Thursday, April 27, 2006

Dung-can, V.I., B.C.

I saw a sign on a lamppost today: Emus for sale. This prompted the instantaneous revery of riding an emu to tam-tams. Of course, it wouldn't quite be that simple.. There'd be the obligatory cross-country roadtrip, where I'd have to rent a big enough car to seat the emu (though I have a feeling they fold up nicely), constant efforts to prevent the emu from fulfilling it's instinctual need to kick the shit out of people along the way. I say prevent, but I really mean curb. And then there'd be the absurdist rigamarole of fitting it for a saddle and harnesses. But just imagine the glory! Especially if I found the right coloured cape to wear. I wouldn't want to become one of those 'emu-people' though, they freak me out: how they think everything emu is cute, fridgemagnets and greeting cards of emus dressed as ballerinas and pirates. They just stay at home in their bathrobe, cooing to each one of their multiple emus about how everyone else is crazy. Tam-tams really would be the best place for an emu though. Emus and capes.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

A Decade Ago... Time Capsule Time

HOLY FUCKKNOBS! While trying to sift through my mum's old computer for clippings to attach to a coverletter, I came across a pair of stories I wrote when I was 16. So much easier than typing up the new ones! Thank you, little me, but I wish you'd written a whole shwack of cover letters instead...

@ @ @

What I Did On My Holidays
"Pass the peas please, brother," Uncle Fred asked me above the noise of Christmas dinner. With one hand outstretched, and the other preventing his robe from dipping into the stuffing he looked at me and gave me a conspiratorial wink.
"O.K. Uncle Fred," I said, fulfilling the request while wondering to myself why my bald uncle both called me brother and winked at me every time we spoke.
"Please brother, I do not go by that name any more. My new name is One-Hand-Clapping."
"O.K. Uncle Fred," I repeated. Dismissing his kookiness, I turned my attention to my mother who was trying to feed Grandpa. This looked a little difficult because one was full of wine and laughing while the other was asleep and drooling.
"Grandpa Fred!" My mother giggled as she leaned over to shake him, tipping his prune juice over.
"Whut?" He wheezed as his crusty eyes opened and his wrinkled skin tried to form a face.
"Mum, can I trade you seats, Uncle Fred is really…"
"Freddy! Don’t interrupt, it’s rude!" My dad scolded, tossing a pea at my head. Smash, my little brother with hair still wet from his bath, copied him and whipped a potato at Uncle Fred. "Trevor," my dad called my brother by his given name, "don’t throw food."
Grandpa turned his milky gaze towards me, which was a feat in itself because he had cataracts on top of cataracts. Maybe he could smell me somehow. The only thing I thought of when I looked at Grandpa Fred, was that his head resembled a peanut.
"How old are you now Trevor? Nineteen is it?" He croaked to me.
"No, Grandpa. I’m eleven and a half and my name is Freddy." I answered.
"Whut?" He slobbered.
"Fre-ddy." I said slowly, putting both thumbs to my chest.
"…" He said, now asleep.
I changed my mind. A peanut would make better conversation.
Christmas this year had lost all its romance. It had started the evening before, on Christmas Eve. For some reason, Santa had neglected the milk and cookies laid out for him on the coffee table beside the hearth and made his way to the liquor cabinet instead. After lingering with his friend, Mr. Daniels, he stumbled to the tray of cookies, wrote a note saying "Meri Crismas, Love Satan" and fell over. There he slept on the rug, using the coffee table as a blanket, until Smash and I found him Christmas morning still clutching at our stockings. We played with our new toys on my father’s face for almost half an hour before my mother saw him and dragged him from his drunken slumber.
Now my father sat at the table staring at the peas with his party hat askew, nursing a nice little hangover. The table was arranged beautifully, the paper napkins were folded neatly and everything looked pristine. Everything except Smash’s corner. My four year old brother, having already tried putting a fork into his ear, was in the process of dismantling his napkin and scattering the confetti-like proceeds onto the dog who was lying beneath his seat. Flash, our seemingly-comatose dog, didn’t seem too concerned with the paper, as he was used to collecting dust for sometimes days straight.
Meanwhile, across from Smash, Uncle Fred was engaged in making paper cranes out of his cracker wrapper. Uncle Fred noticed my interest in his activities and gave me a wink. Without warning, Uncle Fred stood and cleared his throat.
"And now I’d like to recite some Haiku," he said and began.
It was evident by everyone’s state of restlessness that dinner was over. Unanimously, we left the table and Uncle Fred’s poetry recital and assumed our positions around the Christmas tree. When my monk uncle sulkily joined us, the gifts were distributed, and soon there was a symphony of rips and tears. This was a climactic affair for my brother and I. When the wrapping paper settled and our pulses leveled off, we sat back and inspected our gifts.
Generally, I was not disappointed with my presents, although confused may be a good adjective concerning a few of them. I had received a construction set from my dad, a box of Havana cigars from Grandpa, sandals from my uncle, a sweater from my mum and wrapping paper from Smash. Smash, on the other hand, got everything he had asked for Christmas. Action figures and a snorkel mask, but what appealed to him most was the hammer he had received from Grandpa. He promptly took to hitting the book, "Buddhism For Beginners" that Uncle Fred had got him.
It was at the point when my uncle began meditating that my parents got into the fight.
"I don’t understand you George, I really don’t!" my mother said, holding up the lingerie my father had bought her. It looked more like a boot lace than anything that could worn for a practical reason.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My father didn’t answer, instead he was sheepishly inspecting a tie that I had bought him. Smash hadn’t given him anything, so I said it was from the both of us.
"Well what do you have to say? Even a salad shooter or pressure cooker would have been better than this!"
"Please brothers, be tranquil. Do not forget this is a religious festival."
"Does anyone hear that dripping sound?" My grandpa gargled.
"Well, what is it George? We have sex twice a week, is that not enough for you?" My mother said, ignoring my grandpa.
"Please brothers, not in front of the children!" Uncle Fred pleaded. It seemed that fighting was a little too much for his peaceful nature.
"No, never in front of the children. What kind of parents do you take us for you bald little yoga flier!" She yelled.
"Now Marsha, you don’t have to drag my brother into this," my dad said, confiscating the hammer from Smash who was eyeing the Christmas tree lights.
Suddenly and without warning, Flash the dog, got up. He walked stiffly from the dining room up the steps into the living room. He stood there looking back at the dining table intently.
"I still hear it dripping," Grandpa said as urgently as one would take a stroll in the park.
Everyone had stopped and was watching the dining room. Slowly, the dining room ceiling started to bulge and the chandelier began to shake. Quicker than one can say "I can see my toilet from here," the ceiling fell in. A big cloud of plaster billowed out and water poured in from the bathroom above.
A strange sound, like somebody strangling an armful of guinea pigs to death, could be heard. Everyone looked around for the source of the odd noise. It was coming from Grandpa. He was laughing.
"Merry Christmas." He chuckled.
Through the haze of plaster and under a chaotic pile of damp timber, a cast iron bathtub could be seen now sitting on the dining room table. The dining room was ankle deep in water, which had been reduced to a trickle from the hole where the ceiling once was.
"Smash," my father growled dangerously, "did you happen to leave the bath running again?"
Smash gulped audibly, and ran and hid behind my shaking Grandpa.
My parents were in a state of open mouthed astonishment, Uncle Fred had fainted, and Grandpa was laughing hysterically. Taking a quivering Smash in one hand and Flash, who was drinking the bath water, in the other, I dragged them out of harm’s way. We watched TV and ate chocolates in the basement for the rest of the night, although at one point, Smash wanted to try out his snorkel mask in the dining room. In the end, Smash gave my father a nervous breakdown for Christmas.
I can’t wait till Easter.
@ @ @


Rolling thunder rises into the clear salmon sky, but it is not a storm. The tepid breeze cannot sweep away this sound. The sound is of a countless number of drums beating in union, producing a low thrum that gently ascends above the still grass of the lilting plains. At the source of the drum beat, ebony figures whirl, stamping their feet into the warm, tanned earth. Crimson light from a fire paints each face. Each face shocked by flashing whites, glazed, entranced. This is the summoning of something indigenous in all of us, a primeval emotion native to the soul.
In a breath, like the swell of wind in the trees, voices raise their exhalations into the darkening skies. Choruses undulate to the throbbing drums. Beaded hair whips in turmoil as muscles pump, swaying beneath hidden southern constellations. This is the primitive voice of civilization’s cradle. This is human instinct immortalized.
The chant increases in intensity, as dancing silhouettes spin and weave flawlessly. An occasional white man, obviously a tourist or traveler, can be seen amongst the dashing forms, synergistic phantoms in synchrony. It is a passage to a higher state of awareness, a vessel to naturalization. Coursing like blood, the beat leaves none untouched. This is not a religion. It bears no prejudice.
The drums cease. The chants cease. The silence is deafening but the dancing forms flit unheeding, oblivious to the peace. Slowly, a solitary voice rises above the throng. A second voice, slightly lower in pitch, joins in to orchestrate a harmonized melody. This soulful wail fills the spicy air for a brief moment… and then expires. Silence again, this time to be punctured by the drums. As if feeding the dancers, the rhythm sends them into a frenzy. Eyes roll as feet rise and fall. The drums stop, and the singing once again can be heard furling in waves. Waves that bring the gathering towards the quietly encroaching shores of dawn.
As the golden light expands and the fingers of heat grip the land, the singing wavers and the dancers begin to drift from the popping embers of the fire. Relaxed smiles grace the features of all as the congregation begins to dissipate. The odd individual can be seen drinking from a glass bottle. Obviously refreshed by this elixir, the dancers hold the bottles at arms length, giving the impression that they carry something of religious magnitude. The drugged atmosphere, that briefly possessed and elevated the spirits of all, corrodes as reality once again regains tenure of the plains.
The next commercial glorifies the driving of a new Japanese car.

Monday, April 24, 2006

people occasionally accuse me of being a little non sequitur. well, to them i say 'chicken and mushroom pie'.

life after Soduku/the anguish of a dull pencil nib

I just walked past a small, moderately unattended child trying to unscrew the side-cap of a fire hydrant, and I had to imagine him succeeding. It was a comic thought a good ten seconds before becoming not-comic. I'm glad it didn't happen, but it's still early in the day and he looked commited. I also can't pretend I haven't wanted to do the same.

I've got a few hours to hack about before Air Canada scares me shitless once again, and I find I only think in fragments on travel days.. so here's an addendum to a January post.

You know you're in Quebec when...
  • you keep loose bricks in your living room. bricks are really handy implements, they are also extremely 'guy': looking after bricks is a true man-skill. but having construction material at hand in the living room is pretty Queeb in general. Examples: 1) tables. you can use bricks to make a table, but you can't use tables to make a brick (unless those tables are made of really small bricks). 2) bookmarks 3) art... the list is exhausted only by the imagination and whether or not the brick is within armsreach.
  • there are cigarette burns on the roof of your car. this would be disconcerting if it were truly your car.
  • a chain-gang of 4-year-olds will sometimes amble by led by the most patient/stoned guardian ever. this is gratuitously adorable and never loses its charm.
  • you eventually DO meet a person called Guilhomme in Carre St Louis.
  • someone tells you a dog is about to piss on your bag as the dog is sauntering away. you shrug.
  • the tightest store security is found in the dollar store.
  • ladies all dye their hair run-lola-red on their 60th birthday. they're hip, because they chain-smoke and drink more heavily than the sterotypical stepdad, but they still find time to make being their neighbour hellish.
  • foufounes electrique. um, yeah...
  • once in a while, you see someone riding your bike. it's never the same person twice.
  • after years of pondering, you still can't see how HydroQuebec can justify a rate-hike and yet burn money in mid-winter outdoor festivals.
  • if your name is Tony K, you will change your stage-name to Tony Pepsi for broader cultural appeal.
  • someone breaks down the gate to your backyard to salvage beer bottles.
  • you've pretended not to watch the principle members of Arcade Fire polish off a poutine.
  • you've subletted your apartment to the gram-o-gram dude.
  • you either have a pony-tail, or are growing it back.

ok then.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

is there an opposite of a zephyr?

i hope there is, or else i'm gonna be tacking into the wind. tomorrow i'm blowing westerly for a fortnight spent with my mum and bex. i figure i won't know how much i've missed them until i see them again. also, it's louis the dog time!! last time i went back, the mutt sniffed around me pretty suspiciously, and we didn't click proper until he remembered i was the loose-leasher. so, i'm going to get on the horn and see if i can see you linz, lori and j&n, if you guys are reading this.. let's spend a bender!! in cow bay, if you're up for it?!! (there probably won't be too many days for me to go astray).for those who've never visited, i'll try and convey some over-worded codswallop to capture the cow at tides both high and low. also, i'll try and coopt my sister's digicam and set up something really exciting, such as pictures only a select few'll ever really care about..

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Bounty Hunt

It's been quite some time since I've had a worst enemy. Now I think I have two at the same time, and they fit snugly within this extended woman-bashing vacation I'm on: Carrie Bradshaw and that accursed Miranda. Bring me their scalps! Yes, I've watched quite a few Sex & The City episodes, mostly out of the hope of seeing the one where Miranda gets her head caught in a rusty bear-trap. Due to an HBO leak, I actually know the entire plot of this episode: Carrie finds this very selfish of Miranda, as she believes that this affects her relationship with men (the twist is, she doesn't know that having a hemorrhaging red-headed friend is a GOOD thing, as it means having red-hair is a little more normal). While Carrie is pouting and trying to come up with a plot motif, Charlotte tries everything she can think of to help release Miranda. This involves taking off her shirt and energetically shooing away the dogs that are chewing on Miranda's ugly. It doesn't help much, so she joins a convent and becomes a naughty nun. There's also some sort of sidestory here about how Samantha is a raging whore: she finds out she is riddled with an air-borne STD called gonodiarrhea. She gets all smug about it, and thinks about trying to help Miranda, but takes her shoes instead. Mr. Big comes along to save the day by skinning chubby Miranda and commissioning a tailor to make a dress out of her. He gives the dress to Carrie, who wears it to a high-school prom and wins prom-queen. BUT IT'S A PRANK!! When she goes up to accept the tiara, instead she gets pigs-blood dumped on her! Carrie loses it and uses her nose to slay every last kid there. Season Finale.

I hereby hold the cast and crew of Sex & the City accountable for every social ill there is: if you look close enough, the themes are only holding women down. They preach conformity, dependence on men (while holding them in objective disdain) and rampant self-obsession. The name for this is Fauxmenism. I would know, as I'm a feminist (I dreamt about marrying Bjork last night, how feminist is that!?)

I'll give my Skeletor action figure to anyone who brings me their scalps. Or earlobes or something. I'm not picky.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Existential Aspirin

Nothing like a voice from the wilderness to jolt you back. Ta, Mr. Rogering Me.. I feel my return service would be to show just how right you are (extrapolating, if you will). Spit or swallow..

Assuming I don't know you, you've got a quick finger on a slow pulse. I've tried to keep this thing apersonal, and by that I mean less a personal op-ed experience and more a medium for others' interpretation; something a reader'll relate to without having to feel they're indulging me. But, considering words are just burps of metabolized experience, gassy thoughts, maybe it follows that I'm just covering my mouth at some attempt at passing them politely. You're right, I am not frank. It's a perennial worry that this thoroughly overlaps my private life, my interaction with people I care about, and those I'd like to care about me. I'd like to rejoinder a big ol' "But who is?", but that's beside the point.. I often do feel like I'm glancing off the meat of the matter, and never driving through to the bone. It might be coz I'm lazy, or coz I'm trying to stay comfortable, or it may simply be something I don't want to do.. I'm actually not sure the reason, a little from each column methinks.

Anyway, Mr Rogering Me, thanks for your considerate posts. I agree with you on most of them: Isabel IS freaking hot, I have a lot of loog rattling around etc.. However, I think you did misinterpret what was a sloppy or less than eloquent post: discrimination. In my understanding, 'discrimination' has come to be an indicator of gross social injustice. Though I feel, in etymological terms, it is a misnomer. I feel the original meaning has been perverted to indicate almost the opposite: if there was a sliding scale of discrimination, firing a black-guy for being black is actually not as 'full' an act of discrimination as noticing that he doesn't meet his deadlines (for example). In which case, discrimination IS needed, and successfully used, when his sloppy work ethic isn't up to office standards. We discriminate between traffic signals and come-ons at bars, of trends and hygiene habits.. arguably, the greater we discriminate, the greater our well-being. Meanwhile, ethnic slurs (best example I can find) are actually an act of 'poor' discrimination.. or indiscrimination. Of course, this is some kind of revival of ancient Greek thought, a society that quite happily prospered from slave labour.. Tell me if I've reiterated myself uselessly here for missing the thrust of your point..

@ @ @
steve and i, after a swell sunday afternoon with his grandparents, went to an empty carre st louis. drank a drink, and tried to get our party bearings. they recently opened ballroom, at $15 (on a sunday? because of dj unknown??) was a no-go.. if they need ballroom, they can keep it. i wasn't there to dance around people's egos like they were a tiki-god. we trod up to blizzarts, that place was another easter ego hunt, full of queen shebas and the guys trying to outlame each other in front of them. so we tried ballroom again (it was 11.30, and we had some dance we needed to slap down) as there must've been a mistake. no, still $15. so we went into the so-called Easter of Doom at Saphyr. perfect!!!! it was goth-metal techno night. we joined the vampires with beers and red bull. so much red bull, in fact, that we opted to leave by unordinary means: over the rooftops. the following 2 hours, we hopped on various roofs, exploring and climbing (my light is low from a cold, so most of it was steve pulling spidey-stunts). i've been needing to get on the proverbial roof for a while, so this is our mutual mission: it's an act of reclamation. our city.
(i had a brief epiphany in Saphyr! it's been bothering me for years: why are there always shells in a girl's bathroom? i think i know. considering they spend a lot of time in there, perhaps it's because girls see it as one of the few places they can let down their defenses? it's the statement: 'you can take your shell off here'. maybe the shells are among the few to hold witness to the raw, tender beneath?
or maybe it's just another lame bullshit nicecessity that girls are full of...)

Monday, April 10, 2006


So I'm now among the nameless? I'm not to be considered? What catch nets are there for a guy when he flaps past the trapeze? Girls can curl up in a ball of selfish, hit you in the spots they know are tender and receive all the support they need. They believe your silence a cruelty, a sign of contentedness, a hummed satisfaction. They never consider it to be the only answer that can be given. In fact, to me, any other response seems cruel and basted in irony. Of course, it may just be further avoidance of consequence.

Silence. April is a cruel, cruel month. This post marks a pause, and I wouldn't have written at all save for the fear that the post below would ring on. In silence. Funny how newly sprung life can be so heedless to pain. Mean innocence, tactless and unassuming, a decorous segment of the abstract circle where the flowers need your bone marrow to spring from, root tendrils worm through the ossiferous cavities, sucking on salt water and clotted nutrient. Their coloured scent is your new breath, and your sweet panic'll only attract a stingier bee.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Sometimes I wish I had an office that an underling/untermensch'd walk into whenever I buzzed his collar. One day, I'd buzz him in and declare 'I'm going to be abroad for a month'. Next day, when the gimp came in to raid my office for stationary, I'd be wearing pumps and a dress.

Though I suppose I'd have to take a wage-cut.


Fear it

I'm going to go that one step further into the delusional, staggeringly self-obsessive room of blog and talk about a dream I had last night. Skip this if you can't help imagining yourself karate-chopping yourself into unconsciousness everytime someone starts talking about the AMAZING dream they had, but pretty much make up on the spot for you:
They say carrots help with your nightvision, and it took a few bumps for me to realize it may've been a bit misleading (I read somewhere it was propaganda during WW2 to prevent the Axis from knowing the Enigma code had been cracked..). But what if they mean Visions at Night. Like, seeing your totem spirit and shit. I ate a half-bucket of carrot four or so hours before going to sleep, and then everything went all Jim Morrison on me.

It started off waking up in a run-down pool changing room. The room turned out to be part of this whole, Goonies-like warren of pools and bathing complex. There was an ancient, near Mesopotamian feel about it all. In my lonely, ceramic-gazing wanderings, I finally came across a small group of people in the biggest room yet, who claimed to've woke up in the same place and came to this biodomey room. Tropical plants grew towards a small slant of sunlight that crept through the impossibly high, vaulted ceiling. The rays were visible, and dusty. The people figured they'd been kidnapped and were on some kind of reality show, as there were named envelopes with stipulated errands inside. So the four of us split up and ran our errands, sometimes in a team, sometimes vying, and nothing seemed to make overall sense. There was treasure and diving competitions, uncovering tunnels and shipwrecks, near-drowning and near-saving, joy and scare. But each time we came back to the dome, there were more envelopes waiting. It turned out one of the people were in on the whole thing, but more as a lifeguard than as an oppressor. Somehow, the guy, though a pleasant chap on the whole, knocked me out. And I woke up outside with something licking my face. It was a weird ferret-cat. I called it Snowy (though it's real name was Clarence) and quickly discovered it was a magic ferret. It considerately caught me lizards to eat and attacked things I found threatening. Next thing I knew, I was riding a ferret ('impossible!' you cry? Remember, this was an exceptionally strong, magical ferret-cat) around the country side, like some kinda wacked out Don Quixote. We foiled all sorts of dep robberies and evil warlock dudes, and everytime we met a doubter or hot babe, I could call Snowy/Clarence, and he would hop onto my shoulder and act cute and normal. And so on, and so forth until my EPIC dream ended. So, it seems my totem spirit is a mighty ferret-cat. I don't know if I'm disappointed or not. But I'm gonna do more carrots soon to get a second opinion.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

This guy's one funny elitist wacko. The post about the last Star Wars film is great, and the '8 year-olds, dude' is from the one about comic book innuendos.

ps. i was thinking about shaving my head. care to comment or talk some sense into/out of me?

da bell! DA BELLS!!

Just point-form today:
- my socks came out of the dryer this morning already in pairs!!?!
- our upstairs neighbour stomped all over her apartment last night like a 5-year-old throwing a tantrum/pretending to be a majorette. we don't know why. for some reason, it gave me an adrenalin rush. and it wasn't solely because i ran upstairs, rang the doorbell and kicked her in the groin when she opened the door, in my mind. i remembered a Daily Planet show i'd seen 8 months ago about infrasonic sound and standing, naturally occuring waves prompting a fight/flight reflex in humans. it's something i'd like to mimic in electronic music. though, because the limen for human hearing is 20 - 20,000 Hz, these sounds fall outside of our perceptive range. i'm guessing they resonate in our chest and sinus cavities, influencing our naked resonance: eyeballs at 18 cycles a second, for example. but you can mimic this by generating two audible tones that only differ by 1 - 19 cycles (?), the cpm will hit you: voila, binaural tone. dropping back a few sentences here, on the DP show i saw, Natasha Stillwell cruised around to notoriously spooky spots in the UK with an infrasonic gun, and saw that most places, a standing wave, either created by draft or traffic disturbances or even an echoing heatbeat (which i thought was slightly different, but still interesting), could be found. so, next time you're either freakin' or freaking, think of the sound you can't hear. the long and short of this pointer is, my neighbour is a disturbed, spooky, weird, emaciated, scaly, vinegary, infected, afflicted, imbalanced, bullying, cantankerous, anal-polyp popping nuisance, and i'll be glad to be rid of her superimposing all her problems on cool people like us.
p.s. this site popped up when scouring for add'l info. funny. e.g.:
- i'm on day 3 of a mean, mean headache. i wish there was a hatchet in my head i could point at and say 'oh that's why'. but no. only pain. limped along Mont-Royal last night like a hunchback, groaning and clutching my forehead, wincing at headlight and pharmaprix glows alike.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

The Courtiers of King Louis

It turns out Guilhomme's real name is Jaques. Apparently he's the King. He came over and yelled at us for a bit on Thursday. We were 'saved' by a regular, who requested a cigarette. Steve said he knew the man.. and asked him the whereabouts of his guitar. Here's a recollected transcription:
CSL dude: 'My axe is in the shop. I'm not normally a man to ask for cigarettes..'
Us: 'The shop? It's getting fixed?'
CSL dude: 'No, the pawn shop. I almost lost it last week as I didn't pay the man.'
Us: 'Do you need a light? What's your name?'
CSL dude: 'Yeah. People around here call me 'the Wolf'. There's too many Marks, you see. Like 5. Some of them also play guitar. It's to avoid confusion, like, 'Mark, heard you been tapping my blonde' 'No man, not me. You ask Mark about it?''
Us: 'Ok. So you're the Wolf?'
The Wolf: 'This guy's a Mark too.'
Mark 2: 'I'm actually Mark 3. Hey, what goes "Mark! Mark, Mark! Mark!"?'
Us: 'Er..'
Mark 2: 'A dog with a hare-lip!!' HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
The Wolf: 'He plays the axe too.'
Us: 'The disfigured dog?'
The Wolf: 'Huh?'

@ @ @
LINDZ! AHOY!! I think Jaques is your Billy Ray Cyrus guy. The fountain isn't yet flowing, so no-one's bathing, but I'm sure Jaques'll be among the first. He did point at it and wink at me once or twice, so I'm sure he has designs. Also, the triker is out, we saw him the first time in a year on Thursday. He looks the same. He didn't have the squirrel-feeder on the trike's back, so I wonder if he's given up on that particular hobby. Last August, there was a new guy, who we haven't seen for a while. We nicknamed him Bum-Fu, as he sometimes weilded numchucks and loved to work out, doing chin-ups on trees. He's probably the least stable of anyone, so I hope he makes it to the park this year. If I remember correctly, he has the tattoo '151' on his forehead, which is a graffiti code dotted around that park. Perhaps he's the rightful claimant to the throne? Hope there's no titular Battle-Royale..