Grumble, grumble ... bloody spammers

I had to put word verification back on because some idiot keeps spamming me. You notice how they always begin with the obsequious opening, "Wow! You've got a great blog ..." Then they push their crap.

May wasps nest in their rectums!
May rabid beavers gnaw on their genitals!
May their dreams be populated with Love Boat episodes!

Unscramble me!

Thanks to Spinning Girl I have found a way to create a fairly accurate self-portrait. I would be grateful, however, if someone would please ...

Unscramble me!

Thank you for your efforts.

Condos and the extraordinary excitement that is my life

Though posting the odd rambling, I haven’t been commenting much lately or doing a great deal of anything. Why is that? I put it down to the fullness of life. And it’s idiocy.

Weekend: I was stuck with asshole neighbours and their parties. Doors slamming and “whoo-hoo” cries till four in the morning. Little sleep.

Monday: Assuming a role I’m unfamiliar with, uncomfortable with and which I plain just don’t like, I was a pissy condo owner. “Cigarette butts in the courtyard! Broken beer bottles! Garbage on the balconies! Decreased property value! What about my investment?” That sort of thing. Very out of character. But I have idiots living below me.

Weekdays: Way too much work! Meetings coming out the whazoo! Working WAY too late into the evening. Very disgruntled. I hate it when work interferes with real life.

In the meantime … I reconstituted my brain by looking at some old material I had put online. It appears my original blogging goes back as far as August 2000! The oldest post I’ve found so far is from August 19, 2000. And I decided to repost it, just for the hell of it (just as I reposted Cinnamon Cat, a little earlier – that’s from way back in 1997!) It’s interesting (the old post, not Cinammon Cat) because it’s about summer’s end, whereas we’re looking ahead now to summer getting under way.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, almost 6 years old, at a time when I was moving into my condo, here is:

Summer: where'd ya go?

Morning has arrived in our awkward little northern town and I realize the summer is packing for the season's end and looking to more hospitable southern climes for the long drudge of winter. And I say, as we say every year, "Where'd it go? Where'd it go?"

Yes, I may be a little premature in my nostalgic longing for the tumescent season, but this summer, for me, has been a whirligig of work and domestic activity (the condo) of a degree I'm not use to, and don't ever care to be. It's all been writing text for monsterously large Web sites and the hurly burly of moving and the anxieties of owning real estate (of a kind).

This is not my world, people. At least, not until now. It's made me a bit cross. A bit stressed. A larger asshole than I normally would be.

For example … I stopped mid-stream in my updates to these pages. Where did I go? Down a rabbit hole? Yes. That's exactly where I went.

Let's see if I can't update things. Finally.

The condo update (like anyone cares)

First off … I am out of the Dumpster! It is part of my past now. (insert rousing cheer here). It hung on like a buggering bishop, but it's finally gone and I am free. You would not believe the crap I threw out. And this was a shock to the system: I saw the sheet I initially signed when I moved in – the sheet assessing the condition of the apartment (aka, the Dumpster). It was dated April 1989!!! I was imprisoned 11 years, 3 months before I finally made a successful break. Call me the Birdman of Alcatraz.

Lessons learned? Never stay anywhere more than 3 years. Although a friend has argued for 5, and she does make her point well. From her e-mail:

I would say 5 is a better number. You need the first year to settle down and call it home. The second year you feel totally comfortable and wouldn't change a thing. The third year you decide what you hate about the place. The fourth year you begin making plans to change what you hate about the place. The fifth year you say screw it, I'm not going to waste my time changing it. I'll just sell it and move to someplace better. By the time the fifth year hits The Haven you initially bought officially becomes known as The Dumpster.

(She also speculated about whether the above rules should be applicable to spouses. Not being married, I couldn't help her. On first blush, it seems a good policy.)

Goatland morning

Speaking of havens, I am in year one of my new haven – the condo, aka Goatland. I am not only living here, most of my "stuff" is here (sans what I ditched). And I've received a call telling me the table and chairs I ordered have arrived, so all that remains are the stools I ordered and Goatland will be complete. Well, except for the colourful touches that add that certain je ne sais quoi to every home. (See? I'm already sounding like a home owning ass. Cappuccino anyone? Chardonnay?)

Also … The cable was hooked up this week. Next week? High Speed. Currently I'm doing the 56K thing and it makes me a bit testy (though I can still remember doing 2800 … Can you even imagine that?)

In other words, I am preparing to hunker down and burrow for the long Alberta winter in new, more attractive digs. One close to bars (huzzah!); close to restaurants (huzzah! huzzah!); one with lovely hardwood floors (huzzah! huzzah! huzzah!)

But this is just the thumbnail of the condo story (which really is of no interest to anyone but myself). If this were all the summer had been, it would be a very sad life indeed. Fortunately (he cocks a questioning eyebrow), that is not all it has been about. There has been much more, but that shall have to wait for update #2, which may arrive later this weekend. (But don't hold your breath. At the rate I've been going you won't see it until at least February.) (Yes, yes … I'm joking. It will be sooner than that.)

You bring the wine.

Anyway … For now, from the attractive accommodations of Goatland,

Toodles!

Cinnamon Cat

Cinnamon Cat follows the scent
of cinnamon dust and that
is the only concern of the cinnamon kitty
known as the Cinnamon Cat.

She loves a bun, honeyed and swirled,
swirled with her favourite taste.
She'll sticker her nose with honey and spice,
and no crumb goes to waste.

But taste isn't what the Cinnamon Cat
finds precious in a bun,
and it isn't honey that sticks her there;
it's the scent of cinnamon.

Beware how you dress and perfume your wrist
and how you cologne your cravat.
If you've even a hint of a cinnamon stick,
you'll be stuck with a Cinnamon Cat.

(1997)

The truth about strawberries

As I type this I am sipping tea and eating strawberries. It is basic, run of the mill orange pekoe tea I drink, no sugar, no milk, no cream. Plain tea. Mmm. And …

I am eating strawberries. Let me tell you a few things about strawberries you may not know.

Admittedly, I do not have scientific data to support these claims, but they are true. I’m sure of it. And if I’m sure, it must be true, mustn’t it?

Strawberries make your genitals more functionally adept and help deliver heightened sexual satisfaction. I’m almost positive this is true. Someone should do a study to confirm this.

Strawberries make you smarter not because they make your brains bigger (though they do) but because they influence the electrical activity of the brain so that you make better, and more creative, synaptic leaps and connections. For example, you cease to admire Scarlet Johanson’s breasts and begin noticing her performance in films like A Love Song for Bobby Long. (Of course, your more acutely sensitive genitals add, as an afterthought, “But, gosh, those are dynamite breasts!”)

Strawberries will cause you to rethink ill-considered political views – I would say more about this but many people are not eating strawberries as they read this and a kerfuffle could ensue based on their wrong opinions.

Eating strawberries will promote the support of the better sports teams, such as the Edmonton Oilers, and help to underline the tedious quality of professional basketball.

When you eat strawberries you will read better books. More importantly, however, you will actually want to read, understanding finally that a life of ignorance is very much like going through life as a potato that aspires to nothing more than to one day be peeled and sliced and become part of a McDonald’s Happy Meal, a fairly sad aspiration.

People who eat strawberries on a regular basis dress better. Have better hair. Are more fit. Listen to better music. It is still unclear to the scientific world why this is so but, that it is so, is beyond disagreement.

All the hosts of network entertainment programs eat strawberries. Hosts of local entertainment programs do not.

Be advised: people who work in radio do not eat strawberries.

Shakespeare ate strawberries just before and during the writing of all his plays.

There are no strawberries on the moon. Therefore, there is no sex.

I should mention Mexico … I thank Mexico because, in my part of the world, the wintry months don’t lend themselves to the growing of strawberries. We must bring ours in from elsewhere. Thus, the strawberries I eat tonight were born in Mexico, they have a Latin ancestry, and so I soon shall be listening to the Gipsy Kings on my iPod. Thank you Mexico for the strawberries. Very tasty.

And that is the truth about strawberries.

Tags: Strawberries

Weekend highlights - a clean sink

Yes, it doesn't get much more heart pounding than this: the high point of my weekend was getting the bathroom sink cleaned.

Secondary highlights included some sweeping, dusting and even vacumming. Yes, my life was all a' tingle this weekend.

I've also become one of those Internet lurkers. While visiting blogs I haven't been commenting. My brain has shut down. Most of yesterday I had a headache, which I don't normally get. Very disagreeable.

And as this post indicates, I've recently had little of anything worth sharing with the world. I have become dull, dull, dull.

(Actually, I was fairly dull before - but I didn't mind. I kind of liked it. But now I've become duller. Ah well ... c'est la vie.)

Bill is not interested in blogging today

Gonzo in motion

He's watching a hockey game. He's annoyed at his neighbours who seemed committed to turning their place into a frat house. He had a busy week at work and a busy week ahead and, the truth is, he finds this troublesome because work is like a relative who won't shut up or go away. There's a sense of obligation but really, you just wish they could find a way to remove themselves from your life.

Anyway, Bill has no post today.

But I, Gonzo, do. Who is in charge of cleaning this dump? Look at this floor! This is not acceptable. To whoever is responsible for this: get off your ass and start mopping!

Oh look ... I think Bill is going to watch a movie now, 1941's Week-end in Havana with Carmen Miranda. I believe she's the one who liked wearing fruit on her head. But I'm not sure. I don't have a great interest in movies. I'm a cat.

I'll give Kurt Cobain this

I've never been a big Nirvana fan. The truth is, I know almost nothing about them, their music and little about Kurt Cobain. It has nothing to do with the music, it has everything to do with the hoo-hah that surrounds Cobain and Nirvana. The folk history and so on that surrounds them. I just find it all off-putting.

But that has nothing to do with their merits. They could have been great, they could have been terrible. I wouldn't know.

But ... I'll give Kurt Cobain this: he is credited with one of the best quotes I've come across in a very long time. It is this:

"Dreaming of the person you want to be is wasting the person you already are."

Now that is bang on.

Tags: Kurt Cobain, Nirvana

I have nothing worth saying

The last two days have been what I would call "full." Let me add that, in my conception of the world, "full" is not a good thing. I don't like days like that. They are too ... "full."

When such days happen I dream up some new cantankerous phrase to express my dissatisfaction. This time my phrase was, "Ah, monkey babble balls!" Previously my expression was, "Shit snortin' bastards!" I enjoy making up expressions like this. There is something poetic to them. And very silly.

I've not been completely idle the last few days, however. On my movie blog, I told the world how much I enjoyed the movie Pride & Prejudice, an almost perfect love story. Guys aren't suppose to like movies such as this but, ah monkey babble balls, I love Jane Austen.

By the way (not that anyone is interested), I think I've finally settled on a template look that I like for yet another of my blogs, Writelife, where I babble about writing and trying to pay the rent by it.

I hope to have a more cogent and worthwhile post in a day or two.

Joys & pleasures – 10 simple ones

The following list would probably be different if I were to do it tomorrow, but this is today and it is what it is. I’ve wasted most of today with many of these and I really don’t care. It’s Sunday, after all, a day made for being diddled away.

By the way, should you decide to make a similar list you should know large scale things are not allowed. No “Caribbean cruise” or “million dollar lottery win” or “three-way with Jennifer Anniston and Angelina Joli!” They must be simple ones. Small ones, like (the order is arbitrary):

1. Peanut butter
2. Old movies – especially if they feature Carole Lombard
3. Tea (I can’t choose one though strong leaning toward orange pekoe, Earl Grey and Tazo's Zen)
4. Books – emphasis on novels, such as A Slight Trick of the Mind by Mitch Cullin, an achingy beautiful articulation of loneliness
5. Van Morrison
6. Columbo (and the look is so 70’s!)
7. Scrambled eggs
8. Snow falling at night – big flakes!
9. Gonzo (that’s my cat), especially now that she’s taken to purring like a pigeon cooing when she molests me as I try to read
10. Blogs, blogs, blogs

Yes, were I to do a list tomorrow this would likely change. This is a Sunday list. (If it were longer I’d probably throw in, “Duke Ellington unexpectedly making an appearance on my iPod.”)

Yet another big snow day

It began around midnight. As I look out the window now, about 18 hours later, it is still coming down, though very lightly.

We had something similar last week too. We are three days away from the first day of spring. We've had the warmest winter in Alberta's history (well, since they started tracking these things) but it's only this month when we've had any noticeable snow.

And though there is lots of snow, it isn't terribly cold.

I discovered something today about snow - actually, it was more a remembered thing than discovered. Walking in snow is great exercise for the legs. I think even with snowshoes it would be a big workout.

It's almost like walking with weights on your shoes. Not that the snow weighs you down (though it probably does somewhat) but it's like the weight involved when you're placing your foot in several inches of heavy snow then pulling it back out. Sort of the same effect you would have walking through thick mud, I think.

In a few days this will all be a big mess as the temperature's rise, especially during the day, and it melts.

It'll be a mudwrestlers paradise. (Glad I'm not the guy who owns this.)

Beaches and buzz - what could be better?

Recently, Mack-N-z posted a post I could not resist - The Beach. What could be better than a beach? Few things, I think. Anyway ... I commented on her post but also said I was going to use it here. And now I am.

I had planned to expand on it but this week is too full with time wasting work things. (At work, they just wouldn't understand that blogging is much more important than silly things like deadlines.) Anyway, here I go:

The only thing I dislike about my landlocked part of the world is the absence of what I like to refer to as “big water” and the accompanying beaches. I spent my summers on Lake Huron where the beaches were great and I spent forever on them. I could walk forever along a beach … the kind that never seems to end. Out here, when someone talks about a “beach” it usually means a slim strip of mud that leads into a large puddle.

I remember people use to ask things like, “What did you do today?” and I’d say, “I was at the beach.” And then they’d say, “But what did you DO?” And I’d repeat, “I was at the beach.” I don’t know what the hell I DO at the beach. I don’t think you do anything except BE at the beach. That’s why it’s a beach.

What I really like is a beach with 80 to 90 degree weather, extreme humidity, and beer. However, I do not believe in chugging. I never chug. I sip slowly, peacefully, letting the slow buzz take hold and getting into the “slight buzz zone.” You don’t ever want to be drunk; just buzzed - a lazy, merry feeling to enjoy as the waves wash in and then wash out like loving sycophants at the altar of the buzz.

Beaches and buzz. There’s nothing better.

Tags: Beach, Beer

The Actor's Studio featuring - me!

And let me thank you, too, James. It's been a pleasure to be interviewed by you, even if it had something of an obsessed stalker quality to it. I mean really, it's pretty astonishing the things you know about me, but what kind of guy researches another man's childhood underpants choices? Don't you think that's kinda creepy?

But whatever ... on to the questions. Let 'em fly ...

What is your favorite word?
Winkle

What is your least favorite word?
bling

What turns you on?
Humour, intelligence, confidence

What turns you off?
Arrogance, self-centeredness, single-mindedness

What sound or noise do you love?
Water – surf, streams, splashing

What sound or noise do you hate?
Motorcycles, bass (as in sound systems for homes and cars)

What is your favorite curse word?
horseshit

What profession, other than yours, would you like to attempt?
Directing (movies)

What profession would you not want to attempt?
Middle manager of anything

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say?
You’re early. We’re not ready for you.

Sometimes England is just plain odd

Across the pond in the country of Shakespeare, something may be amiss. Or perhaps this is the norm in England and I'm just ill-informed about daily life there. But here are three recent searches that landed someone from England at my door:

- acrylic toilet seats the planets
- polar bears wipe bum
- getting wet and muddy in a suit and tie

Bottoms and mud. Seems a bit odd to me. Oh, and from somewhere in the world some poor bastard searched this:

- how much do you provide for a stool sample

Life is full of unanswered questions.

I live not far from here

I don’t live far from this place – just a few blocks. I use to live even closer – I use to be just down the street. This picture was taken in the fall. Hence, the leaves on the ground.

These days this place looks considerably different as we're in the final throws of winter. The leaves are gone, there's snow on the ground and there is certain barrenness to it.

But soon, soon, the green will be back and it will be flush again with grass and leaves and, yes, joggers (not pictured here).

This is why I like Edmonton. This is why I live in the part of Edmonton that I do (Old Strathcona). What you’re looking at here is a path/sidewalk that runs above the River Valley, which runs through the centre of the city. The Old Saskatchewan River runs right through the middle of the city, separating it into north and south sides.

Many of my friends are northsiders. A friend of mine just bought a house on the north side. But I'm a southsider. Not that there's anything wrong with the north side. But ...

It really doesn't matter. Everything really revolves around the River Valley, at least fo me. It's nothing less than magnificent. Breathtaking, actually. Why? I dunno. I just like looking at it. Being there.

I have no particular reason for bringing this up, and showing this picture, other than I like it. And there ya go.

Passing notions and a few complaints

In yet another absence of a well thought out, cogent post, I offer these passing notions. (By the way, I do have honest-to-goodness posts, but they're in my head and I’ve been too lazy to type them out.)

How movies have changed

When I was much younger, tonight’s problem simply would not have happened. But this evening, I wanted to watch a movie. I was torn between two: 2046directed, and written, by Kar Wai Wong and The House of Flying Daggers, directed by Yimou Zhang.

I went with The House of Flying Daggers because it’s romantic in an over-the-top kind of way (although the same can be said for 2046).

The point is, the directors’ names are not Joe or Bob and Junior the III. They are Asian films, albeit with a heavy Hollywood sensibility, and when I was younger this just would not have happened. More to the point, these days I’m finding films from places like Hong Kong and India are doing Hollywood better than Hollywood does.

Hmm.

Elvis Costello on the iPod

This weekend I bought the Elvis Costello CD My Flame Burns Blue(Elvis Costello live with the Metropole Orkest). I quite like it, though it may not be to everyone’s taste. One nice thing about it was that it sent me back to the Elvis Costello with Burt Bacharach disc
Painted From Memory(I think that’s from 1998), a disc I absolutely love.

Just thought I’d mention that in case anyone else out there likes Elvis Costello. (I love his songwriting – the construction and the lyrics. He’s nothing less than brilliant.)

The ghost of Sherlock Holmes

I’ve a post inside me that will get out one of these days but, until then, I highly recommend A Slight Trick of the Mindby Mitch Cullin. The main character is Sherlock Holmes, the style recalls the Victorian period (at least in parts) and it’s essentially a story about unspeakable loneliness, almost literally.

As the post I’ll one day write up will point out, the Holmes character seems to be getting channeled these days by a number of writers.

I want a weekend do-over

This weekend came and went with me doing nothing, accomplishing nothing, merely feeling like a slug as I slept, read, diddled on the Internet and watched movies. Not that I regret the books and movies and writing I did, but there are things that want doing in my life and they are still there, undone.

I don’t know why this weekend went this way, but I want a do-over. I want the weekend to start tomorrow, Monday, because I finally feel like I have some oomph to do something. Now it’s going to be wasted doing work crap.

And that ain’t good, is it?

(You'll notice all the links I've put in here are to Amazon ... That was a passing notion too, and not a very good one. For some reason their text links add spaces I don't want and screw up the layout - which I find very annoying. More to the point, it makes me feel like a shill with this post, as if I'm pushing used cars. Although to be fair, I think all the film, music, literature mentioned here is worthwhile, though dependent somewhat on taste. But it's late and I'm lazy so I'm not going to take the links out. Let's just call it an experiment that failed. Oh well ... so it goes.)

Found things: dubious news & rutabagas

Thanks to the fact that I stumbled upon apophenia (danah's blog) I came across this:

Fake Gay News

It's worth a look. I howled. Quite funny, especially in the wake of the Brokeback Mountain - Crash nonsense.

And thanks to rebecca and her direction, I have found the Live Rutacam courtesy of The Advanced Rutabaga Studies Institute.

What the hell ... there was this too (suggested by Spinning Girl):

You Are From Neptune

You are dreamy and mystical, with a natural psychic ability. You love music, poetry, dance, and (most of all) the open sea. Your soul is filled with possibilities, and your heart overflows with compassion. You can be in a room full of friendly people and feel all alone. If you don't get carried away with one idea, your spiritual nature will see you through anything.

What Planet Are You From?

What would happen if …

Here’s the scenario … For whatever reason, however it happens to be arranged, I am at an “event,” a kind of party, a kind of festive congregation of all the bloggers I have met online. This is not a “virtual” meeting. No, it’s flesh and blood, face to face, tactile and scented and real time. Good grief! Great flamin’ monkey arseholes!

What do I do? What is this actually like?

Well, what first occurs to me is that all these people now see me as I really am, not as I may appear online. I’m not talking about physical appearance, although I’m sure that is bit of a “That’s him?” thing, but more of a who you, your essence, your true self in the real world comes across.

Or the “you” people perceive from what you project in how you appear, how you behave, how you speak and so on.

I can’t help thinking I’m nothing like I appear online. Physically, perhaps. I sort of look like a smaller, less well-paid version of Steve Buscemi. But how I actually behave? How I interact with people? I don’t think so.

“You sound so cranky in your comments. You seem different somehow. In real life.”

Duh! Ya think?

“You’ve never been to South America? Australia? Other than Seattle, you know jackshit about the States? And even then, you know jackshit about Seattle?”

Uh … yes.

“But you know Ontario? Alberta? New Brunswick? Who the hell goes there?”

Well, umm …

“You know nothing about Hollywood? You’ve never been to L.A. ? Rodeo Drive? Then what’s with all the horseshit about movies?”

You see, I watch a lot of … you know?

Blah blah blah … the point is, I can’t help thinking my online persona is whole lot of horseshit (I like that word), and a great distance from who I really am. And that sparks two (actually, 2.5) significant questions for me:

1) Who the hell am I?

2) If I’m full of shit, is everyone else online full of shit? And if so, who are they really?

I guess my point is that many bloggers (mostly women) appear to be considerably more open about themselves and their lives than I am (and, for that matter, most guys who are online). And though I type that out and put it in a post, it doesn’t mean I will be changing anytime soon – I am who I am.

But it makes me wonder. I sometimes feel like someone who has a shovel and is just tossing shit out onto the Internet.

And I’m also thinking that writing a post after a few glasses of wine may not be the best idea around. You’ve just no way of knowing what you might post.

As for my imagined “bogger event” … Neil, would you quit grabbing blogger boobs? It’s not dignified. (Or so my Mom says.)

A snowy day, a determined cyclist and stomping

Today began with a flurry of snow. Unlike the gentleman pictured here, I didn't feel this was the morning for a cycle round the town.

The temperature is right on the freezing mark: 0 degrees Celsius (32 Fahrenheit). So the flakes are big and wet. And the streets are white and brown and slushy and very, very messy.

When it’s snowing, especially when it’s this kind of snow, it’s quite lovely and joyous. Later, when it stops, it’s the kind of thing that makes you grumpy, especially if you have to shovel it (that’s not me – I live in a condo), or if the bottom of your pants are wet and muddy.

Days like this often sound like Lord of the Dance with people stomping their feet to knock the snow off their shoes. That, too, can be a bit annoying. (There’s very little rhythm associated with the stomping.)

And that’s what’s happening in north central Alberta today.

Is this a haiku?

I'm not sure this is an actual haiku. It seems what constitutes one often depends on who you speak to. However, I seem to be in a mood to write this kind of thing so I submit this pretender to haikudom:

An idiot calls.
"Who are you?" Such a question.
Drunk, we're revealed.

(Inspired by some fools running amok outside tonight.)

I'd like to be on a Great Lakes beach

Yes, that's where I'd like to be. In the summer - not now. No, now it would not look anything like this picture.This picture is late July, hazy summer day, getting on in the late afternoon.

But that's where I'd like to be.

Only two of this week's five standard work days have come and gone and already it feels as if the week has surpassed it's work/stress quota.

I don't know where weeks like this come from but I wish they'd go back. I don't care for them.

Meanwhile, last week's snow is currently meeting this week's warm Pacific air. Result? Sloshy corruption tramped everywhere. Mud and crud as far as the eye can see. My hardwood floors look like they belong in a barn.

Saw "Junebug" tonight. Amy Adams was great. Movie was quite good too though it had a 70's "slice of life" quality to it. That means it had a realistic tone, which was fine (some great scenes) but the ending was left wanting some kind of Hollywood guy to give it some oomph. The movie doesn't really end, it just kind of peters out.

It's a movie, guys. Why not compromise your art and give it more of a showbiz send off? Intellectually, it's a fine ending. Emotionally? It's kind of like hearing, "But we can still be friends, can't we?"

And that concludes this rambling post.

(By the way, the image? Southampton, Ontario. So that great lake would be Lake Huron.)

Fiction and school: the excellent Sunday

I am clearly not a rabble rouser. I am not a party animal. My pleasures seem to be of a quieter sort. Such as today (which, as I write, is actually tomorrow, Mountain time - it's already Monday).

The first part of my day was enthusiatically taken up with an online course I'm taking through NewsU. I can't promise to maintain the enthusiasm, but in these initial stages I found it quite engaging.

More interesting to me was the story I began as part of JJ's Flash Fiction Friday #27. I actually like this story although it's stuck in an "in progress" stage. It's called:

The cowboy in the transom.

I love writing like this because I have no idea what the story is, all I have is an idea of the final scene - which is not yet written but is almost complete in my head.

The story overall (in my head, at least) is a kind of mix of noir, farce and slapstick.

When I write this way (and it's the way I truly love to write), I have no idea who any of the characters are or what the story is, I just put down whatever comes into my head. Of course, while that can be a mildly entertaining read, it doesn't make for a good story. It becomes a good story (hopefully) when you "finish" it and finally know who the characters are and the story is and you can go back and rewrite.

All writing is about rewriting, whether it is fiction or business or marketing or journalism. Whatever. As Gabriel Garcia Marquez put it (and I apologize to him for paraphasing), great writers are not great for what they've published but for what they have not published.

By that, I took it he meant that good writers toss out the crap and sometimes the crap isn't crap - it's your best writing but, if it doesn't hep the story, you toss it. Good writers know when to cut that stuff loose, even though it breaks their hearts.

By the way, as boring as this post is, it's a good, if partial, indication of who I really am. I love writing. I am obsessed with it. Which is probably why I pay the rent doing it.

Tags: Writing

And now I'm fascinated by ties

Suddenly taken by an enthusiasm for ties, I foraged through the dresser drawer where mine have been hidden for some time and tried one on.

I didn't like the knot much (fabric didn't lend itself to a good one). It was too lengthy and the dimple didn't quite work.

I did like the pattern, however, and the basic black that was its primary colour.

I had forgotten how difficult a man's tie can be. You don't understand the importance of cloth until you start working with ties. There is silk and there is silk. Some silk ties are like working with cardboard.

And then there is length. Ties should be available in three sizes but often you end up with "one size fits all," which means it will look fine on some guys, on others way too short when tied, and on others (like myself) too long - rather like an oddball thong that for mysterious reasons wraps around the neck and dangles all the way down to cover the crotch. (Not realy what you want in a tie.)

It's been about 10 years since I wore ties on a regular basis. I had forgotten what a prissy ass I was when it comes to them. It amazes me. I really am picky picky picky about ties! Why is that?

By the way, Burl Veneer's Tie Blog is quite good (if you like ties).

Tags: Neckties, Ties

I miss ties

I watched the movie In the Mood for Love tonight (aka Fa yeung nin wa), written and directed by Kar Wai Wong. It’s a wonderful movie but I have to be honest, the first thing that struck me about the movie was actor Tony Leung’s tie. (Yes, he wore several but one in particular caught my attention.)

You can sort of get a sense for it in this picture – this is the tie. But the image, the lighting, the blue shirt … it doesn’t quite come across. But early in the film you get a quick glance of it and from that moment I was hooked. I wanted that tie.

But more than that, I wanted a reason to wear ties again. I’ve got a drawer full of them and I probably haven’t worn one for ten years. (Drawers are not the best places to keep ties, by the way, but when you aren’t wearing them I suppose it doesn’t matter.)

It seems that now you can go to work – go anywhere – in your pajamas and it’s just a kind of fashion statement – “business casual” as they were calling it a few years ago.

I really only have two kinds of fashion that I like. One of these is really, really casual – denim and collarless shirts. The other is sport jacket (or suit) and tie. Way back in high school (a Catholic all boys high school) I had to wear a sport jacket and tie every day. I grew to really like sports jackets and ties.

There’s just no reason to wear them anymore!

The one look I can’t stand – in fact, I absolutely hate – is golf course polo shirt and khaki coloured pants. I don’t know why, but that look just sends me screaming.

But my point here is that I miss wearing ties. I miss having them done up tight in a four-in-hand knot, or half-Windsor, and I miss having them loosened at the collar with that top button undone, like Humphrey Bogart at the end of the day twisting the top off a bottle of good whiskey.

Can’t we start wearing ties again? I’m certain that if we did I’d start paying more attention to my appearance, as opposed to these days when I seem to be mostly, “Ah, who gives a shit anyway?”

(Let me also add, not that anyone would care, that what I really like are retro ties. One of the things I liked about In the Mood for Love is that it is set largely in Hong Kong, 1962 so the ties had a definite period feel to them.)

Tags: Neckties, Ties, In the Mood for Love

Mr. Cranky Pants takes a stroll

I blame Sizzle and her A Day in The Cruz. If I hadn’t read that the idea of snapping this clown’s picture might not have occurred to me. But it did occur and I did take his picture, rather poor though it is (through a dirty window on a dull, gray day).

Anyway … I’m at home working and I start hearing someone outside bellowing. Someone was yelling his fool head off in the kind of way you could hear the growing rawness of the throat, you could hear the vocal chords being shredded.

I look outside, and this is who I see. What was odd is that everything about him seemed relaxed and serene. He had a comfortable shuffle in his walk. There were no outraged gestures from the arms – no fists swinging in the air, no stomping of the feet.

But his voice! And what he was saying … It was all “Effng this” and “Effing that!” Something about effing bastards and so on.

And he kept walking up and down the street proclaiming his outrage. Back and forth, his voice would well up as he approached then fade away as he moved off, then well up again as he turned for another pass by.

I would see people cross the street to avoid him as he continued on. I actually called the police to report him – not as a nuisance (though he was kind of that) but because I’m pretty sure he was some guy with psychological issues who may have been off his meds. (I’ve known a few people like that over the years.) He was a long way from what I would consider well and I figured someone ought to check him out to see that he was okay.

I don’t know what happened to him, though. I was caught up in working and he eventually went away.

But I do worry. Could that have been a glimpse of my future? Tramping the streets shouting out my indignation at life? Gad! I hope not!