Sunday, August 21, 2016

Far Away in Time part one

Omg I've been trying to post this for seven fucking days and all I get are problems, so the big post is going to be many little posts:

So you all remember the classic 1980-ish hit "Echo Beach" by Martha and the Muffins? If  you are Canadian and don't, I have nothing else to say to you other than don't let the door slap you on the ass on your way out of my life. However, if you are American, you've got some forgiveness coming your way because you people just don't know any better. so if you don't know it, YouTube it rightbnow. Go on, I'll wait. Don't expect me to post links and shit because this isnt The Ritz of blogland. Let's face it. Jenny Lawson and Gwenyth Paltrow are probably voice-to-texting while shopping for vole carcasses and vegan KY Jelly respectively. Me, I'm typing this in bed, in the dark, with a wife (mine) and an 8 year old next to me, on my fucking First-generation iPad since every other electronic in this fucking house is dead and/or has a broken charge cord. So fuck if I'm going to link shit. Play the song and get back here.
Welcome back. You took a little longer than I thought. Look at your fucking porn before you come here, ok? anyway, back to echo beach. I went there today. 
Oh not THE Echo Beach old Martha sang about. I dunno where the he'll hers is, but mine tucked away in an obscure location on the prairies, and I finally got to go back to the Holy Land today. 
My people weren't lake people. No, I'm not Black, but I like to say my people in place of my folks. It sounds more regal. Ok, so my people weren't one with water or nature. The two places I grew up? Both had an abundance of majestic lakes. Hell, you couldn't swing a cat without hitting a lake in either place. I know this because the odd time I'd tag along with a friend to a lake. The only lake I ever knew growing up was MY Echo Beach (I'm just going to call it that for shits and giggles). echo Beach is literally in the middle of nowhere. It's about 30 mins outside of a secondary city here in Stankprovince, and right by a town I'll call Slash Shiv. My folks lived in SS in the 60s before I was born and we would go visit every summer on holidays to the towns they lived in, including Slash Shiv. Their closest friends all had cottages at Echo Beach and so I'd get to go to the lake finally. Now this isn't your Great Lakes or your Ogopogo Stews. Rather, the lake is small, as in you could probably walk the circumference in an hour. It had a sandy main beach, clear sandy shallow water that went out to a dock and a diving board, and while the shallow area seemed huge, once you got to the dock, there was this huge hole in the lake and it gets to like 40 feet deep pretty quick.  As the deep water also had huge weeds,I was warned never to jump off it or the deathtrap diving board, as my mother asserted that people get caught up in the weeds and drown. I dunno who these poor unfortunates were, but she warned me good to stay the fuck away. Anyway, by the beach was "The Booth",  where you could by chips and chocolate bars and popsicles and smokes and the odd grocery item. and hamburgers and fries every few days. The booth had a speaker so you could page people or leave a msg for them. You'd hear random things like "Tom Bell to the booth for a message" all the time. Next to that was a ball diamond, change rooms, and a pay phone. All the roads were nothing more than dirt paths and you basically had to walk ahead first to see if you were going to meet someone on the road going to opposite way because you barely could fit one car on the paths. The streets were named after berries, and the cabins were actual cabins, with mismatched furniture and chotkes, and most had outhouses and no hot water and the phones were on a party line. It was real, working class people. They often had Saturday Night dances at the Hall at the golf course, with a band and everyone got piss-stinking drunk. Anyway, can you picture it?
Well, as I said, I'd wait with night before Xmas anticipation every summer to get there.  Our closest friends there were Bob and Ethel who lived on a farm but had a cabin. They lived on the road closet to the beach, so it was a sandy 2 min walk to the beach. They had two kids, Jayette who was my oldest sister's age, 12 years older than me, and Benny, who was around the same age give or take a few years. We'd come to the lake and if we were staying at their cabin, Jayette and Benny would sleep in a tent and my folks would get Jays little room and I'd get Benny's. They had beads hanging in the entryway to where the rooms were and these folding doors for the bedrooms. I ain't gonna lie - when I got older I liked having Benny's room because I'd sneak from his stockpile of Hustler and Penthouse hidden in his little lake room, until he lost his room when the law came in saying everyone had to get a septic tank and Benny's room got turned into a bathroom, but that's ok because he married young and was out of the house by that time and didnt need the room. Sorry for the tangent.

More to follow.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Stacy Gee and JT: A Fool's Overture

The last time I saw Stacy Gee, 30 years ago this month I've just realized (but who's counting), we spent the afternoon getting baked and then submitted her stool sample to the lab.
If that's not an awesome topic sentence, I don't know what is. Anyway, I was reminded of good old Stacy Gee the other night whilst here at the lake, as I was reading an anthology of Shirley Jackson's short stories (since I never blog anymore, none of all y'all have any idea how obsessed I've become with Shirley Jackson, but I'll save that story for a rainy day). But back to the topic at hand; I was reading this short story by Shirley Jackson and in the story, it was pissing down rain, big time. Not cold winter rain or torrential autumn rain, but just annoying rain - rain which, to me, brought back memories of random BC summer rains. You see, rain on the prairies in the summer is either a result of storms or a cold front. In BC? The rain just pisses down whenever the hell it wants to. And on this day in July 1986? The rain decided to intermittently piss down just because. 
So anyway, the rain in the story reminded me of summer rain in Bc, and blah blah blah I started thinking about the last time I saw Stacy because it was that kinda day.
I suppose you want me to back up and explain who Stacy is, what with her dope and poop samples, right? Well here ya go:
Stacy was in my grade one class and lived just down the road from me. Had I posted this yesterday, I bet you dollars to donuts that Chunks would've driven by her house and posted pics to get the visuals, as she was in the Lower Mainland  this morning, but my life is always the story of being a day late and a dollar short. Anyway, across from my house sort of was this dead end street and Stacy lived at the end of it, with her oldest sister Rochelle and her brother Randy and her parents. Stacy was the youngest and was, essentially, treated like a princess. You know how I was spoiled? Well, I looked like the Jan Brady of the Von Trapp children compared to her. Case in point: I'm sure Stacy occupied the master bedroom of her family's house. It was a bungalow, but on the small side, with the front door leading to the living room and the kitchen and dining room beyond, and only two (not three) bedrooms down the hallway. The kicker was that the front of the house had the main shitter and a bedroom occupied by Randy, and the opposite side of the hall was just a bedroom occupied by Stacy, with velour wallpaper and a dimmer switch light fixture. It was cutesy as hell, with the only canopy bed I've seen in real life. Stacy's parents slept in this windowless attic off the dining room (over top the carport garage I think). Her parents were interesting, apart from the attic room. Mr Gee was named Monty and him and Barbara wore matching siwash jackets, both chain smoked Cameo cigarettes, and, to the delighted cackles of my mother, both dyed their hair the same artificial shades of chestnut and tony'ed their hair the same kinkiness. Monty, bless his soul, was as feminine as JM J. Bullock, and prissy as fuck. The oldest sister, Rochelle, was about seven years older than Stacy and eventually drove a yellow Camaro or Firebird or one of those Trans-Am looking cars. Every time I hear "Head Games" by Foreigner, I still immediately think of her, as I remember her buying that 8 track, and I now think how short changed she got, as that album sucked (even though the title track is still good) and I hope Foreigner 4 made up for the money she spent. Anyway, Rochelle somehow ended up dating this guy named Mike who somehow had no place to live so he lived in their basement when they were I grade 10 or so. Their basement was so fucking cool - it was the only place I ever saw a real playroom, and I admit I modelled my own playroom at home after it once I had kids and my own home. The rumpus room part had a whole wall of shelves filled with toys. The rest of the basement was a shitter, Rochelle's room, and an area with Mike's bed. Rochelle was cool and so was Mike. Randy was a dork who joined the cadets and started smoking Peter Jackson cigarettes. 
So anyway, in grade one, Stacy and I must've been friends a but because I have a memory of going to her house one Friday after school in December and eating Xmas baking and playing and being reassured by familiarity when her sister cranked Supertramp's "Fool's Overture". I remember getting a headache and was glad when my sister came to get me after 6, and walking home in the falling snow, only to get home and realize I had a fever and strep throat and was going to miss playing in the it snow that might fall that year. Anyway, it's still a vivid memory. 
So Stacy and I were friendly and played together a bit - enough to know that she liked to eat raw potatoes which I was sure was going to give her worms (from what Marion Cunningham told Joanie once), and that their Maytag dryer buzzed really scarily when it was done. But we weren't like Margaret and Gretchen and Janie and Nancy, you dig?
Well fast forward to after I moved in grade 6. I don't wanna rehash what went down during July 84, after grade 8, when I came back to visit and suddenly realized my two best friends for life wouldn't be bothered to cross the street to piss on me if I were on fire. Long story short? I was devastated and may have actually cried a bit as I walked through my old hometown thinking "I've got no friends at my new home, and my lifelong friends here that I always Hold as talismans are no longer going to cut it, so I'm just alone and should jump in the slough and drown ". Of course, I am too controlling to drown, so that really wasn't an option, but I was feeling sorry for myself. However, for some reason, I decided to seize the fucking day and picked up the goddamn phone and called Stacy. Well. Bitch was ecstatic to hear from me. Even better? We had do much I fucking common now, it was freaky!  We both loved new wave, Prince, and, get this - our favorite band was Berlin! I had yet to meet anyone who knew who they were! We hung out constantly for a week, with her cool friend Sherry and her boyfriend Robert and his friend Paul. We all went to the mall and bought ear clips and it was so awesome!! My ear clip eventually turned my ear green, but it was all good. During this time, Stacy was having some hard times with her Dad Monty, and she said "he's not even my real dad", saying her dad was dead and her folks married when she was little. That shit freaked me out, and Monty hated Robert because he was brown (Philiipino maybe) and because he caught him talking to Stacy outside her window. Anyway, there were rifts.
And then we left, not to return for two years.
So I rolled back I to town in 86, after finally assimilating to Saskatchewan and having friends and a life, and even reconnecting with one of my bff's who was a scumbag and ditched me two years previous. However, I was more than anxious to connect with Stacy, my Berlin loving friend. I called her and she was excited to hear from me. She said she'd pick me up at my sister's place (she had her licence by then),and I immediately knew things were different when she picked me up. Gone were Robert and Paul and their make-up wearing (Duran Duran wannabes), and gone was Sherry. She was consumed by some new boyfriend I can't remember the name of. First thing she asked me was of I liked to get high. I said of course, and she smiled and opened this odd case on her keychain and out rolled these little nuggets that looked like shit balls. She said her boyfriend was selling all this hash and she was helping him. I wasn't an experienced hash smoker and she asked me for one of my du Maurier Light King sized and then rolled a joint with the tobacco and the hash and with this wire in it, like a straightened paper clip, which I thought was genius. So we smoked this really smooth joint thing with the wire (which I hope doesn't give me asbestosis or something in a few years), and then she says she's gotta go to the lab and drop off a shit sample because she's got salmonella from the restaurant she waitresses at. For some reason we go to the restaurant and her dad Monty is the maƮtre d there, and we visit and then we go to the lab where she poops and scrapes it with a toothpick and delivers it in a tube not unlike Mike Brady's architecture plans cases. We then go to the mall and then Robin's Donuts where she fills me in on everyone from grade school and tells me about Lara Selkirk, my first girlfriend and how she was off the rails. I end up going back to my sister's, and Stacy calls me the next day to see if I want to buy some of the boyfriend's hash for 30 bucks. I say I'm broke and we've never talked again.
Of course,I've always wanted to know what happened to Stacy and it doesn't look like she graduated, hut with a common name like hers, there's no google on her, and everyone I ask is vague, saying "I think she works at a camp or something up north." Long story short, I end up googling Monty one night in the local paper and see he died and was survived by Stacy with a funny last name. Either that, or I fb'd Rochelle and looked at her friends and found Stacy and THEN found the obit - I don't remember. But anyway, I found out Stacy is married to a Mexican, has a son, and lives in the heart of Mexico. Of course, I can't friend her, because I'll look like a stalker, what with the convoluted way if finding her. But I'm thankful for her in ways she'll never realize for saving my life in grade 8, when I needed a friend and found one. In grade 10? Smoking hash and dropping off poop samples wasn't my idea of fun really, but by then, I didn't need her like I did two years before. But I want to say her life wasn't as easy as I initially thought, and even though we haven't talked in literally 30 years, every time Head Games comes on classic radio or I spin a Berlin album, I think of her and smile and silently thank her. 
And now you know the rest of the story.

Thursday, January 07, 2016

Out of date technology fucks with everything!

Well for fuck's sake, motherfuckers, I had fully intended on blowing your crazy minds tonight by blogging.  However, apparently, my browser was slightly too frigging old and after 40 minutes of trying to get around it, I had to download google chrome, and now it's like after midnight and I have to be up in 7 hours and I still have to make one kid's lunch and wash some frigging clothes, so I'll save my blog update for tomorrow. But please know I did try, motherfuckers.
Love and other indoor sports,
JT

Friday, April 17, 2015

Back From Beyond

In the tradition of the late V.C. Andrews insanely popular Flowers in the Attic series, where new works under her name proliferated for decades after her death, we are pleased to bring you the continued saga of Heartinhand. 

Ok, so where did I leave off? Oh yes, book club. Hold on, fuckers, we are in for a bumpy ride! So, as I was saying, Churchy didn't read the frigging book she chose for the club to read. Didnt. Read. The.Book. Who does that? Even my mentally challenged papergirl with usually forgets our house and sniffs glue behind the No Frills wouldn't do that, I'm sure. But no, Churchy apparently heard about this pile of puke book from a new "client" of hers, one who is moving to Rose City from Ottawa, and so she decides to run with it. Again, who does that? So everyone sits around Helen's livingroom, politely sipping their chai and nibling on the stale-est nuts this side of Wilford Brimley, and of course I'm biting my tongue. Then I think fuck it, Charley, I was put on this earth for many reasons, but the main one is to keep the shit real. So I had to blurt out that I hated the book and was glad when this dinglenuts was kidnapped because she was so annoying. Wheelz was there, of course, and this sent the poor girl into spasms of laughter. Churchy tried to join in with her, but Wheelz gave her the evil eye and she stopped - Wheelz can't stand the bitch. Of course, Mouse doesn't know why, but I know the real reason, which I'll save for another day. Anyway, the whole thing was a bigger gongshow than the time back in grade three when Nicky Absolom decided it was a good idea to put his cat in the dryer. 


Speaking of grade three, I recently found my second elementary school libary assistant, after a long internet search. It was great to catch up with Mrs Fulcrum again. She hasnt changed a bit.
Derwood has been home for 21 days now, 18 of which I was dropping eggs, and 19 of which have involved my daily struggle to poop. I am not sure where i'm storing everything. I've been addicted to jalapeno poppers and Baker's Boys cinnamon twists, and I've even resorted to drinking a Coors Light or two every night to try and rouse up the troops, but thus far? Paid a dime and only farted. It feels like Im crowning, but I'm only passing corn. I haven't had a kernel of corn since we went to the corn festival in New Brunswick last summer, so fuck if I know where that's been hiding. If I don't poop soon, I'm going to donate my body to science. I'm pretty sure my innards will reveal that I'm really Kitt, from Night Rider. 


I've decided that I'm going to cut my hair. I can't do anything with this sack of crap. Gaylene has this real cool 'do that I'd like to copy, and I don't see why I can't, since she lives in the Boonies and wouldnt ever come and see me. I was going to ask Murphy what I should do with my hair, but she cuts hers with nail scissors because she's so damn cheap, so I decided not to. Well, what do you expect when you marry a Newfie.
Peace. 


Sunday, September 28, 2014

Oh whatever

So where was I? Lololol oh stop it, bloggers, you know Facebook killed the radio star, right? I'm actually trying to blog from my phone, and that in itself is scary shit. I have no idea if it will even work, so goonie goo goo bitch. Anyway, what's new, you ask? Not a whole lot, really. Spent the summer camping where we camped the year before, in a spot with no cell service, power, running water or flush toilets. It was fucking amazing, and each year, I feel more and more closer to Pa Ingalls. Now that it's fall, I'm busy with work and I'm busy with teaching too - I'm teaching two classes on the side, and I'm faking that shit until I make it. This is the first year the kids are all in school full time. Kids are grades 8, 6, 4, and 1. This shit is flying by, hey? Anyway, I spent the summer camping and slowly cleaning out my room in the basement. My "room" consisted of all my books, CDs, junk, and clothes. Anyway, once this room was cleaned out, each kid could have their own room, so that was my motivation over my capitalistic, hoarder tendencies. So, this summer, I've gotten rid of no less than 15 big garbage bags of books and then last week, I got rid of at least 300 CDs. We moved 4!big bookshelves into the main rumpus room, and my cd shelves in the laundry room. Oddly, I had no real problem with parting with books, but CDs have turned out to be another story. I was in Value Village last night and saw my fucking cds. Even though my motto was if you haven't played it in a decade, ditch it, I nevertheless saw racks of my CDs, from Roxette to the spin Doctors to Celine to Mariah to Peter Murphy.  I got rid of most of my 1990s shit - Duncan Sheik? Eagle Eye Cherry? Vertical Horizon? Wtf? It's gone now. I'm ok. Sort of.
Anyway, here's to a tiny hope I'll pick up the blog again. Xo you bitches. Keep shit real, ok?
Seacrest Out.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Proper Ways of Toileting and other things you should have learned in Kindergarten

-- Trying an iPad post again: this May prove frustrating. Especially since it capitalized the word May and this one- hand typing is shitsville. We'll see what happens.

-- I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned here that Rachel and I have a night job too - we do janitorial work, cleaning an office building here in town. Long story, but it's a gig we've always done. I think I've mentioned it before but whatever. Anyway, I was thinking tonight, as I cleaned the bathrooms like I've done thousands of times before, that men are pretty much pigs. The women's washroom? Someone might have a particularly large poop that may inadvertently leave skid marks in the toilet, and there is someone who, from time to time, seems to pee with a little too much gusto and gets some urine under the seat, but otherwise, all you really gotta do there is clean the mirrors and sink. Easy peasy as the Brits say with their bad teeth full of canned peas. But the men? It's a whole other ball game.  Sure, it's not like a hole in the floor shitter in China or anything, and while they obviously obsessively wash their hands, as evidenced by the amount of paper towel each night that's used, they nevertheless aren't as careful about ass cleanliness. Night after night after night, I go into that shitter, and 8 times out of 10, the three toilet stalls have toilet seats that need to be cleaned because there is like... How do I say this politely... shit residue on the backs. Like, I'm sure the top of their ass cracks are full of smeared poop and it thusly gets on the toilet seat. And so gross. However, whatever, we all have our crosses to bear, and I fully realize that we fellas might have larger asses and hairier asses, and all sorts of things that just may make toileting at work a smidge more difficult. I know firsthand the embarrassment of pooping in public with someone you know next to you, and the panic of having to wrestle handfuls of one-ply out of the dispenser, and having to keep wiping until it becomes a two flusher and then worrying Johnboy next to you is going to secretly tell everyone about your endless, messy shit. I get it. But fellas, the least you can do is wipe the fucking seat after you pull up your pants. Really. Don't tell me you don't glance at your business when you turn around to flush - everyone does the poop check. You gotta see your poop on the seat. Clean it the fuck up. This one stall also is home to the booger wall, but I'll save THAT story for another day. Man, at my work, we have private staff bathrooms, but I'll often just use the public because the private are stressful. There's always someone waiting, so you gotta poop fast so they don't know you are pooping, and since people seem to poop all the live long day, it always smells and people always think it's you. There's not a lot of poop on the seat incidents there, but enough. And one day I sat down without looking and lil JT was brushing up against this long pube stuck to the side of the bowl. I quickly did a mental panic, trying to figure out who has brown hair, and then called Rachel and said if I end up with crabs, it's from the toilet seat. So, lesson of the day: leave the shitter as you found it.

-- Just read that Lamar and that Khardashian are splitting up. Shocker. Also see that Clooney is single again. Ladies, for the love of God, if he still can't stay with anyone, something is fucking wrong with him. He's either gay or an addict or mean or likes to give coffee enemas or he's crazy or something, but really: if you have 1/2 the female population jumping at you and nobody works? Maybe it's you. Just sayin'.

-- sorry for the short post again, but I'm at 5% charge so I'm just gonna read now. Y'all have a happy Sunday, y'hear?

Friday, December 13, 2013

A Quickie

Gooooood Morning Vietnam!!!!!!! How the hell are all y'all anyway?!  Funny seeing you here!!  So, what's up, homies?  Anything new and exciting happening in your worlds?  Nothing really exciting to report here, but I'll try to think of something.

--  I had the weirdest dream last night.  I'm not making any of this up either.  Yesterday in the staff room, we were talking about all the unrest in the Ukraine, or, as I refer to it, "the old country."  All my young life, we'd go visit my Dad's family, the Ukrainian side, and there would always be talk of so and so in the old country, so now, I've adopted the term.  Anyway, we were talking about the old country and the protests there, and how maybe one day it will be stylish to belong to my people. Then, later on in the day, I was reading some CBC article on how the Alberta floods this summer were predicted by geologists or something. ANYWAY, I also got my blood pressure checked last night at the drug store and while I was sitting there trying to relax I noticed that they had some green Roughrider gear still on the shelf. So, I go to bed last night, and I dream that there is some huge uprising in Saskatchewan about the government and everyone flocks to Regina to protest.  It's spring or summer and a nice day out, and I have a bitch of a time getting parking.  I finally find a spot and have to plug the meter at "a remote meter location" which was a meter behind a row of chairs on the sidewalk.  The person in the chair in front of my meter was this woman I sort of know, a friend of a friend, and she's really shy and wears these hideous glasses - they look like those glasses you used to get at Mac's Convenience Store back in 1986, when you won something with each Mac's Froster (slurpee) you bought.  They gave out these ugly Mac's Froster plastic shades, and this woman wears glasses that look just like those.  I always crave corn nuts and a slurpee when I see her. Anyway, I non-chalantly plug my meter behind her and then I move on to the events happening.  Everyone is wearing Roughrider green and there is this flood coursing down a street, full of brown water and broken trees.  Then I move to the main stage and they start blaring Culture Club's "I'll Tumble 4 Ya" and everyone gets up and starts dancing, doing these tumble motions with their arms and then the John Travolta disco move with their arms.  I don't know what the hell it all meant, but it was interesting.

--  Ok, I have to admit something: I have no idea who Paul Walker is.  Not a sniff.  Everyone is freaking out so bad on the TMZ about him, but fuck if  I know who he is or what the hell the Fast and the Furious is. I'm almost waiting to see some fraudulent sign language interpreter signing gibberish at the crash site for us, that's how overblown this all is.  Of course, there are those smug fucking Facebook things that are all "My thoughts are with the family of the guy who was with Paul Walker, who gets no attention." WTF?  Do you think this guy's family WANTS the TMZ sifting through their garbage?  I don't think so.

--  I just bit into a "Gingerbread" muffin from Tim Horton's.  It tastes like something but I can't figure out what.  like oranges or something. And there's cranberries in it?  I'm thinking she gave me the wrong thing. Go figure.  But my mouth IS sort of burning like it's full of ginger.  hmmm.  I wish I had a lab to send it to, for closure if nothing else.

Anyway, I have to run - just wanted to leave a quick update to let y'all know I'm still here.

Love and other indoor sports,
JT