Ode to Tea

I scratched this out quite a few years ago. But since I can't seem to think up any worthwhile blogging contribution to make right now, I thought I'd post this, my Ode to Tea:

There is no better thing than tea
when asexuality
insinuates into your life
its dull and dreary knife.
Try passing a drab little while
with a sip of camomile;
Consider all that might have been
with tea that's Asian and sea green.
Remember Eros' faded feeling
with nostalgic Darjeeling;
or recall a rose blushed May
with bergmoted Earl of Grey.
When loving limbs don't wrap behind you
and absent amour cannot find you,
bear it with a stoic grin
and a cup of fragrant jasmine.

Herbal brews can wipe a tear,
and soothingly uplift and cheer
until you're almost feeling merry
with tea black currant or strawberry.
Hibiscus, rose, cherry blossom,
alone, or in a blended sum
with berries elder or of rasp,
brewed as tea unloose the clasp
of sadly solitary days
and banish your self-doubting haze.
Tea orange pekoe, or ginseng
will amaze by how they bring
the uncompanioned right back to
a far less desperate point of view.

Thus they say that simple tea
cures the heart remarkably;
and if it can't a lover find,
at least it helps you not to mind
the lacklustre state of self
you endure upon the shelf
of sweethearts who've been set aside.
Let gentle tea become your bride,
or husband, as the case may be,
though flesh it cannot ever be,
at least you'll hold your cup of tea.

Tag: Tea, How to become an idiot

The real me?

I think these results make me sound like a good candidate for a schoolyard ass-kicking:

Bill took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Longs for a tender and sympathetic bond and for a ..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

I sound like a weenie.

FFF #9: Does it ever stop raining in this town?

Thanks to Brooke I ended up at Purgatorian and saw the post for FFF #9 (Flash Fiction Friday). Well, I didn't see it till Sunday and here's my contribution:

“It’s raining.”

“Yes.”

“Will it stop?”

“Eventually.”

“When?”

“Dunno.”

“Shit. So why do you like this town so much? All it ever freakin’ does is rain.”

“There are places in Africa where this would be proof of God’s beneficence.”

“God’s what?”

“Beneficence.”

“What’s that?”

“Kindness. Goodness. A helpful gesture.”

“Well, this isn’t helping me. If it’s from God, I think he’s saying this place sucks.”

“No. Beneficence. God knows exactly what he’s doing. Doesn’t he?”

As he spoke, he turned to the rest of the crowd. Soberly, they all nodded in the affirmative.

The stranger, who did not care for the rain, sensed he was missing something the others all shared.

“So …” he began haltingly, wondering what it was everyone but he knew, “So what’s God know that I don’t? What’s he doing?”

The man he had been speaking to smiled at him. “He’s making a suggestion,” he said.

“And a damn good one!” he laughed, again nodding to the crowd.

They laughed with him. The stranger quickly developed a sense of discomfort that soon evolved into anxiety.

“Well, I think I’ll head back to my hotel now …”

“Oh, no, no …”

The crowd drew closer.

The stranger felt hands on his shoulder. The clasp of firm grips anchored on his limbs. The crowd of locals lifted him. The stranger remembered his youth and mosh pits.

But this was different.

They were moving him outside into the rain.

“Hey! Put me down! What’s the hell’s wrong with you people? Put me down!”

They did not put him down. Rather, they carried him aloft, almost as if he were a sacrifice, and carried him down to the dock.

They tossed him in the water.

Sputtering, he cried out, “Fuckers! Asshole fuckers!”

He swam back. But he could not get out of the water. Dozens of arms reached out to him. Unforgiving palms slapped down on his skull and forced him beneath the surface.

He struggled. He swallowed water. He lost consciousness and ceased resisting.

The crowd moved away.

As they left the dock someone said, “Look. I think it’s beginning to clear up. God, I love this town.”

Someone else laughed, and shouted, “Hey! I’ve got ‘Blonde on Blonde’ on my iPod!”

Tag: Fiction, Flash fiction, Sunday stories

Arriving where we started

It has not been the best of years for quite a few people I know. I’ve been struck by how many of them have lost someone in their lives, in most cases a parent.

To some extent, I’ve had a difficult time relating to it because in my case my parents have been gone quite a while, and my grandparents … well, we lost them a long time ago.

So what some people are going through, the coming to terms with loss, happened quite a while back for me. I lost my mother about five or seven years ago and I think my father passed away something like fifteen years ago. (Yes, I have a terrible memory for dates though, strangely, I still remember my mother’s birthday, June 1st, and my father’s, December 21st … but don’t ask me what years.)

With all this loss going on for others, I’ve been thinking about my parents and what they mean to me now, and what losing them means, and I find time and memory are busy little workers who bust their humps non-stop. (Yes, that's Dad on the right.)

What I have found has happened is, while I don’t think of my parents all the time, they are not only there all the time – they’re running the damn show!

Almost everything about my life is informed by them. Certainly many of the dominant aspects are.

Give ya a f’r instance … I am an unapologetic geek. Much as I like nice things, appreciate design, like the tastes of good foods well-prepared, and the infinite variety of pleasures the world affords, I’m a book-music-movie man. And this, my friends, is directly attributable to my parents.

In fact, I miss my parents most when I see a good movie (well, a good old movie) or hear some good music.

Let’s take music … my Dad was a jazzy accountant. He loved jazz. At one time, back in the dim and murky past, he played horn in a band that toured southern Ontario. It’s almost impossible to picture him without seeing him sitting in his chair bent and rocking to the rhythm of his Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Coleman Hawkins, Wild Bill Davison and other jazz records. (That's the Duke on the right.)

His fingers would snap. His face would scruntch up as he did what would be his equivalent of playing air guitar (except with him it was trumpet).

So what music do you think is showing up on my iPod these days? Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Coleman Hawkins … That’s the music I’m listening to. And if the twenty year old me was around, he’d probably say, “What’s with that? I thought we left home to get away from shit like that?”

Of course, there was a lot more to my father than jazz – some good, some not so good. And an awful lot that was screamingly funny. Dad loved to talk and therefore loved an audience. So at dinner – or anywhere, for that matter – we, the kids, would have to listen to his stories.

Exasperated, my mother would say, “Laurie! They’ve heard that one before!”

And Dad would brush her aside with, “Yes, but they like this one,” and merrily continue with whatever he was telling us as we rolled our eyes.

(Minor aside: Laurie is the Scottish diminutive of Laurence, and that’s Laurence with a “u”. Dad was no Larry – I think he’d have blown a gasket if someone called him that.)

By the way, the business of stories? I think that’s one reason why I love writing, books, movies and music. Everything’s a story and I love them, something I believe I probably get from my father and my grandfather on my mother’s side, J.A Murphy, the ex-train man.

Perhaps it’s as T.S. Elliot said, “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

It’s taken some time, but I’m getting to know my place for the first time.

This post has gone on longer than I expected. So I’ll hold off on rambling about movies and my mother (and, for that matter, my grandmother – who was the perfect audience for cinema). (btw ... I don't just listen to jazz, but it's been incorporated into what I listen to in a big way.)

Tag: Family, Fathers, Loss, Memory, Jazz, Duke Ellington

I'm sorry, these brains are offline

If life's got you down, if you're feeling despondent about your life, if you're thinking this grey morass of humdrum day to day activity could not possibly get worse ... Go for a walk.

Take public transit.

From the sidewalk, view the street.

See the people around you, look at the ones in cars, and remind yourself that, yes things could be worse. "I could be them!"

These thoughts occurred to me after reading Congratulations, you’re an asshole over at Girlspoke.

There are an astonishing number of lobotomized people out there. What I can't figure out is, having nothing going on upstairs, how do they get up in the morning, get dressed, get out of the house?

With those glassy-eyed looks, it feels sometimes that if you were to just turn them in another direction, they would head off that way rather like zombies.

How is it to live that way? What does it feel like? Does it feel like anything at all?

It's puzzling to me. But it also makes me feel better whenever I'm feeling sorry for myself and my situation, whatever that might be. I step outdoors. I have a good look around. It doesn't take long to see someone who appears completely desensitized and thoroughly dull-witted.

And I mutter, "Whew! Glad I'm not you, pal."

I'm surprised this doesn't come up more often in legal matters.

"How does the defendant plead?"

"I have no brains."

"No brains? Well, that explains it. Case dismissed!"

Later today, I will be going outside. I have some shopping to do. That's almost guaranteed to make me feel like a million bucks.

Tag: Stupidity, Brainless, Lobotomy, How to become an idiot

The Sunday sky

IMG_0367
Originally uploaded by Piddleville.

This may not be of much interest to anyone other than me but ... this is the day I was looking at on Sunday and, following a week of grey skies, wind, rain and generally despondent meteorological conditions, it was quite the thing.

And as a close look will show you, autumn has already arrived in my part of the world.

Alas! (This post also illustrates me figuring out how to use Flikr to get images on my blog.)

(And let me also add ... I finally got the soundtrack to the movie A Love Song for Bobby Long today and it's great - well, it is if you like a folksy-bluesy New Orleans kinda sound.)

Fashion, bloody fashion!

This weekend I stunned myself, my neighbours and almost everyone who knows me by finally venturing from my condo in search of new clothing.

You would think, looking at me, that I care nothing for my appearance. That I'm one of those clowns who will wear anything because ... well, in the absence of pride there is western civilization trailer park casual wear.

But you would be wrong! I like clothes! I like them so much I am finicky. But!

But!

Designers do not design for people. They design for themselves. And they aren't very good at what they do! Why else do you think they use models that don't look anything like the people who will actually wear their clothes? Because they would actually have to do some real work, real design. Being a lazy person myself, I know exactly where they are coming from.

Perfect example ... I bought a jacket. A sports jacket. I love sports jackets so when I saw this little number I said, "Yeah! Gotta get back to sports jackets!" I've been missing them terribly.

So what do you think the bonehead who designed this thing did? He put fake pockets on the inside lining. You know, real jackets have actual pockets - it's one of the reasons I like them. But the idiot who designed this decided it was a lot easier to put a fake pocket there rather than a real one. It would look so cool!

Who the fuck looks at lining? What possible purpose does a fucking fake pocket on the inside lining serve? It's worse than lazy. Worse than incompetent. It's just plain freakin' stupid!!!

It's sort of like building a house and painting a garage door on it rather than actually building a garage. God help you when Dad comes home three sheets to the wind and parks the car.

People of the world unite! How much longer are we going to let people design clothes strictly for magazine photos, and with no regard to function? Without a smattering of concern for the people who will actually wear these clothes?

Forget about men ...Women! Think what you'd save in therapy, diet plans and self-image if you could actually buy clothes that looked good on you, as opposed to this week's anger management escapee model with the look-du-jour?

Darn ... this was such a lovely day. I was really hoping I'd post something other than a rant. Ah well, maybe tomorrow ...

Tag: Fashion, Sports jackets, Designers

Women as bloggers - a follow up

Yesterday, I mused about Are women better bloggers? Today, while muddling around from blog to blog, I came upon I'm not a girl, not yet a wino and what do I find?

They are organized!

- Blogs by Women

They even have a blog about blogs by women!

I thought, surely men have something like this too? But a quick google search revealed nada (no, I didn't spend a lot of time looking). The closest I came to finding something that was at least in the ball park was a link to Of Blogs and Men. I confess, I have no idea what it was about. One glance and my eyelids were drooping. Washington. Politics. Earnest white guys in suits ... Gad. I'm falling asleep just writing about it.

I'm almost tempted to say, "Guys! We need to organize our own Blogs for Men!" But then someone would want to have a logo and uniforms like sports teams and initiate monthly competitions for the top blogs, top posts, top comments ... and contract someone to design little trophies and ... well, you know.

I saw a post yesterday (Babbling Brooke) where Brooke had a list of things she'd like to blog about. Here's the one I'd like to write, though I haven't decided which of the two titles to give it:

- The Manly Pansy or The Sissified Brute

Tag: Blogs, Bloggers, Women, Communication

Are women better bloggers?

I've been visiting sites for so damn long I've lost track. Of course, sites come in all forms. I'm not talking about commercial sites, the Amazons and so on, but personal sites. You know, some schmo like me just tapping out his or her life for the world to take a gander at.

While not scientific by any means (I ain't got no data), my sense is that women are far more interesting online than men. But is that true? Maybe I just find women's blogs more interesting because they're women?

Perhaps. But I don't think so. And let me say, too, that three of the blogs I go to most often are by guys (The Bleat, Citizen of the Month, Seth Godin's blog ... though Seth's is mostly about marketing and business, so it's a bit of an exception.) Still, the first site/blog I ever went to was Pamie's, way back when.

But women seem to be chattier and (sorry guys) with a couple of exceptions (The Bleat, Citizen of the Month) a lot funnier. And certainly more personal.

Which is kinda what they're like in the real world. I remember years ago getting my hair done by a stylist I use to go to. She'd chat away about this and that. One day, she told me about her womb dropping and some operation she'd just had to remove it. I thought, "Holy moly lady! Look at who you're talking to? What am I supposed to say to that?"

More alarming still, most of my friends seem to be women and I've often been out with them at dinners and so on. I'm the only guy there. The conversation begins and I can't keep up. Hell, I can't even follow the damn thing. They cover three or more topics simultaneously, often switching in mid-sentence. And I'm always going, "Who? What? Is that ...?"

And they're always sighing and saying things like, "Bill, please try and keep up."

It gets worse. They talk about EVERYTHING. Especially about men.

"What was his penis like?"

"Kind of thin. But okay. Except it sort of goes off at a weird angle."

It's quite alarming. But incredibly interesting and entertaining. While it's a bit cliche to say, and certainly stereotyping, I think women are just better at conversing than men. They communicate better. They're more inclined to communicate. Men, on the other, just love to blog about politics, technology, sports ... anything but themselves. I almost never see things like,

"What was her vagina like?"

"Well, it kinda felt like flying a 747 through the Grand Canyon. Still, it was okay."

Guys just don't write that kind of thing. At least, not without guffaws and elbows to the ribs, nudge nudge.

Anyway. I've concluded (unscientifically) that women are better bloggers.

(By the way ... I've used the term "blog" a bit loosely. Sites like The Bleat aren't blogs in the strictest sense - but they are.)

Tag: Blogs, Bloggers, Women, Communication

Ah geez .. I can't keep up - right column woes

You know, the right column of all my blogs languishes. There are so many new things to add to it, but I don't seem to have the time. I've even got a list:

- Things to add to the right column

There are those little itsy-bitsy banner things you have to squint to read (like that Feedburner one you can see over there). And there are blogrolls. And there are other updated site lists. And today, today I saw a list that shows what countries visitors are from. I should probably add that too.

But then I'd have to go register somewhere, find the code, figure out again how to add it to the template, then - voila! See it online and realize, that for all my work, my traffic is such that my visitors are from northern Alberta and Guam. Period.

Why does the blog world keep coming up with new stuff to add to the right column? All I want to do is write. Why make me do code shit? Why make me keep adding new stuff? It's not that I don't want to link to every site I visit, or show all the damn stats and aggregations you can shake a stick at, but ... geez! Give it a rest, already!

I can't write pithy comments if I'm dicking around with shit I don't really understand, like freaking code. I'm a man of limited brain capacity, you know? A man of limited skills.

Give a guy a break. No more shit for the right column! At least for a while!

Tag: Right column, Code, Stats, Blogs, Bitching

How to become an idiot - reasons for concern

So in the spirit of “monkey-see, monkey-do” I come across What Were They Thinking on the blog Girlspoke. And I think, "Yeah! Cool! I’ll see what search terms people are using to find me!"

Well, as it turned out, the searches are pretty boring. I've got The Burble blog, which is mostly about movies, and Writelife, mostly about writing. And this, Crazy Ass Planet, my poorly named blog for other things that pass through my head and I feel are worth jotting something down about.

Well, to get to the point ... the searches that land people on my blogs are NOT sexy. Not even close. But, very worrying to me, this search came up:

- How to become an idiot

Who the hell searches for that? I mean, doesn't the mere fact you are searching on the Internet for "How to become an idiot" sort of mean ... you are an idiot? You don't need instruction - you're there !

Secondly, what is it about my blogs that lead people to think they'll learn how to become a moron by visiting? It's not like I've got a primer online for becoming an idiot. Or do I? Are my thoughts the equivalent of an instruction manual on becoming an idiot?

I dunno. But I'm telling you, I'm worried. I'm concerned. This thing has me reaching for the Glenfiddich.

Tag: Idiot, Glenfiddich, Search terms, How to become an idiot

Too many comments? Too much blog hopping?

I'm beginning to realise that, as enjoyable as it is to hop from blog to blog and be stimulated by interesting notions, to the point of posting comments (as embarrassing as some of those comments may prove to be), while doing so I'm not posting on my own blogs.

Worse, in some cases the best posts end up being comments on someone else's blog! (Okay, so maybe they aren't so good, those comments. But the idea behind some of them might have been a worthwhile post.)

Anyway ... must rethink this whole bog business.

Tag: Blogs, Blog hopping, Comments

I'm listening to Maloyan Devil

I love this song ... and I love the disc it's on, Ocean Blues(Bob Brozman and Djeli Moussa Diawara). I just mention this because. No other reason. I heard Maloyan Devil a year or more ago on CKUA and had to get the disc. It took a while, but I got it through Amazon.

While I'm at it, Van Morrison's Veedon Fleeceis one of the best and least recognized discs around. I've always loved it, reacquired it just recently, and can't believe it's as old as it is (something like 1974).

And as I close, I'm now listening to Al Green's version of How Do Mend A Broken Heart? If you've never heard it, you really should. It's Al Green. Does more need to be said?

Tag: Music, Blues, CKUA

Trapped in my condo, feeling like Howard Hughes

For reasons I could recount but would be tedious if I did, so I won't, I'm living like Howard Hughes these days, trapped in my condo, working from home for hours on end. (This means more hours than normal due to a work situation.)

The point is ... I'm experiencing what is commonly known as cabin fever. And the result of that is I've taken to posting comments on blogs all over the place. Those blogs are so much more interesting than what I do for work and, given that I'm effectively incarcerated in my condo, they are more interesting than the cat, who sleeps without break through the days and nights.

I'm not sure how much longer this will go on for. But I hope it ends soon. What do I want most right now? Despite the problems of withdrawal, I want at least two weeks anywhere that isn't here. And without a computer.

Seems an odd desire for someone who has been online since 1912. But that's how it is.

Speaking of asses

I came across this (The Ass Files) while blog hopping and I laughed! Sadly, it reminded me of one of the stupidest things I ever did - when I was considerably younger and less aware of how the world operates.

I was living with someone and she often commented on my lack of style, clothes and so on. Not in a mean or nasty way, but things like, "Stripes make you look skinny. You shouldn't wear that." Blah blah ... In retrospect, she was trying to reform me. If not make me a better man, at least a more presentable one.

Anyway, every now and then she'd ask for my opinion on things like, "Does this fit right?" or "Do you think this looks good on me?" Usually, I would shrug and say nothing because I simply didn't know.

But one day ... well, one day ... It was a mauve coloured dress. But.

So, "Does this look good on me?" Turn arounding around, offering the 360 view.

So I said, "Um ... it looks okay. But it kinda makes your ass look big."

That I am still alive is a tribute to Canadian restraint. That I haven't been laid since Reagan was president is a tribute to the dull-wittedness of young males.

Tag: Ass, Stupid Men

News as a Super Bowl presentation

As the horror in the American south unfolded I, like many others, watched the news to see what was happening and when, or if, the poor buggers down there would get some help.

I hope this doesn’t come across as trivializing anything, because that’s not my intent – just the opposite, actually.

While watching CNN, a show called The Situation Room came on. Honestly, I thought I was watching the opening to the Super Bowl. Aggressive music, quick camera cuts, a stream of one liner headlines that congealed into an assault of meaningless sound, a kind of soundtrack to images edited music video style, a disco collage of desperation and destruction.

"Cool. Let's watch six stories simultaneously."

What the hell kind of news is that? What kind of moron thinks they’re getting information from a "news" program designed for people jacked on crystal meth?

There may be actual information of value in the show, but good luck finding it through the noise and images that flash by in nanoseconds.

I ended up watching MSNBC. As least it was comprehensible.

Tag: News, CNN, MSNBC, Katerina