That's you, thanks for reading.
We're working on another form for this material so will not be hopping for a while. It's all hush-hush, you know. We're not even shhhure about it ourselves.
We'll add further update when we have one.
Monday, January 6, 2014
I made of list of how I'd fall. First to feel it would be the elbows, who'd want to say singe for what happened. Somehow I'd pitch forward, the feet unable to prevent it. Maybe I didn't have gloves on. Anyway, the elbows took it, fall #1. Maybe that's why dad, when I was a boy, said so much about my elbows, how rabbits would procreate there if I didn't get busy with brush and soap right now. I guess I should credit dad for his posture and mine, the two of us standing as if hung by the top of the head. Brewer's Yeast pills, cod liver oil and like remedies had hauled him out of the 1920s, and he wasn't shy about sharing his knowledge with his kids. Add to that what he learned in the Army and love of books and you've got a guy with ideas for what's good for us.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Just like that, I was singing. The song was in my head, so what else could I do? This was a few days ago. A cold afternoon. Pizza dough rising in the oven. Perhaps the smell of yeast brings out the song. The Monkees? H asked from the kitchen. What? I yelled back, not liking the smile I heard any more than I liked the interruption. That's who sings it, he said. Bah! I searched YouTube, thinking he couldn't possibly be right, and then I saw my face! It was like looking in the mirror. In the space of 2:25 minutes I saw my hair, my bad bangs, my quick little Monkee grin, and the weird little dance I call a life. It's true, those jerky moves are in my jeans. Now I'm a B! Leave her! Just kidding. I think. The cat glared at me like she's glaring now. Yeah, I'm singing. Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah. Sorry, cat, but I'm in love! I was born clutching an invisible tambourine. What's the use in trying to let go?
Hop by Brenda Schmidt at 1:48 PM
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.
Hop by Brenda Schmidt at 2:08 PM
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.
Hop by Brenda Schmidt at 4:11 PM