I warn you now that the next story is not for the easily offended, nor the meek of heart, but it is so outrageously funny, that it had to be told. If you are not one to appreciate good ol' raunchy hilarity, then DO NOT read on.
It was in the fledgling stages of my relationship with my ex-wife, shortly after she had moved in with me, that we had invited two of my friends over for a dinner party. Well, actually, only one of them was my friend. His name was Todd. The other was a girl with whom he had also just begun a relationship and whom he was desperately trying to impress. He had done well so far and the time had come to introduce her to some of his friends. With friends like me, he was feeling uneasy to say the least. He should have followed the instincts of his better judgement.
Dinner had been polite and uneventful and Todd was beginning to relax a little as we retired to the living room for wine and conversation. Rory was only two at the time and had been wonderfully well behaved all evening. He disappeared downstairs (where the bedrooms were in this particular condo) to play in his bedroom for a while. We thought nothing of it.
Several minutes of banal conversation ensued and we were all relaxed and comfortable. It seemed as though Todd would escape an evening with Dave in the presence of his new girlfriend unscathed. Not so.
Now I believe that I am a satisfactory lover and I enjoy recreational intimacy as much as the next person, so Jennifer's "endtable hardware" was considered as much fun to me as it was her and we were both sure that 'it' was safely stowed in its bedside home. Not so.
When everything seemed safe, wouldn't you know it, but Rory comes bobbing up the stairs into the middle of our conversation with a blue sparkling 'cylinder', in full vibration, hands it to Jennifer and says, "Look Mommy. I brought you your blue sparkle toy!" - bzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Todd did a spit-take of wine across the living room, Jennifer released a shocked gasp of humiliation and disbelief, Todd's guest's jaw dropped open...and I burst into side-splitting laughter. In only a moment, the humour of the situation was apparent to all, and the room echoed with the laughter of four adults, and the confused giggle of a two-year-old.
Although it wasn't even remotely my fault, for some reason Jennifer never really forgave me. Later when I told that story during my speech at Todd's wedding, she never forgave me again. I think I'm beginning to realize why I'm divorced. Ah well; live and learn.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Taffan the Elf
There once was a village of great giant oak trees with trunks as wide as horses, or bigger, covered in tremendous masses and bunches of green foliage so that they looked like gigantic, fat, squatting lumps. Each tree was marked at the base with a small round door, not more than 5-feet in height that opened into the great hollow interiors of the squatting oaks and in each were all the tidy domestic amenities of the daily living of an elf: a comfortable, if not tiny, sitting room with a small stone fireplace adjacent to a cozy little kitchen; small steps curling up the inside of one tiny wall that lead to two hollows above, each with its own tiny little bed, and a third hollow that was an unevenly measured little washroom high atop the end of the stairwell.
This odd bunch of trees was hidden deep in the dark forests of an undiscovered land. To the Elves it seemed quite a bright and spritely place, for there were no great cities of technology against which to compare. There were only villages amongst the trees of the forests, and farms in the clearings, and an occasional castle or stable built by some great wizard, or long-lost dragon, or perhaps by one of the ancient gnomes. And in the less inhabited parts of the forests were fairies and trolls and strange creatures of the dark. Some even said that there were still dragons lurking in the unknown parts of the forest but most Elves were not afraid of such silly superstitions.
This particular village was in one of the most remote corners of a great forest and would seem more distant and boding to most than the darkest jungles of earth. Nestled conclusively in the 'centre' of this village was the Elf King's castle where lived King Rorin with all of his Elven advisors and courtiers and servants and, of course, the old and powerful Elven wizard, Zarn. It was a truly great castle (by Elven standards) made of interlocking rock wound amongst several of the oaks and stuck together by some kind of mortar provided by one of the King's alchemists. To the little Elves, it seemed to tower in the sky and was just as frightening as it was regal. But its friendly, light colour was just the right mood for King Rorin and so it seemed, also, to fit right into the village.
But of more interest than the castle was the litttlest of the oaks that was surely the farthest from the castle, tucked away in the most discreet corner of the village. Here lived little Taffan. His home wasn't much different than most of the other elf-trees but it was his so he loved it just the same.
Taffan was modestly sized, even for an Elf, with a frame that was well-proportioned, if not somewhat meek. He looked young (much younger than his true years) and considerate in the face with a smile that could only be genuine. Other Elves seemed honestly charmed by him most of the time, despite his habit of being a little talkative when he was socially nervous. If you met him, you would probably quite like him unless you were intimidated by his intellect (as it is well known that Elves are far more intelligent than humans).
Taffan had read many times in many books of great heroes and often let his happy little mind venture off on great imaginary quests with himself squarely centred as the noble hero, but he knew, at heart, he was somewhat a coward and would likely be more scared than heroic in any real trouble. That is to say, the kind of trouble that makes men true heroes. And so, he busied himself mostly with academic pursuits that were more fitting to his true heart: a homey, friendly Elf tending to his books and reading and household if not his friends and family. In the end, he knew he was really quite happy being just who he was, even though he was not of the mettle of a true and dashing hero.
It is for that very reason that he was truly shocked at the course of events that would present itself before him and on one warm Elven evening . . . . . . .
This odd bunch of trees was hidden deep in the dark forests of an undiscovered land. To the Elves it seemed quite a bright and spritely place, for there were no great cities of technology against which to compare. There were only villages amongst the trees of the forests, and farms in the clearings, and an occasional castle or stable built by some great wizard, or long-lost dragon, or perhaps by one of the ancient gnomes. And in the less inhabited parts of the forests were fairies and trolls and strange creatures of the dark. Some even said that there were still dragons lurking in the unknown parts of the forest but most Elves were not afraid of such silly superstitions.
This particular village was in one of the most remote corners of a great forest and would seem more distant and boding to most than the darkest jungles of earth. Nestled conclusively in the 'centre' of this village was the Elf King's castle where lived King Rorin with all of his Elven advisors and courtiers and servants and, of course, the old and powerful Elven wizard, Zarn. It was a truly great castle (by Elven standards) made of interlocking rock wound amongst several of the oaks and stuck together by some kind of mortar provided by one of the King's alchemists. To the little Elves, it seemed to tower in the sky and was just as frightening as it was regal. But its friendly, light colour was just the right mood for King Rorin and so it seemed, also, to fit right into the village.
But of more interest than the castle was the litttlest of the oaks that was surely the farthest from the castle, tucked away in the most discreet corner of the village. Here lived little Taffan. His home wasn't much different than most of the other elf-trees but it was his so he loved it just the same.
Taffan was modestly sized, even for an Elf, with a frame that was well-proportioned, if not somewhat meek. He looked young (much younger than his true years) and considerate in the face with a smile that could only be genuine. Other Elves seemed honestly charmed by him most of the time, despite his habit of being a little talkative when he was socially nervous. If you met him, you would probably quite like him unless you were intimidated by his intellect (as it is well known that Elves are far more intelligent than humans).
Taffan had read many times in many books of great heroes and often let his happy little mind venture off on great imaginary quests with himself squarely centred as the noble hero, but he knew, at heart, he was somewhat a coward and would likely be more scared than heroic in any real trouble. That is to say, the kind of trouble that makes men true heroes. And so, he busied himself mostly with academic pursuits that were more fitting to his true heart: a homey, friendly Elf tending to his books and reading and household if not his friends and family. In the end, he knew he was really quite happy being just who he was, even though he was not of the mettle of a true and dashing hero.
It is for that very reason that he was truly shocked at the course of events that would present itself before him and on one warm Elven evening . . . . . . .
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Three Wise Men
There are three things that my older brother Peter told me that I will never forget. At a time when I was not behaving like someone you would look up to, he said to me in anger that I represented all of the things about humanity that he hated. These were harsh words, to be sure, but intended to get me to examine myself and decide whom I really wanted to be. It was, at the very least, effective in getting me to take a hard, honest look at my own hypocrisy, if not crippling to my self-esteem. Later that same year, he would add a comment. As he watched me systemically destroy my own life, he came to me in tears. It is highly relevant that he was in tears because he is normally substantially more stoic than your average Vulcan. Apparently I was not so hated as professed. He looked at me and said, "Please stop this behaviour. I love you and I can't stand to see you destroy your life." I will NEVER forget these words. Lastly, on one occasion when I was watching him exercise his natural mechanical brilliance in the rebuilding of a mustang, and in the context of him being frustrated with a lack of career objectives, I asked him why he didn't become a mechanic. He was clearly skilled and the money was good. He responded with a beautiful simplicity. "Dave, the greatest way to ruin a hobby is to make it a career."
There are two things that my younger brother Matthew told me that I will never forget. I had lived in Ottawa for all of my life and at 28, post-marriage, I left for Daytona Beach for a year. I came back to Ottawa for only a month before I decidedly moved to BC. It was during the first absence that my little brother had become aware of his fondness for me and my second departure, after only a month in Ottawa, was emotional for him. He was visibly upset as I prepared to leave for a second time. I comforted him by telling him, "Don't worry little brother. I'll come back. I promise." His response will be a memory buried deep in my heart for the rest of my days. Through teary eyes and an unconditional loyalty, he anguished, "But you NEVER come back...and you NEVER keep your promises." I truly hope I have become a better man. I'm sorry I never came back.
There is one thing that my father told me that I will never forget. Actually there are thousands, but here I list the one that, for some reason, I remember most, and that has been the most useful to me. I have never been great at decision-making and often I am unable to see the difference between my self-interests and my self-indulgences. My Dad was trying to help with what seemed like a difficult decision to me. It would require sacrifice, surely, but its advantages far outweighed those sacrifices. Dad gave me another brilliantly simple and obvious piece of advice. "You can wake up tomorrow and change your life forever." Thank you, Dad. I wonder what I'll do tomorrow morning...
See you in hell,
Shakes.
There are two things that my younger brother Matthew told me that I will never forget. I had lived in Ottawa for all of my life and at 28, post-marriage, I left for Daytona Beach for a year. I came back to Ottawa for only a month before I decidedly moved to BC. It was during the first absence that my little brother had become aware of his fondness for me and my second departure, after only a month in Ottawa, was emotional for him. He was visibly upset as I prepared to leave for a second time. I comforted him by telling him, "Don't worry little brother. I'll come back. I promise." His response will be a memory buried deep in my heart for the rest of my days. Through teary eyes and an unconditional loyalty, he anguished, "But you NEVER come back...and you NEVER keep your promises." I truly hope I have become a better man. I'm sorry I never came back.
There is one thing that my father told me that I will never forget. Actually there are thousands, but here I list the one that, for some reason, I remember most, and that has been the most useful to me. I have never been great at decision-making and often I am unable to see the difference between my self-interests and my self-indulgences. My Dad was trying to help with what seemed like a difficult decision to me. It would require sacrifice, surely, but its advantages far outweighed those sacrifices. Dad gave me another brilliantly simple and obvious piece of advice. "You can wake up tomorrow and change your life forever." Thank you, Dad. I wonder what I'll do tomorrow morning...
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Is there anybody out there?
So it's come to my attention that the blog has developed a readership. I am proud and flattered. My request is simple. PLEASE post comments. Moreover, if an episode or unexplained detail catches your interest and you want to know more about it, or if you just want me to write a story about YOU, feel free to ask me to publish on whatever topic you would like. Some outside input to generate ideas would be much appreciated......and please stay tuned. From exotic dance clubs to marijuana induced skydiving, there are SO many more stories to tell and all of you are important to me.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Krumholtz and Tuckamore
Recently I was on a great little camping trip with my father visiting from Ottawa. We were on the beach enjoying an evening sunset with a particularly blustery wind pressing in from the ocean expanse of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. He directed my attention to the pattern of the foliage along the open coastline. All the branches were pointing away from the ocean and the foliage in general was leaning away from the ocean due to an erosion-like effect from the relentless ocean winds. He informed me that this pattern actually had a name but that it was different on each coastline. In eastern Canada, it was referred to as tuckamore, whereas on the west coast, it was called krumholtz. This knowledge reminded me of a little piece of writing I had composed several years back when I was enjoying a late night outside listening to the ocean winds sweep through the treetops in my backyard.
"All the clouds had been blown from the sky by the torrent of wind sweeping through the treetops far above. One could hear the distant hissing of vast winds whistling through an endless sea of trees and foliage which grew stronger, and louder, and closer; a whisper first, and then a full crescendo of white noise sweeping through the trees with fierce heart and strength. Suddenly the great wind would come upon and whip through trees and branches in the dark abyss above with almost deafening force. The trunks of the great trees released plaintiff creaks and groans and the weaker branches high in the treetops gave with an occasional snap and crackle as they were torn asunder by the force of the great gust. Then, only a moment's calm and it would begin all over, again and again through the night. One of the great ocean's coasts was not far off; at least not far by the travel of wind. One could envision the gusts sweeping across the ocean from some distant land, dragging up great waves as it danced and clashed with other mighty forces in a fierce battle of thunder and wind over a relentless sea. Having gained size and speed from its turbulent voyage across open waters, it would rush upon the awaiting forest, smashing in through the wall of bristled treetops to calm and cool its rage."
"The great clouds of turbulent mists swept across the dusky sky in haste, as though escaping the imminent cacophony of rain."
"All the clouds had been blown from the sky by the torrent of wind sweeping through the treetops far above. One could hear the distant hissing of vast winds whistling through an endless sea of trees and foliage which grew stronger, and louder, and closer; a whisper first, and then a full crescendo of white noise sweeping through the trees with fierce heart and strength. Suddenly the great wind would come upon and whip through trees and branches in the dark abyss above with almost deafening force. The trunks of the great trees released plaintiff creaks and groans and the weaker branches high in the treetops gave with an occasional snap and crackle as they were torn asunder by the force of the great gust. Then, only a moment's calm and it would begin all over, again and again through the night. One of the great ocean's coasts was not far off; at least not far by the travel of wind. One could envision the gusts sweeping across the ocean from some distant land, dragging up great waves as it danced and clashed with other mighty forces in a fierce battle of thunder and wind over a relentless sea. Having gained size and speed from its turbulent voyage across open waters, it would rush upon the awaiting forest, smashing in through the wall of bristled treetops to calm and cool its rage."
"The great clouds of turbulent mists swept across the dusky sky in haste, as though escaping the imminent cacophony of rain."
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Ol' Lot 67
Some adventures are in the untamed rural wilds and the next little tale is just one such example.
It was some years back, in 1992 if my now fading memory serves, when one of my angsty friendships with a young fellow named Hawkins was at its peak. He and I had been in high school together but as I was in a senior year; we had never really met. Working together in our post high school employment as gas-jockeys at an Esso service station with a plethora of fellow hopeless career cases would be where our friendship was fastened.
One long weekend, he and I decided to take to the Ontario outback on a camping excursion. Hawk was quite insistent that we venture to a new campsite of which he had heard and which came with high recommendations from his friends. We packed up my beat up ol’ Sunbird with all our camping gear and headed out onto the highway for our three-hour journey to this legendary campground.
Our arrival came fairly late in the evening and well after dark. Much to our chagrin, we quickly learned that it was a "hike-to" interior campsite and that it was about a 45-minute to 1 hour hike away. Of course, in the dark and with my somewhat heavy-duty camping gear and, furthermore, with no backpack to speak of, there was clearly no hope of us making such a trek. However, it was very late and we were all exhausted, so I suggested that we just hike into the forest right next to the parking lot and pitch our tent for the night, then go and find a more suitable campsite in the morning.
Hawk and I went a few minutes into the bush with our flashlights and scoped out what seemed to be a fairly suitable location at the base of a rocky ridge. With more than a little difficulty, we pitched the tent in the dark and retrieved our sleeping bags from the car. As I crept into the tent, I noticed that the floor was a little damp and I said that there must have been a lot of moisture and dew on the foliage. Hawk said, "Who cares? My sleeping bag is water-proof."
"Yeeeaaah, I don't think so. My sleeping bag isn't. Fuck this, Hawk, I'm sleeping in the car," I said.
"Suit yourself, but I'm staying here where I'm not cramped."
"I don't know, Hawk. Maybe you should come back to the car."
"Hell no! Piss off! Goodnight, sissy boy. A little water never hurt anyone."
"Fine, then! Sweet dreams."
I returned to the car where I enjoyed a reasonably comfortable night stretched out in the back seat as best I could. Just as I was falling asleep, I was graced with a semi-conscious sense of ironic justice as I heard the faint beginnings of rain tapping on the roof of the car.
Come the morning, it was clear that it had rained quite heavily all night long and was still coming down fairly. I tumbled out of the car, and wasn't quite sure which direction to go and seek Hawk in my sleepy, morning disorientation. After a few moments, I regained my bearings and headed into the bush to wake my tent-insistent friend.
The scene before me was pure slapstick. As it turned out, the moisture I had felt on the floor of the tent had actually been a small stream. With an overnight torrent of rain, and residing at the base of a rocky incline, it had transformed into a full-fledged river which perfectly entered the rear of the tent and then poured out the front. I dashed to the tent opening to see what had become of my friend. He was still snuggled up in his 'water-proof' sleeping bag. With it wrapped tightly around his head only his face was visible. He was literally sleeping in a river. The water was spouting upwards over each of his shoulders in the same pattern taken by water travelling over protruding rocks in a fast-moving river. His eyes were pursed closed and he was wearing a stubborn, self-satisfied and very forced grin that suggested thoughts of, "I'm not frustrated or angry. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm happy and I slept well. I was right to stay in the tent." He remained defensively silent through the tedious process of dismantling and packing the drenched tent. Eventually he broke the silence and begrudgingly admitted that he hadn’t slept particularly well.
Later that day, we drove up the highway in search of a more suitable campground that might be nearby so we could get set up while there was still sunlight. The only thing we found was a little KOA-style campground that was obviously privately owned as it was fronted by a large house. It was really not much more than an open field with a gravel road down the middle and numbers evenly spaced along each side. Even worse was the fact that it was quite crowded and would not offer us the privacy we had hoped for with a beer cooler full of Rye whiskey. We noticed a hand-written sign over the front door that read "Ofice". That is how it was spelled. I chuckled to myself and knocked on the door. The gentleman that answered the door, was an older fellow with a very red, ruddy complexion, and for some reason, a very maritime-sounding, rural accent. He was wearing hip-wader overalls, but for the life of me, the only body of water that I could surmise was within a twenty kilometer radius was the stream Hawk had slept in the night before.
Unphased, I said, "Hi. We'd like a site for the night, but we were wondering if you had anything with a little more privacy." His response was a little unexpected.
"Aaaah. Ya's wants ol' lot 67, does ya? Well, shure'nuff. Jes' head on up the highway here and turn on the gravel road at the top o' ther hill. Park there and ya's kin camp up in the space on the top this here hill. Nice'n private. Twenny bucks."
I paid the old character and we ventured on up the hill. Sure enough, there was a beautiful clearing at the top of the hill at the edge of a cliff base and well in from the noise of the highway. There was a small firepit, a geriatric picnic table in the twilight of its useful days and a wonderful warm breeze caressing over the top of the cliff. We had an only mildly obscured view overlooking the dots of campfire light emanating from the field of campsites below. I couldn't believe our luck that nobody else had inquired after this spot. It was the type of campsite that would be considered paradise by any mildly urbanized outdoors-lover for which you'd pay a hundred bucks.
We set up our tent, cracked one of our bottles and decided it was time for supper. It was only then that we realized that we had failed to stop at a gas station to purchase any firewood.
"No problem," said Hawk and he laid all of his weight upon one of the top 2x4 strands of the ailing picnic table. With the crunch and crack of the aged wood, he managed to break off a fair sized piece of timber with which we started a great little fire. Only a few minutes later, I was again surprised to see the ruddy, old character appear in the clearing proudly straddling a riding mower sized little tractor that sounded like a '57 Chevy and pulling a little trailer full of firewood.
"Well I's jes' down ther bottom this hill here and done hear my poor picnic table takin' a beatin' so I done figger I best bring on up some firewood 'afore ya's all does away w' me ol' table. Twenny bucks." For a second, time I paid the man and away he went. We made short work of the firewood and it was well into the wee hours of the morning when we decided that we were in dire need of more wood.
We burned every last splinter of that poor picnic table before dawn. We readily placated our eccentric host with our last “twenny bucks.”
See you in hell,
Shakes.
It was some years back, in 1992 if my now fading memory serves, when one of my angsty friendships with a young fellow named Hawkins was at its peak. He and I had been in high school together but as I was in a senior year; we had never really met. Working together in our post high school employment as gas-jockeys at an Esso service station with a plethora of fellow hopeless career cases would be where our friendship was fastened.
One long weekend, he and I decided to take to the Ontario outback on a camping excursion. Hawk was quite insistent that we venture to a new campsite of which he had heard and which came with high recommendations from his friends. We packed up my beat up ol’ Sunbird with all our camping gear and headed out onto the highway for our three-hour journey to this legendary campground.
Our arrival came fairly late in the evening and well after dark. Much to our chagrin, we quickly learned that it was a "hike-to" interior campsite and that it was about a 45-minute to 1 hour hike away. Of course, in the dark and with my somewhat heavy-duty camping gear and, furthermore, with no backpack to speak of, there was clearly no hope of us making such a trek. However, it was very late and we were all exhausted, so I suggested that we just hike into the forest right next to the parking lot and pitch our tent for the night, then go and find a more suitable campsite in the morning.
Hawk and I went a few minutes into the bush with our flashlights and scoped out what seemed to be a fairly suitable location at the base of a rocky ridge. With more than a little difficulty, we pitched the tent in the dark and retrieved our sleeping bags from the car. As I crept into the tent, I noticed that the floor was a little damp and I said that there must have been a lot of moisture and dew on the foliage. Hawk said, "Who cares? My sleeping bag is water-proof."
"Yeeeaaah, I don't think so. My sleeping bag isn't. Fuck this, Hawk, I'm sleeping in the car," I said.
"Suit yourself, but I'm staying here where I'm not cramped."
"I don't know, Hawk. Maybe you should come back to the car."
"Hell no! Piss off! Goodnight, sissy boy. A little water never hurt anyone."
"Fine, then! Sweet dreams."
I returned to the car where I enjoyed a reasonably comfortable night stretched out in the back seat as best I could. Just as I was falling asleep, I was graced with a semi-conscious sense of ironic justice as I heard the faint beginnings of rain tapping on the roof of the car.
Come the morning, it was clear that it had rained quite heavily all night long and was still coming down fairly. I tumbled out of the car, and wasn't quite sure which direction to go and seek Hawk in my sleepy, morning disorientation. After a few moments, I regained my bearings and headed into the bush to wake my tent-insistent friend.
The scene before me was pure slapstick. As it turned out, the moisture I had felt on the floor of the tent had actually been a small stream. With an overnight torrent of rain, and residing at the base of a rocky incline, it had transformed into a full-fledged river which perfectly entered the rear of the tent and then poured out the front. I dashed to the tent opening to see what had become of my friend. He was still snuggled up in his 'water-proof' sleeping bag. With it wrapped tightly around his head only his face was visible. He was literally sleeping in a river. The water was spouting upwards over each of his shoulders in the same pattern taken by water travelling over protruding rocks in a fast-moving river. His eyes were pursed closed and he was wearing a stubborn, self-satisfied and very forced grin that suggested thoughts of, "I'm not frustrated or angry. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm happy and I slept well. I was right to stay in the tent." He remained defensively silent through the tedious process of dismantling and packing the drenched tent. Eventually he broke the silence and begrudgingly admitted that he hadn’t slept particularly well.
Later that day, we drove up the highway in search of a more suitable campground that might be nearby so we could get set up while there was still sunlight. The only thing we found was a little KOA-style campground that was obviously privately owned as it was fronted by a large house. It was really not much more than an open field with a gravel road down the middle and numbers evenly spaced along each side. Even worse was the fact that it was quite crowded and would not offer us the privacy we had hoped for with a beer cooler full of Rye whiskey. We noticed a hand-written sign over the front door that read "Ofice". That is how it was spelled. I chuckled to myself and knocked on the door. The gentleman that answered the door, was an older fellow with a very red, ruddy complexion, and for some reason, a very maritime-sounding, rural accent. He was wearing hip-wader overalls, but for the life of me, the only body of water that I could surmise was within a twenty kilometer radius was the stream Hawk had slept in the night before.
Unphased, I said, "Hi. We'd like a site for the night, but we were wondering if you had anything with a little more privacy." His response was a little unexpected.
"Aaaah. Ya's wants ol' lot 67, does ya? Well, shure'nuff. Jes' head on up the highway here and turn on the gravel road at the top o' ther hill. Park there and ya's kin camp up in the space on the top this here hill. Nice'n private. Twenny bucks."
I paid the old character and we ventured on up the hill. Sure enough, there was a beautiful clearing at the top of the hill at the edge of a cliff base and well in from the noise of the highway. There was a small firepit, a geriatric picnic table in the twilight of its useful days and a wonderful warm breeze caressing over the top of the cliff. We had an only mildly obscured view overlooking the dots of campfire light emanating from the field of campsites below. I couldn't believe our luck that nobody else had inquired after this spot. It was the type of campsite that would be considered paradise by any mildly urbanized outdoors-lover for which you'd pay a hundred bucks.
We set up our tent, cracked one of our bottles and decided it was time for supper. It was only then that we realized that we had failed to stop at a gas station to purchase any firewood.
"No problem," said Hawk and he laid all of his weight upon one of the top 2x4 strands of the ailing picnic table. With the crunch and crack of the aged wood, he managed to break off a fair sized piece of timber with which we started a great little fire. Only a few minutes later, I was again surprised to see the ruddy, old character appear in the clearing proudly straddling a riding mower sized little tractor that sounded like a '57 Chevy and pulling a little trailer full of firewood.
"Well I's jes' down ther bottom this hill here and done hear my poor picnic table takin' a beatin' so I done figger I best bring on up some firewood 'afore ya's all does away w' me ol' table. Twenny bucks." For a second, time I paid the man and away he went. We made short work of the firewood and it was well into the wee hours of the morning when we decided that we were in dire need of more wood.
We burned every last splinter of that poor picnic table before dawn. We readily placated our eccentric host with our last “twenny bucks.”
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Some Small Pinatas
At Rory's fifth birthday party, we took him and his guests to a party at the bowling alley. The afternoon started with bowling and then we would retire to the party-room for other games, hot dogs and cake. It was sure to be a festive occasion and, as such, of course my good friend James would make his requisite appearance. One of the activities planned was a pinata that I had spent much time manually filling the night before. Unfortunately, the ceiling in this room was far too high to fasten the pinata within "whacking" access of the children. James provided the solution. He tied the pinata to the end of a broom handle and stood up on a chair suspending the pinata outwards in front of him. We gave the kids a second broom handle to take turns at the pinata. Now pause for a moment and picture this. The pinata itself must have been made from reinforced steel because these kids were beating the hell out of this thing without even denting it. As fate would have it, when Rory's turn came and we blindfolded him, he had become aware that he would have to swing the broom handle with all his might. Of course, on his second swing he connected perfectly with James' testicles and enough force to have sent a baseball out of the park. Down came James, the broom handle and the pinata as he clutched his loins in comic agony. While choking back tears of laughter (having predicted such an eventuality) I tried to help James to his feet and ask him if he was okay. He responded with something like, "NNNgghhmnnnmmngghhyh".Trooper that he is, however, James would not disappoint the kids and he mounted on high again to complete the activity...which we did. In the end, James had to tear the pinata open with a hammer. What are those things made of, man? ...... Pinatas, I mean.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
How dare you bring me here to witness your death
How dare you bring me here to witness your death when all I have in my heart is the ability to celebrate your life.
You passed on so much wisdom but 100 years from now, nobody will give a shit. I can only hope that 100 years from now, nobody will give a shit as much about me.
B: "You’re not such a dragon."
D: "I never claimed to be."
B: "Then why is everybody scared of you?"
D: "Because I’m somebody. In fact, I’m somebody else, but I’m trapped here. I’m sorry you had to love me."
B: "I’m not"
(Do you remember this moment? It was on the driveway at 21 Meadowbank Drive late one evening, when you came to me (of all people) for relationship advice. You asked me why you kept getting hurt. Do you know who you are?)
You failed, Dad. I will never be as good a man as you were.
Before you condemn me, try being me. If you don't like me, you can walk away, but I am trapped here. Would you want to be me? Now, if you can, go ahead and hate me.
When I see you in hell, you won't shed a tear for me, but I'll shed one for you. That's the difference.
You passed on so much wisdom but 100 years from now, nobody will give a shit. I can only hope that 100 years from now, nobody will give a shit as much about me.
B: "You’re not such a dragon."
D: "I never claimed to be."
B: "Then why is everybody scared of you?"
D: "Because I’m somebody. In fact, I’m somebody else, but I’m trapped here. I’m sorry you had to love me."
B: "I’m not"
(Do you remember this moment? It was on the driveway at 21 Meadowbank Drive late one evening, when you came to me (of all people) for relationship advice. You asked me why you kept getting hurt. Do you know who you are?)
You failed, Dad. I will never be as good a man as you were.
Before you condemn me, try being me. If you don't like me, you can walk away, but I am trapped here. Would you want to be me? Now, if you can, go ahead and hate me.
When I see you in hell, you won't shed a tear for me, but I'll shed one for you. That's the difference.
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