises from hockey and bar fights. By age 40, his body was scarred and tattooed, weakened from drug use, heavy drinking, and smoking. And yet, at age 40, he became a father for the second time.

Of all the things in my brother's colourful past, it was fatherhood at age 40 that most irritated my father, a man who had four children by the time he was 33. He just could not understand the idea of 'late' fatherhood. "Imagine having a kid at 40! He'll be 60 when the kid is 20. What was he thinking about?" I wondered if it made my brother think about the child he had as a teenager, but never really saw.

For my brother, fatherhood couldn't have come at a better time. He left his criminal past behind, but retained a strong interest in booze and cigarettes. And, although he continues to drive without a license, he has tried to pull his life together. No more jail, writing bad cheques, smashing cars into gas pumps, dropping acid or shooting up. Instead, against the odds, he has custody of his child, even though he looks like a most ill-suited father.

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My Father & the Double Entendre

At the risk of making my family appear even weirder, I offer a few comments about my dad. In case you missed it, you can review some prior family posts, like Portrait of my Brother as a Young Man, Portrait of my Other Brother as a Young Man, 100 Words About my Mother, Fatherly Advice, or Lessons from my Sister.

Whenever my father put something in the oven, he said "whip it in, whip it out, wipe it off, and worry." As a young boy, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Then, at around age ten, I figured it out. It was a eureka moment, much like the time my mother said, while chewing on a steak bone, "the closer the bone the sweeter the meat." My sister blushed and my brother cleared his throat, but my dad gave a hearty laugh. No one expected me to get it, but I did.

Somehow, my father managed to be the captain of the double entendre. He could turn the most innocuous statement into something sexual. At times, it was like having a 14 year old boy as a father. It didn't matter what the subject was: wallpaper, middle east politics, brain surgery, long division. Of course, there were numerous topics that lent themselves well to that manipulation, like anything to do with oiling or greasing or anything long and hard or anything with an opening.

The most irritating thing is that I am sure he felt that I missed all of the references, and so he kept it up (see, there's one right there). Laughing didn't dissuade him either, because I got the feeling that he really didn't believe that I understood the joke.

He's turning 73 this year, and I heard him say that he wasn't ready to hang up his saddle just yet. I didn't even know he had a horse.

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