Do I look cranky to you?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
A FUNERAL TALE FOR EASTER
Three times in my military career I delivered dead soldiers home and supervised the intricacies of their military funerals. The troopers had died for a variety of reasons, including breathtaking stupidity but in death they were all equal and given in full measure the slow march cadence, Last Post, creaking antique gun carriage, volleys fired and fragments of Wilfrid Owen verse.
In life they were not given adequate equipment, a living wage or the support of a political leader (George Hees excepted) who gave a Royal Canadian Crap about them, dead or alive. This made the ancient warrior celebrations I stage-managed for them something of a moral imperative. They would receive their moments of recognition - come too late and only from their comrades but salutes, dammit, at least salutes.
A military funeral is a complicated exercise, particularly when staged in a small town far from the panoply of pomp readily available in Ottawa or Halifax. It does not help that rural funeral directors do not know how to dress soldiers properly and so medals show up on the wrong side, buttons are green for lack of polishing, shirts dirty, jackets unpressed and neckties look like hangman's knots. (The ghost of Corporal Canuck looks down at his earthly remains and declares, "Oh Shit! - the Sgt Major's gonna drill me a new one for this cruddy turnout!")
I relocated medals, shone buttons and badges, laundered shirts and re-tied ties. In the case of Captain "Eggs", a huge guy who didn't fit too well in his box, the funeral guys and I had to reposition him so that the casket lid would not bonk on his forehead during the formal closing. I thought for a moment of dribbling some egg yolk on his tie in celebration of the eating habits that gave him his nickname...
Lt. "X" died of some loathsome disease he acquired as a U.N. Observer in Viet Nam. Two months earlier I had supervised the funeral of Sgt "Y" who got run over by an IDF Centurion tank after ducking hostile fire from an Egyptian fighting patrol. The patrol was trouble-making by taking pot shots at U.N. vehicles. The Centurion crew was drunk. One might say that his death lacked reason and so it did.
The funeral of Lt "X" was a problem. Nobody liked him. He had no known next-of-kin and no friends, this ill-tempered staff officer serving in a bureaucratic warren. We knew only that his ribbons and service record spoke of serious sharp-end service in WWII and that he was born in Kitchener, Ontario.
I got to be master of ceremonies. My C.O. and I dragooned mourners, appointed pall bearers, organized a Firing Party, found a bugler, requisitioned the antique gun carriage, alerted the Chaplain and set in motion the ritual honour this country owes to all old soldiers including the ones we don't like.
At first, things went well. The Reverend Captain "K" found fine words to say about a cranky SOB he had never met. The Priest spoke in vague eloquence about noble service and life eternal justly earned. The flag-draped coffin went from the Sanctuary to the waiting gun carriage. Then, the real fun began.
I became a Pall Bearer and "slow marched" beside the carriage. On the last bend into the cemetery the carriage turned short and the big hardwood/iron wheel flattened my right foot already half-wrecked by a bad parachute landing. I entered sacred ground determined not to howl aloud.
Then, Mr. Murphy and his goddam Law took over. The graveside service began well enough despite the cold rain. The Reverend Captain "K" found a rhetorical line that conferred meaning to the life of the sorry soul we were burying. Then came the finale. The Firing Party discharged its first volley over the grave and from behind a high hedge about 30 feet away came an uproar from 20 or so beagles housed there. Two more volleys and the canine choir was in full lusty voice.
A mournful bugle sounding Last Post in the cold rain and a chorus of squatty tenor quadrupeds singing a dirge may not be what Lt "X" expected or wanted but were he listening I would tell him that his send-off was nothing if not memorable. Sometimes we get things right in spite of ourselves.
Pro Patria.
In life they were not given adequate equipment, a living wage or the support of a political leader (George Hees excepted) who gave a Royal Canadian Crap about them, dead or alive. This made the ancient warrior celebrations I stage-managed for them something of a moral imperative. They would receive their moments of recognition - come too late and only from their comrades but salutes, dammit, at least salutes.
A military funeral is a complicated exercise, particularly when staged in a small town far from the panoply of pomp readily available in Ottawa or Halifax. It does not help that rural funeral directors do not know how to dress soldiers properly and so medals show up on the wrong side, buttons are green for lack of polishing, shirts dirty, jackets unpressed and neckties look like hangman's knots. (The ghost of Corporal Canuck looks down at his earthly remains and declares, "Oh Shit! - the Sgt Major's gonna drill me a new one for this cruddy turnout!")
I relocated medals, shone buttons and badges, laundered shirts and re-tied ties. In the case of Captain "Eggs", a huge guy who didn't fit too well in his box, the funeral guys and I had to reposition him so that the casket lid would not bonk on his forehead during the formal closing. I thought for a moment of dribbling some egg yolk on his tie in celebration of the eating habits that gave him his nickname...
Lt. "X" died of some loathsome disease he acquired as a U.N. Observer in Viet Nam. Two months earlier I had supervised the funeral of Sgt "Y" who got run over by an IDF Centurion tank after ducking hostile fire from an Egyptian fighting patrol. The patrol was trouble-making by taking pot shots at U.N. vehicles. The Centurion crew was drunk. One might say that his death lacked reason and so it did.
The funeral of Lt "X" was a problem. Nobody liked him. He had no known next-of-kin and no friends, this ill-tempered staff officer serving in a bureaucratic warren. We knew only that his ribbons and service record spoke of serious sharp-end service in WWII and that he was born in Kitchener, Ontario.
I got to be master of ceremonies. My C.O. and I dragooned mourners, appointed pall bearers, organized a Firing Party, found a bugler, requisitioned the antique gun carriage, alerted the Chaplain and set in motion the ritual honour this country owes to all old soldiers including the ones we don't like.
At first, things went well. The Reverend Captain "K" found fine words to say about a cranky SOB he had never met. The Priest spoke in vague eloquence about noble service and life eternal justly earned. The flag-draped coffin went from the Sanctuary to the waiting gun carriage. Then, the real fun began.
I became a Pall Bearer and "slow marched" beside the carriage. On the last bend into the cemetery the carriage turned short and the big hardwood/iron wheel flattened my right foot already half-wrecked by a bad parachute landing. I entered sacred ground determined not to howl aloud.
Then, Mr. Murphy and his goddam Law took over. The graveside service began well enough despite the cold rain. The Reverend Captain "K" found a rhetorical line that conferred meaning to the life of the sorry soul we were burying. Then came the finale. The Firing Party discharged its first volley over the grave and from behind a high hedge about 30 feet away came an uproar from 20 or so beagles housed there. Two more volleys and the canine choir was in full lusty voice.
A mournful bugle sounding Last Post in the cold rain and a chorus of squatty tenor quadrupeds singing a dirge may not be what Lt "X" expected or wanted but were he listening I would tell him that his send-off was nothing if not memorable. Sometimes we get things right in spite of ourselves.
Pro Patria.
Friday, April 22, 2011
HOLY WEEK? HOLY COW!
I see that Governor Rick Perry of Texas (where else?) has issued an official proclamation enjoining Texans to spend the next three days praying for rain. Careful what you pray for, Governor - you have nothing set aside for ark construction.
In Kyrgyzstan, a place rather like Texas, legislators have sacrificed seven sheep in hope of driving evil spirits from their parliament. If this gambit works, the place will be totally empty.
Pastor Terry Jones, a cretin of 17th century sensibilities recently held a celebratory Koran burning. In response, some 17th century cretins in the Middle East went on a killing rampage because the Pastor "insulted Islam".
Several politicians currently trolling for votes cheerfully wish folks, "Happy Easter Week". Say what? I seem to recall from my early unhappy encounters with things churchy that this week is called Holy Week and is not regarded as a happy time - you know - crucifixions and things. I think that next week is called Easter Week and is usually considered a happy time. I am afraid that I cannot help you with where the rabbits and eggs fit in all of this. Ask your Preacher.
Another cretin, this one a Conservative candidate from the Canadian version of Texas let it be known that Planned Parenthood was not his favorite social organization because, among other things it assists poor women in dealing with unwanted pregnancies. When pressed, he expressed the view that silly women must be prevented from exercising the wrong-headed and un-Christian notion that what goes on in their uteri is any of their business. Harper and others told him to put a sock in it, not because they necessarily disagreed but because he exposed the thinking of the closeted and silenced conservative majority. And that thinking is a sure election loser.
Oh, well. I will play it safe and wish everyone a pleasant long weekend.
In Kyrgyzstan, a place rather like Texas, legislators have sacrificed seven sheep in hope of driving evil spirits from their parliament. If this gambit works, the place will be totally empty.
Pastor Terry Jones, a cretin of 17th century sensibilities recently held a celebratory Koran burning. In response, some 17th century cretins in the Middle East went on a killing rampage because the Pastor "insulted Islam".
Several politicians currently trolling for votes cheerfully wish folks, "Happy Easter Week". Say what? I seem to recall from my early unhappy encounters with things churchy that this week is called Holy Week and is not regarded as a happy time - you know - crucifixions and things. I think that next week is called Easter Week and is usually considered a happy time. I am afraid that I cannot help you with where the rabbits and eggs fit in all of this. Ask your Preacher.
Another cretin, this one a Conservative candidate from the Canadian version of Texas let it be known that Planned Parenthood was not his favorite social organization because, among other things it assists poor women in dealing with unwanted pregnancies. When pressed, he expressed the view that silly women must be prevented from exercising the wrong-headed and un-Christian notion that what goes on in their uteri is any of their business. Harper and others told him to put a sock in it, not because they necessarily disagreed but because he exposed the thinking of the closeted and silenced conservative majority. And that thinking is a sure election loser.
Oh, well. I will play it safe and wish everyone a pleasant long weekend.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
EXPOSED FLESH FREEZES...
Been here, done this, do not recommend it.
There are some things best done in the comfort of a heated, well-appointed bathroom. Pity then the poor soldier trying to survive in the arctic or sub-arctic. The Great Queen provides him with a tent, concentrated rations, warm clothing and snowshoes but alas, no heated bathroom. He has to make other arrangements when his digestive tract is in need of purging.
There is an essential ritual involved. To begin with, he doesn't even think about answering the urge while on the trail. He can act only after last light when the tent is up and the mountain stove has raised the interior temperature to a balmy +2 C. Fortunately, the delay is not difficult thanks to the concentrated rations that apparently contain something normally used to set concrete.
Once the five troopers stuffed into the smallish tent have lit the Coleman lantern and put on the coffee, the soldier in need of a dump signals his intention and begins the preparation. He unzips his parka, unbuttons his nylon wind pants, drops his suspenders, unties the drawstring on his flannel insulation pants and unbuttons his boxers. He then grasps the garments in his wiping hand leaving thumb and index finger free to pinch a pad of toilet paper and with his gloved hand indicates that his buddies should open the tent flap. When the flap opens, he steps manfully out into the night. The flap closes behind him.
On a moonless night it may be blacker than the inside of a moose and it may be -40 C. or worse. For the former reason and in deference to esthetic and sanitary sensibilities, he shuffles five steps forward, turns left, goes 10 steps, turns left, takes 5 more paces, turns about and tramps down the snow. His time has come and this is the agreed drop zone. He releases his grip on his undone garments and assumes the crouch position. At that moment the words of his arctic instructor come to mind - "...exposed flesh may freeze in as little as 45 seconds." He is acutely aware of exactly what he has exposed which gives him motivation to make one almighty, eye-crossing, vein popping heave followed by a cursory wipe. He reaches down with his gloved hand, grabs his various drawers and hikes 5 paces forward, right 10 paces and as he turns for the last 5 steps he bellows, "Open her up!"
Once in the tent his buddies join him in a careful inspection to ascertain whether he laid it in the snow, dropped it in his wind pants, crapped on his heels or flung it over his head with his dangling suspenders. Any outcome other than the first results in his being sent back into the cold to rectify the problem.
There were several reasons why I elected to leave the army. This was probably one of them.
There are some things best done in the comfort of a heated, well-appointed bathroom. Pity then the poor soldier trying to survive in the arctic or sub-arctic. The Great Queen provides him with a tent, concentrated rations, warm clothing and snowshoes but alas, no heated bathroom. He has to make other arrangements when his digestive tract is in need of purging.
There is an essential ritual involved. To begin with, he doesn't even think about answering the urge while on the trail. He can act only after last light when the tent is up and the mountain stove has raised the interior temperature to a balmy +2 C. Fortunately, the delay is not difficult thanks to the concentrated rations that apparently contain something normally used to set concrete.
Once the five troopers stuffed into the smallish tent have lit the Coleman lantern and put on the coffee, the soldier in need of a dump signals his intention and begins the preparation. He unzips his parka, unbuttons his nylon wind pants, drops his suspenders, unties the drawstring on his flannel insulation pants and unbuttons his boxers. He then grasps the garments in his wiping hand leaving thumb and index finger free to pinch a pad of toilet paper and with his gloved hand indicates that his buddies should open the tent flap. When the flap opens, he steps manfully out into the night. The flap closes behind him.
On a moonless night it may be blacker than the inside of a moose and it may be -40 C. or worse. For the former reason and in deference to esthetic and sanitary sensibilities, he shuffles five steps forward, turns left, goes 10 steps, turns left, takes 5 more paces, turns about and tramps down the snow. His time has come and this is the agreed drop zone. He releases his grip on his undone garments and assumes the crouch position. At that moment the words of his arctic instructor come to mind - "...exposed flesh may freeze in as little as 45 seconds." He is acutely aware of exactly what he has exposed which gives him motivation to make one almighty, eye-crossing, vein popping heave followed by a cursory wipe. He reaches down with his gloved hand, grabs his various drawers and hikes 5 paces forward, right 10 paces and as he turns for the last 5 steps he bellows, "Open her up!"
Once in the tent his buddies join him in a careful inspection to ascertain whether he laid it in the snow, dropped it in his wind pants, crapped on his heels or flung it over his head with his dangling suspenders. Any outcome other than the first results in his being sent back into the cold to rectify the problem.
There were several reasons why I elected to leave the army. This was probably one of them.
SAY SOMETHING!
J'accuse...
Saturday, April 16, 2011
A DIFFERENT EVIL BIRD
My kids and I lived for a year in Nigeria. Absurdly, we adopted (the kids adopted) a rowdy, mouthy African Grey parrot named Ms. Penelope P. or Penny in less formal situations. Time came to go home - back to Canada, Penny in tow, with stops in England, Scotland and the Scandinavian countries.
The travel arrangements were tricky. Parrots, I learned were "birdies non grata" in a number of countries, therefore Penny had to travel undetected. I figured that if Penny were stowed in unremarkable check-in baggage and flew only in aircraft with heated, pressurized holds, we might get away with it. In preparation for this adventure in international smuggling I went to Ikeja Market and purchased a rusty budgie cage. I found a sturdy cardboard box into which the cage would just fit. Bird in cage, cage in box, lots of stealth air holes, a bit of twine and tape and Voila! - standard immigrant travel baggage that would attract no attention.
The ruse got us out of Lagos, through Ghana and past Customs at Heathrow. The cab ride to a spiffy hotel in Marble Arch was uneventful thanks to a chatty cabbie who talked more than a tree full of birds. At the hotel, I left my ragamuffins in charge of our formidable baggage heap and went to register. In the midst of the formalities, a blue rinse dowager late of some Brit comedy show steamed by my tattered luggage heading for the Desk. Moments later, the lobby resounded to piercing wolf whistles and cries of "Messy Fucking Bird", "How Are You?" and a stream of Yoruba insults. Penny was getting restive. Dowager turned to glare at my kids who tried to look innocent. Mahogany-tanned, unwashed and clothed in rags a Nigerian ditch digger would have burned as they were, they appeared anything but innocent. Let us say that Fagan would have found employment for them.
HMS Dowager sailed on. We dodged the bullet that time but not in Copenhagen a week later.
We arrived a 7:00 AM, collected our cartload of tattered luggage and headed into the "Nothing to Declare" lane. Penny, silent and invisible in her box sat atop the load. The sleepy Customs Officer asked his routine questions while my ragamuffins remained mostly out of sight behind the cart. All was well until the bird joined the conversation. "Hello, Bird! - Messy Bird! - Shit! - Supper Time! - Acaro, Ade! - More Yoruba, mostly obscene."
This outburst aroused the official's curiosity. He was not used to being yelled at in two languages by a cardboard box. He pointed to the box and beckoned. I complied; he opened it and gazed sourly at Penny, who continued to offer cheery greetings and suggestions.
"Nicht in Denmark", the officer declared. "Not since 1937", he added.
We were marched to a secure holding area to await the arrival of the Port Health Veterinarian. The vet arrived at noon and was clearly unamused by his summons. His dress suggested that he had been enjoying some sort of elegant affair appropriate to a warm Sunday in August - beige ultra-suede jacket, snowy-white shirt and gleaming tasseled loafers. Inside his office, Dr. Elegant consulted a large book dealing with birds and diseases thereof. ("Nicht since 1937". He did not know from parrots.) After a few minutes, he explained that he was required to ascertain the bird's rectal temperature. Before I could intervene he thrust his hand into the cage to capture Penny. Big mistake. With an audible snap, Penny seized his ostentatious gold ring with her usual 800 foot pounds psi. No contest - he was not going to escape unaided. Lying engagingly, I said that Penny was simply being playful, pried her beak free of the ring and extracted her from the cage. Next, at the now wary Dr. Elegant's direction I inverted a seriously pissed off bird to allow the insertion of a rectal thermometer.
Do you see where this is going? Thought so.
In the way of all escalating disasters, Penny indicated that she didn't much like this uninvited penetration by violently expelling the offending object together with everything upstream from it while freeing one large wing and flapping it vigorously. It was The Perfect Shit Storm.
Think ultra suede. Snowy white shirt. Gleaming loafers. Throw in gold-rimmed designer glasses.
There ensued a long, thoughtful silence. Dr. Elegant dabbed his face and gazed ruefully at his splattered clothing. I wondered how I would explain to the kids that the Government of Denmark had sentenced their buddy to death for assaulting an official in the performance of his duty.
At long last, Dr. Elegant spoke in icy, measured tones. "The parrot appears to be healthy. You may keep it in Denmark for seven days. "On the seventh day", he continued Biblically "...you must remove this bird from the country. My fee in this matter is 235 Crowns, payable immediately." The fee seemed a little steep. I think that he rolled in his cleaning bill and a few Crowns for a jug of Aquavit but I was not about to argue.
Penny made it to Canada and continued her irritating ways until her untimely death. Whenever I see a parrot (daily, thanks to the presence of EVIL BIRD - see previous posts) I remember the Perfect Shit Storm and the calm and decency of a good vet who did not wring a wretched, defecating parrot's neck on the spot.
Good people, these Danes. Even since 1937.
The travel arrangements were tricky. Parrots, I learned were "birdies non grata" in a number of countries, therefore Penny had to travel undetected. I figured that if Penny were stowed in unremarkable check-in baggage and flew only in aircraft with heated, pressurized holds, we might get away with it. In preparation for this adventure in international smuggling I went to Ikeja Market and purchased a rusty budgie cage. I found a sturdy cardboard box into which the cage would just fit. Bird in cage, cage in box, lots of stealth air holes, a bit of twine and tape and Voila! - standard immigrant travel baggage that would attract no attention.
The ruse got us out of Lagos, through Ghana and past Customs at Heathrow. The cab ride to a spiffy hotel in Marble Arch was uneventful thanks to a chatty cabbie who talked more than a tree full of birds. At the hotel, I left my ragamuffins in charge of our formidable baggage heap and went to register. In the midst of the formalities, a blue rinse dowager late of some Brit comedy show steamed by my tattered luggage heading for the Desk. Moments later, the lobby resounded to piercing wolf whistles and cries of "Messy Fucking Bird", "How Are You?" and a stream of Yoruba insults. Penny was getting restive. Dowager turned to glare at my kids who tried to look innocent. Mahogany-tanned, unwashed and clothed in rags a Nigerian ditch digger would have burned as they were, they appeared anything but innocent. Let us say that Fagan would have found employment for them.
HMS Dowager sailed on. We dodged the bullet that time but not in Copenhagen a week later.
We arrived a 7:00 AM, collected our cartload of tattered luggage and headed into the "Nothing to Declare" lane. Penny, silent and invisible in her box sat atop the load. The sleepy Customs Officer asked his routine questions while my ragamuffins remained mostly out of sight behind the cart. All was well until the bird joined the conversation. "Hello, Bird! - Messy Bird! - Shit! - Supper Time! - Acaro, Ade! - More Yoruba, mostly obscene."
This outburst aroused the official's curiosity. He was not used to being yelled at in two languages by a cardboard box. He pointed to the box and beckoned. I complied; he opened it and gazed sourly at Penny, who continued to offer cheery greetings and suggestions.
"Nicht in Denmark", the officer declared. "Not since 1937", he added.
We were marched to a secure holding area to await the arrival of the Port Health Veterinarian. The vet arrived at noon and was clearly unamused by his summons. His dress suggested that he had been enjoying some sort of elegant affair appropriate to a warm Sunday in August - beige ultra-suede jacket, snowy-white shirt and gleaming tasseled loafers. Inside his office, Dr. Elegant consulted a large book dealing with birds and diseases thereof. ("Nicht since 1937". He did not know from parrots.) After a few minutes, he explained that he was required to ascertain the bird's rectal temperature. Before I could intervene he thrust his hand into the cage to capture Penny. Big mistake. With an audible snap, Penny seized his ostentatious gold ring with her usual 800 foot pounds psi. No contest - he was not going to escape unaided. Lying engagingly, I said that Penny was simply being playful, pried her beak free of the ring and extracted her from the cage. Next, at the now wary Dr. Elegant's direction I inverted a seriously pissed off bird to allow the insertion of a rectal thermometer.
Do you see where this is going? Thought so.
In the way of all escalating disasters, Penny indicated that she didn't much like this uninvited penetration by violently expelling the offending object together with everything upstream from it while freeing one large wing and flapping it vigorously. It was The Perfect Shit Storm.
Think ultra suede. Snowy white shirt. Gleaming loafers. Throw in gold-rimmed designer glasses.
There ensued a long, thoughtful silence. Dr. Elegant dabbed his face and gazed ruefully at his splattered clothing. I wondered how I would explain to the kids that the Government of Denmark had sentenced their buddy to death for assaulting an official in the performance of his duty.
At long last, Dr. Elegant spoke in icy, measured tones. "The parrot appears to be healthy. You may keep it in Denmark for seven days. "On the seventh day", he continued Biblically "...you must remove this bird from the country. My fee in this matter is 235 Crowns, payable immediately." The fee seemed a little steep. I think that he rolled in his cleaning bill and a few Crowns for a jug of Aquavit but I was not about to argue.
Penny made it to Canada and continued her irritating ways until her untimely death. Whenever I see a parrot (daily, thanks to the presence of EVIL BIRD - see previous posts) I remember the Perfect Shit Storm and the calm and decency of a good vet who did not wring a wretched, defecating parrot's neck on the spot.
Good people, these Danes. Even since 1937.
Friday, April 15, 2011
GEEZERS WITH RAZORS: A Tale of loss and Rembrance
I live on a little stub of a downtown street, an unremarkable locale except for a recurring ritual that plays out several times a month. The performance consists of a car rolling down the block and coming to rest in the approximate vicinity of the curb. The driver - always a gentleman of a certain age - emerges bearing an antique electric shaver and a puzzled expression. After a few moments of shuffle-footed indecision, the geezer proceeds to the door of a small building clearly labeled LAW OFFICE, there to be greeted by a smiling young woman. There is a conversation much punctuated by pointing and rueful shrugs after which the geezer climbs into his semi-abandoned car and departs, razor in hand.
What is the meaning of this? Well, here is the back story.
In the late 70's the iconic marketer/promoter Victor Kermit Kiam bought a business wreckage called the Remington Products Company, producer of the Remington Electric Shaver among other things. A few months later, Victor's cheerful, guileless mug appeared in TV commercials touting the Remington Shaver. Victor would declare with signature sincerity, "My wife bought me this Remington Shaver and I liked it so much...I bought the company!"
These commercials had a remarkable effect. Not only did Remington Shaver sales go ballistic but also electric shaver sales generally. Victor caused a mighty marketing tide that caused all electric shavers to rise. He accomplished this by breaking the manly shaving protocol. You see, Victor was and was considered to be a manly man from an era in which manly men shaved by applying cold, sharp steel to exposed jowls and displayed the resulting wounds (and attached bits of toilet paper) as marks of honour, rather like Heidelberg dueling scars. In Victor's day only girly men used electric razors. Thanks to Victor, a whole generation of men found permission to harvest their whiskers electro-mechanically and without any diminution of their precious testosterone reserves.
Around the time that Victor made electric shaving respectable for manly men, a smart guy named Steve opened Small Appliance Repairs on my street. Steve could fix almost anything electro-mechanical and so people came bearing hurt Hoovers, testy toasters, maimed Mixmasters and yes, sick electric shavers. For 27 years, men turned to Steve when their treasured shavers malfunctioned and Steve would fix them promptly at modest cost.
Steve prospered, Victor made pots of money and contented men declared their grooming universes to be unfolding splendidly.
But nothing is permanent. In 1988 Victor departed for The Great Ad Agency in the Sky. (Where St. Peter is now clean-shaven.) A few years later, Steve retired to the west coast. The end of Small Appliance Repairs was memorialized by a forlorn phalanx of expired vacuum cleaners on the sidewalk awaiting the city's weekly junk rapture. We locals remember it as the Hoovering - a poignant moment.
Steve's old shop has been converted into an elegant, funky law office. Despite the LAW OFFICE sign the geezers come to the door, antique shavers in hand and depart in sorrow.
We need a monument honouring Victor and Steve, a place where geezers with razors could assemble in manly conclave to share memories of razors past and great moments in shaving.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
PEACE IS TOO IMPORTANT TO BE LEFT TO THE POLITICIANS
MEANWHILE...
Three men walk into a bar,
Order beer
And discuss crabgrass.
Meanwhile, three soldiers
Far from home
Get blown to rat shit by a mine.
Politicians snipe and chivvy
About things
And the soldiers no longer give a shit.
The Sergeant, older than his years
Sits alone in his tent
And weeps.
"Best thing for crabgrass is dig it out."
"Yeah, too true."
"Another beer?"
Meanwhile, the TSX tanks,
Politicians bray and
Only a few rich guys give a shit about either.
Drumbeats. Slow March. A Piper.
Flag draped coffins.
Normal morning in Trenton.
Three soldiers exit the Herc
And take in the barren landscape.
It is hot on the tarmac.
The Sergeant meets them.
"Gear in the truck and follow me."
("Oh, fuck - they're so damn young.")
"We must stand with our NATO allies"
Says the politician.
"Stupid bastard" mutters the General.
Last Post. Casket descends.
It is raining.
A gull craps on the gravesite.
Meanwhile, the crabgrass persists,
The politicians insist
And the Sergeant dreams of home.
PRO PATRIA
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
SEX ED FOR THE BED AND BORED
KINKY IS WHEN YOU USE A FEATHER.
PERVERTED IS WHEN YOU USE THE WHOLE CHICKEN.
I speak from some experience in this matter (not what you are thinking). In years gone by I was a pup subaltern in an Airborne Infantry Regiment. In my ignorance of recent unit history, I selected one Private RR to be my radioman because he was a middling good shot, a competent signaler and easily able to haul a 300 pound. arctic sled on his own.
RR had a rep., as I discovered. While stationed in Soest, Germany he loaded up with fine German beer one night and, in the company of two equally wasted buddies went wobbling back to base. Their route took them through a local farmyard and, because it was raining, through a chicken coop. Now, Private RR was love-deprived (read: horny) and having read something about a purported oriental practice involving pheasants, he found a comely young hen rather appealing. The rest, as they say became history.
Early on in my tiny command I was puzzled by the habit of other soldiers to refer to my stalwart troopers as CF's. (Fowl Fornicators might be a contemporary P.C. translation.) I pulled Private RR's file. Oh, my.
After the usual stuff about qualifications, training completed, airborne wings etc. I found eight glossy B&W photos of a sexually abused hen together with a turgid CProC (Military Police) report;
"...and, according to witnesses interviewed, Private RR seized the hapless chicken by the neck, divested himself of encumbering trousers..."
Alas, I knew the awful truth. By association I was a CF.
I had never before contemplated a feather as a useful adjunct to my manly appeal. But a whole chicken? The mind boggles.
For those of you in bed and bored, try dirty movies or uplifting pharmaceuticals.
Beats chickens.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
SINGING, MURPHY'S LAW AND COOL RECOVERY
I once sang with a big, semi-pro chorale that did all-bells- and- whistles productions of light opera and Broadway stuff complete with elaborate sets, lots of flys, fancy lighting, Malabar costumes and a gazzilion set changes. Now, Murphy says that, "If something can go wrong, it will". Evans says, "Murphy was an optimist.
Music Man is a neat show. In our opening to a full house, all went well until Marion was to appear on a porch set, this to be wheeled on with her aboard to sing her soulful Goodnight, My Someone to the stars above.
The porch appeared. The gels dimmed and the spotlight went on. No Marion. Panic in the orchestra pit. Conductor suffered severe anal clenching.
Meanwhile, in the wings Marion appeared on time to climb through the back end of the porch set and pose becomingly for her entrance. Betty, who played Marion was a pro. She noted the problem with aplomb, having sung leads with Doily Carte and other noted groups. She smiled sweetly at the dithering stagehands and inquired gently, "When does the next porch leave?".
She then strolled on stage, posed before the empty porch, looked skyward and when the conductor got the orchestra back to watching the stick she delivered a shivering fine aria to 2,000 happy folks in the audience.
Moral of this tale? Murphy's worst fears often pale in the face of experience, goodwill and a bit of old fashioned guts. Betty is a heroine of mine.
How is that for being preachy?
Music Man is a neat show. In our opening to a full house, all went well until Marion was to appear on a porch set, this to be wheeled on with her aboard to sing her soulful Goodnight, My Someone to the stars above.
The porch appeared. The gels dimmed and the spotlight went on. No Marion. Panic in the orchestra pit. Conductor suffered severe anal clenching.
Meanwhile, in the wings Marion appeared on time to climb through the back end of the porch set and pose becomingly for her entrance. Betty, who played Marion was a pro. She noted the problem with aplomb, having sung leads with Doily Carte and other noted groups. She smiled sweetly at the dithering stagehands and inquired gently, "When does the next porch leave?".
She then strolled on stage, posed before the empty porch, looked skyward and when the conductor got the orchestra back to watching the stick she delivered a shivering fine aria to 2,000 happy folks in the audience.
Moral of this tale? Murphy's worst fears often pale in the face of experience, goodwill and a bit of old fashioned guts. Betty is a heroine of mine.
How is that for being preachy?
SINGING UNDER DURESS
Three years ago, I was a back row baritone in a big local choir led by a gifted conductor/composer I shall call Herbie. Herbie is an hyperactive German-Canadian who has defined conductorial temper tantrums for all time. Normally a gentle, thoughtful soul, when given a baton and a music stand he becomes the Attila of the music world.
Herbie hatched a Really Big Idea. He decided to combine our 60 voices with those of an excellent German-Canadian choir that he also conducted and mount a choral extravaganza to be presented in at the Centre in the Square (Kitchener's Roy Thomson Hall). Many rehearsals ensued; the choirs separately and then together. One Tuesday evening I misread the schedule and ended up at the wrong rehearsal. Before I could slip away Herbie noticed me and invited me to sit in. Herbie invitations tend to be ultimatums and so I took my accustomed back row baritone place.
Mistake. This choir was rehearsing an Herbie composition written in a weird time signature and with more moving parts than a Heath Robinson device. I had never heard the beast before and, given my negligible sight-reading ability, I settled in for a long, sweaty evening of running my finger along the score and faking it when I got lost. The rehearsal was not going well for anyone. Herbie grew agitated. His face reddened. As the tension rose it gave several altos bladder distress, resulting in their wiggling their way through the baritone section on the way to the loo. As each one passed, I had to close my folder, clutch it to my chest and haul my bony legs out of the way. I then had to find my place again and rejoin the chorus.
Finally, Herbie lost it. The tenors just didn't get it - wrong notes, wrong entries and general screw-ups. Now, having sung tenor in the past before ciggies and Jack Daniels demoted me to baritone, I had some sympathy for them. Chorus tenors rarely get to sing on the notes. Mostly, they sing in the cracks and worse, unlike the 2nd sopranos you get to hear their miscues. But no sympathy from Herbie. For two or three minutes he bellowed his distress in German, English and possibly Urdu. When he paused to wipe the spittle from his chin, a fellow baritone spoke up.
"Herbie", he asked, "Ve are a choir, no?"
"Yeah".
"Ve come here to sing, no?"
"Yeah."
"Then whydafuk ve are not singing?"
The sopranos tittered. One of the bases guffawed and farted audibly. I am sure that some 2nd sopranos farted too but nobody heard them. Two altos headed for the loo.
Herbie tried to look stern but finally cracked up. The rehearsal ended with order and bonhomie restored.
Oh, and the concert was a rousing success - full house, the altos wore Depends and the tenors nailed it.
Herbie hatched a Really Big Idea. He decided to combine our 60 voices with those of an excellent German-Canadian choir that he also conducted and mount a choral extravaganza to be presented in at the Centre in the Square (Kitchener's Roy Thomson Hall). Many rehearsals ensued; the choirs separately and then together. One Tuesday evening I misread the schedule and ended up at the wrong rehearsal. Before I could slip away Herbie noticed me and invited me to sit in. Herbie invitations tend to be ultimatums and so I took my accustomed back row baritone place.
Mistake. This choir was rehearsing an Herbie composition written in a weird time signature and with more moving parts than a Heath Robinson device. I had never heard the beast before and, given my negligible sight-reading ability, I settled in for a long, sweaty evening of running my finger along the score and faking it when I got lost. The rehearsal was not going well for anyone. Herbie grew agitated. His face reddened. As the tension rose it gave several altos bladder distress, resulting in their wiggling their way through the baritone section on the way to the loo. As each one passed, I had to close my folder, clutch it to my chest and haul my bony legs out of the way. I then had to find my place again and rejoin the chorus.
Finally, Herbie lost it. The tenors just didn't get it - wrong notes, wrong entries and general screw-ups. Now, having sung tenor in the past before ciggies and Jack Daniels demoted me to baritone, I had some sympathy for them. Chorus tenors rarely get to sing on the notes. Mostly, they sing in the cracks and worse, unlike the 2nd sopranos you get to hear their miscues. But no sympathy from Herbie. For two or three minutes he bellowed his distress in German, English and possibly Urdu. When he paused to wipe the spittle from his chin, a fellow baritone spoke up.
"Herbie", he asked, "Ve are a choir, no?"
"Yeah".
"Ve come here to sing, no?"
"Yeah."
"Then whydafuk ve are not singing?"
The sopranos tittered. One of the bases guffawed and farted audibly. I am sure that some 2nd sopranos farted too but nobody heard them. Two altos headed for the loo.
Herbie tried to look stern but finally cracked up. The rehearsal ended with order and bonhomie restored.
Oh, and the concert was a rousing success - full house, the altos wore Depends and the tenors nailed it.
FAIL
Monday, April 11, 2011
EVIL BIRD
Here is Evil Bird (aka Phoenix) preparing to write dirty words on my Facebook wall. I am the nemesis on her premises. She bites me, shits on my head, chews holes in my books and shrieks like a Banshee when I am attempting to think. I would send her back to the Decaire household except that the malevolent feather bag adores Ellie. Also, while Susan would welcome her buddy back, Richard and Benjamin might not.
( If he truth be told, I actually enjoy the little shit disturber's antics. Bites heal and poop washes off.)
YOUR MOMENT OF POLITICAL NAUSEA
"There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year-old's life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugs. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world.
The other, of course involves Orcs."
Ayn Rand's misogynistic prattle of a book is right up there with the Old Testament as philosophical underpinning to contemporary Conservative thought in the US today. No less personage than Paul Ryan, author of the recent vicious "Road Map" budget requires his staff to read the thing and Randisms permeate the speech of many right wing political leaders. Worse, other self-promoting public figures with lamentably large, credulous audiences champion Rand's worldview. A good example of this a bizarre blog written by an intellectually challenged, emotionally stunted woman named Pam Geller. The blog bears the name "Atlas Shrugs". I suggest that you put on a haz-mat suit and pay a visit (www.atlasshrugs2000.typepad.com). The lovely Ms. Geller, whose only visible talent is growing hair rants like a sixteen-year-old mall rat and describes everything not to her liking as, "...Hamas-linked, Muslim Brotherhood-related plots to inflict Sharia law on America". (Did I mention that she hates Muslims?)
This little peek into the cesspool of right wing politics in the US can be taken as fair warning. Have noticed that nearly every social, political and economic shift in the affairs of our kissing cousins has a way of seeping across the border and ultimately infecting the Canadian polity? Bear this in mind as our federal election swings into high gear. There has already been some worrisome seepage.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
PORCH BUDDY
Miss P. adopted me about two years ago and has been a kindly parent.
Friday, April 8, 2011
FROM THE PORCH II
I gave you SCARY MAN. Here is MR. WHISKERS.
Mr. W is old - well plus 80. He is tiny, looks anorexic (all ribs and ossified cock), and shuffles along listing forward at 30 degrees with a hand-rolled cig protruding from the centre of his face like a navigational device. When heading eastward toward the variety store his hands are clasped behind him in the manner of venerable Chinese gentlemen. When proceeding westward a few minutes later his hands are engaged in peeling wax from a fistful of Scratch & Win tickets. The navigational device remains in place, the trickle of smoke suggesting that it is functioning and will lead him home, there to celebrate his newfound wealth.
It is that trickle of smoke that gives me worry. Mr. W wears a huge, luxurious grey beard dwarfing his tiny face - a massive growth well-greased by KFC and Burger King - a potential conflagration to give forest protection experts serious fits of the vapours.
Mr. W is not given to social interaction. A cheery "Good Morning" elicits a vague smile and a side-step on the shuffle path to home and wealth. He is surely playing on the back nine, due to expire soon. When he does, I have a vagrant hope that he will lie down in our garden with a vague smile on his face and a winning ticket in his wizened hand. And, if his navigational device fails to ignite his facial grow-op, I will be honoured to perform the cremation with by Bic. Let him go in the blaze denied him in his simple life.
Like a Nordic god.
OK - I am what Margaret Thatcher would call a "Wet". Sentimental sometimes.
Mr. W is old - well plus 80. He is tiny, looks anorexic (all ribs and ossified cock), and shuffles along listing forward at 30 degrees with a hand-rolled cig protruding from the centre of his face like a navigational device. When heading eastward toward the variety store his hands are clasped behind him in the manner of venerable Chinese gentlemen. When proceeding westward a few minutes later his hands are engaged in peeling wax from a fistful of Scratch & Win tickets. The navigational device remains in place, the trickle of smoke suggesting that it is functioning and will lead him home, there to celebrate his newfound wealth.
It is that trickle of smoke that gives me worry. Mr. W wears a huge, luxurious grey beard dwarfing his tiny face - a massive growth well-greased by KFC and Burger King - a potential conflagration to give forest protection experts serious fits of the vapours.
Mr. W is not given to social interaction. A cheery "Good Morning" elicits a vague smile and a side-step on the shuffle path to home and wealth. He is surely playing on the back nine, due to expire soon. When he does, I have a vagrant hope that he will lie down in our garden with a vague smile on his face and a winning ticket in his wizened hand. And, if his navigational device fails to ignite his facial grow-op, I will be honoured to perform the cremation with by Bic. Let him go in the blaze denied him in his simple life.
Like a Nordic god.
OK - I am what Margaret Thatcher would call a "Wet". Sentimental sometimes.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
WHO WANTS MY VOTE?
Some folks want it more than others, it seems. To date in this campaign I have heard from three candidates. Jack Layton has badgered me with robo-calls and sent a letter saying essentially, "...send the NDP lots of money and we will do things that will amaze and astound you - details to follow" His candidate in this riding is invisible. Methinks Jack should start robo-calling that worthy, suggesting he or she get off the couch, put up some signs and hammer on a few doors. The equally invisible Conservative candidate might do the same. Ditto the Green Party standard bearer.
Liberal Karen Redman showed up at the door, flyer in hand and gave a good account of herself. She is a pro who has served us well so far.
Independent Alan Rimmer appeared and did a to-fer; got me to sign his nomination papers and made a detailed pitch worth listening to. If you like the idea of having a few fierce independents in the House, Rimmer is a decent choice. He is a smart, well-informed maverick with a passion for justice and a low BS tolerance. He would be beholden to no-one except his constituents and would weigh in on important issues with uncommon passion.
This time around I am underwhelmed by the major party leaders. Jack is too much the TV preacher - all unction and blatherskate. Iggy is a poor man's Trudeau. And Little Stevie? - a smart, cautious ideologue whose greatest achievement to date has been to silence the far right crazies from the Reform Party.
At this point I have no clue as to how I will vote. If no-one else solicits my vote and does so intelligently, my choice will be Redman or Rimmer. And that's not so bad.
Liberal Karen Redman showed up at the door, flyer in hand and gave a good account of herself. She is a pro who has served us well so far.
Independent Alan Rimmer appeared and did a to-fer; got me to sign his nomination papers and made a detailed pitch worth listening to. If you like the idea of having a few fierce independents in the House, Rimmer is a decent choice. He is a smart, well-informed maverick with a passion for justice and a low BS tolerance. He would be beholden to no-one except his constituents and would weigh in on important issues with uncommon passion.
This time around I am underwhelmed by the major party leaders. Jack is too much the TV preacher - all unction and blatherskate. Iggy is a poor man's Trudeau. And Little Stevie? - a smart, cautious ideologue whose greatest achievement to date has been to silence the far right crazies from the Reform Party.
At this point I have no clue as to how I will vote. If no-one else solicits my vote and does so intelligently, my choice will be Redman or Rimmer. And that's not so bad.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
POVERTY LAW
As some members of my vast and growing audience of 7 or 8 are aware, I am Chair of the Waterloo/Kitchener Legal Aid Clinic. This extraordinary little organization provides quality legal assistance to folks who simply cannot afford lawyers. It is staffed by a handful of capable but hugely overworked professionals any one of whom could earn more money doing overflow work for a large firm but who soldier on, year after year, driven by the quaint notion that social justice is something worth pursuing. Somewhere in their upbringing, education or early experience they determined that when the least among us do better, we all do better. Would that our political masters embrace that simple, powerful idea. Some do; most do not.
I will return to this issue in future posts.
I will return to this issue in future posts.
BE PATIENT WITH ME
This blog is having birthing problems. It works, but the format is gorped up. As a result, I am spending all my time trying to fix the problems instead of amazing you with my literary talent.
Tomorrow, I write.
Tomorrow, I write.
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