Friday, December 6, 2013
Every time I use one I wonder how I'd organize the last week in life of these lightbulbs. Further connection: how often the shape of any washroom could not determined until the needs of other rooms had been met. Don't tempt me, go study the matter more. (Unrelated idea: Nevertheless, the untold story.) In grade eight, living by Mad magazine, we thought girls' cans were lined with contraptions, drawn in a Dave Berg line. We didn't want, and did want, to go in there. I could also tell the story of how the women's can at Emma Lake had a bathtub and the men's didn't. I made a fuss, 98% fake. A few nights later, they took me in there with a bath poured, tapedeck in action, candles and scents, booze. While they party out by the sinks, I spend my hottest ever time in a bath. I can't think of anything to need. How true is such a story? Not sure.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
I thought I'd play around with inflation, but before I reached the end of the first sentence of the Wikipedia entry, I was lost. Not in a head-shaking huh sort of way, though perhaps that would've come had I thought about economics and the economy much longer, both words blue with hyperlinks ready to take me elsewhere. I didn't go and won't. Let's face it, blue and fun don't mix. Rather, the lostness I felt at that moment put me right inside the inflatable beaver of all places, the one people were posing with in Regina, and believe me, ending up in that particular beaver takes some doing. Of course it's only when you're inside that you realize you could be anywhere. This is a stretch, I thought as I looked around for the exit. And then I looked up. The inflatable beaver's teeth looked like urinals. That's when the smell hit me. Heads up: if this ever happens to you, you will flip. That's right. I had to turn around. Inflatable tails it is.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
I want my downtown back. Why is it the bigger the festival, the higher the fence? What if my nation has nothing to do with inflatable beavers and adults and children in fatigues? But the other night after the game--an hour after, this was--when the throng hit Albert and Vic, the rabble of it all approached scary from the right side but never got there. I fell asleep. If I were the quarterback of such a team I'd invite seven or eight leaders on the team over to my place, sit down in my living room with the cup on floor among us, and talk about how we're going to keep it. Let's see, today's Tuesday? I think Friday night would be about right, heavy drinking subsided. Once I was mistaken for a quarterback, who had my last name. The barber went on about it. I didn't say a word.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
That's what they say about "unseasonably warm" weather. Weather aficionados like their adjectives. Doubled up, they put a merry spin on that sense of impending doom that's especially popular on the prairies. You know, the whole prairie gothic thing. (Not to be confused with the northern mining town gothic sensibility, on which I am, indeed, more of an expert. But I digress.) This is not lost on CBC reporters. Today in the news, Mosaic Stadium in Regina is described as "frigid." That's right. And no wonder. Running around in its bowels was a Tiger-Cat in shorts. A mistake, yes. Oh yes.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
It wasn't the husband or the daughter, the wife or the other daughter, her boyfriend or the son. It must have been me but it wasn't. I had the tagliatelle (I think is how to spell it) and most of the wife's salad. She ordered a couple of bottles of wine. The son and daughters drank four beer. Out on the street, rings of viewers ate the noise of the bagpipe-African drum combo. I'd whispered to the waitress my plans for payment of the bill, which would include paying it. She understood. But around the time the plates were cleared away she informed me that the bill was taken care of, and by someone not at our table. We all looked around and guessed.
That was my closing line. Word for word. While I waited for further explanation, I looked for instructions, illumination, anything, but no table FAQ exists for the likes of me. For someone as fond of cake as I am, this poses a problem. People expect me to know if there is room at my table. My table? I'm just not that possessive when it comes to tables. I can't say I've ever claimed a table for myself. Even the tables I live with may as well belong to someone else. They could disappear tomorrow for all I care, pedestals and all. I'm not into those sort of place settings.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
I kept a roof between me and the storms, not storms but suddens and humids. I had time between suddens to escape but didn't. Not storms but a slit band of rain which I waited out, part of it, in the company of firewood, benches, tea. In a minute, sky to the north traded places with sky to the south. We caught up with each other, rain and I, talking the same line.