open letter

i know that you are curious. i know that you are searching. i know that you will read this one day. and i know that when you do read this you will probably try to locate some hint, some evidence that i loved you. that i cared about you. that you were special to me. and i know that you will probably be disappointed. disappointed because you will not find what you are looking for. but not because i did not love you. and not because i did not care about you. and not because you were not special to me. because you were. but unfortunately, the words that you search for will never appear in the pages of this forum. because the truth is that try as i might, i could never accurately convey those words in a way that would make sense to you. or in a way that would make sense to me. because i never really learned how to express those words. those words that you quite rightly deserve to hear from me. and i just hope that with time you gradually learn to accept why those feelings were so difficult for me to express. because you already know a little something about my past. and because you are a bright child. and because you are an understanding child. and because you are my child.

and a spring in your step

so the other day i found myself sprawled out on the sofa beside my eight- and three-year-old, the three of us kicking back to an early episode of spongebob squarepants. just then patrick, spongebob's trusty sidekick, uttered a line that gradually brought a smile to my face. now typically, i am hardly one for animated hijinks. but the more i thought about the line, the more i began to beam. fast forward fifteen seconds and i could barely contain my mirth. in fact, before long i had become so manifestly bemused by the starfish crack that eventually even eight and three had caught on to my general sense of merriment.

"what you laughing at, dad?"

"ah, nothing. it was just something that patrick said."

"patrick said something funny?"

"yeah. patrick said something funny."

"uh, ok dad."

so, too, the sight of that buxom old lady in our building who insists on squeezing my daughters' faces into her bosom every time she greets them. or the sight of my youngest selecting the same hiding spot time after time after time in her invariably futile attempts to thwart her elder sister's hide-and-seek ambitions. or the sight of middle-aged disco queens and their greying dancehall kings revelling in the music of their youth.

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