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monday, july 31 While my French is somewhat entertaining, my Italian is completely non-existent. When my mother traveled to Italy, Claire and I scoured her tiny Berlitz phrase book for the killer phrase. We determined that if you could only memorize one, it would have to be "please remove your trousers and underpants" from the "health" section. Course, we weren't thinking "health", but that's besides the point. Today, well, that wouldn't even cross my mind. In fact, I'd rather have "please pull up your trousers" in my arsenal... just in case. With Italian travel in my imminent future, I've been trying to think of what phrases that would ensure my continued comfort and well being, as well as being able to express myself in a manner that conveys my "fabulous," "multi-faceted" personality. I've shortlisted the following: "I'm sorry." Every Canadian should memorize this. "No, I'm Canadian." "Can you guarantee that this dish has no meat, no meat by products, no fish, no shellfish, or anything that once remotely resembled a living object" "Is that cheese stinky?" "Diet Coke please." "Yes, I know that Diet Coke is very American, but it's my caffeine delivery mechanism of choice." "Do you carry flip-flops?" "Does it come in black?" "Fuck!" "I'm with the band." Have I missed anything? When in doubt, I'll quote from Pee Wee's Great Adventure: "Merci blah blah blah." 
FOJM Updated: Dave,
Bill St. Clair,
Mark Howells,
Rod Kratochwill,
Tim,
Ellie,
Artboy and
Kent.And last night, Cyn submitted two that are the best: "m protested at lugging the full length mirror around, but i said, 'we have to do it for heather!' people gawked, but the interesting results were worth it." You can't beat that! I'll try and get them up before I leave. Rabbit rabbit! The day before the day before yesterday? Ding dong. Everyone tell Jeffrey... "More like this please." The sound of a bell struck off center vanishes in haze. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku  friday, july 28 A few years ago I had this idea that if the Jehovah Witnesses were going to visit every home in America, actually, the world, how great would it be to piggyback that effort? It might go something like this: Cue doorbell: "Ding dong" - Offstage muffled dog barking hear in the nether regions of the house. Door opens. "Have you heard the good news? Oh, and is there a computer in the house. Have you thought about upgrading to a 3.x browser?" Well, the upgrade to a 3.x browser isn't really an issue anymore, but there must be some way of harnessing the incredible opportunity of door to door visitation. Note: Yes, I'm going to hell. We'll just accept that as a given and move on. Perhaps for a small sponsorship one might be able to slip a disk with a funky plugin or a few fonts. If we all hate Verdana* so much, why not make a considered effort to spread the font? I'm getting ahead of myself. We should be focussing on the basics. How about creating a simple checklist? Navigation and the back button would be a start. What do you think? If you could tap everyone with a computer and resolve some hinkelbonk that litters your landscape, what would it be? Don't even suggest the choice of one flavour of browser over another - that's naughty - and you'll join me in hell. * Well I don't, but some do. They know who they are. Yesterday? Found family. Today's open letter was a reminder of why I don't miss dotcom office politics. Poor Prol! Rattus rattus! There's something really odd about hearing the word "Napster" come out of Jim Lehrer's mouth. It doesn't seem right and I get all giggly. Ahem, let me take a moment to collect myself. Riding a short-legged horse in the hazy spring. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku thursday, july 27 I Read with great interest, Jeffrey's most recent post: "Recently, we learned of our half-brother's existence (and he of ours), and last night we met him for the first time. Sweet kid. Life is a mystery." I often wonder how families can become so estranged as to loose track of one another. And why is it, more often than not, that we manage to hang on to the less interesting ones, while the others, the ones who might be a tad more entertaining at family events, wander off? In the mid-seventies, my father, during his genealogical dig, found my mother and her twin brother's brother Tony. All the children in her family had been adopted out in the late thirties as war was looming in England. While my mother and Paul's adoption appears to be quite straightforward, Tony's, on the other hand, was less so. It seems that he was taken away on holiday by the neighbours and never returned. Details are hazy. How could you go on vacation and not return a child? If you tried that today, well, you'd either end up in court or on Jerry Springer. My mums side of the family is all a little dodgy. Some members of the family went out to India to work for the East India Trading Company. My great or great-great-uncle Mervyn, I'm not sure of how distant the connection is, was the product of a second marriage to an Indian woman, as the first wife was unfortunately sat upon by an elephant. Again, details are hazy. Alas, many stories, like these have been lost. I think they would only erase any remaining doubts that I come by my kookiness quite honestly. Yesterday? Small fiasco. Looking forward to Multiple Sensations at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts opening next week - "...nine projects exploring seriality and collecting. Unusual, unexpected and obsessional, these shows prove that more is more." My mother was an incredible collector, not necessarily with any theme in mind, just stuff. Like the lobster trap. If there was lobster to be trapped in Ottawa, well then, we were prepared. And can't forget Magritte! Excellent! Justin Hall nightmares for the next week courtesy of Powazek! Caterina doesn't want me to get any work done today. Escaped the nets, escaped the ropes- moon on the water - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku wednesday, july 26 From Lance's "Sentences you should avoid if you want anyone to visit your page more than once!": "I love "It's a Small World After All" so much and I'm sure you do too, that I posted a midi of it here, put it on endless loop and made it so you can't turn it off."Harmless comment? But for myself and countless others... well, it just opens old wounds. Years of expensive therapy have gone by the wayside without even a backward smile or toodle-loo. Let me tell you about Christmas '90 or '91. I don't remember which year it was exactly. You think that I would but my hazy memory must be a by-product of the shock therapy and the extreme overdoses of Vitamin C and D that followed. Anyway, the Ogre, my own personal "You-Know-Who", and I spent a few days wandering around the "Magic Kingdom" doing that "I'm an adult, but I really know how to have a good time" kind of thing. The Disney commercials allude the this, so you can watch them if you need further information on this aspect of adult behaviour. I see the small world ride and immediately, warm memories flood from within. Sunday evenings, sitting around the television watching "Hymn Sing" and "The Beachcombers" (Canadian classics), Disney and then the Waltons. Wait a minute. Warm memories? Didn't most of those Sunday evenings end in tears as Disney relentlessly killed off Bambi or some other unfortunate wee furry beast, and the Waltons endured years of hardship during the Great Depression. Who in their right mind would create a TV show about a poor family during the depression and air in on Sunday night? How many people started their week with a depression hangover? Thank god for the Simpsons, 60 minutes and the X-Files! I'll take alien abduction over depression any day of the week. I digress. The "Small World" ride should have been a no brainer. Sit in a boat and float past a veritable United Nations of big eyed dolls. Sure, "It's a Small World After All" repeats a few times, but what's the harm in that? I'll tell you. What happens when the ride breaks down? Do they stop the waggely heads, blinking big eyes and dimpling cheeks? Do they stop those maniacal children of Satan from singing? No fucking way. It just keeps going and going and going - like the Energizer bunny, but longer. The Ogre and I stuck in a boat, in the middle of Disney hell. Not something I'd add to Heather's best moments anytime soon. Yesterday? Search me. I can't let this pass without notice (the life's most embarrassing moment bit). On the way to the outhouse- the white of the moonflower by torchlight. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku tuesday, july 25 Here's a random sampling of search terms that have turned up in the log files: swirlie modeling jobs rat turds pregnant alien silver sandals brazilian wax mountain dew commercial songs penis envy brazilian bikini nickelodeon photoblaster ring palmpix samples law and order nude girl vs woman drunk girl crazy sexy cool nightgowns heather kozar drunk girl pepto bismal Rocket Robin Hood smashed pennies dildo training framed art and pyramids harvey keitel hazelnut tree Some are baffling, some are funny and others, downright strange. Take "dildo training" for example. "Dildo" and "penis envy" show up quite a bit. Write a story called "Penis Envy," and you are forever tarred and feathered. I feel sorry for the poor soul who was must have come away without the sought after "training." It seems rather obvious to me, but who am I to comment? "Pregnant alien"? I said I was a "non-resident alien." I've never said anything about being pregnant. If you've heard otherwise, well, I'm sorry to say that there's no truth to the rumour. Do you know who Heather Kozar is? No one could ever mistake me for Heather Kozar. Trust me. She's blonde and if god didn't bequeath her glorious attributes, well, then, she found a great surgeon. "Law and order nude"? Do we really want to see Sam Waterston without his clothes on? "Hazelnut tree"? In January, I reposted the "What tree did YOU fall from?" email. Did I ever mention how unthrilled I was with being a walnut tree? "Unrelenting, strange and full of contrasts, often egotistic, aggressive, noble, broad horizon, unexpected reactions, spontaneous, unlimited ambition, no flexibility, difficult and uncommon partner, not always liked but often admired, ingenious strategist, very jealous and passionate, no compromise." How unflattering is that? "Harvey keitel"? I still say "fuck him!" "Drunk girl"? Only with love, baby. Yesterday? Farrah flip. Yes, the current meme of CafePress commodification is crass, tacking and egotistical. I'm sorry, but I just have to say that I damn, tickled pink with this! I love Elise. I'm so confused. Woo hoo Howard! They don't live long but you'd never know it- the cicada's cry. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku monday, july 24 You know what? The seventies were pretty ugly the first time around. Somehow, I don't think that they're going to look any better this time. The current fashion mags are rife with wide leg pants, Farrah's hair and all manner of fashion suicide, rubbing off from the Charlie's Angels remake. Dig out those Howick Jeans. Dig out those Wrangler wide legs. All those skinny little belts you consigned to the back of the closet? Go ahead, dig them out too. Remember those droopy cowl turtle necks? Yup, you guessed it. Those are coming on strong. Get ready for brown, baby. It's going to be a poopy, brown world. Everything was brown the first time around, it might as well be brown the second (or is it the third?). I want to resist. I want to say "no, never again" - and mean it. But it doesn't matter. At some point in the past I've said the following: I'll never wear stove pipes again. I'll never wear wide legs again. I'll never wear short skirts, long skirts or anything in-between skirts. A-line, straight, flounced, ruffled or plain. Nope, not going there. I'll never wear white, red, orange, brown, purple, blue or green. I'll never wear platforms again. I'll never wear spikes. I'll never wear running shoes or ballet shoes. I'll never wear my hair short. I'll never grown my hair log. I'll never bleach my hair again. I'll never be a red-head, brunette or blonde. That's crap and I might as well just give it up now. I'm a big, fat lemming and I'll follow fashion blindly to the edge of whatever precipice she wants me to jump from. Honey, hand me that curling iron. The Farrah "do" is no longer a don't. Yesterday? Hee haw (c)hick. The rabbit has a home, though I don't know the details. Jakob Nielsen stirs up a whole, heap of trouble while saner heads prevail. Clear water- a tiny crab crawling up my leg. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku sunday, july 23 Crap! Actually, what I want to say is a long string of naughty, potty words but, it's Sunday, so I'll refrain. I just chipped my previously fixed chipped tooth gnoshing on pop corn, popped in the my brand, spanking new hot air popper. It wasn't a fluffy, white kernel that did the deed, but my penchant for chewing on the unpopped or semi-unpopped kernels. What seemed like a deal at $19.95, suddenly no longer does. Another hundred buck ought to round out the bill quite nicely. It does add a somewhat rakish, "Hee Haw" demeanor to my smile. With pigtails, implants and a piece of straw, I may just have the makings of a second career and save myself the dental agro. Tinny voice: "Ah, Ms. Champ? You're wanted on the set." Me, hesitatingly: "Um, what's my motivation?" Tinny voice: "A paycheck Ms. Champ!" Me, with calm assurance: "Right." It could become my quirky signature. Who needs an elegantly arching eyebrow or conveniently placed beauty mark when one has the windfall of a chipped tooth? Didn't Jim Carey take advantage of his chipped teeth in "Dumb and Dumber." I'd say that sets a pretty valuable precedent. You know what? My attempt at putting a positive spin on this, just isn't working. The day before yesterday? Kibble and bitch. Judith is ready to pass on the pink bunny of change... This inflatable hare has a good pedigree of invoking travel - of the more permanent kind - with a predilection for San Francisco. Skip on baby! Oh, and I bought a really ugly pair of Nikes this weekend. I affectionately call them my "spooge" shoes. Forget Hee Haw, I'm Spiderman, baby! The morning glory also turns out not to be my friend. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku friday, july 21 It's a slow Friday here at casa harrumph! The creative muse took the early train to avoid weekend traffic and I've been left adrift in a sea of half baked ideas and malformed thought. So, I bring you "things that I'd love to write about but would be too revealing or bore any normal human being to death, part I":
Yesterday? Found loot. Were it sweet, it'd be my dew, his dew. - Kobayashi Issa, The Essential Haiku thursday, july 20 Finding money is one of the great karmic joys of life. Not so much money to cause distress to the person who lost it, but just enough to bliss out the person who finds it. I remember my first time ever so clearly. We were on holiday in the Canadian Rockies. My dad had pulled to the side of the rode to admire a heard of those cling-on, white sheep artfully positioned on a rugged outcropping. There were a number of people standing around admiring the wooly beasts - I can't imagine what the wooly beasts were thinking? It was a Larson-esque moment to be sure, but this is about money baby, so I'll get to the point. I was distracted by a flutter to my right. Looking down the highway, I spied, with my little eye, a lovely ten dollar bill slowly tumbling toward me in the breeze. Now, in Canada, the money is funny coloured, and I could tell that it was a ten given the purple hue. Fives are blue, and when there were ones and twos, before the loony, tooney lunacy, they were green and red respectively. I fixated on that ten. My eyes bore into the paper with such force that I'm astonished it didn't ignite. Mine. Mine. Mine. All mine. I looked around. No one else seemed to see it - I had rendered it invisible. When it was within my grasp, I bent over and grabbed it. Ten dollars! Ten fucking dollars. I was seven. This was a big deal. I split the loot Claire (or I was most likely made to split the loot with Claire) and purchased a lovely white plastic beaded blue coin purse that had a stunning photo of Lake Louise on one side with my half. Since then, I've found a little something here and a little something there. It's harder in the states. All the bills are the same colour, so a good haul can be reduced in a moment, to a single, and I try not to forget that it's still found money. Not quite as good, but still better than a poke in the eye, is sliding your hand into a not-often worn coat or pair of pants and finding something there. Of course, I mean the paper kind. The coin stuff is chump change - that's everywhere. I can keep a one, a five or a ten. If I spot a twenty, I look around - a twenty, well that can make a difference to some. I'm glad that I haven't been tested with finding something like five grand in the back of a taxi. That would be hard. Someone would miss five grand. They would be unhappy and pretty pissed off. I'd most likely take it to a police station or something. Who knows, maybe they would give me a five, a ten or a twenty as a reward. Okey dokey pokeys... harrumph! gear is here! How about a simple T or mug? You might like to check out the jezebel stuff as well - I, II & III. I'm not making a profit, I'm just trying to spread the love, baby! The day before yesterday? Auction seduction. Webzine 2000. San Francisco. Saturday. Be there! Or don't be. A village without bells- how do they live? spring dusk. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku tuesday, july 18 I can feel the evil itch creeping back into my life. It was just one simple auction, nothing special, but it was enough to awaken the sleeping monster within. I should back up a bit. My name is Heather Champ and I'm a reformed eBay junkie. I won, I won (a selection of my finer moments): Echo the Dolphin Mint w/ Tag - No Reserve Tiny the Chihuahua Beanie-Brand New Beanie! Pocket Kaleidoscope Brass & Rosewood Van Cort Old Photobooth picture / Big smile x 3 Photobooth picture / Girl w/ Flowered Dress Photobooth picture / Hand tinted Girl w/ Hat Photobooth picture / Man and Woman Photobooth picture / Hand tinted Girl ViewMaster Our Planet Earth 2 Reels 1959 ViewMaster Products Flier viewMaster projector in box ViewMaster Stereoscope Made In USA, Kit ViewMaster Kyoto, Japan Old Sawyer ViewMaster Stereoscope & 11 Reels Lot of App. 150 Old VIewMaster Reels & Box Hong Kong ViewMaster reel Monument Valley ViewMaster reel How could I not be tempted by the following? "Lot Plastic Animal Toys 70+. This is an assortment of different animals, from dinosaurs to unicorn and everything in between. Most are make of plastic. They are all in good condition." The box arrived yesterday. They all have that rather "oogy" thrift shop smell which makes me want to run them through the dishwasher on the "crusted-on, these-plates-have-been-fermenting-like-forever" cycle. I haven't quite lost my mind - they're for a postcard project that I'm working on. I'm blaming it on Elise. It's all her fault.
FOJM Updated:
Chris,
James,
Lizard, Mark, Eoin, artboy,
Matt,
and Amber.Submit to me baby. C'mon. You know you want to. Join the other one hundred and fifteen brave souls who have flung caution to the wind. A tip? Turn the flash off otherwise you'll obscure the star - you! Anyway, enough of the hucksterism. It's tacky, crass and pointless, isn't it? But wait, there's more to come. Like ts and mugs for everyone! Yesterday? Penis pondering. In the summer rain the path has disappeared. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku monday, july 17 One day, when I was about ten, my mother didn't as much offer the following advice, but commanded: "Heather, never let a man put his penis between your legs." We were halfway up the Smyth Road hill heading towards Alta Vista Drive. I was sitting in the back of my step-fathers baby blue Chrysler. She half-turned towards me, and with a certain ferocity, blurted it out. The current topic of conversation was something else entirely. It was a little odd and I think I must have burst into tears. We hadn't yet had that uncomfortable "birds & bees" conversation which might have put her words into context. I'd never really seen a penis before. Once, I half glimpsed that of one of my step-fathers grand kids. But it was one of those "now you see it, now you don't show and tell events" and I could have sworn it looked like a branch with twigs. Based upon that experience, I was absolutely not going to let any man put his tree between my legs. Course, at a certain point in my life I had to let this one go. I'm not Catholic so the nun option wasn't possible. I must confess, I was rather relieved to learn that a penis doesn't resemble any part of a tree. And I like men. This isn't to say that there wasn't any residual weirdness from her advice. When a parent says something that emphatic, there must be a reason. She passed away in my late teens before we'd had a chance to resolve, as adults, many of the issues that had marred our parent/child relationship. Oh, and, I've also ridden on a motorcycle. That was her other concern. So tell me, what have your parents said that left an indelible mark? Yesterday? Back off. New in {fray}: big brother. The illustrations by Sam Brown are exquisite. Buying leeks and walking home under the bare trees. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku sunday, july 16 The best advice I can give you right now is "just stay out of my way!" Nothing personal. I'm just coming to terms with driving a stick in a town full of hills. Actually, staying out of my way isn't really the issue, I'm more concerned about those behind me. And parking? I've already warned the neighbours. Current parallel parking mantra (up hill):
"New SF stick driver. For your own safety keep back.... Way the fuck back!" The day before yesterday? A comment. More groovy apparel opportunities. It's not like anything they compare it to- the summer moon. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku friday, july 14 Someone seems to have their panties in a bunch. I'm disappointed with Fame Fatale by Rich Robinson, new on A List Apart. I'm so fed up with elitist ranting about what is good and what isn't good on the web, what will kill the web, that weblogging is dead, and blah de blah blah. I mean really. Stop it. No one is holding you down and making you read any of this. This here or there, there, and there. Go away. I'm sorry to be so damn acrid about all of this but it seems to go in endless cycles - some blow hard just steaming away in grand style on something they don't seem to know that much about, making ridiculous statements and drawing oversimplified conclusions, taking the joy out of it for the rest of us. People, just stick your fingers in your ears and hum a favourite tune. Don't listen to this crap. Keep pushing those pixels, typing those words, and expressing yourself. Wait a minute, your fingers are in your ears you say? Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out. It's all good, baby. Yesterday? Soap suds. Liberté, égalité, fraternité! Happy Bastille Day. Thanks to everyone who responded to my t-shirt query. I'm kind of bummed that the Cafe Press stuff is of the iron on variety and not silk screened, but it might do for a first round. Watch this space. A fishy smell- perch guts in the water weeds. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku thursday, july 13 You know, soap used to be just soap. I'm not so sure what soap is anymore. Some of the new fangled developments just leave me wondering "why?" Take for example: soap that hurts. Those fancy soaps that have oatmeal, straw, grit and, I could swear that at least one bar has contained ground glass. I think that some silly dropped the soap one day and the dirt stuck. Instead of dumping the whole lot into the bin, they soap washed us into thinking that sloughing and exfoliation were the name of the game. More fool us for falling in with their laziness as we stumble from the shower or bath scarred and abraded. Soap used to be simple. Bars of white, gold, pink and green, nothing fancy - mostly square with somewhat rounded corners. My mother's favourite was Palmolive. A simple green bar that supposedly was a mixture of palm and olive oil. The green box displayed some chick hanging around with only a skimpy a towel for comfort. Ivory... I so wanted to be an "Ivory girl." Ivory girls seemed to have it all. Perfect skin and perfect lives. They beamed at us from glossy magazine ads with confidence and ease. Puberty was kind to my skin and I can't really complain but, who knows what glory could have been mine had my mother, Claire and I been Ivory girls. And it floated. Little did I know that they were pumping the sucker full of air, but it floated! How cool is that? Claire gave me a bottle of liquid soap for Christmas. It taunts me daily from the shower shelf just above eye level. Reparitif "Harmony Formula" Botanical Balance Body Wash. Indications: You take care to nurture the health of your skin and senses. Now let Botanical Balance support that delicate harmony. Applications: Formulated to encourage well-being, this body wash is rich in protein and botanicals to gently sweep away surface impurities and help optimize skin's moisture balance. While skin is caressed to feel its silky best, the harmonizing scent invites your mind to stay calm and in tune. Quite frankly, I'd have to drink this magic elixer to attain the kind of balance their espousing. Who writes this stuff? I just want to get clean and smell reasonably "nice", not "medicated" or "tasty" (sage soap? you smell like a stuffed turkey!). I'll find some other way to stay calm. Yesterday? Lead foot.  Fray Day 4. Be there or be L7!I'm sorely tempted to jump on the CafePress bandwagon that's cruising around (lemming, lemming, lemming!). Tell me, would you sport a harrumph! or jezebel T if they were sold at cost? Good idea? Bad idea? Enquiring mind wants to know! The world of dew is the world of dew. And yet, and yet- - Kobayashi Issa, The Essential Haiku wednesday, july 12 Before the suspected Lupus, then diagnosed cancer took their toll, my mother had been a very strong woman. I particularly remember one Sunday. Mummy (OK confession time here, I still think of her as "Mummy" so deal with it) had gone out very early to Patterson's Berry farm to pick strawberries for breakfast. Claire and I rose groggily to the very obvious unhappy sounds of her return. We entered the kitchen where she flung down a bag onto the kitchen table. "These are the most expensive fucking strawberries you will ever eat." It turns out that she had been clocked at a very high speed while travelling through a school zone in some small Ontario town on the way to the way back from the berry farm. It didn't matter that she was up before the roosters, and the highways were devoid of all life, she was speeding. The ticket had been in the multiple hundreds, hence the increased cost of the strawberries. My darling mother had a lead foot. This, accompanied by a speed demon of a titanic sized Chrysler, were a recipe for disaster. She kept the PEI license plates on my step-fathers car for as long as possible. The out of province plates, along with her British accent were enough to delude many a poor police officer in Ottawa into thinking that she wasn't a local. By the end, I'm sure that her mug was posted in every precinct in the city. I can see the blurry image of her brunette curls, sunglasses and wicked grin with the phrase "have you not ticketed this woman?" even now. I've only received one speeding ticket. This is not to say that I haven't inherited my mother's lead foot, only that I've not had the misfortune to be caught (knock on wood). And that one ticket still rankles to this day. Christmas Eve in the wee hours, making a mad dash from Ottawa back to Guelph with Claire, Owen and Geoffrey. I was pulled over in Aberfoyle and handed a ticket for $97. I was very disturbed by the officers apparent lack of the holiday spirit. I grumbled on every subsequent pass through that small town. This all came to mind when Claire mentioned that the local strawberry crop had suffered as a result of a very rainy June. I wish the same could be said of the cherries that are in great abundance here. I have no will power when it comes to cherries. The result isn't pretty. Yesterday? Kimmy chronicles. Along the shore mixed with the small shells, petals of bush clover. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku tuesday, july 11 Claire and I spent many days of our childhood hanging around with Kimmy from next door. Kimmy was the youngest of five sisters - Sheila, Janice, Wendy and the one whose name I can't remember, were cooler than cool and as a result, Kimmy was far more worldly than we could ever hope to be. Kimmy's parents also put in the neighbourhoods first in-ground pool. This meant that the pretty pink and blue playhouse in the backyard was sacrificed to house all the machinery, but we accepted this encroachment with some semblance of dignity. Anything to replace those large, round, inflatable monstrosities that we managed to pierce with alarming regularity. There's nothing so sad as a deflating wading pool. And nothing so annoying as three whiney girls. I may go to hell for repeating this, but Kimmy chewed her toenails and ate dog food (wet, from a can, not dry kibble or biscuits!). My mother once tried to bribe her with a ten dollar bill, if she would give up chewing her toenails. I don't think it worked, though I'm thinking that Kimmy most likely abandoned this behaviour, along with munching on the dog food. My mother had a history of attempted bribery. One of my earliest memories is of sitting in my high chair with a large Dairy Milk bar on the tray in front of me. I was hypnotized by the shiny bronzy foil peeking out from either side of the snowy white label. Dairy Milk was printed in pale blue, outlined in metallic copper. It would be mine, all mine, if I would allow her to pierce my ears. I really wanted that chocolate bar but considering that my sister was howling across the room, I wasn't too interested. The ear piercing consisted of an ice cube, a large, sharp tapestry needle and a bar of soap. Claire, still a baby, had suffered the indignity of having her ear frozen with the ice cube and then pierced with the needle, through to the bar of soap. She wasn't happy and her unhappiness seemed to be greater than my perceived value of that Dairy Milk bar. I guess that it's no surprise that my ears weren't pierced that day. The event occurred when I was in the sixth grade, by my request, at our local beauty parlour. They had one of those new fangled guns, which punched your ears with far less muss and fuss than the ice cube, tapestry needle and bar of soap method. Yesterday? Potter pains. A wild sea- and flowing out toward Sado Island, the Milky Way. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku monday, july 10 Be prepared for a rash of Harry Potter related injuries. "There was tragedy today in Punkeydoodle Corners as little Davey Brown suffered a serious concussion when his sister Sue clocked him with the newly released Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Davey was sent flying through the twin's upstairs bedroom window onto the ornamental rock garden below. Sue was seen through the window, straining to raise the volume over her head, with chubby arms, unaware of Davey's disastrous tumble. Prognosis is guarded, though Davey was heard to mutter 'damn muggles' as he was airlifted to the Littleton Children's Trauma Unit. Sue has been grounded and Goblet of Fire removed as evidence. The Punkeydoodle Press will keep you updated as events develop." "Bessie May Johns suffered a broken toe when she inadvertently dropped Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on her left foot earlier today. Mrs. Johns cradled the tearful Bessie May as they rushed to Dr. Lox's office to ensure that there were no broken bones.Have you seen the book? It's a damn brick! It will prop up any couch missing a leg. I myself will most likely suffer a series of hinkelbonks as it conks me on the noggin as I fall asleep. I really hate that... Falling asleep while reading. I always wake up disoriented in the wee hours with the lights on sporting little furry sweaters on my teeth (they haven't been brushed). Stumbling around, I suffer the many a further indignity of a stubbed toe or broken nail as I attempt to recapture my composure and perform all necessary ablutions. Yesterday? Dad's diaries. The crow walks along there as if it were tilling the field. - Kobayashi Issa, The Essential Haiku sunday, july 9 From one of my father's diaries, No. V, 7th June - 30th November 1946, Recruit Training, 14178147 Spr. C.G. Champ, Royal Engineers. Tuesday 26/11/46 "Had a nice job first thing, unblocking a drain from the urinal. We were using rods and unfortunately left the screw end and one rod up the drain. Luckily no on saw us. I hadn't signed for it and we cleared the blockage so we should be in the clear. Otherwise the day was normal." And tucked inside... A poem written by my aunt. My Brother My brother's in the army now; What a life for the poor little dear! He has to feed on Army chow; No more chips for many a year! He has to bash a square all day, And peel spuds for the Sarge, And polish his badges to make them gay, And wear Army boots too large. He's got pin-up girls above his bed, With pretty curves and lips; But he'd give all the pin-up girls, For a plate of his mother's chips -Eileen Norman I am Jason Kottke. The day before yesterday? Kibble and bits. They swallow the clouds and spit out blossoms- the Yoshino Mountains. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku friday, july 7 As I was walking home this evening, a little girl was riding her bike in the middle of the street. She still had the training wheels on as she wobbled and struggled to peddle. It reminded me of when I was little and how badly I wanted a bicycle but couldn't get one. My parents wouldn't let me have a bike until I was 12; my mom was too afraid I'd hurt myself. I'd pass the bike section in the store and just look, having given up asking my parents about it long ago. I eventually did get one after much pleading and begging. Amazingly, getting my driver's license at 16 and the subsequent borrowing of the family car passed without incident. I'm feeling all choppy and discombobulated today. There's no real reason, but if there were a puddle outside, I'd go and have a good stomp. Perhaps it's just one of those days. You know, the ones that never really form into a smooth groove of productivity. Don't get me wrong, I'm getting stuff done. I can't just seem to find any pleasure in it. So baby, it's kibble and bits. Whistling irks me. It's right up there with the whole winking thing. Yes, I'm just a grumbley curmudgeon, but really, doesn't that off-key tootling just drive you bananas? I'm not talking about a short, sharp, get the fuck out of my way, whistle between the teeth, alert whistle, but the whistling that's akin to humming a tune. I can't name that tune in six notes, nor do I want to try. Why is it that flying has become the least likely thing that anyone wants to do when you have to travel? You're treated like cattle, abandoned with little to no information at inopportune moments in far away hubs and get to pay for the pleasure of sitting hour endless hours on the runway. But when you see a hawk wheeling and soaring in an open blue sky, you can feel the spark that encouraged man to hurtle himself into the air. I'm going on a quest. The flattened pennies aren't going to cut it anymore. Not when there may be one of those lucky charm machines somewhat nearby.
FOJM Updated:
Bryan,
Elizabeth,
Erica,
Looca,
Andrew, and
Michael.I know that you're out there taking pictures, so why haven't I heard from you? Submission is a painless process. No first born children. No nasty, elitist selection committee. Despite what you might have read about some elitist, digerati philosophy, it's all about love baby and that means everyone gets to play. Yesterday? Car crazy. The dragonfly can't quite land on that blade of grass. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku thursday, july 6 Baby, you can drive my car! My accent may have flattened out, with the exception of that pesky "out" thing, but there's nothing like trying to buy a piece of the American dream to really surface that feeling of "other." Yes, I am "other." Technically, I am a "non-resident alien." Isn't that charming? I'm a freaking alien! I'll get it out of the way so you can all snicker. "Out and about in the boat!" If you can't imagine what this sounds like, give me a call. I'll repeat this Canadian revealing ditty until you pee your pants with laughter. Quite frankly, I've stopped seeing the humour in this some time ago, but I wouldn't want to deny you the opportunity for a giggle at my expense. Anyway, try applying for a car loan when you've bounced back and forth across the border and through a variety of Internet related jobs. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it's just damn awkward. In the end, I was victorious. She's an itty, bitty thing of beauty. All shiny, silver, and brand new with only three miles on the odometer. My first new car was a Hyundai Pony that I bought with Claire, while at University. For awhile, it was the ubiquitous cheap, affordable car in Canada, though the model was never sold in the US. I drove it down after being assured by Hyundai officials that I would be able to have my car serviced stateside. Yeah, right. Claire had to buy parts and ship them to me in New Jersey. The only glimmer of recognition came from one gentleman at Midas who muttered "the last time I saw one of these was in Guatemala." Ah ha! Canada and Guatemala. It makes so much sense. What was I thinking? But as usual, I digress. I managed to leap tall buildings by burying the dealership underneath a drift of copies of all manner of utility bills and pay stubs which assured them as to my gainful employment and validity as a member of the human species, despite my "otherness." Oh, it also helped that I had a friend at the dealership. The downside? My bank account is decidedly thinner and I'm still queasy from the whole transaction. I can't imagine purchasing a home. I'd likely projectile vomit on the real estate agent at inopportune moments. Yesterday? Morning monsters. Clear water- a tiny crab crawling up my leg. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku wednesday, july 5 Another addition to the two kinds of people thing-a-ma-jig. There are morning people and there are non-morning people. From personal experience, I would have to say that morning people are a rare species. Most likely, the majority were identified as small children, and left exposed on mountain tops. The very few, like myself, who happen to survive, are a wily bunch. We can move fast enough to evade those flailing, slumber laden arms thrown in our direction. While you non-morning people are burning daylight, we morning people are up and about, forming full sentences, and getting on with our day. My favourite childhood morning person memories are as follows: Sitting on the heating duct in the large picture window, waving to the snow plows as they wended their way through our neighbourhood in the early hours of an Ottawa winter morning.I learned something very important this past weekend. Morning people don't know how incredibly annoying they are until they meet a morning person who is more morning than they are. I'd like to offer a blanket apology to all those non-morning people, past and present, who've had to deal with my break of day babbling. I will endeavor to keep my yap shut while you surface with the lethargy similar to that of a diver avoiding the bends. I will zip it, baby, because I've just discovered how close I've come to bodily harm. Today's excerpt from the Official Heather Champ User Handbook. If Heather ever says "short hike" be wary. It's a euphemism for "I really don't know how long it will take, I've never been on this trail before, but the dotted line isn't that long, so we should be fine." A confession. I've preordered Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I've contributed to Potter Fever. Smack me! Yesterday? "Fucking bricks" Calligraphy of geese against the sky- the moon seals it. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku tuesday, july 4 I'm having such a giggle with Bill Bryson's In a Sunburned Country. The books is interspersed with gems like the following: "In the 1950s a friend of Catherine's moved with her young family into a house next door to a vacant lot. One day a construction crew turned up to build a house on the lot. Catherine's friend had a four-year-old daughter who naturally took an interest in all the activity going on next door. She hung around on the margins and eventually the construction workers adopted her as a kind of mascot. They chatted to her and gave her little jobs to do and at the end of the week presented her with a little pay packet containing a shiny new half crown. She took this home to her mother, who mad all the appropriate cooings of admiration and suggested that they take it to the bank next morning to deposit it in her account. When they went to the bank, the teller was equally impressed and asked the little girl how she had come by her own pay packet. 'I've been building a house this week,' she replied proudly. 'Goodness!' said the teller. 'And will you be building a house next week too?' 'I will if we ever get the fucking bricks,' answered the little girl." The day before the day before the day before yesterday? Croissant crisis! Misty rain, can't see Fuji -interesting! - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku |
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