Not My Blog
Friday, August 31, 2001
Poetry Friday! [Slightly delayed.]
Poem Begun With A Line From A Dream
The windows of your shutters halfway down
cried to me the life of the child.
You are not so old
that you cannot lie naked
in the autumn leaves.
Even now, in such raw spring
as conjoins the end of winter
with the first flowers
we speak of the dread pools.
For the sun is a windy object
and its poetry free of device.
In my mind the leaves
have already opened.
Special Poetry Friday Bonus! No pseudo-intellectual crap commentary from me. Simply read it and envision.
Quote du jour, courtesy of my favourite ranter, Billy Connolly. He's talking about the real reason for most divorces:
"So really I reckon divorce in't caused by these exotic things; it's caused by smelly feet and farting and chewing out loud, you know, eating your dinner when it sounds like somebody running through a swamp with their wellies full of vomit, you know?"
On second thought...with a grappa-sensitized interior, this may not have been the wisest choice of quote. But, oh, well, I've gone this far, may as well finish the thing. Here's the best line I've ever heard about being hungover, from one of my aunts in Edmonton: "No WONDER I feel bad...my stomach's full of puke!" Have a nice weekend, everybody.
I have this feeling that Jon doesn't use a computer to write his blogs, but an Etch-a-Sketch™. One which he occasionally turns over and shakes vigorously. This would explain why certain of his blog entries mysteriously vanish.
I hasten to add I'm not being judgmental here. And perhaps there are some among you who wish that I would perform a little self-censorship here and there. Never! Every word is a gem!
I haven't found a poem to put up yet. This has something to do with an interval of carousing last night, wherein I proved my theory that the name "grappa" is onomatopeic, since that's about all you can say after you drink it. Oy.
Thursday, August 30, 2001
The quality of mercy... Last night Theo and I were romping at Nose Hill Park, our preferred rompsite. It was windy and beautiful, and as we were returning to the car, I noticed a hawk perched on a light standard, skreeing at regular intervals. I thought, poetically, it was calling for its mate or something like that. Then, about 100 metres on, I found a mortally wounded mouse on the path. That hawk wasn't lonely, it was irritated at having dropped its dinner. Anyway, at first I thought the mouse was dead, since it had obvious puncture wounds in its side and belly, but as I came closer, it raised its head and stared at me, scrabbling weakly with its paws. Theo hadn't noticed it, but I stood transfixed, wondering what to do. The strongly backboned women of my family would have forthwith stomped on the mouse's head to end its suffering, but I dithered for half a minute before finally picking up a sizable rock and crushing its head. That got Theo's attention, but he did no more than sniff at the mouse while I was frantically whispering "Please be dead, please be dead." I poked it and there was no movement...I hope I put it out of its misery. As I walked back to the car, I felt conflicting emotions. It's a mouse; I've taken lots of them out of traps. I've plugged many a gopher in my time, too, coming as I do from unsentimental farming folk. But what bothered me was the thought that the mouse had been lying there in agony for some time before I chanced upon it. Still, given as how the hawk was nearby, bitching loudly, I think the dog and I may even have disturbed it before it could finish off the mouse. I don't like killing things (houseplants not included, and even then I don't kill them out of glee), but I'm strongly opposed to needless suffering. Still, the way that mouse's eyes glittered as it looked up at me was unexpectedly moving. So there you go, I killed something yesterday. Not a situation I face very often any more.
Cool, très cool: You know what I love about bloggers? They answer their e-mail. I sent a message to BoyKani the other day because his "Hessian Heroes" parody made me bark up my lungs, laughing. I've mentioned before that I regularly read and enjoy his web log. Anyway, such a nice guy, he wrote back. Made my day.
That reminds me of the time when I wrote to both Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice, back in my distant youth, because I had grown up listening to "Jesus Christ Superstar" (the original studio version) and was fairly obsessed with it in my nerdy teenage way. Andrew Lloyd Webber had his secretary write a fairly terse, formal reply to me. His shows since then, the ones he hasn't collaborated on with Tim Rice, have sucked. Sucked, do you hear? Tim Rice, however, wrote me two letters, and was kind enough not to adopt a patronizing tone. I don't know what else he's been up to since collaborating with Sir Elton on "The Lion King," but because of that kindness back in the late 70s, I'll always be a fan.
Wednesday, August 29, 2001
Sean, if you ask anyone, male or female, how old he/she is and you don't come away with contusions or abrasions, count yourself lucky.
I've never understood why, but in western society, asking someone's age always carries an implied judgment, usually negative. That's if you're an adult. We make much of children growing older year by year, until we artificially assign expectations to an age: "You're nearly 12. You should know better than that." Except for my first cute and precious years, I've always looked older than my chronological age. It came in handy when I was an underage drinker, I admit. But it's annoying to be relegated to the "Ma'am" years before my time. Oh, and never reply to "How old are you?" with "How old do you think I am?" Take my word for it...people tend to guess high. Buggers.
Tuesday, August 28, 2001
Uh-oh....Not My Dog is Not Feeling Well. And she has a growing heap of dockets on her desk, while every few minutes account reps pass her doorway and ask "How's that [INSERT NAME] ad coming along?" To make matters worse, to compound the growing nausea and dizziness, is the sudden realization that she promised to meet people after work to raise a glass or two. This is probably the last thing she feels like doing at present.
Secret Copywriter Code, explained:
Monday, August 27, 2001
Duane, darling...not that I ever want to dissuade you from following your bliss, but are you sure you want to be a rent boy?
A mildly frivolled weekend, and a declaration of love. [All readers of Not My Dog wince, wondering: Is it me? What to do?] Fear not, my lovelies, for I am in love with an inanimate object. Which should reduce the shuddering to a scant one or two among you. Hyuk hyuk. And the name of my new love is Old Yeller the Aerobatic Kite.
Technically it's Fearless's kite, but she was foolish enough to let me bond with it. On Saturday morning, early, we headed up to Nose Hill Park with lattés and books and Fearless's two new kites. People gave us strange looks, since there was barely a breath of wind to be had, but Fearless and I live in hope. And we are rewarded: within two hours, which we spent reading and yakking, a mighty wind blew up and started my love affair with a humble kite.
For the next three hours we stayed on the hill, flying kites. Time passed without our knowledge. I was lost in a dream, dancing with a diamond-shaped piece of plastic high in the sky. Naturally Kirsten is better at flying kites than I am, but I persevered. Did I mention we lost track of time? There was another thing we forgot: sunscreen. Finally, dying of thirst and aware that our faces, necks, ears and scalps were ablaze, we trekked back to the car. The bad thing was, I had a bottle of sunscreen with me the entire time, in my bag. But I was beguiled by a kite's dance, and hardly regretted my smoking epidermis. And a 2-L Slurpee didn't hurt, either.
I am dying! Well, I will be after drinking 300 cans of Diet Pepsi at one sitting, that is. What's it all about? Why, caffeine poisoning, that's what.
To add to my joy, I have found out that one of my favourite bloggers, Asian Bastard, is not dead after all. He's back, in deceptively mild form, at dammitalltohell.com. He found the caffeine link. And he's also constantly making fun of Alan Thicke, a noble quest that's been sorely needed for over 20 years.
Friday, August 24, 2001
And now, it's time for Poetry Friday on Not My Dog:
I Knew a Woman
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
Oh, I love this poem. Love it. Love the rhythm, love the metaphors, everything. I wonder who his subject was. Obviously someone Roethke really loved. What would it be like to be loved so lyrically? I'm just going to go and hum to myself now.
Remember when drinking 8 glasses of water a day was good for you? Not anymore. This one gives me the heaves -- I'd rather light up, frankly. Now, if purveyors of the finer herbs would get on to this, I'd be interested. Mariwattah, anyone? Don't bogart that bottle!
Life just keeps getting better! New job, new condo, new lease on life, and now -- new computer! New to me, that is...it's the iMac currently being used by the president of the company. Lovely, lovely Bondi blue, all wee and round and -- mine, mine, all mine.
Well done, thou good and faithful Power Macintosh 7600/132. I shall miss the special way you had of locking up and keeling over in the middle of a file save.
Thursday, August 23, 2001
Sean, I'll be right over.
Wednesday, August 22, 2001
Oh, yeah, the courier package. Turns out it was the Super Pretty Happy Beauty Blender I ordered from Air Miles. Actually it was the Braun Power Blender, which took 600 of my hard-earned points. My neighbour did, in fact, have it. I'm not sure how it turned out that she signed for it. She's retired and perhaps the UPS people buzzed her apartment by accident (we're one digit apart). Anyway, she signed for it and took care of my blender for three days...but if that's how UPS does its business, remind me not to send anything by them, ever. "Oh, the addressee ain't home? Give it to da neighbour, Rocky."
I christened the blender properly by mixing up a batch of Pina Coladas, which Fearless and I promptly drank. Blender work good. Very, very good. Hic.
Of all the silly things to do on your web page, and they are legion, Eric Conveys an Emotion may be the silliest. Still, his "Sarcastic Display of Respect for Authority," or "Realizing that you truly are the Smartest person in the Universe" made me convey certain emotions of my own.
Revelation: I once thought myself fairly poetic, but the fact is I am hopeless at writing lyrical copy these days. I write one or two lines about resort property in the Atlantic, and immediately require a shot of insulin. Argh.
Some insight into my character: Not that you asked. But still. Here are the two movies I am awaiting with exactly the same level of eagerness: Apocalypse Now Redux and The Sing-along Sound of Music. Hey, why not the Sing-along Apocalypse Now? I can just hear an entire audience singing "Kill da Wabbit, Kill da Wabbit" as the helicopters swoop down over the Mekong Delta. Heck, I'd pay extra for that.
Tuesday, August 21, 2001
I like, I like, I want, I want: This chess set. I admit, Strange Brew found it first (one of the many links I have to thank her for if I ever meet her). I don't even play chess. I was given a chess set for my 12th birthday and never used it. Yet, if someone were to give me the Karim Rashid chess set, I would learn how, I really, really would. Actually, the entire Uncommon Goods site is worth looking at -- especially since it contains addictive little factoids, called "Uncommon Facts."
What will prevent me spending every pay cheque on Uncommon Goods? Oh, just the fact that I spent an hour at the Scotia Bank today, scaring myself mightily with my own signature on the legion of mortgage documents handed to me. From now on, even simple pleasures like overpriced Starborgs lattes are going to have to be rationed.
Sheesh...first I'm reading The Lord of The Rings, and now I want to learn how to play chess. I'll be joining an audio-visual club soon if I'm not careful. Just call me Geek-to-be.
Monday, August 20, 2001
Stereo wars in the Studio:
Saturday, August 18, 2001
Yet another sweaty Saturday morning: yet another romp on Nose Hill with the hound of my heart, Theo. Bryce and Tabitha are off to Strathmore for some baseball tournament or other: can you say sunstroke? Hangover? Mosquito bites? I definitely got the better end of the deal, even if the temperature's going up to another goddamn 32 degrees today. That's why Theo and I were up at the park early, so we can snooze during the heat of the day. Siestas are the only way to go when it's this hot. Theo drank 2 litres of water when we got home, and immediately headed for the basement. A smart dog, that one.
Tonight I'm supposed to be heading out to see "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" with Jon and Rory, and possibly Fearless, if she can drag herself away from the mesmerizing music of Afrikadey. I've read a lot of good things about that movie, giggled at how the right-wingers have objected to it being shown here in Calgary, and am consequently very keen to see it.
Grant, come home soon. Your freeloading web site friends miss you.
Friday, August 17, 2001
A Poem for your Friday: This may become a regular on Not My Dog. Ever since I posted the Antonio Machado poem some weeks ago, I've been wanting to add more verse. So every Friday I'll try to post another one that I found fascinating.
[Robert Graves (1895-1985)]
When the great ship ran madly towards the rocks
An unseen current slewed her into safety,
A dying man ashore took heart and lived,
And the moon soared overhead, ringed with three
To announce the birth of a miraculous child.
Yet you preserved your silence, secretly
Nodding at me across the crowded hall.
The ship carried no cargo destined for us,
Nor were her crew or master known to us,
Nor was that sick man under our surveillance,
Nor would that child ever be born to you,
Or by me fathered on another woman.
Nevertheless our magic power ordained
These three concurrent prodigies.
Stranger things bear upon us. We are poets
Age-old in love: a full reach of desire
Would burn us both to an invisible ash. . .
Then hide from me, if hide from me you must,
In bleak refuge among nonentities,
But wear your Gorgon mask of divine warning
That, as we first began, so must we stay.
Why is it a favourite? Honestly, I'm not sure I can answer that intellectually. Its impact is more visceral. The rhythm of the second stanza lulls me like a rocking ship. The enigma of the thwarted love and the Gorgon mask in the final stanza fill me with frustration. I suppose that's why it's been a poem I've had in my head for years, and why I always thank my friend, Peter Enman, for lending me the collection of Graves's poetry (which is agonizingly out of print) all those years ago.
Thursday, August 16, 2001
Allow me to correct myself: I'm very irritated by all things romantic today. Couples, syrupy music, candlelight, you name it, it bugs me. At lunch time I was seated on a bench, coffee in one hand, The Lord of the Rings in the other, and THERE'S A COUPLE SMOOCHING RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I'm trying to concentrate on whether Shire Reckoning 1452 is the same as A.R. 471 (part of the reason I don't do well with this fantasy genre is that there's no concordance to my world, there are many details to keep in mind -- oh, and I'm just plain dumb, too) and there's this giggling and smacking of lips and murmuring not five feet away. Oh, the romance. Kill, kill, kill.
Finished The Hobbit this morning. Hmm. It was definitely readable. But it seemed like any time that events progressed to a point where lots of extra description would be needed (like the Battle of Five Armies and how it proceeded), Tolkien would conveniently bonk Bilbo over the head and have him awaken with the action already over, and have to find out about it by anecdote. Well, perhaps we don't need to hear about every sword thrust and dwarf parry. Now I'm off to tackle The Lord of The Rings. I think I'm congenitally too cranky for this genre, so wish me luck.
How not to run a courier service: Last night I found a UPS delivery notice stuck to my door. It contained no tracking number, no name of sender, no date. However, the 1st and 2nd delivery attempt boxes were checked off. Then, more cryptically, at the bottom of the slip, after "If delivery not possible to first address, parcel will be left at___", the number 302 was scrawled. I knocked on my neighbour's door, but no answer. This morning I phoned UPS and commenced to baffle a series of customer service agents. No one seemed to know anything about a package, my address, etc. That's reassuring. Hope it's not the $1 million cheque from Publisher's Clearing House.
Today I am jealous of all people in romantic relationships. Just so you know.
Wednesday, August 15, 2001
Those who can't publish, post. Well, here's my wonderful frackin' Wednesday so far. I have a recording session for the latest shopping mall commercial. I am told that the session starts at 9:00 a.m. "Okay," I reply, and write down "Sync Spot 10 a.m. Wednesday." I arrive at the office to find that the account executive and her Gilligan have already left for the studio. I must blast down there on the old bicycle and arrive panting and perspiring. That's how the day begins. Then the spot has to be pretty much rewritten because the talent consists of two young kids, a boy and a girl, Simon and Barbara, and they read a little slower than our adult talent. Also, Simon isn't quite the reader that Barbara is, and I've given him the longer speech. Quickly I run to an adjacent office, hurl the accountant out of her workstation, commandeer her Mac and crank out another script. The morning was threatening to be a hemorrhoid with a migraine, but luckily, the kids were beyond adorable. Simon is one of those eerily talented kids you just know is going to be making a lot of money in a few short years. One of those kids I really envied back in school, who could do just about everything well -- everything that we thought was cool, like drawing, sports, music, and so on. Barbara was equally gifted, and something tells me she has a future in politics. They both sang extremely well -- not that we asked them to, they just did it while we were futzing around with the script. They were as mature at 11 and 12 years of age as I was at 20, and that's a scary thought.
The afternoon was spent discussing compressed gas technology and cryogas delivery. That's the way it is in the crazy world of copywriting. Now to find out what the hell "cryogas" is, besides a perfect name for an enchanted sword or shield or other doodad from Tolkien.
Speaking of which, I am 20 pages away from finishing The Hobbit. I am 15 again and my term paper's due tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 14, 2001
It gets worse. . . I hear from Bad Man that Grant is out of town for the rest of the week, so there is no resurrection in store for the server. Sucks to be it.
Oh, God, NO-O-O-O-O...the Splorp server is down. I have begun to twitch uncontrollably.
Monday, August 13, 2001
Phew! This month's disappearing faster than one of JP's self-censored blogs.
It is done, it is done. I have purchase a loffly front-loading washer and dryer, so this means I really, really, really am all grown up. Oh! Nearly forgot! In my quest for perfection, I also purchased a vacuum cleaner and an iron.
The result of this spree was a wild dream about a front-loading washing machine last night. When I tell you that I am also slogging my way through "The Hobbit" right now (Look it up yourself on Amazon...I'm too lazy to put the link in for you), you can imagine the resulting dream. What front-loading washers do to dwarves is, well, acrobatic, for one thing.
Finally: I miss Theo.
Sunday, August 12, 2001
I am full of beans. Ordinarily this could be said of my mental state (i.e., flatulent logic), but this time it's completely true. Cooked up a mess o' beans and chilies from scratch yesterday. If Bryce acts right, I may leave him some. Yum, yum...hot, hot.
Damn, Friday was an awful day. There was the dog's eyeballs drama overhanging everything I did. And then, because I am very disorganized in my old age, I didn't get the place tidied up before Bryce came back from a week's camping. Charming of me. Bryce was, of course, very concerned about the young gummy-eyed dog he'd encountered in his front hall. I was berating myself like mad for not having taken Theo into the vet first thing Tuesday morning last week, and apologized to Bryce. He helped me hold Theo down to put drops in his eyes (not surprisingly, Theo really hates this and struggles like a fish on the line). Then Bryce left for another weekend thing up in Red Deer. So I've been hanging around, bugging Theo with eyedrops twice a day. He's almost back to normal, so hurray, there's nothing wrong with his retinas. He just picked up a bacterial or fungal infection in his conjunctival membranes, hard to tell which, since the ointment kills both.
Theo's revenge for the eyedrops: Eating the strap off my sport sandals. Damn. They're expensive, too. Well, he hasn't chewed anything of mine for nearly 8 months, so I can't complain too much.
The Rat Pack Lawn Bowling Tournament: This took place yesterday, in aid of the Epcor Performing Arts Centre. Despite steady advertising by the CBC, the turnout was, well, pretty abysmal. We only fielded 8 teams, so half the green was empty. Heh. Good thing it was a fun day...I don't think we made much money for the Arts Centre, though. Quite a few people dressed in Rat Pack gear -- fedoras, skinny ties, sunglasses, etc., which was brave considering the extreme heat. There were draw prizes, games of skill, a live jazz band, a playoff round, --oh, and a $2 bar with quite accommodating bartenders. In other words, I was the Dean Martin of my own personal Rat Pack, slogging back martinis. Did it help my game? No, but then nothing does, really. I bowled my one or two fluke shots, and the rest were forgettable. Despite the appalling lack of fundraising, it was a remarkably fun day. Then home to wrassle eyedrops into the hound, and a night on the couch in front of the television.
I'm not sure how many more chances I'll get to look after the furry gent, now that Bryce has himself a companion (Psst -- She's too good for you), and I've also proved myself to be a Careless Infecter of Canine Conjunctivas. Today I'm tidying up (it remembers!), packing up, and spending lots of time with Theo, who is amenable to most attentions, except when I drag him into the bathroom and pull his eyelids back. Funny dog.
Friday, August 10, 2001
Why I know that the old spirit of EyeWire still prevails over that of its overlords:
Get e-this, get e-that;
Buy 'em out! Get real fat!
Cash in while the stock is hot,
Downsize when the stock is not.
Marketing? A mere mirage! --
Just change things on the "homepage."
Proof positive that despite the horribule working conditions (like waiting around for the executioner's axe to fall while trying to remain enthused about your work), there is still plenty of wit to be found in the old office. No, I didn't write it. No, I can't tell you who did. Because I promised, that's why. I'm still laughing over the first line and how it's a clever play on the name "Getty" as well as the head office's uncontrolled acquisition of e-commerce companies between 1999 and 2000.
Ooh, brrr...It just occurred to me that today is the 52-week anniversary of my Troubles at EyeWire...a blip in an otherwise fabulous job. I can say I'm mostly over my disbelief, rage, heartbreak and indignation, but I would still like to find the person who made up the story of me bitching out the Accounting department over an expense cheque. I suspect it was one of The Blondes. This was a complete fabrication, and to this day it still makes me furious that I was never given a chance to refute it or other charges. I know it's a trivial thing on the surface -- but in principle, it's just so wrong. Luckily, it didn't define my career there, but it was extremely stressful at the time.
Well, enough of unhappy thoughts. In answer to two questions sent to me via e-mail: Yes, Theo had rolled in shit, and no, I didn't just drop him back at home and take off for work. I hauled him bodily into the bathtub and scrubbed him down. He really must have wondered what he'd done wrong -- first a trip to the vet where strangers kept pulling on his eyelids, and then a bath from his crabby aunt to remove his wonderful smell. Second: in response to a friend of mine who had read an earlier blog, and who said "I know you've been depressed lately, but isn't buying a condo a bit of an extreme cure? I mean, wouldn't antidepressants have been cheaper?" Har har. (Okay, yes: buying the condo did lift me out of the current bout of nothingness somewhat, but not completely...and no, I don't recommend it as a substitute for smiley pills.)
The Morning, so far: Up at 6:00 a.m. Out with Theo to the park at 6:30 a.m. for his pre-vet-visit walkies. I leave him off the leash on the walk through the alleys on the way back. This turns out to be an ill-advised move.
While we are driving to the vet's office in a small town east of Calgary, I notice a peculiarly foul odour in the car. I check to see that there is no (a) crap (b) vomit or (c) garbage in the car, then sniff the outside air to gauge whether we've driven past a freshly fertilized field. Nope. Friend Theo, I find out, had taken the opportunity while my back was turned to roll in something in the back alley. It looked like shit and smelled like it. I conducted no further tests. Somehow, Theo rolled in it on the walk home, and I didn't notice until we were on the highway.
It was just like having a kid who barfs all over himself before an expensive photo session, or maybe a doctor's appointment. Anyway, we arrive, odorously, at the vet's office. Theo undergoes a few tests, and it's determined that there's nothing wrong with his cornea, but we can't get him to hold still long enough for a retinal scan. The nice vet sent me home with a tube of antibiotic eye gunk, and I pick up a bottle of deodorizing shampoo I can also use on the domestic tubbies at home.
If his eye still hasn't cleared up by Monday, he has to go back in for a retinal scan and more tests, which will involve sedation this time. Sorry, Bryce. Sure wish I knew what the hell happened to your dog.
Thursday, August 09, 2001
You know, when someone who rarely ever uses the eff word uses the eff word, it has much more impact than when someone who uses it continually uses it. An example of the latter being "F*ck ya ya f*ckin' f*ckface," or "f*ckin' missed that f*cker," phrases often uttered by stunting rollerbladers in my neighbourhood.
The foregoing sentences being an example of me writing exactly as I speak on Brain Fog days. Brain Fog days are my brain just below the surface, my inner dialogue making no sense, my short-term memory unreliable. Related example: I have been trying to remember my new address. Accordingly, I have been writing it down and testing myself. What's my address? #6, 914-.....914 - or what that 941? Try again: #6, 914-21st Street. Wrong. Check paper: #6, 914-20th St. S.E. Postal code? Thomas 2 Gordon 3 Xanthippe 6. I'll try again in five.
Not My Vet: Poor old Theo. On Monday morning at Jean's farm I noticed his right eye was constantly blinking and looked a bit inflamed. I figured that, with all the rough-housing he'd been doing with the farm dogs, he'd probably been scratched/poked/kicked in the eye somehow. So I thought I'd wait and see how it progressed. Well, it's been three days, and his eye is still inflamed, and now the other eye is starting to gum up. Just lovely. "Hi, Bryce? It's me, Jane. You know how Theo can find things by scent, not sight? That's good, right? You're okay with that, eh?" So we're off to the vet in the morning, Theo and his gummy eyes and I, and here's hoping he just needs a shot of penicillin and some eye drops.
Wednesday, August 08, 2001
Coming down the lane
Here comes Scot
Here comes Dot
Here comes Chicken Jane.
If I'd been a kid when this show came out, I'd have been teased mercilessly at home and school. Now, of course, I want every bit of Chicken Jane memorabilia I can get my hands on.
The innocence of youth: I noticed, on the same site, a song called "Get Hung up on H", which would mean something else entirely in the drug culture. Hmm.
Tuesday, August 07, 2001
Update to overweening jealousy: I am a dope. Sorry, Jon.
React first, think later: the famous motto on the Farries coat of arms.Which, if I were to have them approved by the College of Arms, would be described as follows:
Arms: Paly of four Or and Argent on a Bend between two Choleric Scotsmen's Heads caboshed Gules armed Argent the bouches ringed Sable a Chain throughout Or.
Crest, on a wreath Or and Vert, In front of a Scotsman statant the bum rhomboid and lowered Argent in the mouth a Foot Vert.
Supporters: On either side A Uisgebaugh Bottle Sable.
I'm forgetting the badge, but it wasn't a very funny joke to anyone outside the Society for Creative Anachronism.
Ooooh, arrghhhh, I was getting over my bout of overweening jealousy, and then I read this. There goes more tooth enamel.
Actually, I'm very pleased to see a cool web site get a little recognition.
Perhaps if I borrowed a trick from himself and put an 'x' or two in my domain name? Like www.notxmydogx.com? That would do the trick? Hmmm.
Alas, another cool web site has suddenly disappeared. It was one of my favourites, too.
Things I used to Lust After: records. Art. And now? A front-loading washing machine. As the last vestiges of my youth slip away...
Monday, August 06, 2001
I am tired of sweating. It's 27 degrees inside the house, the dog is exhaling hot steam on my right foot, and the toddler drink I purchased from the liquor store (Grapefruit Breezer, 5% alcohol, 100% dumb) is neither breezy nor cooling. In other words, I am stewing--but I went to check on the cats at my apartment, and it was 32 degrees there, so I'm thankful for small mercies.
Another long weekend come and gone, with little substantial to show for it. I had one thing to do all weekend, which was to start shopping around for washers and dryers (the only appliances I'll need in the new place). Didn't even get near a store. Instead, I spent Friday evening watching Bryce's barbeque run out of propane, Saturday afternoon at the zoo with the daughters of my friends (said daughters are 3 and 5 years old, respectively, and much smarter than me), Saturday evening refereeing Theo as he played with (humped) my friends' dog, Haley, and Sunday up at my friend Jean's farm, where Theo humped his way through three different dogs, swam his legs off in the lake, and ended a day of sin by giving me a fat lip.
Now it's Monday night, I feel like I could use another day of vacation, and work is going to be verrrry busy this week. Ahhh....nothing like summer.
When you feel like blowing cash, I heartily recommend small-town auction sales. Part of my misspent weekend took place outside the small town of Lacombe, where an auction was taking place of about 90 years worth of accumulated possessions of a former citizen. Jean says a lot of time old people sell off their belongings prior to taking up residence in a nursing home, but I'd be willing to bet that this was an estate sale, just by the age of the stuff. Anyway. Part of the enjoyment of auctions, for me, is to try to figure out what the person was like. After looking through carton after carton of assorted textbooks, esoteric novels, stored boxes [I wonder if that's a Canadian trait, never throwing out a box], clothing, appliances, furniture, boxes of old Philips Milk of Magnesia bottles, and ancient liquor bottles, I guess the owner was a schoolteacher and a bibliophile with a taste for the hard stuff and a need for ulcer relief. So what did I buy? Well, like most people, I have an overwhelming need for antique medicine bottles. Heh. Anyway, yeah, I bought a box of bottles and jars for $10, which is probably about $9 more than they're worth, but they'll look good amongst the what-nottery of my employers. I particularly liked "Castoria - a proven method for regular habits", which is 1920s copywriting for "Corked? Drink this."
Friday, August 03, 2001
Right back atcha', Tabitha Rasa. Reading your blog is an education in phrasing and humour. Usually I'd hate you, but hey, we have EyeWire in common, so I will instead tug my forelock to you, then settle back and grumble gently to myself.
Continuing a Barbie theme begun by Tabitha:In the summer of 1971, before a lot of you wretched kiddies were even a gleam in your dad's eyes, I wanted a Malibu Ken doll with paste-on sideburns, moustache and goatee. But my mother, practical as ever, figured if Barbie and P.J. really had to chase after boys, they could date my younger brother's G.I. Joes. Those were the days when G.I. Joes had fuzzy hair and beards. Sometimes Barbie went out with John West, but since his clothes were dark blue plastic and permanent, Barbie never got past first base. I'm sad to say P.J. was a confirmed camp follower of easy virtue. Part of the reason for this play is that my mother, enlightened as well as practical, had filled me in on the facts of life that summer. Eight years old might be too young for some, but since I had already been pestering her with questions and surmises, she figured she'd give it a try. Accordingly, she sat me down one night with her medical textbooks. I still remember my reaction to it all: "Why would you want to do THAT?"
Three decades later: I was searching for Malibu Kens on E-Bay but had no luck. However, I did find the following: Nazi Ken. As I said to Grant II, this is what you get the kid who has absolutely, positively everything.
Another Friday in the world of advertising: Citrus vodka and cream soda. Called, fetchingly, "The Pink Drink." Oh, well...at least my barf will be colourful.
Okay, now I'm a property owner. I just wish I could remember my new address. I know it's #6, something-something, 21st St. S.E. I drove over and met with Patti Haines, a real estate agent I'd recommend wholeheartedly to anyone, and she and I checked the place out again. So far I haven't woken up in a sweat, thinking "What the @#$!%! am I doing?"
Anyone need a 1985-vintage turntable microwave? Only used to bake potatoes and pop popcorn, usually. How about two 1973-vintage plastic wood-patterned end tables? Oh, come on...everyone needs those.
Tonight I begin looking after the mighty Theo, and generally trashing Bryce's house. I'm looking forward to it..especially because he has a washing machine and I have about 8 months worth of laundry to get through (much of it destined for Goodwill...can't bear the thought of giving away dingy socks.)
Revelation: I don't usually wear scent of any kind...but now I've found something I could conceivably live with. Oddly, it's a man's cologne. Fahrenheit by Chanel. Smells better on me than anything else I've ever worn. So I ask: why do we assign gender to scents? A lot of so-called women's perfume out there is much mightier than Fahrenheit. Anything by Calvin Klein (Eternity, Obsession, etc.) instantly has me wheezing and running for my inhaler.
Finally,, thank you, J. Jonah -- you were so right, "Howdy" by Teenage Fanclub is truly the best and poppiest pop album out there. Love it!
Thursday, August 02, 2001
Today I am a property owner.
So that's two big changes for 2001, then.
Note: I said "I think" earlier, just because I'm waiting for one last piece of paper from the seller. But the offer was accepted verbally this morning, and the documents faxed and....and....and now I'm officially a grownup. Before the age of 40, no less. Time for a celebration.
Wednesday, August 01, 2001
Great! Now I can define myself in a single word.
Quest for a Domicile, Updated: Well, well, well. I've found a place. I'm putting an offer in tonight. Here's the interesting part: it's just about exactly what I didn't want when I first starting looking for an abode. It's a townhouse condo, it's S.E. of city center, and it's new. Somewhat unlike the small detached bungalow in north central Calgary I was out to find. But it's pretty dang nice, and it borders the bird sanctuary, facing east, and it's close to the river pathways. And, heck, I just liked it a lot. So. We'll see if the owner will accept my offer. And then I'm just going to go have a good cry in Riley Park or something.
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