Thursday, December 29, 2005


He said, "I am in a negative, cutting, sociopathic mood. I call it 'the lawnmower.'"
She laughed. She was always laughing. He had learned to ignore it as a pleasantry space-filler that helped to hide what she was really thinking.
"In 'the lawnmower', people are the grass," he said. "You don't want to talk with me right now."
She made a hurt face, puckered her lips and said, "Ouch."
He said, "The reason I am here is so that I can talk with people I don't know, annhilate any self respect they have, bury them alive, and minimize the damage to my own world, meanwhile taking care of my urge to destroy." He paused, a thoughtful silence--remorseful almost. Was he sorry? "It won't be pleasant."
"Are you okay?" she asked, with more than one question mark. The tone of her voice oozed cheap concern.
"Oh, I'm fine," he tossed his head, but carefully. "It's not me you should worry about. It's THEM. Whoever. Pray that no one shows up here."
"Okay." She wasn't talkative. It meant she didn't care, or didn't take him seriously.
He was dead serious. He said, "I am going to write a letter to someone right now. A certain Shelly." He swallowed, "It won't be pretty. Pray that I don't send it."
She stepped backward, "Then I'll leave you to your self destuction."
"Thank you. And I'll leave you to your deliberation."
They parted, but he turned around and called after her. "It's not self destruction," he said. "It's destruction of other people. The lawnmower survives. It gets turned off when it is satiated with the broken blades of once living grass."
"Or when it gets burned or electrocuted. Disposed of."
He chuckled, "I like you. You're feisty."
"I need to go," she said. She always needed to go.
"Me too." He didn't really, but he needed to leave her. For her good and his.
Plus, she was boring.
--She didn't care.
He listened to her footsteps behind him as she walked away.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

What Right Have They?

Okay, okay, Christmas.
So you don't think I'm a complete Grinch, as may have seemed apparent from my previous Probation Narration, I shall rundown our Christmas day, complete with photos.

Well, you'll be happy to know, we ate Christmas Eve dinner. Here's an action shot to prove it. That's really the way Ben eats! I am embarrassed to take him anywhere. Me, I just smile and look subtly disgusted with the merrymaking. Oh, but I have a gentle heart, I promise.

We give presents too, you'll be relieved to know. 133 of them under that tree. Well 134 if you count me. See my flaring, I-want-to-give-you-me-for-Christmas expression? Opening these took the better part of the night, much of our fingernails, and a lot of that good old exuberance to keep lighting up with each gift. Of course, the amount of alcohol and chocolates under the tree sure helped.
Anyway, the next day, Christmas, dear Ruth had provisioned a French Canadian circus, which we all attended. Now, this was no ordinary circus, it was weird. The theme was a schizo, pregnant, blue clown, with a tail, who kept falling asleep and dreaming about tightrope walkers and acrobats. There was a live band in the back, sax, lead guitar, and of course the obligatory cymbols for the scary moments. There was a chic singing opera rock live in different languages the entire time, great mood setting, beautiful voice. Problem was, no photos were allowed. That's why you don't see any. "Photo with flash, artista goes crash." Aptly put.
That afternoon I was able to join my sister Kristy and her kids on a Christmas hospital visit to see Zeb and Kika. See, we are good people! Here is a moment. All of us gathered around, adoring the babe lying in a hospital bed, wrapped in tubes.
Here is me teaching her how to play electric guitar. Oh she has raw talent that girl.
That night we ate the real Christmas dinner. Don't be fooled by the previous meager looking tamale shot, that was an appetizer a day earlier to get our stomachs growling.
And growling they were. So growling that we didn't take any photos. Sorry.
Oh yeah, and Michelle called me, while I was in the shower that day! Isn't that sweet? Had to step out of the hot and soothing water, but it sure was worth it. Thanks, Michelle!


Thursday, December 22, 2005

The Spanking.

Last night I got spanked.

Yes, spanked. Oh you do want to hear about that, don't you.

I shall tell you. Come closer. Close your eyes.

It all started out as a harmless Home bonding activity, hosted by Cheri.

The rulemaker.

We started off with some question and answer games. "Do you behave badly when drunk?" "Only during my lunch hour." Ha ha ha. "Are you faithful?" "I tried once, but it was a disaster." These are called ice-breakers. Yeah, as if there is ice in our cushy Home. Anyway, I can see where the word 'amusement' comes from.

Then on to some juicy someone-has-to-leave-the-room games. In this case to guess a word by returning and asking the rest, "How's yours?" one at a time. We had 'eyes', 'memory' (fuzzy, Polariod, colourful), 'family' (the best, cut-off, artistic), etc. A thinking game which Teresa lost. So Teresa got a punishment. It was a ten second dance to a Ben-and-Joe-provided, African-Islamic beat, in front of the whole room. Here is a picture of her dancing:

Not really. Did I have you, Teresa? Oh, to have seen your face. Anyway, those are people watching her dance. Plus a bonus item of Ben's tongue. To die for.

After all that brain activity, we opted for something a little more entertaining, namely, making animal noises with our mouths, while sitting on someone's lap. Throw a blindfold in, and a yellow cushion, and you have tons of fun.

In this game the blindfolded person gets random butts on his/her lap, and orders them to make random animal noises. What you see here is an attempted quack. Makes for some great bonding. Fighting together in the trenches is great, but there's nothing like some good old making-animal-noises together.

Anyway, once the novelty of this one had worn off, Cheri, together with her sidekick, Ben, decided on a little game that is always a crowd pleaser. They like to call it The Spoon Game. I like to call it The Fateful Spoon Game.

You deal cards, pass them around, and whoever is first to get four cards of the same number snatches a spoon from the middle. Trick is, there are one too few spoons in the middle. Someone misses out.

Here is Ben dealing the cards for that one, and me innocently taking photos. Little did I know. Little did anyone know.

Now, me, when I play cards, I play cards. I'm watching the cards, watching the body language, counting, analyzing, conniving--who ever heard of spoons?

Man, did I have that round down. I knew exactly who had what, and how many of it. I knew what to pass and what not to. I could see a John at one end getting nervous, and a John at the other end getting happy. Cards were flowing through my fingers like clearwater.

Those are what you call excuses.

So yeah, I'm the guy that ended up without the spoon.

It wasn't that bad. An empty hand traded in for a shiny new punishment. No sweat, right?


Where were the Refuge Home's affection-related chastisements when I needed them?

Couldn't I just do a ten-second dance?

The next punishment on the list was entitled, "Get An Old Blackie, From Uncle P."

And yes, we filmed it.

Enjoy this one.


Tuesday, December 20, 2005


I received my first genuine parkour injury today! I feel so accomplished! I was doing a flow over our front gate, which has a small overhang. So I ran up the adjoining wall, caught onto the overhang, flipped myself onto it (the top surface peaks like a roof and is slanted down both ways), and slid down the other side. Popped off the edge (got some good hangtime in the fall), and landed crouched on two feet and one hand on the other side of the gate (astonishing the cops who were giving chase, as well as innocent bystanders). So anyway, that went well. Then Kit (JETT) drew my attention to a small plant growing out of the roof overhang I had just done the flow over. Apparently it was a nettle or some close relative. Aagh! I hadn't noticed then but I do now. Here is a picture of what it had done to me:

Ick, right? Sorry if you came here hoping to be wooed and won with soft, beautiful words of love. Not today. Today is hardcore.

Anyway, if you live nearby, are cute, female, and I'm scaring you off, don't worry--it's already gone. Seems like it was a teensy reaction that lasted for like twenty minutes, now my arm looks good as new. Sigh. Good thing I caught that on camera!

Well, I'll keep you updated on our adventures, and man do I have some good ones for you from yesterday. Just wanted to tell you about my injury, since I'm so happy and excited. Bye for now.


Monday, December 19, 2005


...apparently it's all the rage these days. I've found my soulmates!

So beasting around after hours has a name after all does it? Parkour--it has a nice ring to it. I like it.

Shucks. And all this time I thought I was being original! Eman or Dan or Chosen Of The Sun would know what I am talking about.

So that would make me a traceur, albeit sort of a grunt, who majors in free running, but does do some tricking occasionally, and bails a lot.

Yo, yo, what up.

Here are some vids (videos):

Apparently he was a major of the sport.

And then, of course, the freaky idiots of Parkour.

This vid is good, and I like the first guy's style, but it should not be taken as a real example of mainstream Parkour. I highly recommend it. Just watching gives you a rush, much more doing.


Tuesday, December 13, 2005

I Deeply Begrudge.

This is not a subtle message. This is not part of a novel. This is not a heartcry. This is not a big deal. This is not a conversation. This is not for you. This is not a rant. This is not true-to-life.

He said, "We're kind of scared of parties in the big city. It's so much more manageable here, you know what I mean?"
She said, "Haha, right."
He pressed, "I mean, in the small city, you have your selection, things even out--there's good quality, a balance between unknown and predictable. In the big city it's like a confusing scramble for whatever you can get. Anyway, I don't like speed when applied to parties."
She laughed, "You're mean."
He said, "I like pleasure delaying and flirting across the room, and subtle messages--"
She laughed.
"--and close dancing, and drawn out seduction. That's me."
She was still laughing.
He said, "If you try to draw it out in the big city, whisk, everyone's gone by the time you raise your head. So you adapt, but you don't enjoy as much."
He thought, cocking his head a bit to the side. "Of course, it's also fun to get lost. To where no one notices that you two are missing. Something that doesn't happen in the small city. Obviously."
She laughed. He was beginning to wonder why she found him funny, and if she would ever stop laughing.
He continued, "And someone is invariably counting the seconds outside the door, which inserts another rush factor. But you can ignore them as long as they don't keep knocking."
She said, "Not cool."
"Another downside is regularity," he said. "In the small city you get to be in a regular thing with regular people and it's hard to break out and challenge new horizons. In the big city--ruts are impossible. Just not statistically possible, with the sheer amount of figures."
"What's wrong with regular people?" she asked.
He said, "Well, regular people are fine--great, in fact. But say you want to do something you've never done before for the night. It's hard to do when you and EVERYONE ELSE IN THE CITY is used to you doing a certain thing, or number of things. You have a lot of eyes on you, and a lot of comments later."
She said, "Screw the rest of the city."
"I know." His eyes sparkled, "I like screwing the rest of the city. But it raises eyebrows. And disappoints people. That's my main problem. It is heartbreaking to come in and see someone lying on the couch asleep, alone, and know that it's your fault."
She said, "Right. Then you didn't do it the right way."
"Either that or they didn't. Either way, something goes wrong. And then does the next time. And maybe the next time. Basically it boils down to: you can't make everyone happy, all the time--something that I deeply begrudge. But, oh well. You do what you can."
She said, "I don't think so. If there's a problem every time, maybe you're missing something."
He said, "It's just that feeling that slams into you like a cold wind when you first snap back to reality. The feeling that, oh yeah, there was someone else. It makes you feel stupid and calloused."
She repeated, "I'm sure you're missing something."
"Missing something?"
"For instance, you should have remembered 'them' before it was an issue."
He said, "Well you know. Maybe you were remembering them all night, but then someone else gets ahold of you. --And then: oops. I'm not talking about any certain occasion here. Just a pattern."
Her eyes clouded, "Which makes it worse."
"Oh, I know," he said.
"If it's an occasion it's okay. If it's a pattern, it's a problem."
She was right. "But you know, God looks on the heart," his voice cracked. "And I don't mean any wrong. No one does."
She said, "By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples if you have love."
He closed his eyes, "I just want to make people happy. That's all."