NURSING HOME DIALOGUE

Sunday, May 31, 2009

"Did you know I've been here for ten years?"

"Sorry, ma. It's only been four." We've been down this road a few times.

"Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not lying. The place only opened four years ago... I mean, this new part. You were in the old part for maybe six months, tops. Before they tore it down. Remember?"

"And before that?"

"Golden Slumbers Nursing Home in Windsor."

"I've never lived in Windsor!"

"If you say so, ma."

"Pass me that orange." I do so.

"It's not peeled."

"You didn't ask me to peel it."

No segue. She's on to something else.

"Are those new shoes?"

"Nope."

"What day is it?"

"Sunday," I tell her. "What did you have for lunch?"

"Pie."

"Just pie?" She doesn't answer the question. She falls asleep for ten minutes.

"When did you get here?"

"About thirty minutes ago, ma. You fell asleep."

"Are those new shoes?"

"Nope."

"Are you growing a beard?"

"No, ma. My face is as smooth as a baby's bottom. It's just a tan."

"How long has your dad been dead?"

"About fifteen years." You just know she'll have something to say about that.

"Fifteen years!"

"Yup. Give or take."

"He must have been old."

"Eighty-four." She was never good at math. This thread is at an end.

"Are those new shoes?"

"Yeah. I just picked 'em up on the way over here. You like them?"

"I've been here for ten years."

"Yeah. I know, ma."

I peel the orange. I get her some ice water. We talk about my shoes some more.

When I get home, all I want to do is have a beer and go to bed.

FRIDAY NIGHT OBSERVATIONS

I just noticed that the calendar in my office is one of those cheap buggers that comes with the newspaper. Apparently, May is Ontario asparagus month or some such shit. (When I was eighteen, my mother put a Playboy desk calendar in my Christmas stocking. She must have thought I was gay. There is no other reasonable explanation. Is there?)

Good night, folks.

Yeah, I know. The title says observations. Plural. But I have a back spasm. And my dog needs to go for a whizz. Me, too, for that matter. (Thank you, Mr. Heineken.) Hold on, Shadow. I just need to hit...Publish... and Post.

Yeah girl, I'm coming. But this thing needs a picture. Wait... Browse... Arr!

ONE MATCH IS ALL I NEED. A CLEANSING BY FIRE.

I took a look through my filing cabinets tonight. And let me tell you, it freaked me out.

There could well be five thousand pounds of unfinished, unremarkable, and terribly embarrassing prose and poetry in these folders, bundles and boxes. (Tell me: do they even make those canary yellow newsprint pads any more?) There are several hundred pounds of handwritten stuff and tons of brittle, twenty-pound bond paper, imprinted with ink from ancient typewriters (both manual and electric); stuff composed on word-processors; and newer offerings printed from computers.

I've never felt older and less vital than I do right at this second.

The guy that wrote that stuff is long dead. Opening those vaults was a big mistake.

Hey buddy... got a match?

GUEST POEM BY GEORGE W. BUSH

Not many animals can make a fist.

Few have the ability to salute

With just the middle finger.

Still, it would be nice to fly

And fuck each other in trees.

But then, we'd have to get someone to open our beer.

And that's when the terr'ists win.

SOME NEWS I'VE BEEN FOLLOWING

FEAR.

Take a look at the bottom four or five teams. Each has a game remaining. The bottom three finishers will be ousted from the Premiership for the 09/10 season. I like Alan Shearer and I wish the Magpies well. But I wouldn't bet the house.

Man Utd	37	87
Liverpool	37	83
Chelsea	37	80
Arsenal	37	69
Everton	37	60
Aston Villa	37	59
Fulham	37	53
Tottenham	37	51
West Ham Utd	37	48
Man City	37	47
Stoke City	37	45
Wigan Athletic	37	42
Bolton	37	41
Portsmouth	37	41
Blackburn	37	40
Sunderland	37	36
Hull City	37	35
Newcastle	37	34
Middlesbrough	37	32
WBA	37	31

INSANITY.

These guys make more money per hour than Education Assistants. And they want to strike? (Why? Because keeping the beer cold and putting wine bottles on the shelves is, like, really fucking difficult?) They want to go on strike in this economic climate?! Are they insane? WTF gives?


SHAME.

The arrest happened under Bush's watch. But Obama (who's big on asking other nations to quit fucking with American journalists) seems okay with the smarmy, unopen and non-transparent staus quo. This oughta make Cheney proud, though. And nothin' says national security quite like a Cheney growl & grin.

Interesting how research can, in the long run, overtake and dispel conventional wisdom. Newest case in point: the Komodo Dragon is venomous.

Until very recently, it was assumed that the Komodo was packing bacteria as its weapon of choice. Again, until very recently, it was assumed that there were only two kinds of venomous lizards, the Beaded (which has four subspecies) and the Gila Monster -- see little Timmy in the sidebar -- (two subspecies). Of course, there is a good chance that there are many more.

Interesting, no?

Let's face it: we still have oodles to learn about every living creature.

Research down the road: my money is comfortably parked on the bet that humans do not possess a soul. Whatever the fuck that is. (I know I ain't got one. I do have venom, though.)


UPDATE: Well, not an update really. (The Komodo still has venom, I suspect.) No, this is more of a late night, semi-sober observation. And it goes something like this....
Blogging is a lot like being in high school. You do it for four years, then you (metaphorically speaking) bugger off to university... or Europe... or jail. You lose touch with your old mates. They don't drop by any more; you make new friends and get busy with this & that; and before you know it, you have to toss out the frozen koala burgers in the freezer, sell the jukebox, and sit by yourself in your office off the kitchen, writing Llewellen's severance cheque. Soon after, the place falls derelict. Like this joint.
It's been fun.
But the writing's on the wall.

VICTORIA DAY WEEKEND. YOWZA.

"I've had tons of shit named after me. But a Holiday is special. It's like a day off work, innit?"

AFFADAVITS FROM THE WARD

For the past three or four years, I've spent a fair bit of my work week with kindergarten kids. These little ones are high maintenance. (I don't know how the hell full-time K teachers do it. I really don't.) Some days, after my name has been called out at least three hundred times by tiny persons in (what for them is) some sort life-and-death predicament, I find myself wondering where the fuck the closest hunk of rope is hidden, suicide being the only option -- other than a retreat into utter madness.

Still.

They can be charming.

But that's how they suck you in.

So....

Mamas: Don't let your children grow up to be Kindergarten teachers.

Posted by P. Boogaloo,
Room 13,
Psychiatric Ward (Out Patients' Wing),
Your School,
Anywhere.

Our family wasn't what you'd call 'touchy feely'. Seldom a hug when growing up -- unless in the aftermath of serious bodily trauma or amputation (none of which happened. Unless you count the scalding coffee incident when I was a year and a half old. And I don't recall the episode, although I have the scars to prove it.) Nope. We were a rather undemonstrative bunch.

I tried to change. I gave it a shot. But as the years rolled by, I fell into the old comfortable pattern of keeping everything to myself. (Well, men do, don't they?)

Anyhoo....

Mother's Day -- the idea of it, not the card-company-and-chocolate-manufacturers-induced spending frenzy -- comes in handy. It allows me to bring down the shields with no harm or foul.

So. Here's to Mrs. Boogaloo. The person who saved my life.

And here's to all the other moms and mums and wives who put up with us year in and year out. Happy Mothers' Day.

UNIMAGINABLE

I cannot imagine what life must be like for the majority of families in Afghanistan.

I cannot imagine a 'good' ending for anyone caught up in this ongoing insanity.

I cannot imagine a strategy that involves guns, bombs, planes and ideology (domestic or imported) as being 'successful'.

I cannot imagine a country and a people enduring so much for so long.

I write fiction. And I cannot imagine what the fuck happens from here on in.

BLACK HOLLYHOCKS, et al

If there isn't already, there ought to be a forensic science that studies the structure of the human ear. All those ridges and knobbly bits -- they gotta be at least as unique as fingerprints. Then again, how many criminals leave an ear print on the bloody glass? What? I can't hear you.

After I cut the grass today, a robin swooped down and started sniffing for lunch. She must have rid the lawn of a dozen grubs. Now, if she and her family would just shut the hell up between 5:00 am and 6:30 am, I'd cut the grass more often.

I have a few black hollyhocks that I've been nursing. I love black flowers. As a matter of fact, the black hollyhock is on the Boogaloo coat-of-arms.

I joined FunTrivia last week (under a different name). So far, I'm up to Level 8 and have won three Hourly Contests. Jeopardy, here I come.

If I get the swine flu, I'm going to infect my neighbor. (I mean, what's with all the hammering and banging at seven in the morning on a fucking Saturday?)

Have a nice week. I got shit galore to do.

I love Joe Biden.

Worried about flu? Joe's advice was to stay the fuck away from confined spaces where people are either gonna sneeze on you, or wipe shit from their infected carcasses onto surfaces that you're probably going to touch.

He got kicked in the nut sack for that. But he's right. If there's flu aboard a plane or a subway car, chances are pretty fucking good you're gonna get hit full in the face.

So travel alone. Or shut the fuck up when you get sprayed.

(Note to Wolf Blitzer: Hey, Wolf, the real flu story is in Mexico City. Why not travel there by subway to cover it?)

I had a rough week, kids.