mirror man

so i stumbled upon a rather illuminating tete-a-tete featuring dr. drew on celebrity rehab last night. he was speaking with a former child star who had somehow gone astray despite all of the luxuries previously afforded him in his long-forgotten role of hollywood glamboy. not surprisingly then, the middle-aged cautionary tale now points the finger at his old man for many of the difficulties he must tackle in his present incarnation. but dr. drew was quick to point out that while everyday mannerisms of all shapes and sizes can most certainly be traced back to our earliest childhood role models, i.e., our parents, that inaugural education cannot possibly explain why some individuals persist along their self-destructive paths well into their adult years. it was as if dr. drew was drawing a line in the sand for the erstwhile celeb by challenging him to confront his demons and embrace the familiar mantra of "the past belongs to the past, but the future belongs to you." now it was not the first time i had overheard the good doctor utter the pithy refrain but i must say that it was especially poignant this time around given the dire circumstances facing the fallen star and the utter desperation of his current plight. and it reminded me of the entirely apt characterization i stumbled upon many moons ago which attempted to highlight the power of the spoken word amongst the readership of said prose. the power of the spoken word, the saying goes, lies in its almost uncanny ability to reflect the innermost attitudes and experiences of the audience members themselves, as opposed to, say, those of the piece's composer.

animals

they used to call it a repair shop. but today they refer to it as a service centre. not that it matters, really. not that it matters at all, in fact. for at the heart of this tale lies a human foot. a human foot and a container of pringles. for what would possess a young man to kick off his perfectly comfortable, faux-leather sandal in order to rest his sweat-soaked and callus-ridden right foot on the faux-leather chair perched right by my side inside the waiting area of the honda service centre at eglinton and caledonia? seriously. what would possess someone to do such a horrible and disgusting thing? and why would that horrible and disgusting someone elect to add insult to injury by stuffing his face full with one sour cream 'n onion pringles potato chip after another? and another. and another. animal.

"this is only a moment in your life... this is not your life"

what is it about those damn americans? what is it about those gun-toting, fist-pounding, bloodthirsty americans? and what is it about their near pathological obsession with violence and anger and aggression? why just the other day i watched as thousands upon thousands of them rode roughshod through the streets of a major urban centre tearing up sidewalks and smashing storefront windows and torching abandoned vehicles while others stood idly by snapping photos or cheering them on. and just a few months ago i watched as thousands more squeezed themselves into a sweltering domed coliseum after doling out hundreds of dollars each so as to bear witness to the sight of grown men in tights pounding one another into submission. and just this morning i watched as even thousands more slowed their vehicles to a near standstill in order to catch a glimpse of the potential carnage that may have resulted from an unfortunate roadside automobile accident.

oh. oh, wait a minute. those weren't americans. those were canadians.

never mind.

man overboard

so early this morning whilst standing before my bathroom mirror, i groggily popped the childproof cap on my latest bottle of overpriced antibiotics. suddenly and without warning then, several of the multi-hued capsules decided to made a break for it. unfortunately though, at least as far as my sinus symptoms were concerned, the aforementioned pill holder just happened to be positioned directly above the loo at that fateful moment. the end result? three of my valuable bacteria warriors were tragically lost at sea. and what's more, this ain't the first time i have seen items of precious lavatory cargo inadvertently go the way of the ss minnow. toilet paper rolls? yup. toothbrushes? you bet. wedding rings? yessir. and yet, each and every time i lose my grip and watch as my powder room wares plunge to their watery graves, i vow that will be the last time i make such a grievous error in digital adroitness. but alas, such is never the case. for just as i am certain that the sun will once again ascend come tomorrow morn, so, too, am i at peace in the understanding that accidents do indeed happen. and mistakes are never too far down the road. 'cause as long as there remains at least one oddly-shaped personal grooming and/or pharmaceutical product that defies proper handling skills, there will always be an energy efficient american standard toilet bowl eagerly anticipating its arrival.

i felt a redux was in order

when did it all get so complicated

i remember a time when thirty-two television channels and a single remote control were enough to keep us occupied. when pop music came in only two formats -- 33's and 45's. when the latest smith corona typewriter was deemed the height of technological ingenuity. when everyone got their news from the same 11 o'clock newscast. when hangin' out at the pool hall was just the thing we all did on a saturday night. when the only choice in grade school we got was the choice between shop and home ec. when it would take several weeks for the local gossip to wind its way 'round the neighbourhood. when the playground bully could be neutralized with a single phone call to his mother. when riding the subway to the eaton centre was considered the highlight of one's week. when landing a ticket to the simple minds concert meant standing in line all day outside maple leaf gardens. when front yards and rear porches were open for one and all to enjoy. when the difference between the coolest kid in class and the geekiest kid in class was hardly any difference at all. when books looked like books. and felt like books. and smelled like books. and when your best friend was your one true friend.

so close your eyes and listen then

tattoo you

so there's a lady in my 'hood who i see out and about every now and again. a middle-aged lady. with a kid to boot. a young daughter round about five or six. sometimes i see the two of them at the park in the back of my condo. other times i see the pair at the metro or the shoe store across the way. and once i even remember spotting the duo patiently awaiting their turn in the queue at the bank. and the thing is, the lady i'm describing always seems to have a smile on her face. and a spring in her step. and there's absolutely no reason for me to suspect that she's hiding any skeletons in the closet either. and yet... there is that one odd little piece of business about her. that odd little business about the tattoo. that's right... the tattoo. the tattoo that sits prominently upon her right ankle. or just a smidgen above her right ankle, to be precise. 'cause you see, it certainly ain't no ordinary, run-of-the-mill ankle tattoo. no, as a matter of fact, it's just about the most disturbing-looking thingamajig i have ever laid eyes upon. now how can i describe it exactly? how exactly can i do it justice? well, for one thing, it sure as heck features a lot of blood. that's right. blood. dollops and dollops of the crimson stuff. and then there's the dagger. that's right. the dagger. all shiny and pointy and dagger-like and all. so what's the problem then, you ask? well, the problem you see, the problem is that this sweet-looking, middle-aged lady with the angelic-looking cherub for a daughter just doesn't seem to fit the part. or should i say, just doesn't seem to fit the tattoo. i mean, maybe if it were a tattoo of her daughter's name. or the face of a former paramour. or even a pair of wings, gilded, and surrounded by a trio of fluffy clouds. but a dagger? and all that blood? i don't know... i guess it just makes you stop and think. i guess it just makes you think about where we all come from. about where we've all been. and ultimately, about where we're all heading.

the forehead people

and yet, if you look really closely, you can actually see the pride written all over their faces. there, beneath the glossy veneer of self-importance and self-distraction. there, beneath the pent-up frustration of dreams dared and dreams dashed. there, beneath the weary automatism of the daily grind and the days that follow. there, in the minty glare of highly treasured smartphones and e-readers. there, in the soothing mist of lattes and lemon tea. there, in the midst of all those iconic and iconoclastic attachments. there, in the corner of the viewing area. there, in the corner of their eyes. there, in the blink of an eye. there, for all to see. and there, for one fleeting moment, for junior to see. for he can see it all. he can see their pride. he can see their distractions. he can see their frustrations. he can see their weariness. but more than anything, he can see their foreheads.

my mother always said to dress for the season

the thing about living in a neighbourhood with a significant component of elderly persons is that you can never really get a decent read on the weather. well, at least not by glancing out the window anyway. because the elderly seem to have this very odd, this very skewed sense of temperature. skewed in the sense that no matter what the temperature outside, the elderly will invariably elect to dress themselves as if a snowstorm is threatening to touch down. even in the middle of may. and the thing is that no matter how high the mercury rises, the elderly will inevitably approach the weather in the same way that a minesweeper approaches a combat area. with extreme caution. because i suppose that it could begin to snow. in the middle of may. and if by chance it does begin to snow, in the middle of may, it is likely the elderly who will be the most prepared. in fact, it is likely the elderly who will be the only ones prepared. for a snowstorm. in the middle of may. and even if that may snowstorm never actually touches down, just the sight of my bare arms and bare legs alongside all those woolen hats and fluffy mittens and down-filled parkas is enough to make me think twice. think twice about my choice of apparel. even though it is the elderly, and not i, that need to take a long, hard look in the mirror. because surely there can be no impending snowstorm. in the middle of may.

so the lead singer kinda reminds me of a fellow i know

not a creature was stirring

shopper: hello, i'd like to return this miniature pool table.

cashier: um, do you have the bill, sir?

shopper: well, no. no, i don't. but i am absolutely certainly that i purchased this item here.

cashier: yes, i understand that, sir. but in order to return an item, you must produce proof of purchase. you must also produce the bill. you must return the item within thirty days of purchase and you must produce the bill.

shopper: well unfortunately, i don't have the bill anymore. but like i said, i am absolutely certain that i bought this item here. i remember buying it the night before christmas. i bought it for my daughter.

cashier: christmas? you bought this item for christmas? sir, it's april. christmas was four months ago.

shopper: so... what are you saying?

cashier: sir, you can't return an item that you purchased four months ago. even if you still had the bill.

shopper: and why not? where does it say that i can't return an item i purchased four months ago? where does it say that?

cashier: uh, on the bill.

shopper: well, i don't have the bill.

cashier: and besides sir, christmas gifts are clearly marked "no return."

shopper: and why is that?

cashier: well, for one thing, because it is very difficult for the store to sell christmas gifts once christmas has come and gone.

shopper: but this isn't really a christmas gift. i mean, it's a pool table. a miniature pool table. how does that qualify as a christmas gift?

cashier: um, did you purchase it around christmas time?

shopper: yes.

cashier: as a gift for your daughter?

shopper: yes.

cashier: well then, it's a christmas gift.

shopper: but it's not a santa claus pool table. or a rudolph the red-nosed reindeer pool table. it's just a plain ol' pool table. a plain ol' miniature pool table.

(long pause)

cashier: well, is there anything wrong with it?

shopper: no.

cashier: is it defective? is it damaged?

shopper: no.

cashier: well, why do you want to return it then?

shopper: because my daughter doesn't want a pool table.

cashier: how come?

shopper: because she's an eight-year-old kid, that's how come! what the hell would an eight-year-old kid want with a crappy minitature pool table?

cashier: well, why'd you buy it for her then?

shopper: how the hell do i know! it was the night before christmas. i needed a gift. you were the only store open in the neighbourhood.

cashier: well, why didn't you attempt to return it sooner?

shopper: because she didn't even open the damn thing until last night.

cashier: your daughter waited until last night before opening it? how come?

shopper: i don't know. i guess she forgot about it, that's how come.

cashier: she forgot to open a christmas present? until april?

shopper: no, no, no. look, you don't understand. she opened the present on christmas morning, of course. but just the wrapping, that's all. she didn't actually open the box... she didn't actually open the box though until last night.

cashier: she didn't open the box until last night? why last night?

shopper: i don't know! i don't know why she waited until last night to open the box. look, she's eight, ok? eight-year-olds do some pretty strange things, ok?

cashier: and she doesn't like it? your child? she doesn't like the pool table?

shopper: no, of course she doesn't like the pool table.

cashier: and why is that?

shopper: like i said, she's an eight-year-old girl. what would an eight-year-old girl want with a miniature pool table?

cashier: so, uh, why'd you buy it for her in the first place then?

(long pause)

cashier: sir?

the first thing i noticed were all those lights in the mountains

the things we think and do not say

it occurred to me today that many of us spend more time thinking about the things we ultimately do not say than just about anything we think about in the first place. and it also occurred to me how uniquely different this life would be if we all just said everything we think rather than think about everything we say. and i wonder if anyone else has noticed how, in this society, we tend to hold those who pull very few punches, who put everything on the table, in a very odd light. because one would presume that in a society beholden to values of liberty and freedom -- one like ours -- one would presume that such libertarians would generally be viewed in a mostly favourable light. and yet that isn't always the case, is it? for far too often i have seen such individuals subjected to ridicule and scorn and contempt. and for what? for their honesty? for their frankness? for their courage to speak the truth as they see it? for aren't the lessons of our youth -- the lessons of our parents and our teachers and our mentors that encourage us to say what we mean and mean what we say -- aren't those messages just as valid in our later years? or have we become so concerned over how we may be perceived if our words are somehow misconstrued that instead we resort to the relative safety of that most famous of maxims, "silence is golden." because it isn't.

the best there is, the best there was, the best there ever will be