Saturday, June 27, 2009


The Confederations Cup has been an interesting affair. It certainly highlighted a couple of problems Italy needs to sort out. Nice to see the back of the Spaniards as well. Har.

Glad that the U.S. is in the final. Lucky or underrated? I think it's the latter. Still, their opponent is Brazil. As in Brazil.

Prediction: Brazil 3 U.S. 1

But... Go USA!

In a completely unrelated story, I'll be buggering off for a few days. Gotta do some swimming. And sleeping. And drinking.

I was never a fan of Michael Jackson's music. I liked some of his recordings but was lukewarm on most. I appreciated his talent (more so his dancing than singing -- and I hate fucking dancing) but I didn't really listen to his records. In fact, I would usually change the station if one of his tunes came on. (I could be ruthless, eh?) For me, Michael Jackson was always the little dude from the Jackson 5. His voice never really changed. He always sounded ten years old.

Even in his later years he seemed like a child to me -- trapped in some kind of immature, non-evolving head space. The truth is, I don't know what the guy harbored in his head and his heart. But I'm certainly willing to give him the benefit of doubt. Not that any of this really matters. (But as always, dear patrons, I feel the need to share.)

He called his place Neverland. The place where Peter Pan lived. And as we all know from that story, all boys -- except one -- grow up.


Thursday, June 25, 2009

Paper work is finished. Desk is clean. The i's have been dotted and the t's crossed. My mailbox is empty and the chess sets have been stored away. Laughs and tears were dutifully (and emotionally) exchanged. Gifts have been given and gifts were received. Handshakes, hugs, best wishes and see ya's all offered and accepted. The last bell sounded at 3:15. The rain stopped and the sun came out. It was a pleasant ride home.

Now I'm wearing shorts and drinking beer, baby. Oh yeah...

And one more thing....

Tuesday, June 23, 2009


I'll bet that Ed and Johnny were easily the most frequent guests in my living room circa 1970 - 1990.

Ed died today.

It sure was fun while it lasted.

RIP big guy.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Saturday, June 20, 2009

My father only cried once. And that was just a reddening of the eyes and a single tear. It happened while he was in the throes of dementia -- lucid one moment, gone the next. It happened after my brother died during a kidney transplant. It happened because the family at large -- and my dad's own doctor -- thought he had the right to know that his son had died. It happened against my better judgement. But I told him anyway. And I regret that decision. Especially at this time of year.

So I remember the man with the huge hands who stroked my hair (and, on at least one occasion, whispered that I was the best thing that ever happened to him) when he thought I was asleep.

I remember the man who went to work and did the laundry and cooked the meals and cleaned the house when my mother was sick. And she was often sick, for months, years, at a time. Sick with depression... and the aftermath of shock treatments and a smorgasbord of drugs.

I remember the man who taught me to pitch a knuckle ball.

I remember the man who planted a peach tree in the garden, who brewed his own beer, fixed the stuff that broke, taught me to drive, carried my injured brother up a hill and into the hospital (with, as we later found out, two crushed discs in his fifty-year-old back).

I remember my dad all the time. And tonight, I wish I had one more opportunity to buy him a beer. Or give him something I made in school. For Fathers' Day.

Friday, June 19, 2009


Reading a bit about the goings on in Iran. Sounds like an ugly showdown coming tomorrow. It would appear from his speech today that the 'Supreme Leader' has already decided on a course of action. The question is: how many protesters will he kill? After all, the thirty-year-old revolution still wants feeding.

Its appetite appears healthy. Perhaps tomorrow we'll see religion go all cannibal... as it begins to eat itself from the inside out.

The table has been set.

But there will be no refunds from this sad picnic.

God is great. (Especially if he's on the side that bagged the most bodies. And he always is. Or so I've been told.)

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


I'm sitting here looking at a black and white picture of myself. I'm about a year old (maybe, I guess), giving what appears to be a thumbs up sign. I'm wearing white shoes, white socks and some kind of one-piece, unisex baby garment with a rounded collar. I have a batch of curly hair, two slightly sticky-out ears, and a huge grin. This is the picture I've chosen for the Grade Six Graduation DVD. The segment is called 'Guess the staff member'. I can promise: no one's gonna guess that baby is me.

In a convoluted, out of context, but somehow apropos? story, here's a guy who -- at the age of 56 -- is now pretty certain that he was abducted in 1955. (Strange that his biological father, who is still alive, has declined to provide a DNA sample. I mean, hey, WTF?)

I look at my picture and think: maybe that same shit happened to me. It would certainly explain a few things.

By the way, I'd gladly show you my picture. Unfortunately, I Photoshopped the sucker (to remove the Scotch Tape, gin and tears my mother managed to conjure whilst sticking the thing into an album). I didn't save the work... and I'm not gonna redo it tonight. That would be a complete buzz kill. Still, the picture below comes pretty close.

Monday, June 15, 2009


What could bring hundreds of thousands (a million, even?) young people rallying into the streets of Tehran -- risking injury, disappearance or death?

I think it's down to two things:

A breath of fresh air. And the certain knowledge that if not us, now... then who, when?

Something very much like this happened thirty years ago. (Different players; different reasons; different wants; different times.) Remember the Shah? And the CIA?

Still, that was then and this is now. The question is this: Tonight, is the box half open or half closed? And does the box have breathing room... or just another lid?

Yours ever,

P. Boogaloo

(Tonight's special: Falafel and a pitcher of Heineken, $9.99)

Sunday, June 14, 2009


I've torn this place down several times over the years. Left nothing behind, not even a forwarding address. (Well, it deters the revenooers, don't it?) And there have been times lately -- within the last minute or two, actually -- when I dangled my right hand middle finger tantalizingly close to the DELETE IT button.

But... I know why I didn't kill Llewellen tonight. I know why I decided to save Timmy from Gila Monster purgatory.

I understand now why I gutted this place before and why I allowed it to live tonight.

But why is the toughest fucking question there is. It's existential. Primordial. And then there's the pain. There's always pain.

Therefore, if I simply give you the answer, it would be cheating. And I'd probably have to shoot you.


As you were.

As if there's another way you could be. I mean, really, c'mon.


Saturday, June 13, 2009


Two weeks left in the current school year.

Two weeks to say or do something that might, if my act is a good one and the script flawless, keep a kid or two from making a huge, dumb ass choice before the session bell rings again in the fall.

Thousands of kids have passed my way. Dozens haven't made it. Probably hundreds. (Let's just say, most don't keep in touch. And I don't think I'd accept a collect call from a prison, anyway.)

It's the best of jobs....

And you know the rest.

Llewellen: Beer. And plenty of it.

Thursday, June 11, 2009


I've had a nice streak in the last couple of years. Actually made a good chunk of change from writing. And the best part is the amazing velocity from acceptance through to publication and payment. In the old days, we'd have to fuck around with postal deliveries, typesetting symbols on edited copies, more back and forth postal deliveries, phone calls, another round of typesetting symbols, photocopies... you get the idea. Fuck, these days, you just edit a PDF or Word attachment copy and hit send. (I bless Al Gore for inventing the Internets.)

Leaves a guy much more time to drink and listen to tunes. And that's what writing is all about. (Or, as I tell the wife, more time for 'research'. Yeah. Right.)

Now, if there was just a way to make lasagna without spending a weekend in the kitchen....

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Just got back from watching the new Star Trek movie. Now I hear that Nova Scotia booted out the Tories and elected the NDP.

This has been a way fun evening.

Plus, I'm drinking beer.

UPDATE: Oh yeah: Go Penguins.

Saturday, June 6, 2009


I'm with this guy.

"Men's feet, in particular, make me squirm and gag: the mottled colouring, the sparse hair, the little toe that has been crushed into the one next to it over the years so that it has turned and bent and cuddles up against it now, sadly, as if trying to spoon an unwilling lover, the yellowed, cracked toenails, and the fully blackened one on the right biggy from toe-punting a goalpost 14 years ago. How can bringing these out in public be considered acceptable?"

Ha. Good stuff.